The cry came from the front of the house and was followed by a crash. Popping up from the table, everyone hurried out of the kitchen. Max was the first out the door, ducking through the doorway to rush down the hall. From the parlor, he heard gruff curses, breaking china, and a furious hissing.
“Go away! What’s happening? Help! HELP!” shrieked a bloodcurdling falsetto.
Dashing into the parlor, the group arrived upon a confused and hectic scene. Five gray-skinned haglings swarmed about the parlor looking ferocious despite their colorful pinafores. Trapped within their midst was Toby. Unfortunately, the smee was in his native shape and could do little more than wriggle around an antique coffee table that had been flipped over. Although a smee’s natural state—mottled, limbless, and tapered—was universally repulsive, the haglings were keenly interested in getting their hands upon him. The only thing keeping them at bay was Nox. Crouching by the smee, she whipped about, quicker than a mongoose, to swipe her claws at any who ventured too close.
“Oi!” Bellagrog bellowed. “What’s going on?”
“We caught a magic yam!” cried a hagling.
“A yam that smells like meat!” crowed another.
With a gasp, the smee twisted toward the speaker. “I’m not a yam!”
“Sounds like a dandy,” quipped a third. “Give ’em a nip, Five.”
Five was the largest of the haglings, a powerful, swaybacked brute with a turnip-shaped head, beetle-black eyes, and a stubbly jaw. Dressed in periwinkle, she sucked a cut on her hand.
“I ain’t getting near that kitty again without my cleaver.”
“Oh no,” cried Bellagrog. “No one’s cleaving anything in their good pinafores. Gurgle, Gertie, and Specs, see yourselves out. Haglings, line up!”
While Bellagrog’s cousins grumbled and left out the back way, the haglings acted as if their mother had cast a spell. Dropping their chairs and makeshift cudgels, they arranged themselves by height against the parlor wall. When all were at attention, the smallest curtsied.
“Number Seven!” she piped, a toady runt in puffy pink sleeves.
“Number Two,” called the next, plucking her purple tights.
“Number One,” cried her neighbor, twirling a greasy pigtail.
“Number Four,” hissed a saber-toothed monstrosity.
“Five,” muttered the last, folding her massive arms.
“Bwahahahaha!” cackled Bellagrog. “Naming Day hasn’t come too soon for Five, now, has it?” As Bellagrog heaved the heavy table upright, Cooper plucked Toby up by one twisty end. In two bounds, Nox settled in Max’s arms, her coat resuming its glossy sheen as the quills lay flat. Nursing their wounds, the haglings glared sulkily at the lymrill. When Bellagrog ceased her inspection of the damage, she wheeled upon her daughters.
“Who broke me Nan’s table?” she demanded, pointing at a crack down the center. “Tell me true.”
“I will when you tell us what these humans is doing here,” said Five.
“They is guests,” retorted Bellagrog. “And watch yer tone. This ain’t yer Hovel.”
“Yet,” growled Five, returning her mother’s stare. An uncomfortably tense silence ensued. Max feared the two might come to blows, when Five suddenly blinked and looked away.
“That smirk ain’t ladylike,” Bellagrog snapped at Seven, who was enjoying the showdown.
“So why is the humans here?” asked Four.
“That oaf of an ogre brought ’em,” said Bellagrog, pointing at Bob, who was half crouched in the hallway. “Seems he missed your aunt Bea and he wants to see ya Named. Speaking o’ which, no more roughhousing or nipping—you’ll ruin your dresses and appetites.”
Five jerked her thumb at Toby, who had curled like a salted slug. “What about him?”
“Off-limits,” sighed Bellagrog. “He’s a guest and we don’t need no bad juju. It’s practically snowing outside. One of ye can help me with my hair. The rest can share your plans with these boys and see if they gots any pointers.” The hag gestured toward Max and Cooper.
“Why?” demanded Five.
“ ’Cause they’ve been in the Workshop, sassy mouth. And Red Branchies know more about this sort o’ thing than the likes of you.”
“I remember him,” hissed Four, peering at Max, her nostrils aquiver. “He’s the one what fished that Workshop git from the kettle.”
Five’s piggish eyes narrowed. “Aye, that’s him—the boy who ratted us out. What’s he doing here?”
“Dunno,” answered Bellagrog, “but don’t go blaming Max for us setting sail. He played it straight and I can’t ask no more. It’s your auntie what sank us. So show ’em your plans and see if they don’t have a tip or two.”
“Is that staying?” asked Two, looking anxiously at Nox.
“Nox won’t hurt you,” said Max, stroking the lymrill’s glossy black quills. “She was just protecting Toby.”
“Is Toby the yam?” inquired One.
“I AM NOT A YAM!” roared Toby, indignation trumping trauma. “I am a smee who was unjustly ambushed. You’re lucky I’m a pacifist.”
“But why aren’t you still a bear?” asked Max.
“Oh,” said Toby, growing sheepish. “Eating too much can cause us to revert to the ‘form divine.’ That’s why I left the kitchen. Surely you’ve heard of Balthazar’s Accident. Every smeegrub knows that unhappy tale.”
“Nobody wants to hear about Balthazar’s Accident,” said Cooper, setting him upon a chair. Sitting down on the floor, he beckoned to the haglings. “Let’s see your plans, ladies.”
Max and Scathach sat beside him as the haglings crowded around, elbowing and jostling. Five unfolded a large sheet and smoothed it flat upon the table. Stroking Nox’s ruff, Max surveyed a variety of maps, intricate diagrams, and dense blocks of small, neat writing. Cooper looked equal parts impressed and amused.
“So, what’s the mission?” he asked.
“Operation Gertie,” said Five proudly. “We’re busting her out o’ the Workshop.”
“Right,” said Cooper, drumming his fingers as though considering how best to dissuade the eager, young, and foolish. His pale eyes flicked back to the map. “You know the Workshop’s almost seven hundred miles away?”
“ ’Course we do!” said Four.
“Across the Channel and over dangerous country?”
“We likes danger,” sniggered One.
Cooper nodded. “And you know its museum is underground? Miles and miles underground?”
Two gave her sisters an incredulous look. “This fella thinks we just spawned!”
The Agent weathered five beady stares. “Let’s cut to it, then. How are you going to infiltrate the Workshop, find ol’ Gertie, and get her out?”
Max was stunned by the sophistication of the haglings’ plans. Every stage was planned in meticulous detail and leveraged an impressive network of relationships. The Shropes had contacts with many merchants and shippers, some of whom did a thriving trade with goblins across the Channel. Some of these contacts worked for the Workshop and had access to various outposts and depots, including some near Verilius, the demon city that had once been Frankfurt.
“This here is right over a train depot,” said Five, pointing to a building on her map. “Workshop’s got miles and miles o’ tracks and tubes underground. Most connect to mines and ports, but they’ve even got a fancy train to ferry bigwigs between the Workshop and Prusias’s city. Anyway, the Spindlefingers—they’re a goblin clan—are the ones that do most of the maintenance ’cause they can climb into wee places and don’t mind the heat. They’re gonna let us in that building and smuggle us into the Workshop proper.”
“What’s in it for them?” asked Cooper.
“Formula Thirteen,” answered Seven. “That soap cuts right through grease and machine oil. Spindlefingers love it.”
“We’re giving ’em a year’s supply to smuggle us in,” said Five. “They looks away when we goes in and looks away when we comes out with Gertie. Easy as pie.”
“Where’d you get all this info?” asked Cooper, his eyes fixed on the railway connecting the Workshop and Prusias’s capital.
“Pompy Frogmaw,” replied the haglings in unison.
“Who’s he?” asked Cooper.
Five shrugged. “A goblin who’s always trying to steal chickens. Last time we caught him, we whipped his fanny purple. He howled and said we’d catch it hot, ’cause Pompy knew ‘important folk.’ Said his cousins was tight with the Workshop and they’d give Pompy all kinds o’ weapons to teach us a lesson. Well, when I stopped laughing, I gots to thinking. Maybe Pompy did have cousins that had something to do with the Workshop. So, we untied ’im, slapped a balm on his fanny, and gave ’im a crate o’ soaps to share with these cousins. He showed up three months later with a big order from the Spindlefingers. Turns out they were batty for Formula Thirteen. That’s how we started gettin’ their business and some information besides—all on account o’ little Pompy Frogmaw.”
“He’s coming to the Naming,” said Two. “Bringing his cousin, too. They’s picking up the Formula Thirteen and giving us a lift down to the Channel.”
“This cousin,” pressed Cooper. “He’s a Spindlefinger? He works on the Workshop trains?”
“Aye,” said Five. “He’s a mechanic in the main depot, least Pompy says. We ain’t met him yet, but ’is name’s Ozerk.”
The Agent looked hard at Five. “I want to meet Ozerk.”
When the haglings had mentioned a railway linking the Workshop and the Blyssian capital, Max knew Cooper would be on it. The Agent was traveling with them for the time being, but his ultimate mission had nothing to do with Mum or even the Fomorian. Although Cooper was the Red Branch commander, the title was largely ceremonial. The man had no more interest in supervising people than his colleagues had in being supervised. The twelve members of the Red Branch were notoriously independent and each developed their own methods and specialties. Max and Scathach were its finest warriors, Natasha Kiraly its swiftest tracker, and Ben Polk its most merciless assassin. But William Cooper was unequivocally its finest overall Agent. His mission would be of prime importance.
Max suspected it involved infiltrating the enemy’s capital, but he could not be certain. Despite his frequent attempts to wheedle information, Cooper would divulge nothing. The little Max knew he’d overheard two weeks ago aboard the Ormenheid. Late that moonless night, Hazel had taken her husband astern and voiced her concerns in an urgent hiss. The sea had been reasonably calm, allowing Max to make out the occasional snippet.
“—not fully recovered …”
“—can send someone else. Natasha’s capable—”
“—suicide mission!”
At this last pronouncement, Cooper simply embraced her and gazed a long time at the sea. Max had not heard anything about his mission since, but there was little doubt that Cooper regarded this Workshop train—and a secret way aboard it—as having real value. The only issue now was to make sure they were dressed properly for the Naming.
Bellagrog had Number Seven lead them up to the attic, where they could store their things and change for the party. The stairways twisted up three stories, leading them past many portraits and dim hallways. The Hovel was old but meticulously maintained. The banisters had an oiled gleam, as did the dark floors and moldings. Every aspect of the creaking house—even its smells—smacked of tradition in a way that was both oppressive and comforting. One could almost hear the footsteps of past generations, of hags great and small that had called it home.
Max peered out between the attic window’s curtains. It took a moment for the scene to fully register. The sky was brightening from the passing storm, but the landscape had changed. Every roof and chimney, every leaf, hill, and paddock was sheathed in a thin coating of ice. The effect was so surreal and spellbinding that it was hard to differentiate between Hazel’s faerie lights and the returning sunlight winking on the ancient hornbeams. There was no snow, or even frost—simply a dazzling, gleaming carapace that covered the rolling scenery.
“Look at that,” said Max. “There’s actually ice.”
The others came over, peering out the window. Below, Bellagrog’s employees were working frenetically to sweep up debris, restake tents, and plant what looked like a maypole atop an enormous mound of dirt.
Cooper grunted, squinting up at the sky, which had a peculiar, reddish cast. “That isn’t normal. This is some kind of witchcraft.”
Scathach opened the window to peer out. “Who would be doing this?” she wondered. “Who even could?”
“Don’t know,” said Cooper, tossing his pack onto an old card table. “But it’s not going to make our jobs easier. Depending on the information I get from this Ozerk, I might need to peel off and start my mission tonight. Are you two all right seeking the Fomorian on your own?”
“Yes,” said Max. “But what about Hazel, Toby, and Bob?”
“Bob is staying until he can leave with Mum,” said the ogre firmly.
“Then you might be waiting a long time, mate,” said Cooper. “If that’s your decision, you’re on your own. No hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings,” Bob agreed.
“What about me?” asked Toby, still in his native shape and lounging on a trunk. “I’m not staying here with a bunch of hags. Apparently, I’m ambrosia!”
“You and Hazel will come with me,” said Cooper. “Once we’re across the Channel, we’ve got safe houses you can use until the army lands.”
“Or they could catch up with Sarah and Lucia,” Max suggested. “I’m sure they’d be welcome in Enlyll.”
Max’s friends, Sarah Amankwe and Lucia Cavallo, had journeyed with them across the ocean until Ormenheid set them down on an isolated stretch of Blys’s coast. A faun had been waiting at the rendezvous, a former Rowan charge that had agreed to guide the girls through the backcountry to their destination. If all had gone well, the two would be halfway to Enlyll, Connor Lynch’s sun-soaked barony in what used to be the French Riviera.
Connor was not merely a former classmate; he was now a minor brayma in Prusias’s kingdom, having surrendered a soul in exchange for lands and title. In a letter to Lucia the previous winter, Baron Lynch had encoded a message implying that Rowan should seek out the Elder vyes, as they might be valuable allies. While Ms. Richter could not spare any Agents to pursue such a cryptic lead, she had approved Sarah and Lucia’s proposal to visit Enlyll and investigate.
“That decision can wait until we’re across the Channel,” said Cooper. “In the meantime, let’s figure out what we’re doing during the Naming. I’ll want to speak with this Ozerk alone. Bob, what’s your plan with Mum?”
From his pack, the ogre produced a small iron box. “Bob will see if Bellagrog likes gold better than bullying.”
“Be careful,” said Cooper. “Bellagrog’s liable to get your gold and you’re liable to get nothing at all.”
“Bob will be careful,” said the ogre quietly.
Hazel hurried into the attic, blowing on her hands. The shivering teacher was practically blue. “Have you ever seen such a Midsummer?” she asked incredulously. “I nearly froze out there, but I daresay the decorations came together nicely. Dear Lord! Now, what to wear, what to wear …”
“What do you mean ‘what to wear’?” asked Cooper.
His wife was now searching through her things. “The Naming,” she replied. “Surely you don’t think we’re going to attend wearing what’s on our backs. We have to get ready.”
“I look fine,” said Cooper, glancing down at his dusty, muddied clothes.
“You most certainly do not,” said Hazel briskly. “We’ve been sailing up rivers, tromping all over the countryside, and we’re not going to attend a ceremony—even a hag ceremony—without cleaning up. You can wear that scent I bought you. You haven’t even cracked the seal and it was very expensive.” Her husband looked semi-mortified as she fetched a crystal bottle of amber liquid from his pack.
“A Hag Naming,” said Scathach, now rummaging through her own clothes. “I didn’t pack anything like a dress, but maybe I could improvise something.” She glanced at Max. “What should one wear to a hag Naming party?”
Max arched an eyebrow. “Armor?”
By late afternoon, much of the ice had melted away and hags began emerging from the inn. They trickled forth in startling numbers and diversity: green hags, blue hags, frizzy heads and bald. Down the gravel paths they came, a procession of waddling tanks, hobbling crones, and lanky horrors that moved with a heron’s undulating steps. Some wore dresses, others wore robes or even smocks, but all carried handbags.
But hags were not the only guests. From the surrounding woods and lanes, other creatures were arriving: elegant fauns and willowy dryads, cackling lutins, and tiny moss maidens that traveled in downy green clusters on the backs of their badgers. The goblins arrived last, cracking their whips and hallooing as their ponies and wagons came clattering up the gravel drive.
There was no receiving line or official welcome, no opening ceremonies or remarks. The party simply began and gained momentum as more guests arrived.
While the haglings had yet to make an appearance, Bellagrog was in fine form. She ambled about, shaking hands and clapping backs. Even when Max couldn’t see the hag, her unmistakable cackle could be heard above the din of music and games, laughter and singing.
The only attendee who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Mum. The little hag sat alone at a trestle table, sipping from a mug and eyeing the other revelers.
“How’s the ale?” asked Max, sitting next to her.
“All right, I guess,” came the glum reply.
“Have you tried the mince pies?” asked Scathach gamely.
“Which ones?” asked the hag with mild interest.
“I don’t know. They had a shiny blue wrapper.”
“Charna Schrupe’s,” sighed Mum. “Steer clear of those, dearie. Charna runs a mortuary.”
Scathach went pale.
Bob came to join them, pulling over a barrel to sit on, as his legs would never fit beneath the table. The ogre was dressed in gray wool trousers, a gingham dress shirt, and his best suspenders. One hand held a mug of steaming cider while the other cradled his moneybox.
“Tell me about Rowan,” sniffled Mum, looking plaintively at him. “Tell me about my cupboard and my pots. Tell me about—”
“Here you are!” chortled a voice behind them. Max turned to see Bellagrog accompanied by a hunched, viridian hag wreathed in fox furs and wearing a purple kerchief about her tapered head. “Max, I want ya to meet Looker Magda. Magda’s right famous among hags.” Bellagrog lowered her voice. “She’s got the Gift.”
“The Gift?” said Max.
Looker Magda peered at him through a pair of cracked opera glasses. “I see things,” she purred.
“Look at his mark!” exclaimed Bellagrog, pointing at Max’s tattoo. “It’s him! The Hound of Rowan come to bless my babies’ Naming.”
“I don’t need to see his mark,” replied Looker Magda dismissively. “I knew the Hound would be here. Why else would I have come?”
“For free food and drink, that’s why,” huffed Bellagrog.
Looker Magda ignored this. Her attention remained fixed on Max as she raised a bangled arm and pointed. “Behold a conqueror!” she intoned. “A king. A tyrant. Kithslayer. Kinslayer. Your own Furies come for you!”
“Nice to meet you, too,” said Max flatly.
“Oi!” cried Bellagrog, snapping her fingers before Looker Magda’s unblinking eyes. “I didn’t bring you over here to insult ’im.”
“Don’t blame the messenger,” sniffed the seer.
“If you see so bloody much, why don’t you tell me who’s gonna win the Greengully Stakes?” demanded Bellagrog.
“A horse.”
“Buzz off,” grumbled Bellagrog, sitting across the table from Bob. Draining her mug, she set it on the tray of a passing faun with a stern directive to bring another. Drumming her fingers on the table, she looked at the sky and then around at her company. “More rain’s a coming. Where’s Scarecrow and Boon?”
“In the Hovel,” said Mum, hooking her thumb. “I said they could use the kitchen for their meeting with Pompy and Ozerk. It’s quieter in there.”
Her sister’s face darkened. “Did ya now? Since when does you give people leave to use my kitchen?”
Flushing, Mum stared at the table. “It’s my house, too,” she said meekly.
Snatching a fresh tankard from the faun, her sister thumped it on the table. “No, it ain’t,” she said pointedly. “You is an assistant beekeeper who’s lucky she’s got a roof over her lumpy little head. Don’t forget that.”
Bob leaned forward to rest his knotted hands on the table. “Perhaps Bob can do Bellagrog favor and take lumpy little head off her hands.”
“How’s that?” said Bellagrog.
“Bob wants Mum to come home,” said the ogre evenly.
“She is home, ya toothless gimp. What’s in that cider?”
“Bob must disagree. Rowan is Mum’s home.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Bea’s a Shrope and this here’s Shrope Hovel.”
“Rowan is where she is happiest.”
Bellagrog scoffed incredulously. “Happiness? What does happiness have to do with family? Oi! Ya think I’m gonna let some brute—and a foreign brute, too—waltz off with my only livin’ sis ’cause she’s mopey? Your brain’s gone to mush.”
“Bob will pay.”
Bellagrog waved him away as though he were a bothersome fly. “Get outta here. A hag o’ my standing don’t want no stinky hides or knucklebones or whatever a dumb ogre thinks is money.”
Bob set his moneybox on the table.
A gleam kindled in Bellagrog’s crocodile eyes as she sized the ogre up. “C’mon now,” she chuckled. “Rowan pays you diddly. Don’t yank a hag’s haunch.”
Opening the heavy clasps, the ogre emptied the box onto the table. The pile was mostly silver with a handful of large gold coins and semiprecious stones scattered throughout. The sight of this not-inconsiderable wealth drew many onlookers.
“What’s goin’ on, Bel?” asked a tipsy Gurgle.
But Bellagrog had turned beet red and was shaking with laughter. “Bwahahahaha!” she cried, trying to catch her breath. “This kooky ogre’s tryin’ to buy my sister! Look at that haul! You’d think Bea was the most valuable hag in the world!”
“She is,” said Bob, ignoring the growing hoots and jeers.
Mum was utterly stunned. Her eyes darted from Bob to the money to her sister and back again. “That’s your life savings,” she whispered. “You’d give all that up … for me?”
“Yes,” said the ogre, closing his hand over hers. “You are Bob’s little Mum and it is time you came home.”
“Take it, Bel!” shouted someone.
“That’s ten times what wee Bea’s worth!” called another.
“Try fifty!” Bellagrog chortled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Bless yer heart, Bob. You sure did save your pennies. Whew! I ain’t laughed so hard since Bea tumbled down a well trying to guess how deep it was.”
Bob pushed the glinting pile toward her. “We have deal?”
Reaching into it, Bellagrog plucked a shiny gold coin and sniffed it as though that alone would tell her its authenticity. With a sigh, she tossed it back onto the pile. “Ain’t nothing worse than temptation,” she chuckled. “Bea’s right worthless, but I can’t sell my sister like she’s a bushel o’ cabbage. Wouldn’t be right.” The head Shrope wagged a finger at Mum. “See what you cost me, you ninnyhead? Don’t think I won’t remind ya the next time you wants to sleep in!”
It was too much for Mum. With an ungodly shriek, she leaped up from the table and bolted through the revelers. Max went after her, dodging through hags and goblins, fauns and satyrs.
Slipping through the crowd, he made his way down the wooded hill where Mum had fled. Behind him, drums had started to boom. Glancing back, he glimpsed the haglings marching single file from the barn in their starched pinafores. Among the watchful crowd, umbrellas were sprouting like toadstools as an icy drizzle began to fall. The drums played on.
It was not difficult to find Mum. The turf was wet, her footsteps deep, and broken branches pointed the way like semaphores. She had not gone far into the woods—just far enough to collapse by an icy stream bordered by some willows. Max hurried to her side.
“Mum,” he said, looping an arm around her.
“I’m so tired of everyone laughing at me! I j-just can’t take it anymore. Even the haglings treat me like dirt.” The hag sobbed and sobbed, clinging to him like a barnacle as he tried to soothe her. From up the hill, trumpets sounded.
“The Naming,” Mum wailed. “I’m missing the Naming!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Max firmly.
“But it does,” she sobbed. “They’re my nieces! I carried ’em on me back and it’s their Naming day!”
Cymbals crashed in the distance.
“Bel’s named the first!” Mum cried. “It’ll be Seven—she’s the runt. Help me up!”
Max heaved the compact but improbably dense hag to her feet. Wiping her nose, she clung to Max’s arm as they trudged their way back up the hill.
Cheers and applause followed more cymbal crashes.
“Just two left,” wheezed Mum, waddling faster. “I have to see Five get named. She’ll be running the Hovel someday. Come on!”
Grunting and cursing, Mum forged ahead through the drizzle. As they climbed, Max heard Bellagrog’s powerful voice carry on the chilly breeze.
“In another litter, Number Four mighta been top hag. Strong as an ox, a whiz at soaps, and she’s got the deepest bite in the county. Just have a look at those choppers—show ’em, girlie!”
There was polite applause.
“But she ain’t top hag and so she can’t have a name longer n’ six letters. That’s Hag Law.”
“Hag Law!” cried the many hags in attendance.
“Now,” continued Bellagrog, “we already got Blip, Beet, and Boody. No more Bs. I’m sick of ’em. Number Four’s starting a new letter. And so, in honor of her choppers, I’m proud to present Clamp Shrope. Once she’s got ya, she ain’t lettin’ go!”
Cymbals crashed. Mum collapsed into the wet grass.
“I can’t,” she gasped. “All their names are longer,” she moaned. “Even Seven’s. They’re all longer than mine!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Max. “You’re Bea Shrope, the most valuable hag in the world. Students love you. Ogres quest for you. You are wanted on two continents. No other hag can claim these things.”
“It isn’t true. It isn’t true! Keep going!”
Max strained his imaginative powers. “You are … a creative dresser. You inhabit a cupboard with grace and style. Your roasts are exceedingly tender.”
The hag gripped his arm. “The secret’s not to baste! It lets out all the heat!”
“I had no idea.”
With a delighted squeal, Mum rolled onto her belly and pushed herself up. The pair reached the hilltop just as Number Five joined her sisters on the painted stage.
Five dwarfed the rest, outweighing Clamp by a good fifty pounds. The drizzle had flattened her hair into a dark, dripping mess, but there was no mistaking the wild, eager delight on her gray face as she surveyed the crowd. Bellagrog cleared her throat.
“Number Five. What’s a gal to say? Every few generations, a hag comes along that raises the bar. She’s tougher, meaner, and wilier than the rest. She sniffs out all yer traps and even lays a few of her own.”
The crowd laughed, but Number Five looked oddly emotional. Even Bellagrog swiped an eye with a hankie.
“The Shropes are a proud lot,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve worked hard to feather our nest and protect what’s ours. Ain’t always been easy. A gal worries it’ll all go to pieces once she’s gone. A gal wants to pass things down to one of her own—one who’ll look after things with a firm and steady hand. Number Five’s that hag. I love her. I hate her. I couldn’t do without her. I give you Callastrophe Shrope!”
As the crowd applauded, there were several gasps and excited conversations. Mum counted rapidly on her fingers and gaped up at Max. “Bel gave her two more letters than what she’s got herself!”
“Is that rare?” asked Max, draping a spare tablecloth over her.
“Never heard of it,” said Mum. “One letter, yes, but not two!”
Bellagrog quieted the crowd.
“With great names come great expectations,” she said. “Today, my haglings become hags and begin their coming-of-age quest.” The hag gestured toward the drive and several large goblin wagons loaded with Shrope Soaps crates. “No Named hag shall go unrescued or unavenged. Hag Law!”
“HAG LAW!” thundered the crowd.
“That’s right,” said Bellagrog. “If my girls come back, they’ll have Cousin Gertie in tow. Dead or alive, she’ll be back where she belongs.”
“Hear hear!” cried Gurgle.
“There’s my girls,” said Bellagrog. “Blip, Beet, Boody, Clamp, and Callastrophe. And to bless their names and this gathering, we got one more piece of business …”
“Queen o’ the Mound! Queen o’ the Mound!” chanted the hags.
“That’s right!” crowed Bellagrog. “By tradition, Queen o’ the Mound caps off a Naming. And we gots quite a mound to test whoever gives it a go!” She gestured toward the two-story mound of muddy dirt and rocks crowned by the many-ribboned maypole. “So, without further ado, let the contestants get ready!”
“What is this?” asked Max, spying several of the brawnier hags stripping down to long underwear.
“Queen o’ the Mound,” said Mum, as though it was self-evident. “Anyone who can hold on to the pole for five minutes gets the title and whatever she wants from the hostess.”
“Does it get pretty rough?” asked Max, spying a contestant slipping a pair of brass knuckles over her stubby fingers. Other hags were ambling about, scratching their bellies and sizing up the other contestants.
“Beastly!” said Mum. “I never had the guts to enter one. There’s all kinds of dirty play—biting, scratching, gouging, sawing.”
Skirting the crowd, they made their way back to their table to find Hazel and Cooper sitting along with a pair of goblins that could only have been Pompy Frogmaw and Ozerk. But it was not the goblins that made Max gape.
It was Bob.
While the crowds cheered and jeered those hags that were positioning themselves around the mound, Bob sat on the barrel in a white undershirt and gray trousers, methodically folding the dress shirt he had removed. Bob was ancient and his skin hung loose on a lanky frame, but an elderly ten-foot ogre is still a ten-foot ogre. Even in his undershirt.
“Bob!” Mum hissed. “What are you doing?”
He pulled his suspenders back over his bony shoulders. “Playing game.”
“But you can’t!” said Mum. “It’s called Queen o’ the Mound!”
The ogre shrugged. “Game is for guests, no?”
“Yes,” said Mum, considering. “Only hags ever enter but there isn’t a rule that says others can’t.”
The ogre pulled one arm over his head to stretch. “Then Bob plays, too.”
When nearby revelers realized what Bob intended to do, an excited buzz swept over the crowd.
“The ogre’s gonna enter!” cried a ruddy-cheeked satyr.
This brought laughter and a fair number of jeers, for it seemed ogres were not terribly popular in these parts. As Bob made his way toward the mound, the crowds parted nervously.
“Boo!”
“A pox on ogres!”
“Go back where ye belong!”
“Spit and roast ’im! Boil and toast ’im!”
This last outcry was quickly taken up and repeated as a sort of cheer. Bob did not acknowledge it. He did not acknowledge the lutins that aped his plodding gait or the bits of tomato, pies, and cheese that now pelted him. The ogre simply walked on, the crowd closing behind him as he marched toward a scowling Bellagrog.
“Whatchoo doin’, you dumb brute?” she demanded. “Put your shirt back on! We ain’t boghags!”
Bob rolled his neck in slow circles. “After game.”
“Queen o’ the Mound ain’t for ogres!” declared Bellagrog.
He continued plodding toward her. “It is for guests,” he rumbled. “Bob is guest. You said so in front of these three.” He gestured toward a stupefied Smidge, Specs, and Gurgle.
“Ya did say it, Bel,” said Smidge. “And any guest at a Naming can play Queen o’ the Mound. It’s Hag Law.”
“HAG LAW!”
This was shouted—with gleeful enthusiasm—by nearly every hag in attendance. The only exceptions were Bellagrog, her daughters, and fifteen mortified contestants.
When Bob reached the mound and took his spot around its perimeter, Max saw that the contestants on either side barely reached his waist. Lean as he was, the ogre outweighed any three hags together. One of them (Tortugla, according to a breathless Mum) backed away from the mound and shimmied back into her party frock.
“Boo!” jeered Bellagrog. “For shame, Torty! That’s disgraceful!”
“You take my spot!”
But Bellagrog did not appear to have any intention of doing so. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at Bob. “Any hag what draws blood on this ogre gets a gold sovereign. Any hag what knocks him cold gets ten gold sovereigns.”
“What if we kill ’im dead?” asked a one-eyed contestant, not even bothering to hide the hammer in her fist. “What’s that worth?”
“No deaths,” said the hostess firmly. “It’s bad luck at a Naming.”
“I can’t watch!” hissed Mum, clamping a hand over her eyes and squeezing Max with the other. “Tell me what happens!”
“On your marks!” bellowed Bellagrog as the contestants eyed the maypole. “Get set … Go!”
Instantly, Bob seized the hags on either side of him by the ankle, whipping them off their feet as if they’d stepped onto snares. Even as the others tried to gang up on him, he swung the two hags like wriggling, flailing bludgeons. In an ogre’s powerful hands, they made marvelous weapons. Bob even settled into a kind of rhythm, swinging one and then the other like overstuffed laundry bags that knocked his attackers aside like tenpins.
“What’s happening?” hissed Mum, hopping from foot to foot. “Tell me what’s happening!”
Max tried his best to relay the action, but things were happening very quickly.
“Bob’s got two hags by the ankles and he’s swinging them … Ooh! A hit! Two are down … one’s getting back up. Another hit! There goes a tooth. No, I think that was an earring.”
“What kind?” asked Mum.
“I don’t know. Pearl?”
“That’s Teelu,” squealed Mum. “She loves pearls!”
“Three more hags are down,” reported Max. “Bob’s climbing the mound. Looks like one of his clubs is woozy. Oh! He faked left, dropped her, and got himself a new one. NICE WORK, BOB!”
“Where is he?” asked Mum anxiously. “Did he make it to the top?”
“Almost,” said Max. “But some hags are clinging to him. One’s biting his shin. Bob dropped his club and … Oh, what a throw! She’s in the paddock.”
“No clue. They’re covered in mud.”
“I hope it was Lolo,” said Mum hopefully. “She acts so mighty and she’s only got one more letter than I do! Now what’s happening?”
“It’s winding down,” said Max. “He’s just up there with his clubs catching his breath. The others won’t climb up. Jeez, some are in bad shape. Bob plays rough. Now his clubs are begging to be let down. Oh. BOO! One tried to stab him after asking quarter.”
“That’ll be Hizzalu,” said Mum. “She’s always been stabby. She get him?”
“Nope. He tossed her in the paddock, too. Bob could throw the hammer …”
“He’s fighting for me!” exclaimed Mum, jumping up and down. “My Bob is fighting for me!”
“And winning,” said Max. “I think it’s all over. No one’s going to knock him off of there.”
Removing her hand, Mum gazed up at Bob, who stood atop the mound, leaning against the maypole in the cold drizzle. His breath came in fogging gasps and he looked spent, but no hag was within fifteen feet of him. They lay sprawled in muddy heaps about the mound’s base, coughing and sputtering, moving slowly as though a cyclone had just blown through the Naming.
The revelers counted down the minutes, clapping, laughing, hooting, and jeering. Max heard several insist this was the best Naming they’d ever attended—they’d be telling their grandspawn about this. When time was up, the party roared “Queen o’ the Mound!” and bowed to Bob.
The ogre returned the bow before descending the mound. His attention was fixed on Bellagrog.
“Queen o’ the Mound will claim his prize.”
“You ain’t gettin’ nothing!” snapped Bellagrog.
Bob wagged a finger. “It is Hag Law.”
“HAG LAW!” cried the crowd.
Bellagrog spun about, taking stock of her grinning, delighted relations. Her eyes darted here and there, searching for an out, an escape from this highly public trap. With a murderous look, she gave a bloodcurdling howl.
“You want my sister, Bob?” Bellagrog cried. “Take her! TAKE HER! She’s a worthless runt. Three letters to her name and it’s three too many! She deserves to live with a toothless oaf!”
Mum was clutching Max’s hand so tightly it had turned purple. Bob didn’t acknowledge the insults. He merely climbed down the mound and took Mum’s hand from Max. As Bellagrog witnessed this, the finality of what was occurring seemed to register. Her rage seemed to burn away in the cold drizzle, replaced by a blank, melancholy stare.
“Is this what you want, Bea?” she croaked. “My girls is all heading off. You leaving me, too?”
Mum was crying. Releasing Bob’s hand, she waddled toward her sister and the two sobbed against one another while the stunned crowd looked on. At length, Bellagrog peered into Mum’s face.
“Is this really what you want?”
Mum gave a teary nod. “Rowan’s my home. I miss my cupboard.”
“But … what if I never see you again?” whimpered Bellagrog.
Mum wiped away her sister’s tears. “If I’m a free hag, that means I’m free to visit.”
Bellagrog blinked as though consensual visits were an unfamiliar concept. “I … I guess that’s true. Would you do that? Would you visit us?”
“If you’re nice.”
“It’ll be a short visit.”
Bellagrog nodded and slung a muscled arm around her sister. Clearing her throat, her voice reassumed its gruff authority. “I, Bellagrog Shrope, declare Bob the Ogre Queen o’ the Mound and hereby renounce all claims on Bea Shrope. My sis is free to do what she likes, even if it means livin’ in a stinky cupboard with a stupid ogre. A hag keeps her word. Hag Law.”
“Hag Law!” cried the partygoers.
“Aye,” said Bellagrog, cocking a suspicious eye at Bob as he walked toward her with his moneybox. He pressed the heavy box into her hand.
“To hire new beekeeper,” he said.
Bellagrog was stunned. “I … I can keep the money anyway?”
The ogre nodded.
“Your sister is most valuable hag in the world.”
Mum nearly swooned before burrowing into Bob, mud and all. He patted her topknot, but his attention remained on Bellagrog.
“Our business is concluded?”
“Aye,” Bellagrog grumbled. “But you had this planned and don’t pretend you didn’t! You knew about Naming Days. You knew about Queen o’ the Mound.”
The ogre spread his hands. “Dryads gossip, no?”
Bellagrog glared up at him. “When did cooks get so stinkin’ clever?”
A gnarled hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Before Bob was cook, Bob was ogre.”
“Hooray!” exclaimed a pompous baritone. “Top-notch! Shall we get back to feasting? Strike up the band! Pass the brandy!”
Every head turned and stared at the speaker, a tartan-wimpled hag whose toothy grin began to waver. Bellagrog narrowed her eyes.
“Who is you?” she demanded. “I don’t recognize ya.”
“Er, I’m Bulbossa,” replied the speaker, her voice resuming a haglike pitch. “Your cousin from the Orkneys.”
“There ain’t no Shropes in the Orkneys.”
“We’re MacShrupes.”
“You ain’t no hag,” growled Bellagrog. “You’re that bloody smee.”
“A smee?” croaked Toby’s neighbor, pinching his arm.
“A SMEE!” cried a dozen eager hags.
They converged like piranhas, tossing fauns and lutins aside in their eagerness to tackle the shape-changing delicacy. With a shriek, Toby bolted for the Hovel, holding up his petticoats until he regained his senses and changed shape. In a blink, Bulbossa disappeared and a tawny barn owl soared over the Hovel’s roof, hooting and screeching.
“Give it up, ye silly things,” roared Bellagrog, collaring a drooling aunt. “You’ll never catch ’im. And he’s right! It’s time we got back to celebrating. Full kegs make a dull party. Hag Law!”
“HAG LAW!” cried the rest.
A fiddle struck up “Bless My Bonny Haglings” and the party resumed with a whoop and a clash of tankards. Bellagrog’s daughters were hoisted off their feet and passed about their older relations, who tossed them high and clapped their hands before catching them at last. Shaking Bob’s hand, Max struggled to find the right words.
“You are … quite an ogre.”
Bob inclined his craggy head. “It has been good day.”
“The best day!” exclaimed Mum. “I’m free! When do we set sail? When do we return to Rowan?”
“Someday,” said Bob. “But Rowan’s army sails for Blys. Armies need cooks. We go there, Mum. Ms. Richter needs us.”
“She needs me,” insisted Mum. “She misses my coffee and cakes and little ways. My cupboard can wait. To the front!”
“Oi!” said Bellagrog, bellying in. “Who’s going to the front?”
“I am!” Mum declared patriotically.
“Well,” growled Bellagrog, “you’re a free hag, Bea. You can do whatcha like. But you’re still a Shrope.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Mum. “Of course I am!”
“Armies need vittles,” observed Bellagrog coolly. “Canned vittles if ya catches my drift …”
Mum blinked. “I could bring our samples,” she breathed. “I’ll show ’em to Richter myself. The Director’s putty in my hands!”
Bellagrog looped an arm about Mum’s shoulder. “You’re catching on fine. Let’s talk this through, eh? With proper coaching, you could be a saleshag.…”
As the two hags wandered off, Scathach took Max’s hand. “Did you have any idea what he was planning?” she asked.
“Not a clue.”
“You’re a deep old file, Bob,” said Cooper. He clapped the ogre’s back as he and Hazel joined the group. “Well played.”
The ogre inclined his head.
“How was your meeting with the goblins?” asked Scathach.
“Profitable,” said Hazel. “Ozerk certainly knows a good deal about the Workshop and their doings with Prusias.”
“And?” pressed Max.
“Change of plans,” said Cooper. “I need to head out. I can bring Hazel and the others with me but it would mean you and Scathach would have to seek the Fomorian on your own. Can you do that?”
Max glanced at Scathach. “Of course.”
“Good,” said Cooper. “That makes things easier. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get a message to Richter. The Spindlefinger said Prusias may have some new weapon in the works.”
“More dreadnoughts?” said Max.
Hazel sipped her wine. “We don’t know. It’s hard to imagine he’d rely on dreadnoughts again, but who knows? It could be some variation.”
Max nodded. “When are you heading out?”
“Tomorrow morning,” replied Cooper. “The Spindlefingers have a cog waiting at the Channel. They’ll smuggle us as far as Verilius.”
A raucous cheer went up behind Max. He turned to see a flushed and muddy satyr shaking hands and doffing a tweed cap. The fellow was evidently popular, for others hurried over to greet him and press a mug into his grateful hands.
“Where ya been, Podge?” cried Smidge. “You missed the Naming!”
Drinking deep, the satyr wiped foam from his whiskers. “Sorry, love, but I had to wind about some. There’s funny folk on the road. Dangerous folk. I’m lucky I made it here!”
A strange uneasiness came over Max. He tapped the satyr on the shoulder. “Who’s on the road?”
The satyr turned, glanced up at Max, and nearly fainted. His ale spilled as he staggered back into several hags.
“Wh-whatchoo want?” he cried. “Why you following me?”
“Take it easy,” said Max. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Then who was that on the road, eh?” demanded the satyr.
The question was like a needle in Max’s spine. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Cooper crouched to Podge’s height.
“You saw someone like him on the road?” he asked.
The satyr could only squeak. Cooper snapped his fingers.
“Answer me. You saw someone like him? Someone like this boy?”
“No,” Podge gasped. “Not like him. It was him.”
Cooper looked grim. “How long ago?”
“I dunno,” said the satyr. “Two hours. Maybe three.”
“What is wrong, malyenki?” asked Bob.
“My clones are alive,” said Max quietly. “They’re alive and they’re close.”
Cooper shook his head, his eyes scanning the nearby tents and buildings. “They’re not close. They’re here.”