The Trials of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  Today—like every day this year—they were in the Gloaming. Morrigan knew that meant it wasn’t long until the Skyfaced Clock would fade into the fifth and final color of its cycle: the inky, star-strewn blackness of Eventide. The last day of the Age.

  But that was a year away. Shaking it out of her head, Morrigan followed her father up the steps.

  There was an air of excitement in the normally somber, echoing hall. Several hundred children from all over Jackalfax had arrived wearing their Sunday best, the boys with their hair slicked down and the girls with pigtails and ribbons and hats. They sat straight-backed in rows of chairs under the familiar stern gaze of President Wintersea, whose portrait hung in every home, shop, and government building in the Republic—always watching, always looming large.

  The riotous sound turned to a buzzing murmur as Morrigan and Corvus took their seats on the stage behind the podium. Everywhere Morrigan looked, eyes narrowed in her direction.

  Corvus placed a hand on her shoulder in an awkward, unnatural gesture of paternal affection while some local reporters snapped photographs of them. Definitely front-page material, Morrigan thought—the doomed daughter and her soon-to-be-grieving father, a terrifically tragic pair. She tried to look extra forlorn, which wasn’t easy when she was being blinded by camera flashes.

  After a triumphant chorus of the Wintersea Republic National Anthem (Onward! Upward! Forward! Huzzah!), Corvus opened the ceremony with a very dull speech, followed by various headmasters and local businesspeople who all had to chime in. Then, finally, the Lord Mayor of Jackalfax brought out a polished wooden box and began to read the bids. Morrigan sat up straight in her seat, feeling a flutter of excitement she couldn’t quite explain.

  “‘Madam Honora Salvi of the Silklands Ballet Company,’” he read from the front of the first envelope he pulled out, “‘wishes to present her bid for Molly Jenkins.’”

  There was a squeal of delight from the third row, and Molly Jenkins leapt from her seat, rushing to the stage to curtsy and collect the envelope that contained her bid letter. “Well done, Miss Jenkins. See one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony, dear, and they’ll direct you to your interview room.”

  He retrieved another envelope. “‘Major Jacob Jackerley of the Poisonwood School of Warfare wishes to present his bid for Michael Salisbury.’”

  Michael’s friends and family cheered as he accepted his bid.

  “‘Mr. Henry Sniggle, owner and proprietor of Sniggle’s Snake Emporium, wishes to present his bid for Alice Carter for a herpetology apprenticeship’—dear me, how fascinating!”

  The bidding carried on for almost an hour. The children in the hall watched anxiously as each new envelope was drawn from the box. Every announcement was met with shouts of joy from the recipient and his or her parents and a collective sigh of disappointment from everyone else.

  Morrigan began to get fidgety. The novelty of Bid Day had worn off a bit, really. She’d thought it would be exciting. She hadn’t accounted for the dull, gnawing jealousy that settled in the pit of her stomach as she watched child after child snatch up his or her envelope, each one containing some shiny future she would never have for herself.

  A cheer erupted from the front row when Cory Jameson was bid on by Mrs. Ginnifer O’Reilly from the prestigious Wintersea Academy, a government-sponsored school in the capital. It was his second bid of the day; the first was from a geology institute in Prosper, the richest state in the Republic, where they mined rubies and sapphires.

  “My, my,” said the Lord Mayor, patting his fat stomach as Cory collected his second envelope and waved it over his head, to even louder cheers from his family in the audience. “Two bids! This is a turn-up for the books. The first double bid Jackalfax has seen in a good few years. Well done, lad, well done. You have a big decision to make. And now… ah, we have an anonymous bid for… for…”

  The Lord Mayor paused, glancing at the VIP section and back to the letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. “For Miss Morrigan Crow.”

  Silence fell. Morrigan blinked.

  Had she imagined it? No—Corvus rose slightly from his seat, glaring at the Lord Mayor, who shrugged helplessly.

  “Miss Crow?” he said, waving her forward.

  A chorus of whispers arose from the audience at once, like a flock of birds startled into flight.

  It’s a mistake, Morrigan thought. The bid is for somebody else.

  She looked out across the rows of children; nothing but scowling faces and pointing fingers. Had Town Hall just grown twice as big? Twice as bright? It felt like a spotlight was shining directly on her head.

  The Lord Mayor beckoned her again, looking fretful and impatient. Morrigan took a deep breath and forced her legs to stand and walk forward, each footstep echoing excruciatingly in the rafters. Taking the envelope in her trembling hand, she looked up at the Lord Mayor, waiting for him to laugh in her face and snatch it back. This isn’t for you! But he simply stared back at her, a deep line of worry between his eyebrows.

  Morrigan turned the envelope over, her heart pounding, and there, in fancy handwriting—her name. Miss Morrigan Crow. It really was for her. Despite the growing tension in the hall, Morrigan felt lighter inside. She fought the urge to laugh.

  “Well done, Miss Crow,” said the Lord Mayor with an unconvincing smile. “Take your seat now, and see one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony.”

  “Gregory—” said Corvus in a warning undertone. The Lord Mayor shrugged again.

  “It’s tradition, Corvus,” he whispered. “More than that—it’s the law.”

  The ceremony continued and Morrigan, stunned and silent, sat down again. She didn’t dare open her bid. Her father was very still, glancing at the ivory-colored envelope every few seconds as if he wanted to seize it from her hands and set fire to it. Morrigan tucked it away in the pocket of her dress, just to be safe, and held it tightly as eight more children accepted their bids. She hoped the ceremony wouldn’t last much longer. Despite the Lord Mayor’s brave attempts to carry on as if nothing had happened, she could still feel several hundred eyes burning into her.

  “‘Mrs. Ardith Asher of the Devereaux Ladies’ College’—never heard of it!—‘wishes to present her bid for… for…’” The Lord Mayor trailed off. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. “‘For Miss Morrigan Crow.’”

  This time, the audience gasped. Morrigan moved as if in a dream to collect her second bid of the day. Without even looking to see if it was really her name on the front, she put the envelope—pink and sweet-smelling—in her pocket to join the other.

  Just minutes later, Morrigan’s name was called a third time. She rushed forward to collect her bid from Colonel Van Leeuwenhoek of the Harmon Military Academy, hurrying back to her seat as swiftly as possible and staring determinedly at her shoes. She tried to ignore the swarm of butterflies holding a celebration in her stomach. It was hard not to grin.

  A man in the third row stood up and shouted, “But she’s cursed! This isn’t right.” The man’s wife pulled at his arm, trying to shush him, but he wouldn’t be shushed. “Three bids? Never heard of such a thing!” A rumble of agreement spread through the audience.

  Morrigan felt her happiness stutter like a dying gaslight. The man was right. She was cursed. What could a cursed child possibly do with three bids? She’d never be allowed to accept them.

  The Lord Mayor held out his hands, appealing for quiet. “Sir, we must continue or we’ll be here all day. If everyone could please be quiet, I’ll get to the bottom of this most unusual turn of events after the ceremony.”

  If the Lord Mayor was hoping for calm to be restored he was to be disappointed, for when he took out the next envelope, it read:

  “‘Jupiter North wishes to present his bid for…’ Oh, I don’t believe it. ‘Morrigan Crow.’”

  Town Hall erupted as children and parents alike leapt to their feet, shouting over each other, tu
rning various shades of pink and purple and demanding to know the meaning of this madness. Four bids! Two was uncommon and three highly unusual, but four? Unheard of!

  There were twelve more bids to announce. The Lord Mayor sped through them, his face dissolving into sweaty relief each time he read a name that wasn’t Morrigan’s. At last, his hand scrambled around the bottom of the box and came up empty.

  “That was the final envelope,” said the Lord Mayor, closing his eyes in gratitude. His voice shook. “W-would all the children who received bids please move to the back of the hall, and, um, our aides will show you to the interview rooms where you can, er, meet your prospective patrons. Everyone else… I’m sure you’ll all… you know. Doesn’t mean you’re not all very capable and, er… well.” He waved vaguely at the audience, who took it as their cue to depart.

  Corvus swore he would take action, he would sue, he would remove the Lord Mayor from office—but the Lord Mayor insisted on following protocol. Morrigan must be allowed to meet her bidders if she wished to.

  She very much wished to.

  Of course Morrigan knew she’d never be able to accept any of the bids. She knew, in fact, that once these mysterious strangers discovered they’d bid on a cursed child, they’d take it all back, and probably run very fast in the opposite direction. But it would be rude not to at least meet them, she reasoned. As they’d come all this way.

  I’m sorry, Morrigan rehearsed in her head, but I’m on the Cursed Children’s Register. I’m going to die on Eventide. Thank you for your time and interest.

  Yes. Polite and to the point.

  She was ushered into a room with bare walls, a desk, and a chair on either side. It felt like an interrogation chamber… and in a way, Morrigan supposed it was. The idea of the meeting between patron and child was that the child could ask as many questions as he or she wished, and the patron had to answer honestly. It was one of the few things she’d picked up from her father’s boring Bid Day speech.

  Not that she would be asking any questions, Morrigan reminded herself. Thank you for your time and interest, she repeated firmly in her head.

  A man with feathery brown hair sat in one of the chairs, humming a little tune to himself. He wore a gray suit and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he pushed up on his nose with one pale, slender finger. He smiled calmly, waiting for Morrigan to sit.

  “Miss Crow. My name is Mr. Jones. Thank you for seeing me.” The man spoke softly and in neat, clipped sentences. His voice sounded familiar. “I’ve come on behalf of my employer. He’d like to offer you an apprenticeship.”

  Morrigan’s rehearsed speech tumbled out of her head. A little flutter returned to her stomach. One tiny, optimistic butterfly had just climbed out of its cocoon. “What… kind of apprenticeship?”

  Mr. Jones smiled. Tiny lines wrinkled the corners of his dark, expressive eyes. “An apprenticeship in his company, Squall Industries.”

  “Squall Industries?” she said, frowning. “That means you work for—”

  “Ezra Squall. Yes. The most powerful person in the Republic.” He lowered his eyes to the table. “Second most powerful, I should say. After our great president.”

  It suddenly struck Morrigan where she had heard that voice. He was the man on the radio talking about Wunder shortages.

  He looked just the way he ought to, she thought—serious and neat. Tasteful. His white, spidery hands were clasped firmly in front of him, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He wasn’t terribly young. But he wasn’t old. There was nothing unruly about him, nothing to mar his immaculately groomed appearance but for a thin white scar that split his left eyebrow clean in half and a splash of silvery hair at his temples. Even his movements were precise and deliberate, as if he couldn’t spare the energy for any unnecessary gesture. A perfectly contained man.

  Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “What could the second most powerful person in the Republic possibly want with me?”

  “It’s not for me to say why Mr. Squall wants what he wants,” said Mr. Jones, briefly unclasping his hands to straighten his spectacles again. “I’m only his assistant. I carry out his wishes. Right now he wishes for you to become his student, Miss Crow… and his heir.”

  “His heir? What does that mean?”

  “It means that he wishes for you to one day run Squall Industries in his place, to be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams, and to lead the greatest, most influential, and most profitable organization that has ever existed.”

  Morrigan blinked. “I’m not even allowed to lick envelopes at home.”

  Mr. Jones looked amused. “I don’t believe you’ll be licking envelopes at Squall Industries either.”

  “What will I be doing?” Morrigan had no idea what would make her ask such a question. She tried to remember what she’d been planning to say earlier. Something about being cursed… Thank you for your time…

  “You will be learning how to run an empire, Miss Crow. And you will be learning from the very best. Mr. Squall is a brilliant and talented man. He will teach you everything he knows, things he hasn’t taught another living soul.”

  “Not even you?”

  Mr. Jones laughed gently. “Especially not me. By the end of your apprenticeship you will be in command of Squall Industries’ mining, engineering, manufacturing, and technology sectors. Over one hundred thousand employees all over the Republic. All reporting to you.”

  Morrigan’s eyes widened.

  “Every citizen, every household in this country will owe you a debt of thanks. You will be their lifeline—the provider of their warmth, power, food, entertainment. Their every need, every want… all reliant on the use of Wunder, and all filled by the good people at Squall Industries. By you.”

  His voice had become so soft it was almost a whisper. Morrigan leaned closer.

  “Ezra Squall is the nation’s greatest hero,” he continued. “More than that—he is their benevolent god, the source of their every comfort and happiness. The only living person with the ability to harvest, distribute, and command Wunder. Our Republic relies on him totally.”

  His eyes had taken on the unsettling gleam of a fanatic. One corner of his mouth curled into a strange little smile. Morrigan shrank back. She wondered if Mr. Jones loved Ezra Squall, or was afraid of him, or wanted to be him. Or all three.

  “Imagine, Miss Crow,” he whispered. “Imagine how it must feel to be so beloved. So respected and needed. One day, if you work hard and do as Mr. Squall teaches… that will be you.”

  She could imagine it. She had imagined, a hundred times over, how it would feel to be liked instead of feared. To see people smile instead of flinch when she walked into a room. It was one of her favorite daydreams.

  But that was all it was, Morrigan told herself, shaking the cobwebs out of her head. A daydream. She sat up straight and took a deep breath, willing her voice not to tremble.

  “I can’t accept, Mr. Jones. I’m on the Cursed Children’s Register. I’m going… I’m going to… well, you know. Th-thank you for your time and—”

  “Open it,” said Mr. Jones, nodding at the envelope in her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Your contract.”

  Morrigan shook her head, confused. “M-my what?”

  “It’s standard.” He gave a tiny shrug. One shoulder. “Every child commencing sponsored studies must sign a contract, and have a parent or guardian sign also.”

  Well, there goes that, Morrigan thought. “My father will never sign this.”

  “Let us worry about that.” He pulled out a silver pen from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. “All you have to do is sign. Mr. Squall will take care of everything.”

  “But you don’t understand, I can’t—”

  “I understand perfectly, Miss Crow.” Mr. Jones watched her closely, his dark eyes piercing her own. “But you needn’t worry about curses or registers or Eventide. You needn’t worry about anything, ever again. Not if you’re with Ezra Squall.”<
br />
  “But—”

  “Sign.” He nodded at the pen. “Sign, and I promise you: One day you will be able to buy and sell every person who has ever made you unhappy.”

  His glittering eyes and calm, secretive smile made Morrigan believe—just for a second—that he and Ezra Squall could somehow see a future for her that she had never dreamed possible.

  She reached for the pen, then hesitated. There was one last question burning inside her, the most important question of all. She looked up at Mr. Jones.

  “Why me?”

  There was a loud knock. The door swung open and the Lord Mayor stumbled in looking harassed.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Crow,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to his forehead. His suit bore sweat patches, and what was left of his hair stood on end. “Somebody appears to have played a horrible prank on you. On all of us.”

  “P-prank?”

  Corvus stalked in behind him, his mouth in a thin line. “There you are. We’re leaving.” He grabbed Morrigan’s arm, pulling her out of the room. Her chair tipped over and clattered to the floor.

  “None of your so-called bidders have arrived,” said the Lord Mayor, trying to catch his breath as he followed them into the hallway. “I blame myself. I should have realized. Harmon Military whatsit, Devereaux Ladies’ thingy… nobody’s heard of them. Made up, you see.” He looked desperately from Morrigan to her father and back again. “Terribly sorry for putting you through it, Corvus, old friend. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  Corvus glowered at the Lord Mayor.

  “But wait—” began Morrigan.

  “Don’t you understand?” said her father in a cold, angry voice. He snatched the envelopes from her. “I have been made a fool. It was all somebody’s idea of a joke. Humiliated! By my own constituency!”

  Morrigan frowned. “You’re saying that my bidders—”

  The Lord Mayor wrung his hands. “Never actually existed. That’s why none of them showed up. I’m sorry you had to wait.”