“But I’m trying to tell you, one of them did show up. Mr. Jones has come on behalf—” Morrigan stopped midsentence as she dashed back into the interview room.
His chair was empty. No pen, no contract. He’d disappeared. Morrigan gaped at the empty space. Had Mr. Jones slipped out while they’d been arguing? Did he change his mind? Or had he just been playing a prank on her as well?
Realization sank in swiftly, like a boot to the stomach.
Of course it was a joke. Why would the Republic’s most powerful and important businessman want her as his apprentice? His heir? The thought was positively ridiculous. Morrigan’s cheeks turned pink as a wave of belated embarrassment hit her. How could she have been so gullible?
“Enough of this nonsense,” said Corvus. He ripped the envelopes into tiny pieces, and Morrigan watched mournfully as they fluttered to the ground like snow.
The shiny black coach pulled away from Town Hall with Morrigan and her father inside it. Corvus was silent. He’d already turned his attention to the ever-present stack of paperwork in his leather case, trying to salvage what was left of the working day. As if the morning’s misadventure had never happened.
Morrigan turned to watch the crowd of excited children and parents spilling out of the building and into the street, chattering and waving their bid letters in the air. She felt a sharp pang of envy.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She blinked fiercely, tears stinging her eyes. It’s all just nonsense. It doesn’t matter.
The crowd didn’t seem to be dispersing. In fact, so many people were gathering on the street that the carriage came to a complete stop. A stream of people hurried past, heading toward Town Hall and gazing up at something in the sky.
“Lowry,” barked Corvus, knocking on the roof to alert the driver. “What’s the holdup? Get those people out of the way.”
“I’m trying, Chancellor, but—”
“It’s here!” somebody shouted. “It’s coming!” The crowd cheered in response. Morrigan craned her neck, trying to see what was happening. People embraced in the streets—not just the Bid Day children, but everyone, whistling and whooping and throwing their hats in the air.
“Why are they…” began Morrigan, then stopped, listening. “What are those bells ringing for?”
Corvus looked at her strangely. His papers slipped from his hand and scattered across the carriage floor as he pushed open the door and leapt out onto the street. Morrigan followed and, looking up, saw what everyone had been running toward.
The clock tower.
The Skyfaced Clock was changing. Morrigan watched as the dusky twilight blue deepened to sapphire, to navy, and finally to a profound, unfathomable black. Like an inkpot in the sky. Like a black hole, come to swallow up the world.
The bells were ringing for Eventide.
That night Morrigan lay awake in the dark.
The bells had rung until midnight, when they were abruptly replaced by an oppressive silence. They’d been a warning, a signal to everyone that Eventide was coming… but after midnight, they didn’t need to ring anymore. Eventide was here. The last day of the Age had begun.
Morrigan knew she should feel frightened, and sad, and worried—and she did, she felt all of those things. But mostly, she felt angry.
She’d been cheated. It was supposed to be a twelve-year Age. Everyone said so—Corvus, Grandmother, all Morrigan’s caseworkers, chronologists on the news. Twelve years of life was already too short, but eleven?
Now that the Skyfaced Clock had turned black, the experts were all scrambling to say they’d long suspected, they’d read the signs, they’d been on the cusp of publicly announcing that in their opinion this year, this winter, was the last of the Age.
Never mind, they all said. We guess this one’s an eleven-year Age. Everyone makes mistakes, and one year doesn’t make much difference.
Except, of course, it made all the difference in the world.
Happy birthday to me, Morrigan thought miserably. She tucked her stuffed rabbit, Emmett, into the crook of her arm, where he’d slept every night for as long as she could remember, and she squeezed him tight and tried to fall asleep.
But there was a noise. A very small noise that was barely a noise—like a tiny whisper or rush of air. She flicked on her lamp and the room flooded with light.
It was empty. Morrigan’s heartbeat quickened. She jumped up and looked around, under the bed, threw open the wardrobe—nothing.
No. Not nothing.
Something.
A small white rectangle stood out against the dark wooden floorboards. Someone had slipped an envelope under her door. She picked it up and creaked the door open to peek into the hallway outside. There was nobody there.
On the envelope, someone had written untidily in thick black ink:
Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society wishes to present his bid for Miss Morrigan Crow. Again.
“The Wundrous Society,” Morrigan whispered.
She ripped open the envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper. One was a letter, the other a contract—typed and official-looking, with two signatures at the bottom. Above the word PATRON was the large, messy signature of Jupiter North. The second, above PARENT OR GUARDIAN, she couldn’t read and didn’t recognize at all. It certainly wasn’t her father’s handwriting.
The third space—CANDIDATE—was blank. Waiting.
Morrigan read the letter, feeling utterly bewildered.
Dear Miss Crow,
Congratulations! You have been selected by one of our members as a candidate for entry to the Wundrous Society.
Please be advised that your entry is not assured. Membership in the Society is extremely limited, and each year hundreds of hopeful candidates compete for a place among our scholars.
If you wish to join the Society, please sign the enclosed contract and return it to your patron no later than the last day of Winter of Eleven. Entrance trials will begin in spring.
We wish you the very best of luck.
Regards,
Elder G. Quinn
Proudfoot House
Nevermoor, FS
At the bottom of the page, in a hurried black scrawl, was a brief but thrilling message:
Be ready.
—J.N.
CHAPTER THREE
DEATH COMES TO DINNER
On Eventide night, even the streets of dull, conservative Jackalfax came alive.
The cobbled stretch of Empire Road had swelled from a merry hum of good spirits in the morning to raucous, uncontainable revelry in the final hours before midnight. Street bands played for coins on every corner, competing for the attention of passersby. Colored lanterns jostled with streamers and strings of tiny lights, and the air smelled of beer, burnt sugar, and meat grilling on the spit.
The blackened Skyfaced Clock loomed above the celebrations. At midnight it would fade to the color of Morningtide—a pale, promising pink—and Spring of One would bring a fresh beginning for everyone. The night was uncommon and crowded with possibility.
For everyone, that is, except Morrigan Crow. Morrigan’s night held only one possibility. Like every other child born precisely eleven years ago on the last Eventide, when the clock struck midnight she would die—the eleven short years of her doomed life complete; her curse finally fulfilled.
The Crows were celebrating. Sort of.
It was a somber affair in the house on the hill. Lights dimmed, curtains drawn. Dinner was Morrigan’s favorite—lamb chops, roast parsnips, and minted peas. Corvus hated parsnips and would usually not allow them to be served when he was home for dinner, but he kept a grim silence as the maid spooned a huge mountain of them onto his plate. Morrigan felt this spoke volumes about the sensitivity of the occasion.
The room was quiet but for the soft scratching of silverware against china. Morrigan was conscious of every mouthful of food she swallowed, every cool sip of water. She heard each tick of the clock on the wall like a drumbeat in a marching band, marching her e
ver closer to the moment when she would cease to exist.
She hoped it would be painless. She’d read somewhere that when a cursed child died it was usually quick and peaceful—just like falling asleep. She wondered what would happen afterward. Would she really go to the Better Place, like Cook had once told her? Was the Divine Thing real, and would it accept her with open arms, as she’d been promised? Morrigan had to hope so. The alternative simply didn’t bear thinking about. After hearing Cook’s tales of the Wicked Thing that dwelled in the Worst Place, she’d slept with the light on for a week.
It was a strange thing, she thought, to be celebrating the night of your own death. It didn’t feel like a birthday. It didn’t feel like a celebration at all. It was more like having your funeral before you die.
Just as she was wondering if anyone would say a few words about her, Corvus cleared his throat. Morrigan, Ivy, and Grandmother looked at him, their hands pausing halfway to their mouths with forks full of lamb and peas.
“I, er, just wanted to say,” he began, and then seemed to lose momentum. “I wanted to say…”
Ivy’s eyes misted over and she squeezed his hand encouragingly. “Go on, dear.”
“I just…” He tried again and cleared his throat loudly. “I wanted to say that… that the lamb is very good. Cooked to perfection. Nice and pink.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the table, and then a clinking of cutlery as everyone carried on eating. That was probably as good as it was going to get, Morrigan realized. And she couldn’t say she disagreed about the lamb.
“Well, if nobody minds,” said Ivy, dabbing her mouth prettily with her linen napkin. “I’ve not been a member of this family for very long, but I thought it might be appropriate for me to say something tonight.”
Morrigan sat up straight. This should be good. Maybe Ivy was going to apologize for making her wear that frilly, itchy chiffon dress to the wedding. Or maybe she was going to confess that although she’d scarcely spoken a dozen words to Morrigan since moving in, truly she loved her like a daughter, and she only wished they could have more time together, and she would miss Morrigan terribly and would probably cry buckets at the funeral and ruin her makeup, which would streak ugly black rivers all down her pretty face but she wouldn’t even care how ugly she looked because she would just be thinking about lovely, lovely Morrigan. Morrigan arranged her face in an expression of humble serenity.
“Corvus wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but I know Morrigan won’t mind.…”
“Go on,” Morrigan said. “It’s fine. Really, go ahead.”
Ivy beamed at her (for the first time ever) and, emboldened, stood up from her seat. “Corvus and I are having a baby.”
The room fell silent; then a great smash came from the doorway as the maid dropped a platter. Corvus tried to smile at his young wife but it came out as a grimace.
“Well?” Ivy prompted them. “Aren’t you going to congratulate us?”
“Ivy, dear,” Grandmother said, smiling icily at her daughter- in-law. “Perhaps your announcement might have been better received at a less sensitive time. For instance, the day after my only grandchild is due to leave us tragically at the age of eleven.”
Strangely, her words made Morrigan perk up a little. It was perhaps the most sentimental thing she’d ever heard Grandmother say. She felt an unexpected warmth toward the savage old bird of prey.
“But this is a good thing! Don’t you see?” Ivy said, looking to Corvus for support. He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if warding off a migraine. “It’s like… the circle of life. One life may be snuffed out, but another is being brought into the world. Why, it’s practically a miracle!”
Grandmother groaned faintly.
Ivy was relentless. “You’ll have a new grandchild, Ornella. Corvus will have a new daughter. Or a son! Wouldn’t that be lovely? A little boy, Corvie, you said you’d always wanted a boy. We can dress him in little black suits to match his daddy.”
Morrigan tried not to laugh at the grim expression on her father’s face.
“Yes. Delightful,” he said unconvincingly. “But perhaps we’ll celebrate later.”
“But… Morrigan doesn’t mind. Do you, Morrigan?”
“Mind what?” Morrigan asked. “That I’m going to be blotted out of existence in a few hours and you’re planning a wardrobe for my replacement? Not in the slightest.” She shoved a forkful of parsnip into her mouth.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Grandmother hissed, glaring down the table at her son. “We weren’t going to bring up the D-word.”
“It wasn’t me,” Corvus protested.
“I didn’t say ‘dead,’ Grandmother,” said Morrigan. “I said ‘blotted out of existence.’”
“Well, just stop it. You’re giving your father a headache.”
“Ivy said ‘snuffed.’ That’s much worse.”
“Enough.”
“Doesn’t anybody care that I am with child?” shouted Ivy, stamping her foot.
“Doesn’t anybody care that I’m about to die?” Morrigan shouted in return. “Can we please talk about me for a minute?”
“I told you not to say the D-word!” boomed Grandmother.
There were three loud knocks on the front door. Silence fell.
“Who on earth would visit at a time like this?” Ivy whispered. “Reporters? Already?” She smoothed down her hair and dress, picking up a spoon to check her reflection.
“Vultures. Trying to get the scoop, are they?” said Grandmother. She pointed at the maid. “Send them away with your most contemptuous sneer.”
Moments later they heard a brief, murmured conversation, followed by the fall of heavy boots coming up the hallway, the maid’s timid protests echoing close behind.
Morrigan’s heart pounded with each footstep. Is this it? she thought. Is this Death, come to take me? Does Death wear boots?
A man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by light.
He was tall and slender with wide shoulders. His face was half obscured by a thick woolen scarf, and the remaining half was made of freckles, watchful blue eyes, and a long, broad nose.
All six-plus feet of him were decked out in a long blue coat over a slim suit with mother-of-pearl buttons—stylish but slightly askew, as if he’d just come from a formal event and was in the process of undressing on his way home. Pinned to the lapel of his coat was a small golden W.
He stood with his feet wide apart and hands stuffed into trouser pockets, leaning casually against the doorframe as if he had spent half his life standing in that spot and couldn’t think of a place he felt more at home. As if he himself owned Crow Manor and the Crows were merely his dinner guests.
His eyes locked onto Morrigan’s. He grinned. “Hello, you.”
Morrigan said nothing. There was silence but for the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“Sorry I’m late,” he continued, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf. “Was at a party on a remote island in Jet-Jax-Jaida. Got chatting to the dearest old man, a trapeze swinger—fascinating chap, once swung over an active volcano for charity—and I forgot all about the time difference. Silly old me. Never mind, I’m here now. Got your things ready? I’m parked out front. Are those parsnips? Lovely.”
Grandmother must have been in shock, for she didn’t utter a word as the man swiped a large piece of roast parsnip straight from the platter and ate it, licking his fingers with relish. In fact, all the Crows seemed to have lost the capacity for speech, not least of all Morrigan.
Several moments passed as their uninvited guest rocked on his heels and waited, politely expectant, until something occurred to him.
“I’m still wearing my hat, aren’t I? Goodness me. How rude.” He arched an eyebrow at his dumbfounded audience. “Don’t be alarmed; I’m ginger.”
Ginger was an understatement, Morrigan thought, trying to hide her astonishment as the hat came off. Ginger of the Year or King Ginger or Big Gingery President of the Ginger Foundation
for the Incurably Ginger would have been more accurate. His mane of bright copper waves could probably have won awards. He unraveled the scarf from his head to reveal a beard that was only slightly less shocking in hue.
“Um,” Morrigan said, with all the eloquence she could muster. “Who are you?”
“Jupiter.” He looked around the room for signs of recognition. “Jupiter North? Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society? Your patron?”
Her patron. Jupiter North. Her patron. Morrigan shook her head in disbelief. Was this another prank?
She’d signed the contract. Of course she’d signed the contract, because it had been wonderful, glorious to pretend—just for five minutes—that it was all true. That there was really something called the Wundrous Society, and that they’d invited her—Morrigan Crow, of all people!—to join them. That she would live long enough to start the mysterious trials in spring. That some thrilling future waited for her on the other side of Eventide.
Of course she’d signed that blank space at the bottom. She’d even doodled a little black crow next to her name, to cover up a splotch of ink that had dropped from her pen.
Then she’d thrown it on the fire.
She hadn’t for a second believed that any of it was real. Not really. Not deep down.
Corvus at last found his voice. “Preposterous!”
“Bless you,” said Jupiter as he renewed his attempts to usher Morrigan from the dining room to the hallway. “I’m afraid we really do have to hurry, Morrigan. How many suitcases do you have?”
“Suitcases?” she echoed, feeling dim-witted and slow.
“Dear me,” he said. “You have packed, haven’t you? Never mind, we’ll pick you up a toothbrush when we get there. I trust you’ve already said your goodbyes, but we have time for a quick round of hugs and kisses before setting off.”
Following that extraordinary suggestion (another first for the Crow household), Jupiter rushed around the table, squeezing each of the Crows in turn. Morrigan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run away when he leaned in to plant a loud, wet kiss on her father’s horror-struck face.
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 4