The Trials of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  Corvus narrowed his eyes. “Yet paying for an education seems rather pointless when this particular childhood is about to be cut short. Personally I think we should never have bothered in the first place. I’d be better off sending my hunting dogs to school; they’ve got a longer life expectancy and are much more useful to me.”

  Morrigan exhaled in a short, blunt oof, as though her father had just thrown a very large brick at her stomach.

  There it was. The truth she kept squashed down, something she could ignore but never forget. The truth that she and every cursed child knew deep in their bones, had tattooed on their hearts: I’m going to die on Eventide night.

  “I’m sure my friends in the Wintersea Party would agree with me,” Corvus continued, glaring at the caseworker, oblivious to Morrigan’s unease. “Particularly the ones who control the funding of your little department.”

  There was a long silence. The caseworker looked sideways at Morrigan and began to gather her belongings. Morrigan recognized the flash of pity that crossed the woman’s face, and she hated her for it.

  “Very well. I will inform the ROCC of your decision. Good day, Chancellor. Miss Crow.” The caseworker hurried out of the office without a backward glance. Corvus pressed a buzzer on the desk and called for his assistants.

  Morrigan rose from her chair. She wanted to shout at her father, but instead her voice came out trembling and timid. “Should I…?”

  “Do as you like,” Corvus snapped, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “Just don’t bother me.”

  Dear Mrs. Malouf,

  I’m sorry you don’t know how to ice-skate properly.

  I’m sorry you thought it was a good idea to go ice-skating even though you’re a million years old and have brittle bones that could snap in a light breeze.

  I’m sorry I broke your hip. I didn’t mean to. I hope you are recovering quickly. Please accept my apologies and get well soon.

  Yours sincerely,

  Miss Morrigan Crow

  Sprawled on the floor of the second sitting room, Morrigan rewrote the last few sentences neatly on a fresh sheet of paper and tucked it into an envelope but didn’t seal it. Partly because Corvus would want to check the letter before it was sent, and partly on the off chance that her saliva had the power to cause sudden death or bankruptcy.

  The click-clack of hurried footsteps in the hallway made Morrigan freeze. She looked at the clock on the wall. Midday. It could be Grandmother, home from morning tea with her friends. Or her stepmother, Ivy, looking for someone to blame for a scratch on the silverware or a tear in the drapes. The second sitting room was usually a good place to hide; it was the glummest room in the house, with hardly any sunshine. Nobody liked it except for Morrigan.

  The footsteps faded. Morrigan let out the breath she’d been holding. Reaching over to the radio, she turned the little brass knob through squealing, static-filled airwaves until she found a station broadcasting the news.

  “The annual winter dragon cull continues in the northwest corner of Great Wolfacre this week, with over forty rogue reptiles targeted by the Dangerous Wildlife Eradication Force. The DWEF has received increased reports of dragon encounters near Deepdown Falls Resort and Spa, a popular holiday destination for…” Morrigan let the newscaster’s posh, nasal voice drone in the background as she began her next letter.

  Dear Pip,

  I’m sorry you thought TREACLE was spelt with a K.

  I’m sorry you’re an idiot.

  I’m sorry to hear you lost your recent spelling bee because you’re an idiot. Please accept my deepest apologies for any trouble I may have caused you. I promise I’ll never wish you luck again you ungrateful little

  Yours faithfully,

  Morrigan Crow

  There were now people on the news talking about the homes they’d lost in the Prosper floods, crying over pets and loved ones they’d seen washed away when the streets ran like rivers. Morrigan felt a stab of sadness and hoped Corvus was right about the weather not being her fault.

  Dear Jackalfax Jam Society,

  Sorry but don’t you think there are worse things in life than bad marmalade?

  “Up next: Could Eventide be closer than we think?” asked the newscaster. Morrigan grew still. The E-word again. “While most experts agree we’ve one more year until the current Age ends, a small number of fringe chronologists believe we could be celebrating the night of Eventide much sooner than that. Have they cracked it, or are they just crackpots?” A tiny chill crept along the back of Morrigan’s neck, but she ignored it. Crackpots, she thought defiantly.

  “But first: More unrest in the capital today as rumors of an imminent Wunder shortage continue to spread,” the nasal newscaster continued. “A spokesperson for Squall Industries publicly addressed concerns at a press conference this morning.”

  A man’s voice spoke softly over the background hum of murmuring journalists. “There is no crisis at Squall Industries. Rumors of an energy shortage in the Republic are entirely false, I cannot stress that enough.”

  “Speak up!” someone yelled in the background.

  The man raised his voice a little. “The Republic is as full of Wunder as it ever has been, and we continue to reap the rewards of this abundant natural resource.”

  “Mr. Jones,” a reporter called out, “will you respond to the reports of mass power outages and malfunctioning Wundrous technology in the states of Southlight and Far East Sang? Is Ezra Squall aware of these problems? Will he emerge from his reclusive lifestyle to address the problem publicly?”

  Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “Again, these are no more than silly rumors and fearmongering. Our state-of-the-art monitoring systems show no Wunder scarcity and no malfunction of Wundrous devices. The national rail network is operating perfectly, as are the power grid and the Wundrous Healthcare Service. As for Mr. Squall, he is well aware that as the nation’s sole provider of Wunder and its by-products, Squall Industries has a great responsibility. We are as committed as ever—”

  “Mr. Jones, there’s been speculation as to whether the Wunder shortages could have anything to do with cursed children. Can you comment?”

  Morrigan dropped her pen.

  “I—I’m not sure… I’m not sure what you mean,” stammered Mr. Jones, sounding taken aback.

  The reporter continued. “Well, Southlight and Far East Sang between them have three cursed children listed on their state registers—unlike the state of Prosper, which has no cursed children at present and has remained untouched by Wunder shortages. Great Wolfacre also has a registered cursed child, the daughter of prominent politician Corvus Crow; will it be the next state hit by this crisis?”

  “Once again, there is no crisis—”

  Morrigan groaned and turned off the radio. Now she was being blamed for something that hadn’t even happened yet. How many apology letters would she have to write next month? Her hand began to cramp at the thought.

  She sighed and picked up her pen.

  Dear Jackalfax Jam Society,

  Sorry about the marmalade.

  Yours,

  M. Crow

  Morrigan’s father was the chancellor of Great Wolfacre, the largest of four states that made up the Wintersea Republic. He was very busy and important, and usually still working even on the rare occasions when he was home for dinner. On his left and right would sit Left and Right, his ever-present assistants. Corvus was always firing his assistants and hiring new ones, so he’d given up learning their real names.

  “Send a memo to General Wilson, Right,” he was saying when Morrigan sat at the table that evening. Across from her sat her stepmother, Ivy, and way down at the other end of the table was Grandmother. Nobody looked at Morrigan. “His office will need to submit a budget for the new field hospital by early spring at the latest.”

  “Yes, Chancellor,” said Right, holding up blue fabric samples. “And for the new upholstery in your office?”

  “The cerulean, I think. Talk to my wife abou
t it. She’s the expert on that sort of thing, aren’t you, darling?”

  Ivy smiled radiantly. “The periwinkle, dearest,” she said with a tinkling, breezy laugh. “To match your eyes.”

  Morrigan’s stepmother didn’t look like she belonged at Crow Manor. Her spun-gold hair and sun-kissed skin (a souvenir from the summer she’d just spent “destressifying” on the glorious beaches of southeast Prosper) were out of place among the midnight-black hair and pale, sickly complexions of the Crow family. Crows never tanned.

  Morrigan thought perhaps that was why her father liked Ivy so much. She was nothing like the rest of them. Sitting in their dreary dining room, Ivy looked like an exotic artwork he’d brought back from a vacation.

  “Left, any word from Camp 16 on the measles outbreak?”

  “Contained, sir, but they’re still experiencing power outages.”

  “How often?”

  “Once a week, sometimes twice. There’s discontent in the border towns.”

  “In Great Wolfacre? Are you certain?”

  “Nothing like the rioting in Southlight’s slums, sir. Just low-level panic.”

  “And they think it’s due to Wunder scarcity? Nonsense. We’re not having any problems here. Crow Manor has never functioned more smoothly. Look at those lights—bright as day. Our generators must be full to the brim.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Left, looking uncomfortable. “That… hasn’t gone unnoticed by the public.”

  “Oh, whine, whine, whine,” croaked a voice from the opposite end of the table. Grandmother was dressed formally for dinner as usual, in a long black dress with jewels around her neck and on her fingers. Her coarse, steel-gray hair was piled in a formidable bun atop her head. “I don’t believe there is a Wunder shortage. Just freeloaders who haven’t paid their energy bills. I wouldn’t blame that Ezra Squall if he cut them off.” She sliced her steak into tiny, bloody pieces as she spoke.

  “Clear tomorrow’s schedule,” Corvus told his assistants. “I’ll pay the border towns a visit, do a bit of hand-shaking. That should shut them up.”

  Grandmother gave a mean little laugh. “It’s their heads that need shaking. You have a spine, Corvus—why don’t you use it?”

  Corvus’s face turned sour. Morrigan tried not to smile. She’d once heard a maid whisper that Grandmother was a “savage old bird of prey dressed up as a lady.” Morrigan privately agreed but found she rather enjoyed the savagery when it wasn’t aimed at her.

  “It’s—it’s Bid Day tomorrow, sir,” said Left. “You’re expected to make a speech for the local eligible children.”

  “Good lord, you’re right.” (Nope, thought Morrigan as she spooned carrots onto her plate. He’s Left.) “What a nuisance. I don’t suppose I can cancel again this year. Where and when?”

  “Town Hall. Midday,” said Right. “Children from St. Christopher’s School, Mary Henwright Academy, and Jackalfax Prep will attend.”

  “Fine.” Corvus sighed unhappily. “But call the Chronicle. Make sure they have someone covering it.”

  Morrigan swallowed a mouthful of bread. “What’s Bid Day?”

  As often happened when Morrigan spoke, everyone turned to face her with vague looks of surprise, as though she were a lamp that had suddenly grown legs and started tap-dancing across the room.

  There was a moment of silence, and then—

  “Perhaps we could invite the charity schools to Town Hall,” her father continued as though nobody had spoken. “Good publicity, doing things for the underclass.”

  Grandmother groaned. “Corvus, for goodness’ sake, you only need one idiot child to pose for a photo, and you’ll have hundreds to choose from. Just pick the most photogenic one, shake its hand, and leave. There’s no need to complicate things.”

  “Hmm,” he said, nodding. “Quite right, Mother. Pass the salt, would you, Left?”

  Right cleared his throat timidly. “Actually, sir… perhaps it’s not such a bad idea to include the less privileged schools. It might get us a front page.”

  “Your approval rating in the backwoods could do with a boost,” added Left as he scuttled down the table to fetch the salt.

  “No need to be delicate, Left.” Corvus lifted an eyebrow and glanced sideways at his daughter. “My approval rating everywhere could do with a boost.”

  Morrigan felt the tiniest tremor of guilt. She knew her father’s major challenge in life was trying to maintain his grip on the affections of Great Wolfacre’s voting public while his only child brought about their every misfortune. That he was enjoying his fifth year as state chancellor despite such a handicap was a daily miracle to Corvus Crow, and the question of whether he could sustain this implausible luck for another year was a daily anxiety.

  “But Mother’s right, let’s not overcrowd the event,” he continued. “Find another way to get me a front page.”

  “Is it an auction?” asked Morrigan.

  “Auction?” Corvus snapped. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Bid Day.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” He made a noise of impatience and turned back to his papers. “Ivy. Explain.”

  “Bid Day,” began Ivy, drawing herself up importantly, “is the day when children who’ve completed preparatory school will receive their educational bid, should they be lucky enough.”

  “Or rich enough,” added Grandmother.

  “Yes,” Ivy continued, looking mildly put out by the interruption. “If they are very bright, or talented, or if their parents are wealthy enough to bribe someone, then some respectable person from a fine scholarly institution will come to bid on them.”

  “Does everyone get a bid?” Morrigan asked.

  “Heavens, no!” Ivy laughed, glancing at the maid who’d come to place a tureen of gravy on the table. She added in an exaggerated whisper, “If everyone were educated, where would servants come from?”

  “But that’s not fair,” Morrigan protested, frowning as she watched the maid scurry from the room, red-faced. “And I don’t understand. What are they bidding for?”

  “For the privilege of overseeing the child’s education,” Corvus interrupted impatiently, waving a hand in front of his face as though trying to brush the conversation away. “The glory of shaping the young minds of tomorrow, and so on. Stop asking questions, it’s nothing to do with you. Left, what time is my meeting with the chairman of the farming commission on Thursday?”

  “Three o’clock, sir.”

  “Can I come?”

  Corvus blinked repeatedly, a frown deepening the lines in his forehead.

  “Why would you want to attend my meeting with the chairman of—”

  “To Bid Day, I mean. Tomorrow. The ceremony at Town Hall.”

  “You?” her stepmother said. “Go to a Bid Day ceremony? Whatever for?”

  “I just—” Morrigan paused, suddenly unsure. “Well, it is my birthday this week. It could be my birthday present.” Her family continued to stare blankly, which confirmed Morrigan’s suspicions that they’d forgotten she was turning eleven the day after tomorrow. “I thought it might be fun…” She trailed off, looking down at her plate and dearly wishing she hadn’t opened her mouth at all.

  “It’s not fun,” sneered Corvus. “It’s politics. And no, you may not. Out of the question. Ridiculous idea.”

  Morrigan sank down in her chair, feeling deflated and foolish. Really, what had she expected? Corvus was right; it was a ridiculous idea.

  The Crows ate their dinner in tense silence for several minutes, until—

  “Actually, sir,” said Right in a tentative voice. Corvus’s cutlery clattered onto his plate. He fixed his assistant with a menacing stare.

  “What?”

  “W-well… if you were—and I’m not saying you should, but if you were—to take your daughter along, it might help to, er, soften your image. To a degree.”

  Left wrung his hands. “Sir, I think Right is… um, right.” Corvus glowered, and Left rushed on nervously.
“Wh-what I mean is, according to polls, the people of Great Wolfacre see you as a bit… er, remote.”

  “Aloof,” interjected Right.

  “It couldn’t hurt your approval rating to remind them that you’re about to become a… a g-grieving father. From a journalistic point of view, it might give the event a unique, er, point of interest.”

  “How unique?”

  “Front-page unique.”

  Corvus was silent. Morrigan thought she saw his left eye twitch.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BID DAY

  Do not speak to anyone, Morrigan,” her father muttered for the hundredth time that morning, hurrying up the stone steps of Town Hall in great strides she struggled to match. “You will be sitting on the stage with me, where everyone can see you. Understand? Don’t you dare make anything… happen. No broken hips or—or swarms of wasps, or falling ladders, or…”

  “Shark attacks?” offered Morrigan.

  Corvus rounded on her, his face blooming scarlet patches all over. “Do you think this is funny? Everyone in Town Hall will be watching to see what you do and how it will reflect on me. Are you actively trying to ruin my career?”

  “No,” said Morrigan, wiping a bit of angry spit from her face. “Not actively.”

  Morrigan had been to Town Hall on several other occasions, usually when her father’s popularity was at its lowest ebb and he needed a public show of support from his family. Flanked by stone columns and sitting in the shadow of an enormous iron clock tower, the gloomy-looking Town Hall was Jackalfax’s most important building. But the clock tower—although Morrigan usually tried not to look at it—was much more interesting.

  The Skyfaced Clock was no ordinary clock. There were no hands, and no lines to mark the hours. Only a round glass face, with an empty sky inside that changed with the passing of the Age—from the palest-pink dawn light of Morningtide, through the golden bright Basking, to the sunset-orange glow of Dwendelsun, and into the dusky, darkening blue of the Gloaming.