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two men in long black robes standing before a stone building. The taller of the men was also the younger by a dozen years, and he held what looked like a rolled-up diploma. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his hand rested on the shoulder of the second man, a short, heavyset man with wild black hair. The black-haired man was the Devil of Castel del Monte.
    Just then the real Devil of Castel del Monte appeared and slapped down the photograph.
    “No snooping,” he growled.
    Michael stood there another few seconds, waiting for his heart to stop pounding in his chest. He had no idea why the wizard had brought them there, or who the black-haired man was. But one thing he did know: the tall young man in the photo was his father.

“Shut the door, my boy, if you would.”
    Michael wondered if that was such a good idea. The man’s cottage smelled like a barn. And in fact, an entire half of it was covered in piles of dirty straw and appeared to have been ceded to the goats. Three of the animals idled near the back wall, eating their dinners and watching the visitors with dull expressions. The left side of the cottage seemed designated to the man’s use. Besides the chest, there was a lumpy-looking mattress. An old wooden table and two chairs. A battered gas lantern. A fireplace in which a few glowing logs lay smoking. A collection of unwashed pots, pans, cups, plates, bowls. And hundreds of books. Many of the books showed signs of having been chewed on or partially eaten, perhaps by mice or the man’s four-legged roommates or, Michael could almost imagine, the man himself in various fits of rage.
    As Michael closed the door, the man was wrestling with a goat that was munching its way through a sheaf of papers.
    “Let go, you scoundrel! I’m warning you, Stanislaus!”
    It took Michael a moment to realize that the man was speaking to the goat.
    “Hugo,” the wizard said, smiling, “did you name this little fellow after me? I’m touched.”
    “Don’t be,” the man grunted, still engaged in a tug-of-war over the pages. “He’s the stupidest goat in Italy. I wanted his name to adequately reflect the depth of his ignorance! Yours was the obvious choice—
Arrgh!
”
    The goat had jerked backward, and the man lost his grip and thudded onto his rear. With a bleat of triumph, the goat clattered out the open back door and across the hill, whipping the pages this way and that.
    “Ten years I’ve been working on that book!” the man shouted, jumping up and shaking his fist at the departing goat. “Anytime I make the least progress, one of those idiots goes and eats it. Though they’re probably better judges of the material than the so-called experts.” He glanced at Dr. Pym. “Present company included, of course.”
    “So is that what you’ve been up to all this time?” the wizard asked. “Writing a book? What is it about, if I may ask?”
    “It’s called
A History of Stupidity in the Magical World
, and needless to say, you figure prominently. I even thought of including your photo, but I didn’t want to scare off potential readers. Ha!”
    “I certainly have made my share of mistakes,” the wizard replied.
    “Listen to him! Mr. I’m-So-Reasonable! If I were you, Pym, I doubt I’d ever stop punching myself in the face!” A small kettle hung on an arm above the fire, and the man poured himself a cup of the hottest, blackest coffee Michael had ever seen. It bubbled from the kettle’s mouth like boiling mud. The man said he would offer them some, but he was afraid that would give the impression he wanted them to stay. Then, without warning, he whirled about and fixed his fierce gaze on Michael.
    “Do I know you?”
    “No,” Michael said awkwardly. “We’ve … never met.”
    “Hugo, these are my friends Michael and Emma. Children, this is Dr. Hugo Algernon.”
    “Yes, yes, yes,” the man said, crashing onto a chair. “Let’s just get this over with. What is it you want? Recruiting me for another of