There were gasps and shouts of dismay all around them on the platform.
Morrigan opened her mouth, a strangled noise of shock and fury rising up in her, but no sound came out. Instead, she felt a wave of anger such as she’d never felt before. It crashed over her not like water but lava, molten fire burning her from the inside. The taste of ash sprang to the back of her throat, just like it had when the first blackmail note had appeared. Her sudden rage was a monster, clawing its way up from deep within her chest, from her lungs, searing the flesh of her throat and bursting out of her mouth, igniting the very air around her.
She felt the wrath of a hundred dragons.
She would set the whole world aflame.
A fireball sprang from Morrigan’s lips.
It burned through the air, uncontrolled and without a target, singeing Heloise’s skin as it whooshed past her and shot straight into the domed canopy of trees overhead, setting the station roof ablaze.
Heloise screamed.
Everyone screamed.
Morrigan heaved in deep, gasping breaths, watching the horror unfold while her fury burned itself out.
“ENOUGH!” came a cry from somewhere behind them, and along with it a vast swirling column of water flew through the air, dousing the flames and turning them to ice in the branches overhead. The platform fell silent, except for Heloise’s shaking sobs, as they all turned to see who had saved them.
Murgatroyd was standing on the footbridge. Her milky eyes blazed a brighter, colder white than Morrigan remembered them. She was breathing like she’d just run a marathon, and jets of frozen mist streamed from her nostrils. Tiny crystals of ice had formed on her cheeks. Her gnarled and knotted hands were curled into claws.
The crowd on the platform held its breath as the Arcane Scholar Mistress swept down from the footbridge toward the platform. As she stalked toward them, her hunched form began to stretch and straighten. Her stark white hair smoothed and softened to silver blond, her eyes brightened to an angry ice blue, and with a sickening crack-crack-crack-crunch of her neck, the Arcane Scholar Mistress was gone, and only the Mundane remained.
“You,” said Dearborn, pointing to Miss Cheery even as she stared at Morrigan. Her voice was tightly controlled. Emotionless.
But she looked frightened.
“Escort Miss Crow to the Elders’ Hall.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ELDERS’ HALL
Morrigan stood in the shadow of a towering amethyst statue. A sinister-looking puppet master, his clawed hands poised high above Morrigan, pulled the strings of a dead-eyed dancing puppet. It hung down limply by her head.
Miss Cheery stood to her other side, next to two fifteen-foot women carved from white marble—sweet-faced conjoined twins, their eyes covered with decorative masks. They split into two somewhere around the heart, separating like branches of a tree.
Morrigan had wanted to see inside the Elders’ Hall since last year, when Cadence had stolen her place at the Elders’ secret dinner. Hardly anyone was permitted to enter the inner sanctum of Elder Quinn, Elder Wong, and Elder Saga—even among Society members, it was considered a rare and lucky honor.
Morrigan did not feel lucky, or honored. She didn’t want to see the Elders’ Hall like this. Not for this reason.
Morrigan counted the statues, because she needed a distraction. There were nine in all—their poses dignified, their faces by turns heroic, stern, kindly, or indifferent. A blindfolded man made of turquoise, a rose quartz woman with eight pairs of arms fanning out around her. A man carved from amber whose hands were candles, dripping wax rivulets down his arms.
If she hadn’t been so terrified, so utterly convinced that this was the last she’d ever see of Wunsoc at all, Morrigan might have been fascinated by these mysterious, majestic figures. As it was, she was just trying—for the second time that day—not to vomit.
She and Miss Cheery had left the shocked crowd at the platform and walked all the way to Proudfoot House in a tense, fretful silence. Even now, Morrigan could almost feel her conductor buzzing, crackling, with a worry too awful to name.
“You’re still bleeding,” Morrigan said to her, when at last she found the courage to look Miss Cheery in the face. She pulled the sleeve of her pullover over her hand and reached out to wipe away a trickle of blood, but Miss Cheery flinched… then gave a weak, apologetic half-smile.
Morrigan felt tears prickle and drew in a sharp breath.
The wooden doors at the end of the hall flew open, and Ms. Dearborn marched inside, the clicking of her high heels echoing loudly in the vast space.
“You,” barked the Scholar Mistress, pointing a finger at Miss Cheery. “Teaching hospital. Get that cut looked at.”
“But, Ms. Dearborn, shouldn’t I stay—”
“Now.”
Miss Cheery hesitated, glancing reluctantly at Morrigan, but she had no choice. She left, squeezing Morrigan’s arm gently as she passed.
The Elders filed into the hall after Dearborn, followed by the odious Baz Charlton, self-righteous and smug. Morrigan’s heart sank. Of course, she thought. Heloise’s patron.
Baz was followed by the diminutive Professor Onstald, his flat tortoise feet shuffling along at an unbearably slow pace, the enormous domed shell on his back making him look at if he might fall over at any moment. What was he doing here, Morrigan wondered?
Just when it seemed the room was filling with all the people in the world who hated her most, a shock of ginger hurried into the hall, pushing past Onstald and straight over to where Morrigan stood.
“Jupiter!” she cried out, unable to contain her joy at seeing him.
“Morrigan!” he said urgently, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Morrigan stared up at her patron. He was here. Jupiter was actually here. How had he got here so fast? She didn’t care. She felt a rush of relief, just knowing that she wasn’t alone. His bright blue eyes burned into hers, wide with worry.
“Mog?” he prompted. The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. She nodded, and a silent understanding passed between them.
“Is she all right?” said Baz, practically spitting the words in his haste to get them out. “The nasty little troublemaker who—who done all this trouble? You’re having a laugh, North.”
Jupiter ignored him.
“This is a failed experiment,” said Dearborn, pacing agitatedly up and down the hall. She cracked her neck to the side, closing her eyes briefly. “Elders, I begged you after last year’s Show Trial to take my advice, but you ignored it and here we—”
Dearborn cracked her neck again, hunched her shoulders, and drew in a deep rasp of a breath. Morrigan felt a familiar creeping horror, and even the adults in the room seemed to cringe away from the Mundane Scholar Mistress as she began to warp into her Arcane counterpart. It was like watching the wilting of a flower on fast forward. The gnarled, milky-eyed Murgatroyd emerged, brown teeth bared, and fixed her hollow gaze on Morrigan.
“I told you,” rasped Murgatroyd. “She ought to have been in my school. Dearest Dulcie is correct. This is a failed experiment. But it is not the beastly girl who has failed. It is all of you who have failed the beastly girl. I told you, Dulcie—”
A wash of cool blue light was cast over Murgatroyd’s face, and with a strange, gurgling yelp and a crunching of bones, Dearborn was instantly back in the room. Morrigan shuddered. “This doesn’t concern you, Maris,” Dearborn hissed. “Stay out of it!”
The transformation reversed itself again, and Murgatroyd returned. “But it does concern me.” She spoke in a low, chilling growl. “I told you someone must teach the little beast her Wretched Arts, or the Wretched Arts will manifest without proper—”
Snap. Crunch. Dearborn returned with a sound like bones breaking. Everyone in the room winced, except for Morrigan, who was distracted by what Murgatroyd had just said. The Wretched Arts. Where had she heard those words before?
“This is not your place, you
raving lunatic!” Dearborn shouted. “The girl is a Mundane Scholar, whether you agree or not.” And without missing a beat, she turned back to address the Elders. “Forgive me, Elder Quinn, but I did warn you this would go horribly wrong.”
Elder Quinn gave a sigh and said in a quiet voice, “Yes, this is all very dramatic, Dulcinea, but none of it helps us decide on a course of action.” She turned to Morrigan, looking deeply weary. “Miss Crow, you may or may not be relieved to know that Heloise Redchurch is recovering in the hospital and will have no permanent injuries.”
Morrigan closed her eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I—I am. Of course I’m relieved. I didn’t mean to hurt her, Elder Quinn. I swear. I don’t know how it happened. I just—”
“And what about Alfie?” Baz interrupted, looking to the Elders. “My boy Alfie Swann, he’s disappeared. Heloise seems to think she”—he pointed at Morrigan—“had something to do with it.”
Something occurred to Morrigan then. She was sure Baz had told the Charlton Five about her being from the Republic, and goaded them to attack her. Was he also behind Alfie’s disappearance? Was this just an attempt to pin something on Morrigan and get her kicked out of the Wundrous Society?
Could he also be responsible for blackmailing Unit 919, then? She still couldn’t figure out exactly what he stood to gain. Why would he take such a risk?
Elder Quinn clicked her tongue impatiently. “Oh, the Swann boy. Breathes underwater, yes? Charlton, don’t be ridiculous. Alfie’s been struggling with his marks all year. He’s obviously beginning to realize that a set of gills will only get you so far in life, and the rest requires hard work.” She waved an impatient hand as if she’d quite like to bat Baz away. “Perhaps when he’s had time to realize how privileged his life at Wunsoc is, he’ll have the common sense to return to school and pull his socks up. And incidentally, we shall determine a punishment for Heloise’s violent outburst. The Elders and I have worked all year to contain this… this missing persons situation, to avoid panic and rumors spreading, and now look where we find ourselves—all thanks to one dramatic schoolgirl with a big mouth.”
Baz went to reply but was interrupted by Elder Saga stamping his hoof.
“None of this is relevant,” grumbled the bullwun. “The question remains: What shall we do with the Wundersmith?”
“Activate her safeguard!” demanded Baz.
There was a sharp intake of breath from every adult in the room. Even Dearborn looked alarmed. Morrigan’s eyes flitted from face to face. What did Baz mean by that, and why had it inspired looks of such outrage and disbelief? Her gaze landed on her patron last, and she swallowed.
Jupiter walked toward Baz with a sort of furious contained energy, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the muscles in his jaw twitching. Baz flinched back, cowering against the rose quartz statue of the many-armed woman. The Elders all stepped forward as if worried that Jupiter was about to hit the other man. Morrigan knew he was reining himself in, could see the way he forced his breaths to even out and his hands to unclench. Even so, she felt a chill on the back of her neck as Jupiter brought his face close to Baz’s and spoke in his lowest, most dangerous voice.
“Think of what you are saying. For once in your mediocre life, Charlton, just think about the words that drop from your cretinous mouth before you utter them.”
Several seconds of ringing silence followed these words. Baz tried to look defiant, but he seemed to have shrunk several sizes. He looked to the Elders. “W-well, I didn’t mean… I just meant…”
His eyes still locked on Baz, Jupiter said, “Morrigan. Go and wait outside.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to stay and find out her fate, to know what was going to happen to her the second it was decided, but the tension in the room—and in Jupiter’s voice—forced her feet to move.
Hawthorne was waiting for her in the hallway. He stepped out from his hiding spot behind an imposing marble bust. His face was pale and serious, his eyes at least twice their normal size.
“You okay?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “I think so.”
“Did you—” He broke off. “Morrigan, did you know you could do that? Did you know you could… breathe fire?”
Even through her haze of worry and confusion, Morrigan dimly registered how ridiculous the question was, and it annoyed her, and she was oddly grateful that this, at least, was normal. That Hawthorne could still ask silly questions, and she could still be annoyed by them. “Don’t you think I might have mentioned a small detail like that?”
They were silent for a moment.
“What are they going to do?” Hawthorne asked.
“Shhh. I don’t know.” Morrigan pressed her ear to the heavy oak door, and Hawthorne did the same. For several minutes, all they could hear was mumbling, until Jupiter raised his voice again, sounding furious.
“She’s just. A little. Girl.” He said each word as if he were grinding it between his teeth. “Stop speaking about her as if she’s a monster. Murgatroyd’s right, you should have—”
“—the girl is…” Professor Onstald’s voice trailed off into mumbles again, and Morrigan pushed away from the door, feeling a tightness in her chest. She began to pace, pulling at the hem of her gray shirt, twisting it around and around her fingers.
Stop speaking about her as if she’s a monster.
“They won’t try to kick you out, will they?” Hawthorne asked in an anxious whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“They can’t!” he said loudly, then dropped his voice once again to a whisper. “It wasn’t your fault. You were protecting Miss Cheery. If anyone should get kicked out, it’s Heloise. I’ll tell them.”
Morrigan said nothing. Would they kick her out for this? Could they? If she wasn’t a member of the Society she would have to leave Nevermoor, and…
No. She shook her head fiercely. It was an accident, she told herself. They can’t kick you out because of an accident.
Baz Charlton’s words echoed in her head—“Activate her safeguard.” Whatever that meant, it clearly wasn’t a good thing. Morrigan stopped pacing and stared straight ahead. Her hands grew still. She’d suddenly realized… she had absolutely no idea what the safeguard was for. She had never asked.
Why had she never asked?
Moments later, the Scholar Mistress appeared at the door.
“SWIFT!” Dearborn hissed. “Get to class!” Hawthorne mumbled an apology and left, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder. The Scholar Mistress turned to Morrigan, her face an icy mask once again, inscrutable as ever. “Come.”
Morrigan followed her into the hall, taking two footsteps for every one of Dearborn’s. Jupiter, Baz, Professor Onstald, and the Elders stood in the center of the room, dwarfed by the nine enormous stone statues, but towering over Morrigan nonetheless.
She squeezed her hands into fists, trying to stop them from shaking. Looking around at the adults, it was hard to tell whether it was good news or bad news. Baz Charlton was sporting a sulky, put-upon scowl, but Jupiter didn’t seem particularly happy either.
“Miss Crow,” said Elder Quinn, beckoning her forward. The frown lines between her eyes were so deep they might have been embroidered there. “Elder Saga, Elder Wong, and I have come to a decision. It is our opinion that the pressures of Wundrous Society life have taken their toll on you, and as such—”
“You can’t kick me out!” Morrigan interrupted in a panic. “It was an accident, I never meant to hurt anybody. Please, Elder Quinn, you have to believe—”
“I do believe you,” said Elder Quinn, raising her voice over Morrigan’s. “Please be quiet, Miss Crow.” She paused, and Morrigan bit the side of her mouth, fighting the urge to defend herself. “It is not my opinion that your actions were malicious. However. The High Council of Elders has a responsibility to all of those entrusted to our care. We must put measures in place to ensure the safety of your fellow unit members, a
nd the rest of the Society. We don’t know what those measures will look like in the long term, but as of this moment, you may consider your workload under review.”
Jupiter frowned. “What exactly does that mean, Elder Quinn?”
The woman exhaled heavily. “In an enduring sense, I’m not entirely certain what it means. But in the short term, Miss Crow will no longer attend classes with the other students, or enter Wunsoc.”
Morrigan’s heart sank all the way down to her feet. She felt tears sting her eyes. Banished from Wunsoc? The thought was intolerable.
“For now, Miss Crow,” Elder Quinn continued, “you shall continue your individual studies with Professor Onstald, who will travel to your home at the Hotel Deucalion and conduct your lessons there. Your direct access to Station 919 will be temporarily revoked. I must ask you to leave the campus at once.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately.”
Jupiter had hailed a carriage to take them home. Which was lucky, as it began to rain almost the moment they stepped inside it. (Or—was it more than luck? Could he see the weather before it arrived? Morrigan wanted to ask, but the lump in her throat was back and wouldn’t let her speak just yet.)
“My work at the League has been… well, no excuses. I’m sorry. That’s all.” He really did seem sorry. More than that, he seemed sad.
“It’s all right,” said Morrigan finally, in a croaky voice. She meant it. Although she really had been annoyed with him, his apology was heartfelt, and he looked so desolate and tired that she couldn’t hold on to her frustration any longer. It had been getting too heavy to carry around, anyway. She was glad to be rid it.
They sat in silence until it, too, grew heavy.
“I breathed fire.”
“Mmm.”
“I didn’t know I could do that.”
“No,” said Jupiter thoughtfully. “Nor did I.”
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 17