9

EAVESDROPPING

Thornmallow scarcely noticed what he ate. It could have been real lizard soup for all the attention he paid it. He spent the whole meal wrestling with that voice in his ear.

Never!

It repeated until he was thoroughly sick of it.

Never!

He heard it in Magister Beechvale’s strict tones, in Magister Briar Rose’s softer ones, and in his own dear ma’s familiar voice. It accompanied each slurp of his soup.

Never!

Will tapped him twice on the shoulder. “Thorny—what’s wrong?”

Thornmallow looked up as if in a daze. “What?”

“You’re muttering to yourself,” said Tansy.

“And saying nothing worth repeating,” Gorse added.

The other first-years at the table giggled, and Wormwood pulled at the yellow hairs invading his right ear.

“Never!” Thornmallow said. “They’re right.”

“Who are they?” Tansy whispered to Gorse, who shrugged.

“I’ll never make a wizard. Never in four years; never in a million and four years. I’m going to Magister Hickory right now to tell him it’s best for everyone if I quit.”

“Not a wizard?” asked Tansy. “But what about that avalanche of snow?”

“And the roses on top?” added Will.

“What about quite right and trying?” asked Gorse. “And the fact that you are number one-thirteen? All the magisters seem to think that’s terribly important.”

Up and down the table, all the first-years were listening in to the conversation and nodding. Even Wormwood.

“It’s all a terrible mistake,” explained Thornmallow, standing. He could feel the soup—whatever kind it was—swimming around inside his stomach. Probably doing the backstroke, a little voice in his head said, and at that the soup lurched and threatened to come back up. “A mistake,” he said loud enough so that everyone up and down the table could hear. “And the snow and roses were Magister Beechvale’s doing, not mine.”

Before anyone could tell him no, he stepped over the bench and walked out of the dining hall.

Turning left—never widdershins as Will had warned—he walked down the corridor and soon found himself in front of a series of doors neatly labeled with the names of the magisters. He let out a long breath, and that was the first time he knew he’d been holding it.

“Magister Beechvale, Register Oakbend, Magister Lilybell, Magister Briar Rose …,” he whispered aloud as he passed each door. He hesitated at Briar Rose’s, remembering how nice she’d been and wondering for just a moment if he should ask for her advice. Then, shaking his head, he walked on.

At last he came to a door with MAGISTER HICKORY in gold. He raised his fist and was about to knock, when he heard voices coming from inside the room.

Now, Thornmallow was not an eavesdropping sort of boy. At home there had been no one but cows and chickens to eavesdrop on. So it wasn’t in his nature, and he hadn’t acquired it as a habit. There was never any thought, therefore, that he should listen. On the other hand, there wasn’t any thought that he shouldn’t, especially since the very first words he could make out included his name.

“That Thornfellow is the last,” came a voice.

“Mallow,” corrected another. (He thought it might be Magister Briar Rose.)

“Prickly on the outside, squishy within, but he does try hard.” (Probably Magister Beechvale.)

“Squark!”

“So now we have the necessary number.” (Clearly that was Magister Hickory, with a voice of authority.)

“And thirteen magisters.” (Magister Hyssop.)

“Just in time,” pronounced Magister Hickory, “as Dr. Mo promised. Though I do think that was cutting it a bit fine.”

Cutting? Fine? Thornmallow wondered what Magister Hickory meant.

As if in answer to the unspoken question, Magister Hickory continued, “The Quilted Beast and its Master will come on the night of the next full moon, which is …” He hesitated as if calculating. “Tomorrow. So it is written. So it must be. Register Oakbend checked and rechecked our calculations, using the letters in the Beast’s name. One hundred and thirteen was the number needed, and so he sent out the Call. Thornmellow answered it.”

“Mallow,” said Magister Briar Rose.

“But what do we do with that number?” Magister Hyssop’s lilting voice asked. “The spell is unclear. And what good are we anyway, already so diminished by the Master and his beast?”

“Squark!”

“Dr. Mo is right, Hyssop. We must try.” Magister Hickory’s voice sounded a positive note. “As to what we do with that number—if we knew the answer to that, my dear, we would not be in such danger. All we know is that we had to reach precisely one hundred and thirteen students, and Thornwillow is it. With the boy here, the Beast’s defeat is at least possible. And the Master’s. Without Thornbellow, Wizard’s Hall is—” Magister Hickory’s voice suddenly stopped. “What was that?”

Behind the closed door, Thornmallow had moaned out loud. He hadn’t meant to, but the sound had escaped his mouth without his willing it.

The door was flung open.

“Thornpillow!” said Magister Hickory.

“Marrow,” corrected Magister Beechvale.

“Mallow,” squeaked Thornmallow.

“You were eavesdropping!” Magister Hickory’s face was as red as an apple.

“I—I didn’t mean to, sir. It’s just … it’s just …” Thornmallow stood transfixed, his mouth refusing to say the rest of the words. He felt terrifically squishy inside.

“Squark!”

Magister Hickory took a step back, and his mouth assumed a more welcoming expression. “Better come in, boy.”

At that, all Thornmallow had been feeling and worrying about rushed up to his tongue. He couldn’t have followed Magister Hickory’s invitation to move if he’d been threatened with a hot poker, but he could speak.

“Please, sir. I was just here to tell you that I realize I will never make a wizard, no matter how hard I try. I can’t find the dominant, and I’m not very practical, and hardly ever punctual. And I thought it best, really sir, for everyone if I left. Now. Today. At once. Except …”

There was an awful hush in the room.

“Except?” Magister Hickory’s voice was suddenly like thunder over the Far-Rise Hills.

“Except,” Thornmallow added miserably, his voice breaking on the two syllables, “I did hear what you said. Without meaning to, that is.”

The magisters looked at one another in great concern. Thornmallow continued uneasily.

“If I leave, you will no longer have the one hundred and thirteen students you need. And somehow you need that number because of some beast and its master. And you need that number by tomorrow night. And we can’t count on another Call, I suppose, going out in time, and some other boy or girl showing up.” His voice got somewhat wistful here and he looked at the magisters, all of whom were shaking their heads.

“So though I am certainly no kind of hero, being small and thin and often smudgy of nose …” He rubbed his fist over his nose. “I could stay until just after you defeat this beast fellow. And its master. You know I was able to make some snow yesterday, and maybe that might help. If you need snow, that is. Though I know I need more practice. And then …” His voice trailed off, though by a supreme act of will, he managed to keep it from whimpering.

“Squark!”

Register Oakbend turned his sightless eyes toward Thornmallow, and those eyes pierced right through him. He could feel the sharp pinpricks where they entered.

“Dr. Mo says you must stay.” Register Oakbend closed his eyes, and Thornmallow felt as if the pins had been removed.

“Till … till when?”

Before anyone could answer, the room suddenly went dark. Not the kind of dark that happens if the light has been turned off, but as dark as if all light and all color were gone from the world for good. And there was an odd smell, of something wet and old and horrible.

Just as suddenly, the smell was gone, and the light came back on.

“What was that?” whispered Thornmallow.

“The Master has been playing with us for a full week now,” said Magister Hickory softly. “Lights on and off, odd noises, awful smells. And that was a glimpse of the Beast.”

Remembering the lights going off in Magister Briar Rose’s room, Thornmallow said, “But I saw nothing.”

“Which is worse—seeing or not seeing?” asked Register Oakbend.

Shivering, Thornmallow said, “But the smell …” He gulped. “It was like a bear’s winter cave. Like a sick cow’s breath. Like …”

“Better not remark any more upon it,” cautioned Magister Briar Rose. “In Wizard’s Hall, things spoken aloud can become real.”

“And names have power,” added Magister Hyssop.

Thornmallow nodded grimly. “I’ll stay,” he said. He wondered if they could see the trembling of his knees beneath his gown, then decided that, since they were wizards, they probably could. “I’ll stay. And I’ll try.”

“Good boy,” called out Register Oakbend. “Dr. Mo knew you’d do.”

Magister Hickory walked over to Thornmallow and put an arm around his shoulder. “Now, child, none of this must get beyond this door. We haven’t told the other students because we don’t want to cause a panic. Do you understand? Can’t have even one of the one hundred and thirteen leaving Wizard’s Hall in fright. Clearly we need all of you. It’s in the rules of the spell.”

“What rules?” Thornmallow asked. “What spell?” It was an incredibly brave thing to do, asking that question with Magister Hickory’s arm on his shoulder. He was to wonder ever after how he managed it.

“All magic—even dark magic like the Master’s—has to follow rules and be fair. The spell the Master gave us goes this way.” He closed his eyes and sang—on the dominant, Thornmallow was sure:

Ever on the quilting goes,

Spinning out the lives between,

Winding up the souls of those

Students up to one-thirteen.

“That’s all we know, and it should be enough. But you can understand why we have to guard against even one student leaving now,” said Magister Hickory. “One hundred and thirteen students. That’s what the spell says we have to have. Don’t you see?”

He didn’t, really. But because Magister Hickory’s arm was around him, and because he had been spoken to as if he were truly one of them, he found that after a while he did see. Truly.