Baz Charlton hissed under his breath, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Believe it,” snapped Elder Quinn, and Baz shrank down against the collar of his cloak.
Hester seemed to think Elder Quinn was bluffing. “With all due respect,” she said through gritted teeth, “I highly doubt the Society wishes to lose eight talented new members only to gain one dangerous entity. I’m certain you’ll change your minds after you’ve watched these eight brilliant children walk out those gates. Come along, Francis.” She started down the steps toward the tree-lined drive.
“Aunt Hester,” said Francis, a quiet plea in his voice, “I want to stay. Please. My father would want me to—”
“My brother would never want you to risk your life!” said Hester, spinning back wildly to face them. “He would never want you anywhere near a—a Wundersmith.”
Elder Quinn cleared her throat. “Patrons, this is not a decision you can make for your scholars. Children, if any of you wishes to leave Unit 919—to leave the Wundrous Society—you may come forward now and hand over your pins. There will be no judgment and no repercussions. We shall wish you well and speed you on your way.”
She stood with her hand out. There was silence, but for early-morning birdsong somewhere in the distance. The air itself seemed frozen, clouding with the white, frosty breaths of the patrons and their candidates. All except Morrigan, who was barely breathing at all.
Anah’s shaking fingers crept up to her pin, and she bit her lip. Francis looked guiltily at his aunt, but Cadence didn’t even glance in Baz’s direction. She didn’t even blink.
Nobody handed over their pin. The thought was, of course, pure madness. After all they’d been through in the trials last year, to imagine that any one of them might surrender that little golden W and all that it promised? Unthinkable.
“Well then,” said Elder Quinn, letting her hand drop, “if you are certain. But let me be clear, scholars—and patrons.” She shot a piercing look at Hester and Baz, who both looked deeply resentful. “The nature of Miss Crow’s unusual”—she paused, seeming to catch herself before calling it a knack—“situation, will remain absolutely confidential until the High Council of Elders sees fit to share it with the rest of the Society, as we cannot risk it being discovered outside Wunsoc. To share the truth would be to cause mass panic. That means that with a very few necessary exceptions—the Scholar Mistresses, for example, and the conductor of Unit 919—the fact that we have a Wundersmith among us must remain a secret known only to those of you now present. Our teaching staff will be instructed not to ask questions or discuss the matter of Miss Crow’s knack, and the Mistresses will deal with any nosy scholars as they see fit.”
She turned to the nine children, who seemed somehow to have shrunk, their triumphant evening blighted by the dreadful news.
Her voice was like steel. “You are a unit now. You are responsible for each other. You are accountable to each other. Therefore, if anyone—anyone at all—is found to have broken our trust…” Elder Quinn paused, her face grave. She looked at each one of them in turn, until finally her gaze landed on Morrigan. “…then all nine of you will face expulsion from Wunsoc. For life.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE NOT-TATTOO AND THE NOT-DOOR
When she woke the next morning, Morrigan could almost have convinced herself the midnight trip to Wunsoc had been a strange and wonderful and horrible dream. If it hadn’t been for the golden tattoo.
“It’s not a tattoo,” Jupiter insisted, pouring two glasses of juice while Morrigan lashed chaotic swirls of honey and sprinkles of cinnamon across a plate of toasted crumpets (a little burned from where she’d held them too close to the fire, but still edible). After the events of the night before, they’d both woken much too late for breakfast in the dining room and Jupiter had instead called for a tray to be sent to his study. The pair of them sat on either side of his desk, a miscellany of food spread between them ranging from the respectfully breakfast-like (smoked trout and scrambled eggs) to the unabashedly not (tomato soup and artichoke hearts—Jupiter had a craving). “Do you really think I’d let them give you a tattoo?”
Morrigan took a very large bite of her crumpet so that she didn’t have to answer. Truthfully, she never quite knew what Jupiter would and wouldn’t allow.
Her pointed silence wasn’t lost on him. He looked aghast. “Mog! Don’t be ridiculous. Tattoos hurt. Does it hurt?”
Morrigan shook her head as she swallowed. “No,” she said, licking honey off her right index finger so she could examine the new addition to her fingerprint: a golden W, identical in style to her Wunsoc pin but much smaller, slightly raised on her skin and faintly shimmering in the light. “It doesn’t hurt at all. It just feels a bit… like it’s… there.”
She didn’t know how else to describe the mark, which she’d mysteriously woken up with that morning. It didn’t burn or sting or tickle or any other sensation she could precisely pinpoint. It wasn’t a thing that had been inflicted by some external force—not a scar, exactly, or a wound. It was more like it had pressed its way from the inside of her skin to the outside. Before she’d seen it with her own eyes, before she’d even fully awoken, Morrigan had simply known it was there. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Jupiter was examining his own index finger with an expression of mild surprise. He’d told Morrigan that just like her mark, his own had shown up the morning after his Wunsoc inauguration—many, many, many years ago. He looked as if he hadn’t properly considered it in a very long time. “Mmm. I suppose. Useful, though.”
“What for?”
“All sorts.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the breakfast spread, carefully choosing his next morsel.
“Such as?”
“Gets you into places. Helps other Society members recognize you.”
“But we’ve got our W pins for that.”
“No.” He settled at last on a piece of half-burnt toast, and reached for the jam. “That’s different.”
Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “How?”
He was doing his annoying Jupiter thing, drip-feeding information like a special form of torture. It could be because he didn’t really want to tell her, or it could be because their current conversation was the least important train of thought out of the dozen that were probably steaming through his head. It was always hard to tell the difference with Jupiter.
“The pin is for Unwuns.”
“Unwuns?”
“Mmm.” He chewed and swallowed a mouthful of toast, dusting stray crumbs off his shirtfront. “Other people, you know. Non–Society members. The pin is how people outside the ranks of Wunsoc tell who we are. The imprint is different.” He held up his finger, wiggling it, and the W mark reflected the light from the fireplace, seeming to almost glow. “The imprint is for us.”
Something occurred to Morrigan and she was suddenly annoyed. “How come you never showed me before?”
“No point, Mog. You can’t see anyone else’s imprint until you have your own. Like I said, it’s for us. It’s how we recognize each other. A sort of… family emblem. You’ll start to notice them all over the place now, you’ll see.”
A family emblem. Those words tugged gently at Morrigan’s heart. She prized her golden W pin above all her other possessions (except, perhaps, her brolly), but it was still just that… a possession. An object that could easily be broken or lost. The imprint felt different; it was a part of her. And it proved that she was a part of something important, something bigger than just herself. A family.
Sisters and brothers, loyal for life.
But was that what she had? She’d thought so, right up until one word had been uttered—Wundersmith—and the illusion had shattered into a million pieces.
“Hey.” Jupiter tapped on the butter dish with his knife to get her attention. She looked up. “You have just as much right to be in the Society as they do, Mog,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whispe
r. “More, really. Don’t forget who finished the Show Trial in the number one spot on the leaderboard.” He paused for a moment, then added, “It was you. In case you actually did forget.”
Morrigan hadn’t forgotten. But what did their positions on the leaderboard matter now? What did any of last year matter, if her unit didn’t trust her? If they were afraid of her?
“Give it time.” Once again, Jupiter seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. That was the unfair advantage of being a Witness—he saw the world in ways she could never fathom. Her hidden feelings and secret truths were his for the taking, as plain as the scowl on her face. It was somehow both comforting and really, really aggravating. “They’ll come around. They just need to get to know you, that’s all. Then they’ll see the same charming Morrigan Crow I know.”
Morrigan was about to ask who this charming Morrigan Crow was and if she’d like to trade places, when there was a knock at the door. Sprightly old Kedgeree Burns popped his snowy head inside the study. “Message came back for you, sir. From the Celes—”
“Thank you, Kedge,” Jupiter interrupted. He jumped up to take the note, and the concierge left, with a wink at Morrigan and a smart little click of his heels, shutting the door behind him.
The note was sealed with silver wax. Jupiter crossed the room and leaned on the mantelpiece, hunching down to read by the light of the fire. A few silent moments passed, and Morrigan stared into the fireplace.
He’s right, she thought. She was a full and proper member of the Wundrous Society now. She had fought hard in the trials, just like the others in her unit.
Not in the last one, you didn’t, said a little voice in her head. It was true that in the Show Trial—the fourth and final test in which each candidate had to display their special “knack”—Morrigan had done nothing but stand in the middle of the Trollosseum, confused, as Jupiter had shared his unique sight with each of the Elders in turn, showing them what he’d known all year long—what he’d kept from them, and from Morrigan herself. That she was a Wundersmith. That the mysterious magical energy source they called Wunder—a source that powered the world in ways Morrigan couldn’t fathom—was gathering to her constantly, like moths gather to a flame, waiting patiently for her to come into her (still stubbornly nonexistent) powers.
The Elders had instantly awarded Morrigan a place in the Wundrous Society, to the outrage and disgust of many other candidates and their patrons, each of whom had done much more for their Show Trial performance than simply stand dumbly in the Trollosseum while the Elders stared at them, silent and awestruck.
Morrigan cleared her throat and sat up straight. “So.” Her voice, at least, was resolute. “When do I start?”
“Hmm?”
“At Wunsoc. When do I go back? When do my classes start?”
“Oh,” said Jupiter, still frowning at the note in his hand. “Not sure. Soon, I expect.”
Morrigan’s excitement faltered. Did he really not know? Was this typical Wundrous Society mystery, she wondered, or typical Jupiter North vagueness? She felt a bit of worry creep in.
“Monday?” she asked.
“Um, yeah. Maybe.”
“Could you… find out?” Morrigan asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice.
“Hmm?”
She sighed. “I said, could you—”
“I’ve got to go, Mog,” said Jupiter suddenly. He turned from the fire, shoving the note into a trouser pocket, and snatched his coat from where it lay across the back of an armchair. “Sorry. Important errand. Finish your breakfast. I’ll see you later.”
The door swung shut in Jupiter’s wake. Morrigan threw a piece of toast at it.
The imprint wasn’t the only thing that had shown up overnight.
“It doesn’t even have a doorknob.” Martha sat next to Morrigan on the end of her bed later that afternoon, staring at the brand-new, glossy black, ornate wooden door that had appeared in the opposite wall. “So it can’t really be a door, can it?”
“I suppose not,” said Morrigan.
It wasn’t unusual for her bedroom to change and grow and shrink, to add new features one night and take them away the next. It was very temperamental, as bedrooms go. But it had never built a second door before.
Morrigan wouldn’t have minded having a second door, except for two things. One: It had grown right next to the fireplace, which threw off the symmetry of the room (a small detail, but one she found surprisingly vexing). And two: She couldn’t open it, and therefore it was entirely without function. Morrigan was much too practical a person to ever want a purely decorative door in her bedroom. And yet… it was quite unlike the room to transform into something she wouldn’t like.
She frowned. Was her bedroom mad at her for some reason? Or could it be unwell? Maybe it had the architectural equivalent of a head cold. Maybe this door was her bedroom’s version of a great big snotty sneeze.
“Still,” said Martha with a shrug, “it’s not the weirdest thing this room’s ever done, is it?” She cast a look at the octopus-shaped armchair in the corner, which gave a sinister flick of its tentacles. The maid shuddered. “I do wish you’d get rid of that thing. It’s a nightmare to dust.”
Jupiter hadn’t returned by the time Morrigan went to bed. A note from the League of Explorers arrived on Sunday morning, advising the Deucalion staff that he’d been “unavoidably delayed on an interrealm task”—a typically unhelpful message in both volume and detail, though Morrigan strongly suspected it had to do with the missing angel. She was disappointed, but unsurprised. The downside of having a famous, much-admired patron was that she had to share him with the League of Explorers, the Wundrous Society, the Federation of Nevermoorian Hoteliers, the Nevermoor Transportation Authority, and every other organization or individual that wanted a bit of his time and attention.
Jupiter did, at least, follow up the League’s note with one of his own, addressed to Morrigan.
Mog,
Won’t be back before your first day. I’m really sorry.
Forgot something important: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES are you to travel anywhere outside of Wunsoc by yourself. I mean it. I’m trusting you.
Good luck! You will be great.
Remember, you belong there.
—J.N.
By that afternoon, Morrigan was feeling antsy and irritable, wondering when her classes were going to start and where she had to go. She didn’t want to miss her first day and give her unit even more reason to dislike her. She’d even asked Kedgeree to send someone to Hawthorne’s house with a message—but Hawthorne had sent her note back with his response written on the reverse: simply, Dunno. She’d rolled her eyes at that, wondering if he’d even thought to ask Nan. She doubted it, somehow.
So Morrigan sought advice from the only other person she could think of who might be able to help.
“My darling—la la la LA!—you do fret so.” Dame Chanda Kali was preparing for an intimate concert she was to give that evening in the Music Salon, by simultaneously performing vocal warm-ups and hunting for the perfect costume. The floor of her enormous, ballroom-sized wardrobe was scattered with jewel-colored gowns of silk and satin and sequins that she’d tried on and abandoned, sad casualties of the soprano’s reckless multitasking. “I wouldn’t worry about these things, Miss Morrigan, I really wouldn’t. You know what the Wundrous Society is like.” She raised her index finger and wiggled it at Morrigan conspiratorially; her W imprint gleamed in the light. Besides Jupiter, Dame Chanda was the only other resident of the Hotel Deucalion who was a member of the Society. Even Jack, despite sharing Jupiter’s talent as a Witness, had never tried out for Wunsoc—instead, he attended a very posh boarding school called the Graysmark School for Bright Young Men, where he played cello in the school orchestra, wore a top hat and bow tie to school every day, and rarely came home, even at weekends.
“No, I don’t,” said Morrigan, with thinly veiled frustration. She did not know what the Society was like. Unlike everyone else in
Nevermoor, she’d grown up outside the Free State. She’d never even heard of the famous, all-pervading Wundrous Society until a year ago.
“Of course you do-re-mi-fa-so-la-TI,” sang Dame Chanda, turning from side to side as she examined herself in a gilt-framed mirror. Her impressive voice bounced around the high ceilings and gave Morrigan a satisfying shiver of gooseflesh, all up and down her arms. A tiny mouse poked its head out of a gap in the floorboards, looking lovesick, and Dame Chanda shooed it away. “The Society is demanding. Intrusive. Utterly without consideration for anyone’s time or privacy.” She turned and fixed Morrigan with a pointed look. “In short, my angel: When they want you, you will know about it. They’ll go straight to the source. Mi-mi-mi-mi-MI!”
“You?”
Dame Chanda looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “No, Miss Morrigan. You. They’ll fetch you when you’re needed. Never fear, sweet girl. You’ll be deep in the twisting labyrinth of Wunsoc before you know it. Then you’ll be itching to get out. Believe me—I try to limit my visits to mandatory events and special occasions only.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know,” she said breezily, gathering up another armful of hanging gowns and dumping them unceremoniously on a chaise longue. “If I start showing my face around the hallowed halls too often, people will think they can rope me into their ridiculous exploits. As if I don’t have enough demands on my time.” Morrigan knew of precisely seven demands on Dame Chanda’s time: her famous and well-attended concerts in the Hotel Deucalion’s Music Salon every Sunday night, and the six handsome and charming suitors with whom she spent the rest of her evenings. Fellow de Friday, as Jupiter had secretly christened him, had attended Morrigan’s birthday party and given her a massive bouquet of pink and purple roses (undoubtedly to impress the opera singer, but Morrigan appreciated the gesture nonetheless). “And I simply couldn’t bear to run into Murgatroyd.”
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 4