text: The doors to the great hall stood wide open. Thornmallow and his friends were the very last to arrive.
  
  "Never mind going up on the balcony," Gorse said.
  
  "Right." Will slipped in through the doors, turning back to add, "If we're to do anything, we need to be up close."
  
  They pushed through the students in the aisle and made their way forward. Everyone was whispering and the sound of it was like waves in the sea, see-wash, see-wash over and over. There were no seats left, and so they sat huddled together on the floor in front of the first row.
  
  No one was on the dais yet, but the magisters all stood along the right-hand wall, talking animatedly. Only Magister Hickory was missing.
  
  "Maybe it was Hickory who called the meeting," Thornmallow whispered, remembering the magister's entrance the last time. But the others shook their heads, and even he was unconvinced.
  
  Just then the lights flickered and dimmed, and the great school gong reverberated once again. Instantly, the room grew still.
  
  All eyes turned forward, and Thornmallow could feel tension, thick as new butter, filling the Hall. Magister Hickory stumbled onto the stage from behind a wine-dark curtain. His hair was once again hanging limp against his shoulders and his right hand cradled the left against his chest. Turning his head to stare behind him into the shadows, he looked like a frightened creature being chased through tall grass.
  
  A high chittering broke the vast silence. It took Thornmallow a moment to locate its source. Dr. Mo, raging back and forth and pounding the bars of the cage, was screaming squarks so quickly, no one could translate.
  
  Suddenly the lights shot up to full force. A figure cloaked in dark green strode onto the stage, standing behind Magister Hickory. His hair flared out in a black halo around his head and his black beard was braided in a hundred braids. He held the great staff.
  
  "Nettle!" Gorse silently mouthed the name at Thornmallow.
  
  Nettle raised the staff, and at that, even Dr. Mo was mute. Then the black-haired wizard, with casual disdain, pushed Magister Hickory aside with his left hand. Magister Hickory flinched as if he had been badly burned.
  
  Covered with stinging hairs, Thornmallow reminded himself.
  
  "You will call me Master!" commanded Nettle, flinging his arms wide.
  
  "Master … Master … Master," came the dutiful response from the students, an avalanche of sound reminding Thornmallow of the snow crashing through the classroom wall. He found he was unable to stop himself and called out the Master's name with the others.
  
  "And you will keep your eyes on me," Nettle continued, waving his left hand languidly toward the rear of the room. "Only me." He giggled, and the sound was surprisingly high-pitched.
  
  They smelled the Beast before they heard it. It was the same smell Thornmallow had encountered in the magister's room: something wet and old and horrible, like a blanket left too long in a damp cellar. And he remembered as well Magister Briar Rose cautioning, "Better not remark any more on it."
  
  Then came the sound, a strange asymmetric lumbering. First it seemed to be coming from somewhere outside; then gathering speed down the hallway; and finally—loud and distinct, yet strangely muffled—right outside the Great Hall doors.
  
  No one turned around to look. No one dared. Compelled by the Master's words and by fear itself, they all stared straight ahead and, as if one body, held their breath.
  
  Something impossibly large stomped down the aisle. It was larger than a dog, larger than a cow, larger even than a wagon loaded high with hay. It was larger than anything Thornmallow could comfortably imagine, but he only glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye.
  
  Slowly and awkwardly the massive creature climbed the stairs, making its way onto the stage. Only then could they see it for what it really was.
  
  It was as tall as the Master at the shoulder, its bulky head towering high above him. There were great swatches of color all over its body, no two alike. Dark lines, like awful scars, ran across its back and shoulders and under its stomach and groin. Each leg was patchworked with the lines. And the lines, running like rivers over its muzzle and under its jaw, seemed to ooze, though whether with sap or blood or tears or infection, Thornmallow could not tell.
  
  Quilted, he thought to himself. It really is quilted. But I wouldn't want anything like that on my bed.
  
  The Beast quite suddenly opened its mouth, and its sharp silver teeth glittered. Horribly, it had no tongue.
  
  The Master smiled and let his hand drop, giggling that high giggle again. At once the hall was abuzz with questions. Everybody talked at once. Everybody but Thornmallow. He was silent, trying to remember all he'd read about nettles just an hour before.
  
  Trying.
  
  But for all that he tried, he could not remember a single line.