Hawthorne pointed up the hall. “See the man talking to the fellow in the white jacket? That’s Fritz Skander. The other’s the assistant cook, who’s also new. He’s the one who held off Campbell.”

There were fewer people in the halls as classes got ready to begin. Students were hurrying. Skander was smiling kindly at the cook, one hand resting on the other man’s shoulder, nodding and shaking his head as the cook talked to him rapidly, with a great amount of gesticulation. When Skander saw Hawthorne, he broke off his conversation and came toward them. The cook waved to Hawthorne, then rushed off in the opposite direction. Krueger noticed that even his walk was jerky, as if his legs came with several extra sets of joints.

“This must be your friend from Concord,” said Skander, reaching out his hand to Krueger. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name.”

“Kevin Krueger.” Krueger shook Skander’s hand. He found himself staring at Skander’s necktie, which had the phrase “What, me worry?” printed over and over.

“This is a wonderful treat to have you here. I gather you’re having lunch with us.”

Krueger had heard nothing about this but he smiled nonetheless.

“Is everything okay with Frank?” asked Hawthorne.

“Yes, yes, he has plans for a new casserole. Something with winter squash. Really, he’s an absolute treat.” Skander started to move off, walking backward as he spoke. “I must dash, I’m afraid. Duty calls. Good to know that Concord really cares. Sometimes we’ve felt terribly isolated. Not anymore, of course.” At last he turned and ducked into a classroom.

Krueger watched him go. “Friendly fellow.”

“He’s been a great help.”

“Have you learned anything about the previous headmaster?”

“Pendergast, or Old Pendergast, as Skander calls him? He evidently saw which way the school was heading and resigned so he wouldn’t have the failure on his résumé.”

They had reached a large door with the word “Administration” printed on the oak panel in gold letters. “Here we are,” said Hawthorne. “I don’t know if I told you that the previous secretary left in October. I began to computerize the office and she panicked.” Hawthorne put his hand on the knob. “Skander again came to the rescue. His wife, Hilda, knows all about computers—pretty much, at any rate. So I gave her the job.”

Hawthorne pushed open the door. Krueger’s first glimpse of Hilda Skander was to see her start in surprise, then she gave a welcoming smile. She looked about forty, with short graying hair parted in the middle. There was something pointy about her face and Krueger had the sense of a somewhat pointy nose in the exact center of the circle. As he approached her, he became aware of the distinct smell of peppermint.

“You must be Kevin Krueger,” she said, getting up from her desk. “We’ve heard so much about you. When Dr. Hawthorne saw your car, he dashed out just like a racehorse.”

“I told them a special friend of mine was coming,” said Hawthorne.

Krueger tried to be hearty but he couldn’t quite manage it. Hilda Skander had bright little dark eyes that reminded him vaguely of an animal’s. He shook her hand and for several minutes they chatted about his first impressions of the school and what his drive up from Concord had been like. Krueger still smelled peppermint but he couldn’t imagine where it was coming from.

“Dr. Hawthorne is making a big impact on our little school,” said Hilda pleasantly, keeping her eyes on Krueger. “He’s our own campus radical. He loves to change things.”

Shortly, Hawthorne said something about keeping Hilda from her work and took Krueger into his office and shut the door.

“Whew,” he said, then grinned. “I think of her as my pet mole.”

“Mole?” said Krueger, misunderstanding.

“She looks a little like a mole, don’t you think? Those small dark eyes. It’s meant affectionately. She’s wonderfully energetic.”

“You seem surrounded by Skanders. Do you have any more of them employed?”

“You mean brothers and sisters? No. There’s a ten-year-old boy, but he has yet to engage himself with the school except to shoot baskets in the gym. But with Hilda’s help I’ve been able to put all the students’ files on disk. Faculty, staff—now it’s easy to look up anything.”

On the desk, Krueger saw a framed photograph of Hawthorne’s wife and daughter standing before a Christmas tree with unwrapped presents heaped around their feet. He thought again how pretty Meg had been. Although he hadn’t meant to say anything, he realized that Hawthorne was watching him look at the picture.

“It’s a nice photograph,” said Krueger, uncertain whether to say anything else.

Hawthorne opened his mouth, then, unaccountably, said nothing.

They sat down on the couch. Krueger kept trying to square Hawthorne’s optimism with the fact that he looked thinner and tired. He glanced quickly at Hawthorne’s wrist but it looked the same as ever, white and pink splotches of scar tissue protruding from his white cuff.

“And what’s that peppermint smell?” Krueger asked.

“Hilda has asthma. She claims the smell of peppermint helps her, so she sprinkles peppermint drops on her handkerchief. Often the whole office reeks of it.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Hawthorne laughed. “It’s more aggressive than I’d like, but I’m getting used to it.”

Krueger sat back and looked around the office. It still appeared rather generic—a framed print of the school seal and two photographs of winter landscapes—as if Hawthorne had yet to put his stamp on it apart from the photograph of Meg and Lily.

“So tell me more about the people here.”

Hawthorne took off his glasses, held them up to the light, looking for smudges, then put them on again as he spoke. “At first they were suspicious, but that was only natural, especially considering all the talk about a book. Some wouldn’t come to my meetings and that was annoying. I had to tell myself it was reasonable for them to worry about their job security and for their worry to translate into ill will. The cook you saw talking to Skander troubled me to such an extent that I made some calls to see if he had any kind of record . . .”

“Prison?”

“Yes, but also mental institutions, treatment centers. He was too impulsive for my taste. Too hyperactive. And when he went at Chip, it was a scary sight. But there was nothing, so I felt I’d been overreacting. I’m glad nothing came of it, because he’s really a great cook.”

In the hour left before lunch, Hawthorne and Krueger continued to discuss the school, following up various points that one or the other had raised earlier. All the evidence suggested that Bishop’s Hill was improving, even if the endeavor was rather like raising the Titanic. Still, Krueger wasn’t entirely happy. Hawthorne didn’t look well, as if he were draining his own blood for the school’s transfusion. And Krueger knew Hawthorne well enough to believe that the deaths of Meg and Lily remained in the forefront of his thinking. But Hawthorne was also passionate about succeeding and that was fueled by his sense that he had failed at Wyndham.

Nor was Krueger happy with what he saw as the mood of the place, although he tried to tell himself that the raw autumn day made him overly pessimistic—those evil-looking gargoyles. It seemed clear that Hawthorne was being thorough. As far as the students were concerned, he was clearly achieving success. And when Krueger asked about funding and budget questions, here too Hawthorne’s answers were positive. Money was being raised. Applications and inquiries, while not streaming in, were a steady trickle. Although Krueger was here as a friend, he would also have to write a report that would eventually find its way to the accreditation board and, as he wrote that report in his mind, he was not displeased with what he saw. Then what bothered him?

Shortly before twelve o’clock the telephone rang, the first call to interrupt them. Hawthorne went to the telephone slowly and Krueger was struck by the hesitancy in his friend’s movements. When Hawthorne picked up the receiver and said hello, it was almost with fear. As he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line, his expression changed to dismay, then anger.