‘I heard the crocodile was Senator Silverback’s personal assistant,’ Morrigan heard a girl from the unit above whispering to her friend on the platform. ‘Not a good look for him, is it?’
‘Crocodilewun,’ Morrigan corrected her automatically.
The girl turned to her in shock. ‘Are you actually defending him? He could have drowned someone!’
‘I’m not defending—’
‘Whatever.’ The girl scowled and turned back to her friend, hissing ‘Wundersmith’ under her breath. Morrigan wished they’d come up with a new insult.
As the autumn chill settled into Wunsoc, there were daily Hollowpox meetings and Jupiter and Inspector Rivers were constantly on call, leaping into action whenever strange Wunimal behaviour was reported somewhere in the city.
The task force had tripled in size and was increasingly comprised of Wunimal volunteers like Sofia reaching out to the friends and family of infected Wunimals, to collect data and help where they could. Dr Bramble and Dr Lutwyche were working round the clock trying to care for the infected and unravel the origins of the Hollowpox, desperate to find a cure, or a vaccine.
(Jupiter said that Dr Bramble, in particular, remained unconvinced of Morrigan’s monster theory. ‘A monster that looks like a disease and acts like a disease in the body must, for all intents and purposes, be treated like a disease – and therefore can be cured like one,’ she’d reportedly said. Morrigan had sniffed at that, and asked Jupiter to relay the fact that she remained unconvinced of Dr Bramble’s theory, if it could be called that.)
In the absence of any good news, the meetings usually devolved into an argument – typically over who the real victims of the Hollowpox were – when talk turned to the continued use of the teaching hospital’s staff and resources to care for the growing number of infected.
After all, people reasoned, were the ‘real victims’ those Wunimals lying in hospital beds, hollowed out and unresponsive? Or were they the people those Wunimals had attacked?
‘I propose that all Wunimals be exiled from Society grounds until we have a better understanding of what’s happening,’ Dulcinea Dearborn declared in that day’s meeting.
Morrigan might have imagined it, but she thought she saw Dearborn cast a disdainful look in Sofia’s direction. She clutched her book bag tightly to her chest to keep from throwing it at the Scholar Mistress’s head.
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Baz Charlton from the third row.
‘I quite agree with Ms Dearborn.’ Francis’s Aunt Hester stood up from her seat to speak, and Francis sank down low in his. ‘I know that many of our adult Society members tend to forget this small fact, but we are trying to operate a school inside Proudfoot House. There are children here. Are we just supposed to wait around and hope that none of our teachers turn into raging, rabid unnimals? I for one am unwilling to take that risk any longer.’
‘Unnimals?’ roared Elder Saga, so loudly that Morrigan and the rest of Unit 919 all jumped at least an inch from their seats. He stamped his hooves on the ground and lowered his great horned head as if ready to charge. Nervous whispers broke out. ‘Did you just call us unnimals, Hester Fitzwilliam? The insolence!’
The atmosphere was unbearably tense; the entire gathering seemed poised to flee.
‘Elder Saga, compose yourself,’ said Elder Wong. He put out his hands in a calming gesture but Morrigan thought she could see him shaking a little. ‘I’m certain she didn’t mean to—’
‘To use a highly provocative slur against her fellow Society members, against her brothers and sisters?’ Elder Saga was practically shooting steam from his nostrils. Morrigan gripped the arms of her chair. ‘That is precisely what she meant to do.’
Hester was shaken by the sight of the enormous bullwun so enraged, but she recovered quickly, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘What I meant was that they are losing their speech, their intelligence, they are losing everything that makes them Wunimals. They are, in short, becoming unnimals, Elder Saga, whether you have the courage to admit that or not.’
‘The courage—’ began Elder Saga, but he was interrupted by a loud CRASH as the doors were flung open. Holliday Wu from the Public Distraction Department ran into the room and straight to Elder Quinn, whispering something in her ear and pressing a note into her hand.
The gathering fell silent. They seemed to hold their collective breath as Holliday rushed from the room, barely pausing after delivering her news. Elder Quinn stayed still and quiet for some time after she read the piece of paper, her expression unchanged. Finally, she spoke in a grave voice.
‘The Hollowpox has taken a life.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We’re All on the Same Side, Really
Elder Quinn’s words echoed in the Gathering Place.
‘Last night,’ she read from the paper aloud, ‘at the docks. Dozens of people witnessed the culmination of the Hollowpox in a baboonwun fisherman, who attacked a group of four young men disembarking from a boat. Three of them are being treated for serious injuries. One is in a critical condition.’
Elder Quinn cleared her throat, steeling herself to deliver the final blow.
‘The baboonwun lost control as the Hollowpox culminated and threw himself from the boat. Witnesses say he was comatose before his body hit the water, where it sank below the waves and didn’t resurface. Some of the crew attempted to save him, but …’ She pressed her lips tightly together. She didn’t need to say any more.
There was silence. Then a slow swell of whispers.
By the end of the day, the Hollowpox death count had risen to two. One of the young men had sadly died from his injuries.
Inside Wunsoc, the mood was grim.
Outside Wunsoc, fear and rage spread like fire through dry leaves.
The Prime Minister, Gideon Steed, took the extraordinary measure of declaring a state of emergency in Nevermoor, and ordered that a sunset curfew be put in place for all Wunimals in the city.
‘Those who break curfew will be arrested, charged and prosecuted to the extent of the law,’ was his ominous promise.
Guiscard Silverback came thundering onto the airwaves that afternoon, blazing with righteous anger. Unit 919 huddled around Miss Cheery’s old wireless radio to listen on the train trip home.
‘Most of us in the Wunimal community have already taken it upon ourselves to isolate, and still we are treated like criminals!’ Silverback roared across the airwaves. ‘We don’t wish to catch this virus! We don’t wish to hurt our fellow Nevermoorians! Need I remind the prime minister there have been TWO deaths? One human, one Wunimal. Yet Steed does nothing to protect his Wunimal citizens. Instead he continues to defer all moral responsibility for the care of these Hollowpox victims – yes, they too are victims – to the Wundrous Society! Wunsoc can only carry this burden so far. The government must step in.’
‘He’s right,’ Anah told them in a weary voice. She was spending a lot of her spare time assisting at the teaching hospital these days, even pitching in over the summer holidays. Morrigan had noticed the dark circles under her eyes, and the way her usually immaculate ringlets were now perpetually knotted in a messy, dirty bun. ‘The locked ward has become an entire locked wing, and it’s nearly full now, too.’
‘How many are there, Anah?’ asked Cadence.
‘Must be a hundred. More. I’ve lost count, they just keep coming,’ she finished, yawning widely. Arch got up without a word and began making Anah a cup of tea in her favourite mug.
Prime Minister Steed responded to Senator Silverback’s denunciation by claiming that the curfew was for the safety of Wunimals as well as humans.
‘If Nevermoor’s Wunimals don’t wish to be caught in the firing line of infection, they ought to stay home and stay safe,’ he said.
Morrigan shook her head. The Hollowpox wasn’t going to stop because of a curfew. Whatever it was – demon, parasite, monster – it wasn’t going to give up just because Wunimals stayed home at night. It wasn’t floating ar
ound like germs, infecting only those who came into contact with it.
It was hunting, and Wunimals were its prey.
It would find them no matter where they were.
When they arrived at Station 919, Morrigan lingered as the others waved goodbye.
‘Miss,’ she said. ‘How’s your friend?’
‘Roshni?’ Miss Cheery took a deep breath. ‘She’s still in hospital. Her injuries were pretty serious.’
Morrigan felt a stab of guilt. She wished they’d never gone to the Gobleian.
‘Will she be all right?’
‘Course she will. Off you go now. See you bright and early.’
She thought she saw Miss Cheery’s eyes go glassy with tears – but only for a second, before the conductor gathered herself up and turned away.
‘THIRTY-EIGHT WUNIMAL ARRESTS!’ Conall was bellowing when Morrigan arrived on Sub-Nine the next day. His voice came from the study chamber, but she could hear it from halfway down the long marble hall. ‘In one night! Senator Silverback won’t stand for this. He’ll put a stop to it. He must.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll be able to,’ Sofia replied, calm as ever. ‘The Stink are working well within their authority, Conall, and Steed has plenty of public support for his curfew. Guiscard Silverback can’t be seen to be too forceful—’
‘If Silverback can’t force Steed to do what’s right, we’ll take it to the Wunimal Rights Commission,’ Conall snapped. ‘Hell, we’ll storm parliament if we must!’
Morrigan reached the door and paused to peek inside. Conall paced back and forth as quickly and furiously as his walking stick would allow, clutching a newspaper in his free hand, while Sofia sat perfectly still on top of the long table.
She sighed. Her bushy red tail twitched. ‘Calm down, Conall.’
‘Calm down?’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘Sofia, do you not see your rights being eroded? I won’t just stand by—’
‘I can assure you I am aware of the precise condition of my rights, every single day. You may safely assume most Wunimals are.’ There was a new edge to her voice, though its volume hadn’t increased in the slightest. Conall opened his mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. ‘And I don’t want to just stand by, either, but there’s a proper way to address the curfew problem, and storming parliament isn’t— Morrigan?’ Her tail twitched again as she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Is that you?’
Morrigan jumped at the sound of her name and entered the room a little shamefaced.
‘Sorry,’ she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. ‘I was just …’ She trailed off, unsure of what to say. It was plainly obvious she’d overheard their conversation.
‘What do you think about this curfew business?’ Sofia asked her.
‘She’s a child,’ snapped Conall.
‘She’s a Wundersmith.’
‘She’s still a child!’
‘I agree with Conall,’ Morrigan said quietly.
Conall looked up, blinking his bright blue eyes at her. ‘She’s a highly intelligent child, I’ve always said that.’
Sofia’s ears twitched. ‘How so, Morrigan?’
‘It’s dreadful of Steed to arrest people for something that shouldn’t be a crime. It’s only going to make people more frightened.’ She took a seat at the table, unbuttoning her coat. ‘And how is the Hollowpox mission going to keep trying to find the infected before they attack? A third of the task force is made up of Wunimals, and now you can’t go out past sunset! Couldn’t the Elders at least get special permission for you and the rest of the task force to ignore the curfew?’
Sofia shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Morrigan. The Elders can’t petition the government for personal favours.’
‘And it’s not about getting special permission for some Wunimals,’ Conall added. ‘It’s about fairness to all Wunimals.’
‘Then … maybe you’re right, Conall. Maybe we should storm parliament!’ Morrigan insisted. ‘All of us. The whole Wundrous Society. If we all came together to challenge Gideon Steed – just imagine that! All these Wuns, with all these knacks. Would you want to say no? Maybe it would frighten him enough to …’
Morrigan trailed off again at the look of disappointment on Sofia’s face.
‘We don’t use our knacks to tyrannise people, Morrigan. It’s not what the Wundrous Society is about.’
Morrigan blinked. She felt a sudden welling of some unpleasant, familiar feeling in her stomach. She felt ashamed. Tyrannising people … that’s what Ezra Squall did.
‘I know!’ she said quickly, and even she could hear the defensive tone in her voice. ‘I know that. I didn’t really mean we should do anything. I just … never mind.’
There was a moment of awkward silence in which nobody quite knew what to say next, then Conall cleared his throat and opened his fob watch. ‘Five minutes, Wundersmith.’ He held it up for her to see.
Morrigan shook her head, trying to clear it. ‘Sorry – five minutes?’
‘Your lesson. It begins in five minutes.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Rooftop.’
‘Oh, right. Bye.’ She got up and bolted for the door, glad for a reason to leave. She dashed down the marble hall of Sub-Nine, eager to outrun her discomfort.
‘Morrigan, wait!’
She stopped and turned back, feeling guilt wash over her again as Sofia emerged from the study chamber behind her. She opened her mouth to say something, but Sofia held up a paw. ‘It’s all right. You were trying to show you’re on my side. I know that. I just want you to remember that there are no sides to this. Wunimals, humans … we all just want this to be over. Even Prime Minister Steed and the Stink. We’re all on the same side, really.’
Morrigan nodded but truthfully, she wasn’t sure she agreed with that sentiment any more.
LʘCATIʘN
PARTICIPANTS & EVENTS
DATE & TIME
School of Wundrous Arts, rooftop of Proudfoot House, southern end
Gracious Goldberry, Maurice Bledworth
Goldberry and Bledworth practise the Wundrous Art of Inferno
Age of Industry, Third Monday, Autumn of Eight
09:13—10:32
Morrigan made it to the rooftop just in time. Squinting against the sun, she found the tiny gap in the air (it was harder to spot outside during the day) and reached inside, feeling a cool breeze brush her fingertips. Then a familiar, gentle pull. The air around her shivered as she slipped into the past.
It was a stormy, black-skied morning in the ghostly hour, and the autumn wind had a bite to it. But within moments she was surrounded by the fierce warmth of bright orange flames. She hadn’t had time to check the listing in The Book of Ghostly Hours and was surprised to see Gracious Goldberry again, wielding fire as if she’d invented it.
There was only one student this time – a Wundersmith older than Goldberry, Morrigan noticed, but still her inferior when it came to Inferno. Against a backdrop of thunderclouds and an occasional flash of lightning, the two Wundersmiths curled flames into flowers and shot jets of fire into the sky.
At one point Goldberry pressed her palms into the ground and sent flames spiralling outwards until, with one final pulse of light, the entire rooftop was set briefly, brightly ablaze. It reminded Morrigan of Saint Nicholas’s candle trick on Christmas Eve, but Goldberry’s work was even more precise and powerful – so powerful it momentarily lifted her and Bledworth several inches off the ground.
This was way past beginner level, she thought. They were practising skills she’d never seen before. That meant Rook had either made a mistake in her schedule, or she believed Morrigan was ready for a more advanced lesson.
Part of her felt bolstered by that thought. She had been making progress, and it was gratifying to know it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Scholar Mistress.
On the other hand, Gracious Goldberry was the absolute last Wundersmith she wanted to see this morning. She felt furious and frightened and sick. She was worried for Sofia, and angry about
Steed’s curfew and the thirty-eight arrests, and furious at the memory of Dearborn and Hester’s outburst at the last meeting … and now she had to spend a morning with an infamous opponent of Wunimal rights. Morrigan was tempted to leave and skip the lesson altogether.
But good grief, was Goldberry brilliant.
Morrigan remembered what Sofia had said about her the last time they’d stood on this rooftop: I decided that this extraordinary talent could not be wasted on this wretch of a woman … I would render it useful somehow.
And so, heart weighed down with spite and veins humming with righteous anger, Morrigan spent a long morning trying to render Goldberry’s talent useful. She imagined herself a thief, stealing every bit of information she could from the way Goldberry breathed, the way she carried herself lightly, the way she planted her feet, even the way she sometimes held her tongue against her teeth. In Goldberry’s hands, the fire shrank and grew and smouldered and roared. It danced like beads of water in a fountain. It burned all the way down to embers and then bloomed back into life like a mushroom cloud. She made patterns and shapes – a hand, a lion, a face – painting pictures in the air that reminded Morrigan of Saint Nicholas’s firebird.
Morrigan copied her every move – not flawlessly, by any means, but with greater success than she’d ever had before. She even breathed her own firebird into life – a crow with long, trailing wings of fire – and let loose a shout of triumph as she sent it flying into the sky, imperfect but hers. The lesson became a meditation, and time flew. Her connection to Inferno felt smoother, somehow. Faster. Almost seamless.
She even had a go at circular breathing (Dame Chanda had obligingly explained the concept to her), though not very successfully. The problem with ghostly hours was that she couldn’t simply put up her hand and ask a question. She had to rely on whoever had been present in the original lesson to ask, so unless they were much younger or much less experienced than she was, most of her questions went unanswered. Even if she remembered to ask Sofia or Conall or Rook afterwards, they could rarely help her with practical matters. They just weren’t Wundersmiths.
Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow: Nevermoor 3 Page 26