been piling up. They’ve already been screened for anything insidious.
You might have your enemies, but it also seems that a few people care about you. Shocking, I know. I promised Mina she could look in after supper, so steel yourself for some highly intelligent and periodically trying company.”
“You’re good practice,” Max retorted, accepting a stack of letters and bidding David farewell. Taking up a slim wooden cane, David hobbled out of the ward with his mug and papers stuffed into the crook of his free arm. He resembled an absent-minded professor late for a lecture.
Max glanced at the letters and notes. They were in a small pile, an array of paper sizes and colors and handwriting. The first was from Hannah.
Max! The minute I heard you were home and hurt, the goslings and I came to see you. They wouldn’t let us in, if you can believe it. Some officious boob suggested we might be assassins. Ha! You poor honey—I hope you’re getting better and that the moomenhovens are taking proper care of you. One of them is transcribing this letter for me, and if she doesn’t write down every single word, I’m going to show her the business end of my beak. Oh, I guess she really is writing everything down. Good. Where was I? Oh! Honk misses you terribly. He’s a sweet little thing, but he really needs a strong male influence in his life or he becomes unmanageable. Unmanageable! There’s a new gander strutting about the pond and I have to get my bosom feathers tufted. Hmm … “bosom” isn’t really spelled like you think it would be. Anyway, here’s a big smooch from the wee ones and me. SMOOCH! —HannahSmiling, Max laid the letter aside and opened others from Nigel Bristow, Cynthia Gilley, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, and a brusque note from Tweedy that a manuscript on siege warfare was “shamelessly overdue” from the Bacon Library. Max promptly incinerated this reminder and turned to a letter from Sarah Amankwe. Events had transpired so swiftly the night of Rolf’s death that he had never had a chance to check on her. Unfolding the stationery, he gazed at his classmate’s graceful script.
Dear Max,The rumor is that you’re in the healing wards, but access is restricted and I can’t visit. You and David had already left on some secret mission, but Ms. Richter came and spoke to me the night that Rolf died. She said that he’d been possessed and that Umbra actually saved your life. That’s some comfort, I suppose, but it was still a terrible thing. I miss Rolf very much. His funeral was tasteful—Monsieur Renard and some of the other teachers spoke. They talked about what a fine student he was … capable and considerate … always willing to help. Ajax, Umbra, and the others wanted to attend, but I asked them to stay away. I know it’s not their fault, but I didn’t think Rolf’s family would have wanted them there. I’ve been training with them like you suggested and have to admit that it’s made me better. Umbra’s speed and technique are like nothing I’ve ever seen. She sparred against one of the Vanguard Agents and it wasn’t even close. They have her training some of our own students now. I’m trying hard not to hate her. Come find me when you’re up and about. Some say the Enemy will be coming for us soon. I’m going to be ready.Love, Sarah
“Poor thing,” he muttered, folding the letter and placing it atop the others. There was one remaining—a brown envelope containing a folded sheet of faded stationery. The writing was cramped and jittery, and Max had to read each line twice to decipher it.
Dear Max,They tell me that this letter may not be welcome and that you may likely toss it aside. I will consider myself fortunate if you read through to the end. My name is Byron Morrow and I once taught you humanities here at Rowan Academy. I am retired now and live in a cottage near the Sanctuary dunes—any teacher can tell you where it is should you choose to visit. I would like that.I am writing because my health is declining and I’m afraid I will not see the spring. At such moments, one wants to reflect upon their life, about the person they ultimately became … the decisions they have made. While I remember my Elaine and my son, Arthur, I fear that my recall is not what it was. The nurses tell me that many people have such holes in their memories. They assure me that it’s a common problem in this new age, but I can’t help but feel a little silly.You’re probably aware of this, but did you know that you’re a living hero? I have often seen you at a distance and wanted to introduce myself to the great Hound of Rowan, but my caretakers never allowed it. One day I insisted (I can be stubborn) and they informed me that I had once betrayed you. It took some doing to get the whole story, but they claimed that I had given information to the Enemy that put you and many other children at risk. Of course, I told them they were mistaken. But they insist that it is so, and I can’t argue back with any facts or certainty. It has been a difficult thing to bear.This is not the first time I have tried to write you. I don’t know entirely what to say or how to express myself properly. If what the nurses say is true, then I am so very sorry. I am sorry for everything. I would prefer to tell you in person, but I do not know if I will have that chance. Time and your own feelings may preclude such a meeting. In any case, I’m not certain that I’d deserve it.I’ve never been the religious sort—never been certain of what to expect once my time comes to an end. But as that day approaches, I find myself rooting selfishly for reincarnation. Life is such a wondrously complex and tricky game. The notion that one might have another go and make amends is wildly tempting for anyone who’s made such mistakes as I have. I don’t know if such a magnificent thing really exists, but if it does, I hope our paths will cross again. I will do better by you.With respect and admiration, Byron Morrow Instructor of Humanities, retired
Max glanced at the letter’s date and found that it had been written some three weeks ago. Calling over the nearest moomenhoven, he pointed to Mr. Morrow’s name.
“Do you know this man?” he asked.
The healer squinted at the letter and nodded.
“Is he still alive?”
All moomenhovens were mutes, but no words were necessary. With a sympathetic smile, she shook her head and reached with a soft hand to take Max’s pulse. He waited patiently until she had finished, clutching the letter as Old Tom chimed three o’clock. Once she had taken his temperature and checked his bandages, the healer set a glass of water by his bedside before returning to her mixtures. Sipping the water, Max read the letter again, refolded it, and gazed distractedly across the room. The afternoon light was streaming through the high windows, forming shapes and rectangles that shimmered on the folds of a faded tapestry. Max watched the rectangles grow dimmer as the afternoon waned. Soon, the moomenhovens padded about the ward, lighting its candles and lanterns.
The letters were stacked on the nightstand and Max was drowsing to the familiar tap, tap, tap when the pattern was broken by the patter of excited footsteps and the soft swish of a robe. Very gently, a hand took hold of Max’s. It was small and hot and wonderfully full of life.
For three straight evenings, Mina visited Max after she’d finished supper. Sitting by his bedside, she tinkered with her magechain and chattered about the doings at Rowan since he’d been away. There was a great deal to share, and Mina endeavored to relay it all in eager, breathless, disjointed accounts that might have lasted all night if the moomenhovens did not see her off once Old Tom struck ten o’clock.
Did Max know that Mina had added eleven masteries to her chain?
Did Max know that Emma Bristow had been scolded for riding Nigel’s piglet, Lucy?
Did Max know that Claudia and the others had painted Bob’s cabin yellow?
Did Max know that Circe had given birth to seven baby lymrills?
This last statement brought Max’s drifting thoughts to a screeching halt.
“What did you say?” he asked, halting Mina in midpirouette. Grinning, she hopped up onto the bed and plucked at a stray thread on her sleeve.
“Circe had babies,” she repeated. “Seven little lymrills all squirmy and warm. They’re smaller than my hand, but their claws are sharp! There are two coppery ones and a goldeny-yellow one, three silvers, and one that’s so black you can hardly see her until she opens her eyes. They’re so precious! Circe won’t hardly let anyone touch them, but she lets me! I remember your stories of Nick, but I never thought I’d get to hold a real lymrill!”
“Maybe one will choose you to be its steward,” Max mused thoughtfully.
“I would like that—a lymrill of my very own. But that is not to be. Did I not tell you that my charge is coming, Max? When the gulls cry out and the waters run red, he’ll rise from the sea to find me.”
“And when will that be, Mina?” asked Max, disturbed by her manner.
But the girl would not reply and merely turned her attention to the torque about his neck.
“That’s from a lymrill, isn’t it?” she asked, running her fingers over the coppery metal. “That’s from your Nick. I can tell.”
