But that wasn’t what woke her up.
She felt the new imprint before she’d even opened her eyes. Although she hadn’t been expecting it, she somehow knew it was there, on the tip of her left middle finger. She knew it in the same way that she knew she had a finger at all.
It had been irritating her for days, but so much else was happening, it had only been a vague background bother.
Now, though, it had her full attention.
Like the W imprint on her right index finger, it was small and tattoo-like, but not a tattoo. It hadn’t been inflicted; it had emerged. Pressed itself from the inside to the outside of her skin, like treasure floating up to the surface of a lake.
It was very early; the sun wasn’t up yet, but the dark blue sky outside Morrigan’s window was just beginning to lighten. She reached out, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp, and held her finger up to examine the new addition.
It was a small flame, bright orange and red with a tiny spark of blue in the centre.
‘Where’d you come from?’ she croaked sleepily, peering closely at it.
Would Hawthorne and Cadence and the other members of Unit 919 have one of these too, Morrigan wondered, or just her? They’d all received W imprints the morning after their inauguration into the Wundrous Society. What might they have done to earn—
Oh.
‘Inferno,’ she whispered. She sat up in bed, tingling with excitement. Was this because of the fireblossoms? Was this what happened when you finally got the hang of a Wundrous Art? And if it was only Morrigan who had the imprint … what did it do? What might it open?
The realisation hit her like a lightning bolt. She shot out of bed and ran to get dressed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Kindling in the Hearth
Morrigan half expected to find the service entrance shut down like the rest of the hotel, but she met no obstructions except an enormous, furry, snoring boulder guarding the door. Holding her breath, she tiptoed past Fenestra and down the shabby service hallway, burst through to Caddisfly Alley and pelted along the twisting backstreet all the way to the Brolly Rail station at the end of Humdinger Avenue.
Flying across a darkened Nevermoor skyline in freezing, near-horizontal rain, her teeth chattering violently, Morrigan felt rebellious and invincible.
All the way to Wunsoc, up the long drive beneath the crackling fireblossoms, into Proudfoot House and down all nine subterranean floors, through thirteen cold, dim chambers named for dead Wundersmiths long forgotten, Morrigan felt her new imprint tingling. As if perhaps it felt as excited and nervous as she did.
When at last she made it to the door of the Liminal Hall – lungs aching, breathless with anticipation – she saw just what she’d hoped for. The circular lock on the door glowed a bright, fiery orange-gold, casting its own pool of light in the dark.
‘I knew it,’ she whispered, grinning wildly.
She pressed her finger to the lock, and the door opened – for what must have been the first time in a hundred years – on to a room so peculiar, she was struck by the urge to turn around and leave right away.
The Liminal Hall was large and bright; Morrigan had to hold up a hand to shield her eyes. It felt like a cathedral whose every window let in glaring sunshine, if the sun had been directly above them and on all other sides and close, much too close.
She’d thought the Deucalion was quiet after the shutters went down, but it was a rock concert compared to this place. If Morrigan hadn’t known she was breathing, if she hadn’t felt the gentle rhythm of her lungs filling and emptying, filling and emptying, she wouldn’t have believed there was any oxygen in the room. There were no dust motes floating in the air, glittering in the streaming sunlight. There was no sound. Even her footsteps were silent.
The hall was empty but for a large pile of branches, twigs and dried bracken in the far corner, stacked and twisted around itself like a bonfire waiting to be lit.
Was this a test, she wondered? Was she supposed to breathe fire and light it up?
Or was that the opposite of what she ought to do? Perhaps she was supposed to show restraint.
‘Written instructions might be nice.’ Her words felt small in the enormous space.
Maybe she ought to wait for Rook or Sofia or Conall. She’d been so eager to get here and confirm her suspicions, she hadn’t even stopped to think about the basement nerds. They’d love to see this – they’d waited years to see it. And perhaps they might have an idea of how it worked.
But before Morrigan could turn to go, something caught her eye.
Deep amid the knotted woodpile, at the tip of a spindly branch, a tiny circular lock pulsed with orange-gold light. Without thinking, she reached in to press her new imprint to it … and felt a spark.
The bonfire roared into life. Morrigan snatched her hand away, stumbling back and shielding her face from its heat. The Liminal Hall began to narrow and darken. Then it was gone – the bright, cathedral-like space replaced with tall stone walls closing around her on all sides, leading up to a ceiling that was either so dark, or so far away, she couldn’t see it. The door, she noticed (with no small amount of alarm), had disappeared altogether.
Her nostrils filled with smoke. Tiny snowflakes of grey ash danced in the air and settled on her cloak. Sparks from the fire drifted up, up, up, but illuminated nothing. They flew so high they simply disappeared into darkness.
The fire was bigger than any she’d seen before, with flames taller than a house. She pressed her back against the warm stone wall, her heartbeat drumming in her neck, and then—
Morrigan gasped.
The firewood had moved.
Not in the normal way that logs suddenly shift and collapse as they burn down, but in a precise, deliberate way.
Perhaps it had been a trick of the light.
But the fire moved again; no mistake. The pile of black burning branches gathered themselves up, rearranging, reforming into a vast, towering shape that made the skin on Morrigan’s neck turn to gooseflesh, even in this heat. There were two arms, two legs, and a large, curious face sitting in the fire, turning themselves towards her. Slowly, reluctantly.
Not a tumble of kindling, but an unfurling of limbs.
A person (or a thing, for Morrigan didn’t think its face was very human) waking from slumber and looking at her. Its huge eyes peered out from the flames, glowing a deep rich red like burning coal. They reminded her of the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow.
The ember eyes blinked – once, twice – and watched her expectantly.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
The great dark eyes blinked again. ‘Have you come to the Hearth with no offering?’
The voice was tremendous – slow and heavy and ancient. Large enough to fill the space and make Morrigan’s hands shake a little. It hissed and crackled around the edges, like the sound of flames. But more extraordinary than all of that, it sounded … hurt. Disappointed.
Morrigan faltered. ‘Oh, I … I didn’t know I was meant to bring anything. Um.’ She thought for a moment. There was nothing in her pockets. She’d dropped her brolly outside the door to the Liminal Hall (not that she’d have given that away). ‘I can go away and come back, if you like. What sort of offering would you, er—’
‘The Kindling.’
‘I’m … sorry, what?’
‘You will please call the Kindling by its name.’ The flames grew higher, and the red eyes grew brighter, and Morrigan took these things to mean that it was displeased.
She nodded, suddenly understanding.
The Kindling. The Hearth. Inferno.
Could this be one of the Wundrous Divinities Elder Quinn had talked about, all those months ago when Unit 919 had first entered the Gathering Place? She’d said the Wundersmiths were gifted above all others, chosen by the Wundrous Divinities themselves, the ancient deities who watched over our realm. Morrigan had thought about these deities, but hadn’t ever imagined they were real people. It certainly hadn’t occurred to
her that one of them might be a large talking bonfire.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and gave an awkward sort of half-bow. ‘What sort of offering would the Kindling—’
‘You have the mark?’ it asked.
Morrigan nodded and held up her left hand to show the imprint on her fingertip.
The Kindling reached out with its own spindly hand, fully aflame. Before Morrigan could flinch away from the heat, its burning fingers brushed against hers, the Hearth instantly disappeared, and she was outside Proudfoot House.
Familiar images and sounds and feelings came to her in a blur, loud and unwelcome. Gracious Goldberry on the rooftop. Miss Cheery crying out in pain. A wave of fury, a taste of ash in her throat. Fire bursting from her lungs.
Candles. Hallowmas. The Angel Israfel, frozen high up in the air.
More candles, so many candles.
The Proudfoot House rooftop on a sunny autumn day.
Small sparks make big fires. The protest. Elder Saga. Lam. Do it. Now. Her hand pressed to the tree and that feeling, that feeling, that feeling.
That’s where the Kindling slowed down. Morrigan felt like it was flicking through her like the pages of a book, and had finally seen something of interest.
A glorious green canopy of ancient fire. Resurrection. Life. Power.
Morrigan opened her eyes – she hadn’t even noticed she’d closed them – and was surprised to find herself still standing in the Hearth. Those two huge ember eyes were watching her again, glowing bright and steady.
‘The Kindling accepts your offering.’
Their fingertips parted. Morrigan pulled her hand from the flame: pale, unburnt.
Her wonder turned to astonishment when she saw the imprint; it was moving. The tiny tattoo-like flame danced on her skin, flickering gently like a real, live fire. And she could feel it. Not the way she’d felt it when it first arrived, but in a much more insistent way that said I am here, and I won’t let you forget me. There was a pleasantly fierce warmth to it. It was part of her.
Elder Quinn was right. The Divinities had gifted the Wundersmiths above all others. This was a gift.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Are you … you’re one of the Divinities, aren’t you?’
The Kindling looked surprised. ‘Is this your first visit to the Liminal Hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m honoured. Inferno is rarely a Wundersmith’s first acquired art. But why are you so old?’
Morrigan felt a little put out by that. ‘I’m thirteen.’
‘Yes,’ it said. ‘Why have you taken so long?’
‘How old should I be?’
The Kindling appeared to consider the question. ‘Most Wundersmiths have made their third pilgrimage by your age. Perhaps fourth. Are you very inept? Do your teachers find you a slow learner?’
Morrigan thought of what Squall had said to her on the rooftop. You are light-years away from where you ought to be. Perhaps he hadn’t been lying about that after all. The realisation stung.
‘No,’ she said, and then added pointedly, ‘They’re happy I brought the fireblossoms back from one hundred years of extinction.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Who are the others?’ she asked. ‘The other Wundrous Divinities, like you? How will I get to see them, what should I do?’
The Kindling’s eyes turned dark as coal and it fell quiet. Morrigan listened for a moment to the steady crackling of flames, wondering if it was ignoring her question or gathering its thoughts. ‘What is your name, Wundersmith?’
‘Morrigan Crow.’
‘Tell me then, Morrigan Crow. Why have I been abandoned?’
She noticed then, for the first time, how miserable it looked. With a sudden pang of sorrow, she understood that hers must be the first face it had seen in over a hundred years. It was lonely.
‘Nobody comes to see me any more,’ it said with a sigh. ‘Where are Brilliance and Griselda? And Ezra and Odbuoy? They all just … went away. My brightest flames.’
Morrigan didn’t know what to say. How could she tell it what had happened? She barely understood it herself.
‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do they still … visit the others?’ There was a petulant note of jealousy in its voice.
She shook her head. ‘No. They don’t visit anyone at all. I promise.’
There was silence for a while as the Kindling processed this information.
‘But you … you will come back?’
Morrigan nodded. Of course she’d be back. She had to show the others.
‘Goodbye until then.’ The Kindling stretched out a twig-like finger, and Morrigan mirrored the gesture without thinking. When their fingertips touched, the fire began to die. The darkness receded, the stone walls withdrew, and the Liminal Hall brightened once again. Folding in on itself, the Kindling cast her one last blazing look.
‘Burn brightly, Morrigan Crow.’
Morrigan ran back through the Liminal Hall on muffled footsteps, all the way through the echoing chambers of Sub-Nine, and was shouting for the Scholar Mistress and the basement nerds even before she reached the firelit study chamber at the end of the marble hallway.
‘Rook! Sofia! Conall, where are you?’ The room was empty. She dashed back into the hall, calling even louder – perhaps they were in one of the other endless chamber branches and would hear her voice bouncing around the empty hallway. ‘SOFIA! CONALL! Come out here, I have something to tell you – Sofia! There you are.’ She came to a breathless halt, lungs heaving, and bent forward to rest her hands on her knees. There was a dim outline of the foxwun at the far end of the hallway, by the Sub-Nine entrance. ‘You’ll never guess what I just – Sofia, is that you?’
She breathed a tiny puff of a spark into her fingertips, and in that fraction of a second, two things happened. First, Sofia crouched low, lifted her head and sniffed the air. Second, Morrigan got a sick, swooping feeling in her stomach and the tiny hairs on her arms all stood up, alert to danger. Her body knew before she did. But too late.
Snap.
It was like flipping a switch. With one click, orange flames danced in the palm of Morrigan’s hand … and Sofia’s eyes lit up brilliant green, like a furnace had been turned on inside her. Teeth bared, ears and tail erect, the foxwun hurtled down the hall in a blur of red fur and emerald light. Morrigan held her hands out in a futile attempt to stop what she knew was coming, but suddenly Sofia was there, launching powerfully from the ground, straight for her throat. She shrieked, feeling the sting of sharp teeth grazing her skin. A burst of terror and adrenaline shot through her and she wrenched Sofia away, flinging her to the ground where she landed with a yelp and a sickening thud.
‘Sofia!’ Morrigan cried. She felt an urge to run to her side but knew that would be extraordinarily stupid. Ignoring the instinct, she instead snapped her fingers again, crouched down and drew a line of fire across the marble floor from one wall to the other, building a barrier between them. The foxwun ignored it, picking herself up and leaping for Morrigan once more … only to rear back at the last moment, yelping again in pain.
Morrigan took shallow, panicked breaths, feeling like her heart might explode. Sweat beaded on her face. The flames climbed almost to the ceiling, fencing her in with no escape. Brilliant, she thought. Well done, idiot.
‘Sofia? Sofia, I know you’re still in there. Wake UP.’
But if Sofia was in there somewhere, she wasn’t listening. She scurried frantically back and forth, snapping her jaws, trying to find a way through the flames then rearing back again, barking in fierce frustration.
The line of fire was already dying – in the cold, empty marble hallway, there was no fuel to burn. Morrigan could feel her energy seeping away with it. What happened when there was no barrier between her and Sofia? Would Sofia fight to kill? Would Morrigan have to hurt her friend in order to stop her?
And then what? The Hollowpox would take everything with it, emptying Sofia out until there
was nothing left of her. Morrigan would never forget the haunted look on Jupiter’s face when he’d said, I’d rather be dead than hollow.
What would Sofia be when she wasn’t Sofia any more?
As if in response to this unasked question, the foxwun let loose an unnimalistic scream, trying one last time to leap through the flames … and succeeded at last, landing on Morrigan’s chest – paws outstretched, jaws ready to close on her white throat – just as the light in her eyes extinguished and the Hollowpox left her.
With a soft oof, Morrigan caught the small, limp body in her arms.
The fire died, and the curious green light swarmed around the pair of them for just a moment, before it dispersed and disappeared altogether, scattering like dandelion seeds on the wind.
The ends of Sofia’s fur were singed and smoking. The sight of it was too much to bear. Morrigan knelt down, took off her cloak, and gently wrapped it around the feather-light foxwun, hands shaking. She felt a slightly hysterical sob bubble up in her chest, and pressed her lips tightly together so it wouldn’t escape.
There was a choice to be made, Morrigan thought. She could sit here in the cold, dark hallway on Sub-Nine and sob. She could wait for Rook or Conall to arrive. They would take care of Sofia and send Morrigan home and tell her everything was going to be all right. Jupiter would promise her that any day now this nightmare would be over and Sofia would be okay and she would never, ever turn into an unnimal … and Morrigan could pretend his gentle, well-meaning optimism was rooted in truth.
It would have been so easy. It would have felt so good to let herself be comforted, to indulge in the lazy hope that someone else would fix everything, to feel it envelop her like a warm bath.
But Morrigan didn’t have that luxury. Because she knew it was a lie. And because Sofia was her friend. How could she leave her friend to a fate worse than death, when she knew there was another option? She had to make the other choice instead. The hard choice.
As Morrigan bundled Sofia up and fled Sub-Nine with her, heading for the teaching hospital, she heard a quiet voice inside her head saying the same words, over and over.
Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow: Nevermoor 3 Page 32