Chapter Nine:

The Painting Lesson

Ethan always remembered his first few weeks at Kaaterskill as a blur of constant motion. After that first eventful day, he still had not had three of the major subjects --Charms, Potions and History of Magic -- and two of the enrichment courses -- Magical Art and Music. Every day brought many new experiences and revelations. Day by day, week by week, Ethan absorbed the lessons of wizardry. He couldn't pinpoint the day or hour when subjects such as Potions or Defense against the Dark Arts finally seemed as natural as English or Math had in earlier years.

Ethan found he had a talent for Charms. Lydia O'Loughlin, the Assistant Head, taught the class. She had a somewhat severe manner but, unlike Crockett, she avoided comparing her current students to their parents or older brothers, sisters or cousins. Despite the fact that she was the head of Harrison House, she ran her class in an evenhanded way. She seemed genuinely pleased at Ethan's progress.

Herodotus Bancroft, the head of Bradbury House, taught History of Magic. Ethan had looked forward to this class more than most, for ever since he had opened Magical Beginnings he had wondered how the world of wizardry had developed and why it had been concealed from muggles. He found that his classmates weren't as enthusiastic. Tim didn't seem as curious and Marcus was certain that History would be the most boring class on the schedule. Even Anne seemed certain that the class would consist mostly of memorizing the dates of important conventions, decrees and wars that had occurred centuries earlier.

"We'd probably get as much from interviewing the ghosts around here," she surmised.

In the event, Bancroft delighted Ethan and surprised the doubters. Both his method and his manner seemed calculated to keep the students interested in the subject. He paid more attention to his appearance than most of the professors, as Ethan had noticed on the day of their arrival on the steamboat. Bancroft was given to wearing colorful and elegant robes. A broad smile frequently graced his distinguished-looking face and he had an easy manner that relaxed his students in class.

Perhaps as important, Bancroft rarely lectured to the class.

"History is the interpretation of the past," he told them in the first class. "I expect each of you to become a historian in your own right. We will read texts together, discuss the events that have made the world of magic as we know it in North America today, and we will all learn to interpret the past. Without an understanding of those who have gone before us, we may float aimlessly in the present and we may struggle to shape the future. And believe me, interpreting the past can be every bit as tricky as divining the future."

That first class, Bancroft explained that he would base their studies on important themes of wizarding history, rather than follow a strict timeline. The first several meetings would be devoted to discussing the decision of the International Council of Wizards in 1692 that the magical community must be segregated and hidden from muggles. Each student was to adopt the role of one of the participants and present their point of view in a re-creation of the Council meetings.

If Charms and History of Magic proved to be two of Ethan's favorite classes, Potions was another story entirely. The class met in the dungeon down the hall from Hsu's classroom. Socrates Renfro, the Potions master, treated his students without favoritism. He simply assumed they were all simpletons. Ethan and Tim partnered in Potions and managed to fill the classroom with an acrid purple haze during an early class while working on a simple potion for restful sleep.

Renfro was on top of them in a moment.

"Foolish boys!" he bellowed. "You added the lavender flowers before the extract of hellebore, didn't you? Five points from Bradbury for not following directions!"

Then Renfro waved his wand above his head and cried out, "Evaporo!" The purple smoke rose to the ceiling and vanished.

Ethan came to dread the sight of Renfro even outside class. His ashen complexion, cold, emotionless eyes and brooding visage reminded Ethan of alien creatures he'd seen in horror movies. And it didn't help that Renfro and Crockett appeared to be close friends. Ethan wondered if they planned new pitfalls for him over meals.

Ethan thought Music class somewhat pointless. Although Cecilia Pinkwater, the Resident Musician, was a jovial little witch, the class seemed to have relatively little to do with real magic. They learned school songs and house songs. She promised they would learn how to bewitch instruments but not until spring.

Ethan feared that Magical Art would also prove of little interest or use. The fact that the Bradburys shared the studio with Tenskwatawa further reduced his enthusiasm.

The enmity that had first arisen between Simon Brocklebank, Ethan and Tim aboard the steamboat had escalated into a full-scale feud between the first-years of the two houses after the first flying lesson. Brocklebank had clearly taken a position of authority amongst the Tenskwatawa first-years. While Harding and Van Nort were his most evident followers, the others sorted into the Prophet's house pointedly ignored the Bradburys when they were not engaged in taunting them. Even Malik Ibrahim, the only muggle-born among the Tenskwatawas, and Katrina Powles refused to talk to the Bradburys.

The Bradbury first-years looked up to Tim for his performance in flying, which he showed was no fluke in the weeks that followed his race with Brocklebank. But Tim spent most of his time studying and showed no desire to lead his classmates when not airborne.

Marcus and Anne were the most assertive of the other Bradburys, but neither sought to lead the class. Ethan didn't stand out either, although some of his housemates still occasionally expressed interest in his parents' exploits. He was glad that their initial curiosity about his family had subsided, as he felt he had enough on his mind already just keeping up with classes.

Roscoe Skryme, in his accustomed many-colored robe, ushered them into the fourth-floor studio on Monday afternoon. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the Bradbury and Tenskwatawa students carefully avoided acknowledging each others' presence as they found seats on opposite sides of the room.

A rich odor of roses filled Ethan's senses as he sat down. He looked around the room and saw a dozen vases full of the long-stemmed red flowers. A warm fall breeze spread the sweet smell all over the classroom. The walls of the studio were covered with paintings of all sorts: landscapes in which the sun shone dramatically through rain clouds over rugged peaks; portraits of wizards and witches, each smiling or glowering or smirking over the seated students; paintings of roses and other flowers that seemed to bend in the breeze just as surely as did the real ones; genre scenes whose characters were noisily playing wizard chess or arguing politics.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!" Skryme began. "I trust that you've had a wonderful day so far. I know that we'll have an excellent time Monday afternoons this year exploring the fascinating and useful world of magical arts!"

The class nodded listlessly. Actually Ethan was in a relatively good mood, for with the exception of Potions, he enjoyed his Monday schedule. But everyone was a bit tired by late afternoon and the blossoming feud between the two houses encouraged silence as well.

"You may well wonder, as I have," Skryme continued. "why this subject is considered 'enrichment' rather than a central core course. For the skills required to create a masterful magical painting rival those needed for any of your other courses. Indeed, a first-class magical painting may involve spells, charms, potions, magical plants and creatures, even the dark arts. And a painting may be one of the most powerful magical objects you will ever encounter."

This speech garnered some interest from the class. Anne Findlay raised her hand. Skryme beckoned to her.

"But, Professor, aren't paintings are just a form of decoration? How powerful can they be?"

"A very good question, Miss..?"

"Findlay."

"Yes, Miss Findlay. Ah, but once you've been exposed to the joint work of magic and pigment, you'll understand," he said with just a touch of condescension in his voice, "that these are so much more than decorations. Every portrait that is painted magically may reveal the secrets of the soul--the soul of the artist, the soul of the subject, or both. Think of it, ladies and gentlemen, the secrets of your souls passed down to posterity on canvas. Done competently, magical art comes as close as anything save the Philosopher's Stone to assuring you immortality."

Sensing a new attentiveness in his audience, Skryme continued.

"Ah, I see the promise of eternal life sounds attractive even among you, who are in the bloom of early youth. Now, I cannot teach you how to preserve your bodies uncorrupted past the normal span of your lives. But I can show you how the artist-wizard can capture not only your image but your essence in a painting that may last for centuries after you have shuffled off this mortal coil."

Ethan saw Marcus Gibson looking puzzled. He raised his hand and Skryme called on him.

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Marcus Gibson, sir. I was wondering how much of a person's...I mean what he knows and feels...how much of that can be put into a painting? And how much of that can one see in the painting later?"

"An excellent question, Mr. Gibson, to which I am afraid I can't give a definitive answer. In theory, as put forward by the eminent Claude Voldame two centuries ago, a painter of surpassing skill could embed all of a man's thoughts and memories in a portrait. The painted man, supplied not only with the gift of speech and movement but also the store of his own knowledge, could converse with his descendants many generations later with perfect ease."

"In such a case, the painting's viewers would only be aware of as much as the subject wished known. Of course, it has been theorized that the image in a magical portrait may also be susceptible to the use of certain memory charms or evil curses. But to my knowledge, this theory has yet to be proven."

With a wave of his wand, Skryme summoned twenty easels with supplies.

"Now before we get too far into unverified theory, you must begin to learn the basics of magical art. You have before you specially prepared canvases, paints and brushes. You may not believe you have artistic talent, ladies and gentlemen, but I know that inside each of you is a spark of creativity and I intend to fan that spark into a flame if I possibly can."

Now one thing Ethan had been good at in elementary school was art. He'd dabbled in drawing cartoons inspired by his X-men collection and he'd been pretty good at painting too.

"Today, I want you to try your hand at painting a rose. Start by sketching the outline of your subject in pencil. When you are done with the image of the rose, we'll practice bringing the flower to life on the canvas."

Around the room, students moved up to their easels and began sketching, a few with confidence, but most hesitantly. Ethan gazed for a minute or two at the roses arranged in a glass vase on a stand between his easel and Tim's. Then he picked up a pencil and began sketching the outline of the scene.

Tim continued looking from the roses to his easel, a helpless look in his face. Ethan caught his friend stealing glances at his work.

"How do you do that?" Tim whispered, as he tentatively began sketching the stand. "That looks good, Ethan."

"Thanks," Ethan replied. "You've just got to really see the picture in your mind. Then it takes practice. I used to draw a lot back home."

Skryme was walking around the room, looking over the students' work and exhorting them.

"Don't be afraid of making mistakes," he said. "There are no mistakes here, just opportunities for practice. Not bad there, Miss...Appelbaum, is it? Yes, you've almost got the perspective there, Mr. Powles."

The teacher arrived behind Ethan and Tim. He took a quick look at Tim's almost empty canvas. "Come on now, don't be shy," he said. "Put pencil to canvas and see what you come up with, Mr..."

"Van der Meulen, sir."

"And well, this is quite good," Skryme exclaimed, looking over Ethan's sketch and turning to him eagerly. "I think you may have a real talent for art, Mr. ...Mr. Lloyd, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"That's a nice touch, putting Mr. Van der Meulen in the background," Skryme continued. "Jumping the gun a bit, but it's not a bad outline, so maybe you're ready. For now just finish up the sketch and in a few moments, you can start painting."

When he'd finished his sketch, Ethan tried to encourage Tim. He'd done a decent job drawing the stand, but was still floundering on the vase and roses.

"I could draw it for you, but I can't tell you how to do it," he said in frustration. "Like I said, you just have to really see it. When you do that, your hand will follow the picture in your mind."

"Whatever you say, Ethan," Tim said in a resigned tone. "My mind isn't cooperating."

A few minutes later, Skryme told them to stop sketching and instructed them in use of the paints.

"Now these paints have been treated with a spell that makes them sensitive to wands. No spoken spell is needed. Start by brushing the paint on, then do the finishing work with your wand, like so."

Skryme's own easel held a sketch of an eagle; he brushed brown paint onto the feathers. Then he took up his wand; to Ethan's amazement the paint responded to the flicks of the wand just as if Skryme had been continuing to use the brush.

Ethan looked over the paints, found a red for the roses and brushed some onto his canvas. He set the brush down and took out his wand. He thought of the way he painted with a brush and imitated the motion with his wand. His right arm tingled as it had when he'd found the wand at Schlauermeister's and the paint moved as if he were spreading it with a brush.

"Wow!" he exclaimed to himself. He almost felt as if the painting was a part of him, a natural extension. The rest of the room faded from his mind and he worked, painting the flowers, the delicate vase and the stand. When they were done, he filled in the background, which included Tim's easel. Finally, he looked carefully at Tim himself, who was struggling to paint the roses, and then he painted his friend's image on his own canvas.

The hour was nearing its end when Skryme made his rounds again.

"Now, if you don't finish today, never fear. You can finish next week," he announced. He arrived at Ethan's easel and gave an approving exclamation.

"Well, Mr. Lloyd, this is just excellent for a first attempt," he said, his robes shimmering as he moved about the easel. "This will be a good example to use with the finishing spells."

"First, everyone gather around my easel," Professor Skryme said. "I've finished the eagle, a symbol of the school. To bring it to life, I will now use Faciamus vitae, a spell that gives the painted image of a subject--be it a person, an animal or a plant--the ability to move as the original person or thing would."

Skryme pointed his wand at the eagle, swishing it grandly and uttering the spell,

"Faciamus vitae!"

The painted eagle began to slowly wheel as if it was riding the air currents high above the mountains.

"Now, Mr. Lloyd," Skryme said as he turned to Ethan. "Can you please give that a try on your roses, and then on Mr. Van der Meulen?"

"OK, I'll try," Ethan said a bit nervous now that the eyes of all the other Bradburys and Tenskwatawas were on him. By now he felt completely comfortable with his wand; he waved it at the roses and cast the spell as Skryme had.

"Faciamus vitae!" he cried in a firm voice that he hardly recognized as his own. Immediately, the rose blossoms began moving slowly in the breeze.

Then he pointed the wand at his image of Tim and again cast the spell.

"Faciamus vitae!"

There was a murmur from the other students, then a cheer from the Bradburys, as they saw the image of Tim Van der Meulen start to move, looking at his easel with the same frustrated look the real Tim had worn.

"Cool!" Tim and Ethan gasped simultaneously.

"Very good, Mr. Lloyd!" Skryme gushed. "Now we have a few minutes, so let's see if we can go a bit further. The image of Mr. Van der Meulen moves naturally but would be a poor conversationalist--so far. There's another spell, more difficult, that can add Mr. Van der Meulen's mind and soul to this painting."

"Just what we need," Ethan heard Simon Brocklebank say sarcastically, "a talking portrait of Van der Muggle."

Skryme either did not hear the comment or ignored it, for he continued.

"Accipite mentis is a spell that fixes the mind of the subject in the painting," he said. "It requires sustained effort on the part of the artist to succeed."

Skryme showed Ethan how to fix his wand on Tim first, say the spell, then move the wand over to the painting and repeat the spell.

"You must maintain your concentration on Mr. Van der Meulen until you sense that you have captured his essence," Skryme explained. "You'll just feel it when you've completed that. Then you'll feel the energy transferring to the painting; when it's gone you will feel that, too. Don't worry, there's nothing you can do to harm your friend."

"Pity," Brocklebank muttered.

"Shut it, Simon," Marcus hissed back at him.

"Ready, Mr. Lloyd?" Skryme asked. Ethan nodded. "Stand quite still, Mr. Van der Meulen...now on three, 1-2-3."

"Accipite mentis!" Ethan shouted, his wand pointed straight at Tim, who looked straight into Ethan's eyes with an odd expression. Ethan couldn't explain it, but he felt warmth moving into him through his wand as if he was a mug being filled with hot tea. After what seemed like ages but was actually about two minutes, the movement stopped.

Ethan turned to his painting, pointed the wand at the image of Tim and again spoke the incantation. Now he felt the motion flow down his arm and out from the wand tip. After a while, he felt the last of the warmth leave him. He lowered the wand. Suddenly he felt exhausted; he took a deep breath and sat down.

The image of Tim looked out of the painting and said quite clearly, "That's wonderful, Ethan, but I still don't get it! I guess I'm not cut out for art."

The Bradburys applauded loudly; even the Tenskwatawas looked impressed, though they said nothing. Tim's painted likeness turned scarlet when he realized he had a large audience.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Lloyd!" Skryme declared. "Quite excellent for a first try! Five points to Bradbury! I hope you all noted the way Mr. Lloyd held his concentration. I want you all to be doing that by the end of the year. Now, time to clean up; you can leave your paintings on the easels, I'll store them once they've dried."

Heading back to Bradbury Tower, Ethan felt happier than he had since the sorting ceremony. Here was magic that seemed to come naturally to him, the way Tim had taken to flying.

His performance kept his housemates talking that evening.

"What was it like Ethan?" Peter asked over dinner. "I mean when you were transferring Tim's thoughts and memories to the picture?"

"Well," Ethan said. "It was strange. I felt like a pitcher being filled up and then emptied."

"Cuth ya thee hith ots?" Kyle asked through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Huh? Oh, his thoughts?" Ethan responded. "No, nothing like that. I could feel a flow through my wand into my body, then out the wand and into the painting."

"I thought it was a bit creepy," Marcus added. "I mean what Skryme said about casting charms and curses on a portrait."

"Yeah, don't get any ideas, guys!" Tim implored them. "And keep Brocklebank away from that painting."

"He said that was just theory," Ethan said. "I doubt it's really possible."

"I'm not really worried," Tim said lightly.

"But if you were, you could just ask Ethan to paint a broom for you to escape on, right?" Marcus snickered. Everyone chuckled.

The next morning at breakfast, the large window above the faculty table opened and dozens of owls swooshed in.

"Mail call!" Anne announced eagerly.

Ethan had gotten used to this daily occurrence. Each owl seemed to home in on its target, undistracted by the flapping and swooping of the others. Ethan saw a large hawk owl swoop past him and across to the Tenskwatawa table, where it deposited a parcel in front of Simon Brocklebank.

A snowy owl dropped a letter in front of Anne and immediately took off. A moment later, Ethan ducked as a small, brownish owl landed in front of him with a letter tied to its right leg. He quickly untied it; the owl flew off and headed out the window.

Ethan saw that the letter was from his parents; he opened it and read eagerly:

"Dear Ethan,

We trust that you arrived safely and are getting settled. The first few days are bound to be a bit of a blur. We hope that you have a chance to get to know new friends and enjoy yourself. We know you'll work hard.

Pete wanted to write you a note, so we've included that. Send your reply with Bucky and we'll make sure Pete gets it.

Love,

Mom and Dad"

Pete's note was short: "So what are they teaching you at that school of yours, Lloyd? Mrs. Schwartzberg is a real witch so far...gave us tons of homework the first week! Write when you get a chance, Pete."

Ethan nudged Tim, who hadn't gotten any mail, and said, "Check this out. It's from a friend in my grade back home. Says his teacher's a witch!"

"If only he knew," Tim said with a laugh.

Ethan wished he could write back to his parents and Pete right away. He found it hard to believe that it had been only one week since his father had put him on the Hoboken Limited in Chicago. He suddenly remembered things he wanted to tell them as well as questions that had come to mind. But a look at his watch told him that he had about fifteen minutes to finish eating and get to Transfiguration.

The day proved to be long. Neither Transfiguration nor Herbology went well. In Astronomy, Professor Mickelson instructed them to write an essay on the principle features of the night sky as it would appear at their observation the next night. Tiverton assigned an essay on transfiguration theory to be due the next day in class. At least Flying went well; on Tuesdays, Bradbury and Tituba shared the field, which was much more pleasant than Thursdays with Tenskwatawa. But after dinner, Ethan realized he'd have to buckle down and write. By the time he was done, the common room was nearly empty.

As he put his quill away, he remembered the letter from his parents and thought briefly of answering it. But his eyelids were growing heavy. Stifling yawns, he decided to wait until the next evening to write back.

Wednesday was so busy that Ethan barely had time to think. First thing in the morning, Potions had been uneventful for a change. In Bancroft's class, he'd played the role of Randolph Gookin, a Massachusetts warlock who'd attended the 1692 conference. Tiverton had called on Ethan to read aloud from his Transfiguration essay and then corrected several errors in front of the class.

During his free time after Tiverton's class, Ethan finally had the chance to write home.

Instead of going to the library, he headed up to the Bradbury common room, pulled out a quill and some ink and unrolled some parchment. He thought for a moment about all the things he wanted to write, then decided how to begin.

"Dear Mom and Dad," he wrote. "It was good to get your letter. It's been quite a week. The train trip was fine; I met a boy from Canada, Tim, who turned out to be in my house here. Oh--you were right about the wand, Dad...someone tried to steal it from the compartment, but I had it with me. The sorting was interesting--why didn't you tell me about it? I'm in Bradbury House. Professor Bancroft is Head of our house. Did you two do well in Herbology or Potions? Those professors don't seem to like me. History is really good, though, and so is Defense against the Dark Arts. I like Charms and Flying, but the best class so far is Magical Art. Professor Skryme says I have natural talent! I've only really seen Professor Flyte at the opening dinner. He announced that You-Know-Who is back. Some people don't believe him, though.

Well, that's all for now. Tonight at midnight we do astronomy observations. I'll write Pete on a separate sheet. Won't he think it's strange to get a letter on a scroll?

Love,

Ethan

P.S. Do you know anything about a family called Brocklebank?"

Then Ethan started his note to Pete. He smiled to himself as he wrote.

"Dear Pete,

Thanks for the note. Sorry to hear Mrs. Schwartzberg is so tough. I have different teachers for different subjects. I'd have to say that some of them are witches, too!

I'm in a dorm--they call them houses here--with four of the other first-year boys. They're from all over--one is from Saskatchewan, so I'm not furthest from home.

The food's much better than the cafeteria at Marquette. And sports are pretty cool. We have a good art teacher and history's also a good class.

Hope the work load gets easier! Say hi to Ryan and Justin and your parents for me.

Take care and write back,

Ethan"

He folded the two letters together and slipped them into an envelope. It was almost dinner time. Ethan went up to his dorm room to find Bucky; when he got there he remembered that he'd let the owl out to hunt and visit the owl roost in the North Tower. Sending the letters would have to wait.

After dinner, Ethan, Tim, Anne and Peter trudged up to the library to do homework. Ethan took the letters with him, planning to stop at the owl roost before heading back to Bradbury.

It was almost 8:30 when Ethan shut the books he'd been using to compose his Astronomy essay.

"Where are you going?" Anne asked.

"I have to get these letters off tonight," he explained. "So I'm off to the owl roost, if I can remember how to find it."

"I know the way," Anne said. "I'm not finished, but I doubt I'll get do much in the next half-hour. I'll finish it back in the common room. Come on guys; let's get Ethan to the owl roost and back!"

Peter and Tim didn't need much persuasion. So the four Bradburys headed out of the library, which was on the third floor in the center of the school and headed for the North Tower.

"Now let's be quick," Peter said nervously. "We're not supposed to be out after 9."

"Oh come on," Anne harrumphed. "If we're a few minutes late, what can happen? We can always pretend we're 4th-years, can't we?"

She led the way, weaving down corridors, left and right, past statues of witches, wizards, centaurs and mermen. Ethan recognized some of them, so he felt pretty sure Anne was going the right way. Tim was right behind him and Peter skittishly brought up the rear.

"I hear Beadle patrols the corridors at night," he said uneasily. "And he loves catching first-years out past curfew."

"Peter, just keep up," Tim said curtly. "And we won't be out late."

"Here's the stair," Anne said brightly. "Up we go. If we'd stayed straight, we would have gotten to the entrance to Tenskwatawa House a few doors down."

"Remind me not to go that way," Tim said as they made their way up a spiral staircase that seemed to twist upwards endlessly. At intervals there were landings that opened into torch-lit corridors that ran off into darkness. Bronze gargoyles guarded each of these landings. Ethan thought they looked quite alarming and almost alive as he passed.

Not long after they passed the third landing--or was it the fourth, Ethan wondered--the stair ended in a high-ceilinged room with open clerestory windows on all sides. Their ears full of the hooting of dozens of owls, Ethan and the others knew they'd reached the school roost.

Before Ethan could survey the room to find Bucky, the owl had alighted on his shoulder.

"Hi, Buck," Ethan said, stroking the owl's tail feathers. "Hope you've had fun with your friends. Ready to do a job for me?"

Bucky hooted vigorously.

"Good!" Ethan said. "Now this needs to go to Mom and Dad."

Ethan slipped the scrolled letter into a loop attached around the bird's left leg and held Bucky up over his head. With another hoot, Bucky took off and flew up to the clerestory and out into the night.

"Thanks, guys," Ethan said to his friends. "It's 8:40. Now, let's get back to Bradbury!"

Anne again led the way, hurrying back down the spiral stair. The gargoyles glowered as they dashed downwards. At the fourth landing, Anne strode out the door into the corridor and turned left. A few yards down the hall, she stopped short before the statue of a huge, coiled snake.

"What's wrong, Anne?" Tim asked.

"I don't remember this statue, do you?" she asked, a nervous edge in her voice.

"No, but maybe we went by too fast to notice it," Tim answered.

"I couldn't miss something that big and awful. Besides, I hate snakes," she said, as she peered up and down the hall. "Somehow we got off the stairs wrong. But are we one floor above or below where we should be?"

Peter Powles had begun to make raspy whimpering noises.

"Don't tell me you're l-l-lost?" he managed to ask.

"Of course not," Anne replied, trying to sound confident without much success. "Even if we're one floor too far down, this should bring us back to the stair by the music room. Come on."

Off they trudged again, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the hall.

"Not the most heavily used route," Ethan observed.

A few steps later, Anne came to a halt again, the others at her heels. What had appeared from a distance to be the well-lit end of the hall near the stairs turned out to be a wall, and a most unusual wall indeed.

The four of them looked at it in wonder, despite their predicament. For the hall they saw was actually painted onto a solid wall to fool the eye.

"It must be bewitched," Anne said, dejected.

"Maybe it's like the wall behind the Tavern der Zauberer in Milwaukee," Ethan said hopefully.

"What's that?" Tim asked.

"It's a wall that you can walk straight through to get to Old Solomon's Row," Ethan said. "But you've got to know the right spell."

Ethan reached out with his right hand, hoping to see it pass through the wall. But his hand stopped against a solid surface.

"We don't have time to figure that out," Anne said quickly. "This way!"

The others had little choice but to follow her down a dark side passage, although it seemed to be going in a direction opposite of the one they wanted to go.

About a dozen yards down the passage, Ethan's eye was drawn to a door about a dozen yards down the passage, flanked by torches. On the door was a painted circle with a lightning bolt across the middle.

"Hold it," he said. "What's this?"

The others wheeled around.

"What's what?" Anne asked.

Ethan pointed at the lightning bolt symbol.

"There's something familiar about it," he said. "As if I should know what it means. I wonder what's in there."

"It's some sort of rune, I think," Anne said. "We can look it up in the library tomorrow."

She turned to start off again. Peter followed, but Ethan didn't move. Tim watched Ethan as he peered at the door.

Suddenly Ethan was seized with a wild desire to know what was within the room. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember an unlocking charm he'd read about in the Standard Book of Spells, Level One.

"Ethan, we really ought to go," Tim finally said. Anne gave Ethan a look that mingled annoyance and curiosity, but she made no further effort to leave. Peter trembled nervously; he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Ethan paid them no attention. He felt as if he was in a tunnel with the lightning bolt rune on a door at the other end, a great mystery waiting to be solved.

Somewhere far off, a clock began chiming the hour. At that moment, Ethan remembered the charm.

He pulled out his wand, walked over to the door, tapped the lock and said quietly, "Alohomora!"

Then several things happened at once. The lock clicked and Ethan opened the door.

Peter squealed, "Ethan, don't go in!"

The tramp of heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway from which they'd turned and a flicker of lantern light could be seen at the junction of the corridors.

"It must be Beadle!" Anne gasped.

"Quick, get in here," Tim whispered hoarsely.

No one hesitated. In seconds they were all inside the room with the door closed behind them. In the pitch darkness of the unlit chamber, they huddled against the door and listened. The footsteps sounded closer and closer. They stopped near the door.

"I know I heard someone on this floor, Professor Tiverton," said a guttural voice. "They shouldn't have been able to get far."

"No, Beadle, they shouldn't," Tiverton replied. "But there's no sign of them down here."

"Let's just have a look further down, sir," Beadle insisted. "Just in case they're headed for the stair to Tituba House."

"All right, if you wish," Tiverton assented without enthusiasm. The footsteps continued down the hall in the direction Anne had been leading them.

"OK, if they keep going that way, we can double back to the stairs," Anne whispered. "I'm almost sure we came down one level too far."

"Lucky you remembered that charm, really, Ethan," Tim said with a sigh.

Peter, who was behind the others, had been tugging at Ethan's sleeve. Ethan turned to look at him.

"Well, what is it, Peter?" he said irritably. As he turned to look at Peter, his eye was drawn further into the room and he saw what "it" was.

Or at least he saw "it." He wasn't entirely sure what he was seeing, though. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Tim and a short squeal from Anne, so he knew they were also taken aback.

The room had seemed pitch black when they'd closed the door. But now the opposite end seemed lit by an unseen source, a faint yellowish glow emanating from the walls. The room narrowed towards the back and the ceiling also seemed to drop down, so that there was barely enough space for one person at that end. At the very end of the room was a purple door, with the same lightning-bolt rune glowing gold on it.

But the odd shape of the room and the inexplicable lighting had not stunned the students.

Sitting just in front of the other door in the pale yellow light was the strangest creature Ethan had ever seen. It had short golden fur, four large paws and a tufted tail that twitched from side to side. But its head was unmistakably that of a man, with short brown hair and a scruffy beard.

"I know what that is," Anne said breathlessly. "It's a sphinx."

"You mean like in Egypt?" Tim asked shakily. "Out in the desert?"

"No, the one in Egypt is just so much carved stone," the sphinx answered with a bemused expression. "Whereas I am flesh and blood, very much alive."

"Oh great, it talks," Peter muttered.

"Well, what would you expect me to do?" the sphinx replied, sounding slightly miffed. "It's been days since anyone stopped by to see me. When four young people such as you turn up, I hope I might have a bit of wordplay, at least."

Ethan had regained the curiosity that had drawn him to this room in the first place.

"What's through that door behind you?" he asked. "Why are you here?"

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," the sphinx replied, grinning. "Although I must say you can't know much about my kind to ask such questions."

"Sorry," Ethan said, "But you are the first sphinx I've met."

"As I suspected," the beast continued smoothly. "Let me educate you then. There's nothing I like so much as a riddle. I can tell you only this about what lies beyond that door: if you can answer the riddle I ask you, I will let you pass--and you can find out for yourselves. Answer incorrectly, well, let's just say I get awfully hungry down here and a brace of young students would keep me going for a few more weeks. There is a third option, of course: if you decide not to answer the riddle, I will let you return whence you came unharmed."

"That's very fair-minded of you," said Anne guardedly.

"Yes," agreed Peter. "Can we go now?"

Ethan still felt remarkably unafraid of the sphinx, despite the beast's evident interest in snacking on students. He wasn't quite ready to leave.

"Can we decide to leave after we've heard the riddle?" he asked tentatively.

"I've already told you," the sphinx said with a disinterested nod.

Ethan desperately wanted to hear the riddle. But just then he caught sight of the sphinx sharpening it claws on the floor and he thought better of it.

"Well, thanks very much," he said with a bow. "We'll be going now."

"If you must," the sphinx said wistfully. "Do come back. I love a good conversation."

Anne opened the door to the hallway. Peter dashed past her, eager to be out of sight of the sphinx. Tim and Ethan followed and soon they were all retracing their steps to the spiral stair. Up one flight they went. Anne sighed with relief as they came out the next door into a hallway they recognized.

"Now don't forget, we've still got to be careful," Tim reminded her. "We are out past curfew."

Somehow they managed to get back into their own wing of the school. When they headed down the Disconcerting Stair and saw the Dutchman ahead.

"Och! Out late, are we young ones?" the old soldier exclaimed. "Pahssvord?"

"Wolfsbane!" all four shouted at once. The door opened and they stumbled into the common room, where there were still quite a few students at work.

Marcus, Kyle and Maddie were working on star charts at one table. They all looked curiously at their classmates.

"Out for a late night stroll?" Marcus asked. "Or getting a head start on Astronomy class?"

"Neither," Peter said, as exasperation overtook him. "Findlay and Lloyd were just trying to get us killed--or worse, caught out by Beadle."

"Come on, Peter, I don't remember anyone forcing you to go along," Tim countered.

"We just went to the owl roost with Ethan to send a letter," Anne explained. "And we got a bit lost on the way back. That's all."

"So where'd you end up?" Kyle asked. "I've heard there are lots of strange nooks and crannies all over the school."

"We found one of them," Tim began.

"And you won't believe what else we found," Ethan added.

Just then Kenny Sturtevant strode up from across the room.

"You four--Van der Meulen, Powles, Lloyd and Findlay--In the proctors' lounge, please," he said, sounding severe. "I need to speak to you."

"I knew it," Ethan heard Peter mutter.

They all followed Kenny into a small room off the right side of the common room. Inside, there was a table with a half-dozen chairs, a small fireplace with a mirror above. Around the walls was a row of photographs of Bradbury proctors past--over a hundred years' worth, Ethan thought.

"Sit," Kenny ordered.

The four first-years each found a chair at the table. None spoke, though they shared furtive looks of apprehension.

"Now, I remember well how fascinating this building can be for new students," he said. "But that does not excuse blatant abuse of the curfew for younger students."

"But we just got lost coming back from owl roost," Anne explained again.

"Why you were out past curfew is not relevant," Kenny continued. "Had you been found by Beadle or a teacher, you would be in extremely hot water now. As it is, I am merely telling you not to let it happen again. And...Well, if you saw anything unusual, I advise you to keep that to yourselves. I won't report you to Professor Bancroft this time."

Four sighs of relief rose from the first-years.

"And if you want to talk about it, I will be happy to discuss this discretely with any of you," he concluded. "Now, I think you have Astronomy in a few hours. I recommend a catnap first."

"Thanks, Kenny," Ethan said quietly. On the way out of the proctors' lounge, Ethan told Tim, "I think I'll take that nap now."

"Me too," his friend replied.

They slept well enough for an hour or so. Kyle and Marcus woke them about twenty minutes before midnight.

"Come on, sleepyheads," Marcus called. "Time to go stargazing."

Up on the roof, Professor Mickelson directed them as they viewed the September stars through telescopes. Ethan recognized Vega and Capella, bright stars to the north, and saw Orion and Gemini peeking above the eastern horizon. As he gazed at the fiery points of light in the dark night sky, Ethan wondered about the riddle of the sphinx and what lay beyond the door with the golden rune.

He still wondered an hour later as he pulled the bed curtains closed once again. His dreams were filled with blazing stars in a dark void and the mysterious smile of the sphinx.