“Then why are they—”
“That’s not the Stink,” said Jack in a hushed voice. He looked awestruck. “That’s the Stealth.”
“The what?” asked Morrigan.
“The Wundrous Society Investigation Department,” said Jack. “Secret police. They hardly ever show themselves like this, they’re usually a bit more… you know. Stealthy.”
“How do you know it’s them?”
“Look at their uniforms: black leather coats, shiny lace-up boots—and see their top pockets?”
Morrigan squinted down at the nearest officer and saw a small golden eye embroidered on his right chest pocket, with a W inside the iris.
“Definitely the Stealth. They came here for Uncle Jove once before,” continued Jack, “a few years ago, when they needed his help on a crime scene investigation. But that was… that was for a murder,” he said in a whisper. “Some famous sorcerer. Turned out he was killed by his apprentice, and Jupiter helped them figure it out. The Stealth only get involved in the really serious crimes, and only if they involve Wundrous Society members.”
“They’re investigating the disappearances,” said Morrigan.
Jack shook his head, squinting at the black-coated squadron. “They’re definitely searching for something, or someone, but this thing isn’t weeks old. It’s fresh. They’ve got that same fog around them as Jupiter, but theirs is thick and… I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s sort of glittery—like a thunderstorm. It’s new.”
They watched the conversation happening below. Jupiter ran a hand through his wilting hair, looking agitated and deeply tired. Morrigan pushed away from the banister. “Let’s go down and find out—Ow!” she squealed, halted suddenly by a single large claw digging into her shoulder. “Fen!”
“If that is the Stealth, you’re not going anywhere near them,” the Magnificat growled. “When Jupiter wants you to know what’s going on, he’ll tell you. Now, off you go—it must be past your bedtime.”
“I don’t have a bedtime,” said Morrigan, frowning.
“Now you do.”
“You can’t—”
“Just did.”
“But—”
“BED.”
Morrigan turned back to look at Jupiter, hoping to catch his eye, but he was already on his way out again, heading for the front doors in the little rowboat surrounded by Stealth.
He hadn’t even bothered to take off his coat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEVILISH COURT
Nobody knew anything about another disappearance. Not Kedgeree or Fenestra or Dame Chanda—Morrigan had spent all of Sunday pestering them in turn. Not Miss Cheery, who’d seemed genuinely surprised (and a little worried) in Hometrain on Monday to hear that the Stealth had been to Morrigan’s home. Not Professor Onstald, who’d called her “insolent,” “impertinent,” and “improper” during their morning lesson for daring to ask questions about the inner workings of the Wundrous Society law enforcement system.
Onstald had spent the rest of the class giving Morrigan a long, wheezy lecture about nosiness and propriety… which was at least preferable to copying down yet another passage from An Abridged History of the Wundrous Acts Spectrum.
Her class that afternoon with Mildmay was much more interesting.
“Swindleroads. Tricksy Lanes. Shadowstreets. Ghostly Hours,” he read from a list he’d written on the blackboard. “Who can tell me what these are?”
Blank faces stared back at him.
“Nobody?” Mildmay looked surprised. “Lucky you.”
“What are they, sir?” asked Mahir.
“Swindleroads are an old-fashioned tool of scoundrels and highwaymen. A straightforward bit of geographical trickery in which one walks down one end of a lane and comes out the other end in a different location, sometimes miles away, where a band of blackguards would be waiting to rob you. Most Swindleroads have been blocked off or signposted now, but back in the Age of Thieves, there was a whole plague of them all over the Free State.
“Tricksy Lanes, on the other hand, are a uniquely Nevermoorian bit of nonsense.” He made himself comfortable and started swinging his legs off the edge of the desk. Morrigan had noticed that Mildmay did this whenever he got onto a topic that really interested him. “Awfully inconvenient and occasionally quite frightening, but mostly harmless, if you know what you’re doing. Tricksy Lane is sort of a catchall term for the little alleys or walkways in Nevermoor that transform in some way, once you’re inside them.”
“What do you mean, transform?” Morrigan asked.
“Well, sometimes it means you walk halfway down and then suddenly find yourself facing back the direction you came without ever having turned yourself around. Or perhaps the farther you walk down the lane, the closer the alley walls become around you, until you must either turn back the way you came, or risk being squashed to death.”
“Blech,” said Arch, shuddering.
“Yes, I don’t recommend it. I once came across a Tricksy Lane that had less gravity the farther down you went. I kept floating up into the air, until finally I had to grab on to the wall and drag myself back to where I’d started.”
“Oh!” Morrigan had suddenly remembered her excursion with Jupiter on Spring’s Eve. “I think I’ve seen one!”
She told Mildmay about the strange little alley on their way to see the Angel Israfel at the Old Delphian Music Hall (omitting, of course, the reason they were visiting him).
“Bohemia, you said?” asked Mildmay. “Blimey, I’m not sure I was aware of that one. Excellent, Miss Crow! Yes, there are Tricksy Lanes dotted all over the city. Most of them have been mapped, and—like the Swindleroads—are either blocked off or carefully marked with warning signs so you know what you’re getting into. But some of them, unfortunately, have a terrible habit of wandering—they’ll disappear from one spot and reappear somewhere else entirely. So in truth, the official Tricksy Lane map provided by the Nevermoor Council is sometimes a bit useless. Naturally, I prefer the Living Map. It’s not perfect, but it’s pretty good at updating itself.” He picked up a stack of folded maps from the desk beside him and handed the bundle to Anah. “Nonetheless, here’s the Nevermoor Council’s best attempt at recording the unrecordable. Take one and pass them on.”
Hawthorne handed Morrigan the last map and she opened it up, peering closely at the curling, minuscule streets. There were dozens of little pink, red, and black flags dotted all over the city, each indicating the location of a known Tricksy Lane.
Mildmay clapped his hands once. “Now, follow me,” he said, heading straight for the Map Room door. “We’re going on an adventure!”
It was a perfect summer day in Old Town, sunny and warm, and Unit 919 buzzed with excitement. First-year scholars weren’t normally allowed outside Wunsoc during the school day, but Mildmay had obtained special permission from the Scholar Mistress to take his class out for their first-ever practical lesson, with the understanding that if any of them—including Mildmay—embarrassed the Society, they would be tied to the train tracks at Proudfoot Station during rush hour.
Their destination turned out to be Temple Close, a tiny little side street not far from Wunsoc—the sort of dim, dirty lane most people would walk by without really noticing.
Mildmay pointed to a grubby little sign on the wall that read:
TEMPLE CLOSE BEWARE!
BY ORDER OF THE GEOGRAPHICAL ODDITIES SQUADRON AND THE NEVERMOOR COUNCIL, THIS STREET HAS BEEN DECLARED A PINK ALERT TRICKSY LANE (NUISANCE-LEVEL TRICKERY PRESENTING SIGNIFICANT INCONVENIENCE ON ENTRY)
ENTER AT OWN RISK
“Of course,” said Mildmay, “the safest thing would be to never find yourself in a Tricksy Lane at all. That said, it’s best to have a plan of action in case you get caught unaware. So, your clear, easy, three-step plan goes like this. Step one: STAY CALM. Believe me, when you suddenly find yourself floating up into the sky, it’s easy to panic. And when we panic, we lose our ability to think clearly.
“I want you all to remember these two simple things: Breathe in”—he breathed in for several counts—“and breathe out.” He let it all go in a slow, steady whoosh. “Do it with me, now. Ready? Breathe in.” As one, the unit inhaled deeply. “And breathe out.” Whoosh. “Good. You’d be surprised how much it can help in a frightening situation if you just remember to keep breathing.”
Cadence turned to Morrigan and rolled her eyes.
“Brilliant,” she muttered. “I would have forgotten this basic involuntary bodily function if he hadn’t mentioned it. I’ll write that down.” She made a stupid face and pretended to write it in the air with an imaginary pen.
“Shush,” said Morrigan, trying not to smile.
“Step two: RETREAT,” said Mildmay. “You don’t always know what you’re going to get with a Tricksy Lane. You might be lucky and just get an antigravity trick, or closing walls… those two are common. But there are other, much more dangerous tricks out there. There was a Tricksy Lane over in Southey-upon-Juro a few years ago that took all the air from a man’s lungs, suffocating him to death. And I read a story about one right here in Old Town many years ago that literally flipped people inside out, so that all their muscles and organs were on the outside of their bodies.”
The scholars winced and made noises of disgust—except Hawthorne, who whispered, “Cool,” and Anah, who looked up with interest.
“Never fear,” Mildmay continued, holding up his hands to quiet them. “That lane’s gone. They bricked it up.”
Morrigan smirked and shook her head at Hawthorne, who looked almost disappointed.
“My point is, you won’t always know what you’re fighting when you walk into a Tricksy Lane. So the solution is, don’t fight. Retreat. Always retreat. Never think you can outwit the trick, never think you can overpower it, never think you can fight through it. Your lives are worth more than a shortcut.” He looked at each of them in turn, his young, round face as solemn as Morrigan had seen it.
“Finally, step three: TELL SOMEONE. Why is that important?”
Anah’s hand shot straight into the air. “To stop other people from getting caught in it?”
“Very good. Why else?”
“In case it isn’t on the map yet,” called out Mahir.
“Correct. Why else?”
The unit fell silent.
Mildmay rolled out his council map again. “Because it might have changed. Tricksy Lanes are mercurial—they can shift and evolve over time. Look at your maps. See Perrins Court, over in Highwall? That used to be your basic, everyday ankle-dangler. Last week, one of our more careless fourth-year scholars took a wrong turn onto Perrins Court and found himself swimming through raw sewage.”
A chorus of “Ughh” and “Ewww” rang out.
“Indeed,” continued Mildmay. “But this young man did exactly the right thing. He stayed calm, he retreated, and he told his conductor. Well, first he took a shower, then he told his conductor, who told the Geographical Oddities Squadron, and we told the council, who have now updated this map. Because of the health risks, they upgraded the threat level of Perrins Court from a Pink Alert (Nuisance-Level Trickery Presenting Significant Inconvenience on Entry) to a Red Alert (High-Danger Trickery and Likelihood of Damage to Person on Entry) and installed a warning sign.”
“But, sir, why don’t they just brick it up, like the guts-on-the-outside one?” said Hawthorne.
“Because there’s still hope for Perrins Court. It changed from an ankle-dangler to a sewage stream… there’s always the possibility it might change back into an ordinary street one day. We only brick up the hopeless cases. The Black Alerts.”
“What does a Black Alert mean?” asked Morrigan.
“Death on Entry.”
Morrigan swallowed. How many of those lanes were out there in Nevermoor, so far undetected?
“Don’t worry,” said Mildmay with a smile. “Black Alerts are extremely rare and this street, Temple Close, is just a Pink Alert. I’ve brought you here for practice. Each of you is going to enter Temple Close and—following the first two steps of our three-step plan—safely retreat. Who’s first?”
Predictably, Thaddea and Hawthorne were the first volunteers. They practically knocked each other out trying to get to the front of the group. But Mildmay had other ideas.
He beckoned a reluctant Francis to the front and held on to his shoulders as they stared down the narrow, cobbled lane of Temple Close. The rest of the unit crowded in behind them, observing. Though she couldn’t see his face, Morrigan could tell Francis was terrified—he was visibly shaking.
“Remember, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Mildmay said, “BREATHE, and then RETREAT. Just remember those two things and you’ll be fine.”
“Can’t someone else go first?” Francis whimpered.
“Ooh—me!” Hawthorne stuck his hand in the air. Mildmay reached out and put it down for him.
Thaddea gave an impatient huff. “Don’t be such a baby, Francis. It’s only a Pink Alert, for goodness’ sake.”
“Thaddea, don’t be mean,” said Mildmay, and then, “Although she’s right, Francis. This one’s just an ankle-dangler. Worst it’ll give you is a rush of blood to the head. When that happens, just take a few steps backward—even though you’ll be dangling in the air, just go through the motions as if you’re walking on the ground. As the lane senses your intent to go back the way you came, it’ll put you right way up again, quick as you like.” He gave Francis a gentle nudge. “Go on now. You can do this.”
Francis took a step forward, then another.
Hawthorne began to chant, quietly and encouragingly. “Francis, Francis, Francis.” Morrigan and the rest of the unit joined in, their whispers swelling to fill the narrow space. “Francis, Francis, Francis.”
Another step, then a few more, until at last, when Francis was halfway down the alley, he was pulled up into the air and flipped upside down as if he weighed nothing. He dangled there a moment, one leg sticking straight up to the sky while all his other limbs thrashed about.
“Breathe, Francis!” said Mildmay. “Stay calm.”
Francis took great, heaving breaths, and stopped flailing.
“You know what to do next, come on. One step back… and then another…”
“Francis, Francis, Francis…”
Though he was upside down, Francis lifted his foot to take a big, comically overacted step backward. Another fake step, and then another, and then—
“YES!” Mildmay gave a jubilant shout, jumping up to punch the air as Francis flipped right way up, stumbling a little as he landed on the cobblestones. He turned back around to face them, breathless and shell-shocked, but grinning.
Each of the scholars took their turn going down Temple Close, flipping and unflipping to cheers from Mildmay and the rest of the unit. Morrigan shrieked with laughter when her turn came to be upended, and Hawthorne loved it so much he begged to go again.
“You can have a second go, Mr. Swift,” said Mildmay. “You all can. Everyone got your maps? I want you to get into groups of three and choose a Tricksy Lane here in Old Town where you can practice retreating safely. Stay in the North Quarter. Pink Alerts only. And remember: STAY CALM and RETREAT. We’ll all meet back at the gates to Wunsoc when the Courage Square clock strikes three.”
“Francis, would you like to be in our group?” Morrigan offered. Francis scowled and turned away. It was the fourth time that day she’d tried unsuccessfully to talk to him. She’d thought Thaddea’s sulking had been bad, but Francis’s was much worse. He’d spent the day alternating between shooting scornful looks at Morrigan and pretending he’d gone deaf every time she tried to speak to him.
“Seems to have forgotten which way he voted, doesn’t he?” muttered Hawthorne. “I’d give it up if I were you, Morrigan.”
Francis followed Thaddea and Anah, while Mahir led Arch and Lambeth in another direction. Cadence was left on her own, looking awkward and resentful. None of the others had even glanced in her direction
. She’d been forgotten again.
“Come with us, Cadence,” said Morrigan, beckoning to her. Cadence strolled over, trying to look as if she couldn’t care less.
The three of them studied Morrigan’s map together. There were eleven Pink Alerts in the North Quarter to choose from. It took Hawthorne and Cadence ten minutes just to agree on a lane, and by the time they got there, Mahir’s group had already claimed it, so they had to start over.
“Devilish Court!” said Hawthorne, pointing at the map over Morrigan’s shoulder. “That sounds cool.”
“It’s in the West Quarter, dummy,” muttered Cadence.
“So?”
“So he said to stay in the North Quarter.”
“It’s barely in the West Quarter—only by one block.”
“It’s still in the—”
“Oh, let’s just go,” said Morrigan, rolling up the map, “or the lesson will be over.”
Devilish Court was narrow and dark, so dark they couldn’t see what was at the end of it. It was like gazing into a tunnel. There was a small sign at the entrance, identical to the one at Temple Close, declaring it a Pink Alert Tricksy Lane.
“I’ll go first,” said Hawthorne. He made as if to break into a run, and Morrigan grabbed the back of his shirt.
“Wait! You can’t just run in. We don’t even know what sort of trick it is. Be sensible. Go slowly.”
With an eye roll and a mumbled, “Yes, Dad,” Hawthorne reluctantly slowed to a walk. Morrigan and Cadence watched in anticipation, expecting him to be suddenly flipped upside down any moment. Halfway down the alley, however, Hawthorne stopped, swaying slightly where he stood.
“Hawthorne?” Morrigan called. “What’s wrong, are you okay?”
“I don’t… I don’t feel very good.”
“Are you sick?”
He took another step forward, then paused again. “Ugh. I think I’m gonna puke.”
Cadence made a noise of disgust.
Morrigan frowned. “Do you think that’s the trick, or is it just something you ate?” Either one was plausible, she thought, since for lunch that day he’d bolted down three roast beef and gravy sandwiches, four bowls of whelk soup, and a pint of strawberry milk.
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