The Trials of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  “There’s nothing special about me,” Morrigan said, but it was a lie. She knew the thing that made her special. It was the same thing that made people in Jackalfax cross the street to avoid her. The thing that would have killed her on Eventide, if Jupiter hadn’t shown up in his mechanical spider and swept her away to Nevermoor.

  The curse made her special.

  Was being cursed a talent? Was that why Jupiter had bid on her? Because she had a knack for ruining everything? Morrigan grimaced. What a horrible thought.

  “Captain North is a little odd, miss, but he’s no fool. He sees people the way they really are. If he chose you, that means—”

  But Morrigan didn’t find out what it meant, because Martha was interrupted by a deafening crash and the sound of shattering glass. A ghastly scream echoed all the way up the stairs.

  Martha and Morrigan ran the rest of the way down to the lobby and were met by a dreadful sight: the pink sailing ship chandelier had crashed down onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Glittering rays of shattered glass and crystals sprayed across the marble. Wires dangled from the ceiling like entrails from a carcass.

  Guests and staff stood openmouthed, staring at the giant mess.

  Martha held both hands to her cheeks. “Oh… Captain North will be so upset. That ship’s been there forever, it’s his favorite thing. How could this happen?”

  “I don’t understand it,” said Kedgeree, emerging from the concierge desk. “Maintenance only checked the old girl last week! She was fit as a fiddle.”

  “And to happen on Morningtide, of all days!” Martha cried. “What awful luck.”

  “I’d say we’ve had splendid luck,” said Kedgeree. “A lobby full of people, and not a soul hurt? We can thank our lucky stars.”

  But Morrigan privately agreed with Martha. It was awful luck, and she ought to know. That was her specialty.

  Martha gathered up some of the staff and began giving directions for the cleanup, while Kedgeree spoke to the guests, smoothly ushering them away from the mess.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize on behalf of the Deucalion for the terrible fright you’ve suffered,” said the concierge. “If you’ll make your way to the Golden Lantern cocktail bar on the sixth floor, a special happy hour will begin at once. Drinks on the house for the rest of the evening! Enjoy yourselves.”

  The dozen or so guests who’d witnessed the chandelier crash seemed happy to wander upstairs for their free drinks and forget it had ever happened. But Kedgeree, Martha, and the rest of the staff looked as troubled as Morrigan felt.

  She edged around the scene of the disaster. “Can I help?”

  “Oh! Don’t you dare trouble yourself, Miss Morrigan,” said Kedgeree, guiding her away. “In fact, I think it’s best if you scuttle upstairs too—away from all this loose wiring and broken crystal. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “I won’t get hurt,” Morrigan protested. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Why don’t you head up to the Smoking Parlor? I’ll call ahead and have them pop on some chamomile smoke to soothe your wee little nerves. You’ve had a nasty shock. There’s a good lass, off you go now.”

  Morrigan paused at the landing, looking back to watch Kedgeree, Martha, and the other staff scurry to and fro, sweeping the remains of the chandelier into sad piles of sparkling rose-colored dust.

  Nobody glared at her or muttered under their breath about the cursed child being to blame. None of them knew why this awful thing had happened.

  But Morrigan knew why.

  And she knew why that train had crashed on the Wunderground.

  The curse had followed her. She’d survived it, lived through it… then somehow brought it all the way to Nevermoor anyhow, smuggled it through border control, and given it a nice cozy home at the Hotel Deucalion.

  And it was going to ruin everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  INTERESTING. USEFUL. GOOD.

  Something woke Morrigan in the night. A sound—like the fluttering of wings or the riffling of pages. She lay awake, waiting for it to return, but the room was silent. Perhaps she’d been dreaming, of birds or books.

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, but it never came. The patch of sky in her bedroom window lightened from darkest black to inky predawn blue, the stars extinguishing one by one.

  Morrigan thought of the pink sailing ship, smashed on the checkerboard floor, its light gone out forever. Jupiter’s favorite thing, Martha had said. When Morrigan went to bed, Jupiter still hadn’t returned from the Transportation Authority. What would he say, she wondered, when he saw the gaping cavity in the ceiling where his favorite thing used to be?

  Logically Morrigan knew she wasn’t responsible for a giant light fixture falling to its sparkly death—especially as she hadn’t even been in the room at the time. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d gotten away with a terrible crime.

  But this hotel must be over a hundred years old, she thought. She rolled over and punched her pillow into a comfier lump, resenting her own accusation. Old things break! The chandelier probably had faulty wires that had worn away or—or the plaster in the ceiling was crumbling!

  Morrigan sat up in bed, suddenly determined, and threw her blanket off. She’d examine the damage for herself. She’d see it wasn’t her fault. She’d go back to sleep and live happily ever after. The End.

  Of course, the lobby was rather dark without the glow of the chandelier. The concierge desk was empty. It was spooky being down here all on her own in the small hours, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

  This was stupid, Morrigan thought with a flash of regret. A stupid idea. The mess had all been cleared away anyway, and the lobby was so dimly lit that from where she stood, the hole in the ceiling was just a vague black smudge up high—she couldn’t see any worn-away wires. She wasn’t even certain they were still there.

  Morrigan was ready to give up and go back to bed when she heard a sound.

  Music. Humming?

  Yes—somebody was there, in the shadows, humming.

  It was a strange little tune. One she vaguely recognized… a nursery rhyme, or a song she’d heard on the radio. Her pulse quickened.

  “Hello?” she said quietly—or she meant to say it quietly, but her voice resounded and bounced off the walls. The humming stopped. “Who’s there?”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  She turned toward the voice. It was a man—sitting half in shadows, legs crossed, coat folded neatly across his lap. Morrigan stepped closer, trying to see his face. He was shrouded in darkness.

  “I’m just waiting for the front desk to open,” he said. “My train was late, so I missed last check-in. Sorry if I frightened you.”

  She knew that voice. Soft and clipped, all crisp Ts and sharp Ss.

  “Haven’t we met before?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” the man said. “I’m not from here.” He squinted at her, leaning forward, and a beam of moonlight crossed his face.

  “Mr. Jones?” There wasn’t much about him that was memorable—ash-brown hair, gray suit. But she recognized his voice and, looking closer, his dark eyes and the thin scar that sliced through one eyebrow. “You’re Ezra Squall’s assistant.”

  “I—yes, how did you—Miss Crow?” He stood, taking two swift steps toward her, his mouth open in surprise. “Can it really be you? They told us—they said you were…” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “What in the world are you doing in the Free State?”

  Uh-oh. “I… I’m just… well, actually…” Morrigan could have kicked herself. How could she explain all that had happened? Would he tell her family? She was scrambling for something to say when an odd thing occurred to her. “Wait… how do you know about the Free State?”

  Mr. Jones looked slightly shamefaced. “Point taken. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Morrigan breathed a sigh of relief.


  “Miss Crow, I don’t know how you came to be here, or even how it is you are still alive when every newspaper in the Republic reported your death yesterday.” Morrigan looked away. Mr. Jones seemed to sense her discomfort and chose his words with care. “But whatever your… circumstances… I can assure you my employer’s offer still stands. Mr. Squall was most disappointed to lose you as his apprentice. Most disappointed.”

  “Oh. Um, thanks. But I already have a patron. Actually, I… I thought you were playing a prank on me. On Bid Day, I mean. You disappeared, and—”

  “A prank?” He looked surprised and a little offended. “Absolutely not. Mr. Squall doesn’t play pranks. His offer was genuine.”

  Morrigan was confused. “But I turned around and you were gone.”

  “Ah. Yes. I must apologize for that.” He looked genuinely sorry. “Forgive me, I was thinking of Mr. Squall. If word got out that he was offering an apprenticeship, he’d have been inundated with parents trying to foist their children on him. That’s why he bid on you anonymously. I did intend to return and speak with you, but Eventide took me by surprise.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m afraid I handled things rather poorly. I appreciate that you have another arrangement, but… I’m certain Mr. Squall would be thrilled if you were to consider changing your mind.”

  “Oh.” Morrigan didn’t know what to say. “That’s… nice of him.”

  Mr. Jones held up his hands, smiling. “Please, there’s no pressure. If you’re content, Mr. Squall will understand. Just know that the door is never closed.” He folded his coat neatly over one arm and sat down again, settling into an armchair. “Now, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but—why in heaven’s name are you roaming the lobby of the Hotel Deucalion at this hour?”

  There was something about Mr. Jones that felt trustworthy and familiar. So instead of coming up with a story, Morrigan told the ridiculous truth. “I came to look at the chandelier.” She pointed to the ceiling. “What’s left of it.”

  “Good lord,” said Mr. Jones, his eyes widening at the spot where the ship used to be. “I thought something wasn’t quite right. When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday. It fell.”

  “It fell?” He made a tutting noise. “Chandeliers don’t just fall. Certainly not at this hotel.”

  “But it did.” Morrigan swallowed, looking sideways at Mr. Jones, trying to gauge his reaction. Trying not to sound too hopeful. “Unless—do you mean—do you think someone could have done it deliberately? Like maybe… someone cut the wires, or—”

  “No, not at all. I think it grew out.”

  She blinked. “Grew out?”

  “Yes. Like a tooth. See that?” He pointed, and Morrigan squinted up into the darkness. “There—see the little glint of light? It’s growing back in, replacing itself with something brand-new.”

  She could see it now. A tiny speck of light, blooming out of the shadows. She’d missed it before, but there was no mistaking the little thread of crystal and light curling downward from the ceiling. Her heart lifted. “Will it look just the same?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Mr. Jones said, sounding wistful. “I’m no expert on the inner workings of the Hotel Deucalion. But I have been coming here for many years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her wear the same dress twice.”

  They stood in silence for several minutes, watching the newborn chandelier grow slowly, emerging from the safe cocoon of the ceiling just like an adult tooth from healthy pink gums. At this rate it would take weeks or maybe months to reach the size of the gigantic sailing ship, but Morrigan was so relieved, she could wait as long as it took. She wondered what it would look like in the end. Something even better than a sailing ship? An arachnipod, perhaps!

  When Mr. Jones spoke again it was in a gentle, hesitant voice, as if he were worried he might offend her. “This patron of yours… I presume he or she has put you forward for the Wundrous Society?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Educated guess,” he said. “There aren’t many other reasons to bring a child all the way from the Wintersea Republic to Nevermoor. May I ask you something impertinent, Miss Crow?”

  Morrigan felt her shoulders tense. She knew what he wanted to ask.

  “I don’t know what my knack is,” she said quietly. “I don’t even know if I have one.”

  He frowned, looking puzzled. “But… to get into the Wundrous Society—”

  “I know.”

  “Has your patron discussed—”

  “No.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  Morrigan turned her face upward. She watched the little stem of light on its glacial descent for a long, silent moment before answering.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Jupiter’s hand was still hovering in the air, mid-knock, when Morrigan threw open her bedroom door to greet him later that morning.

  “What’s my knack?” she demanded.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “Good morning,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. She’d been waiting for ages, pacing the floor as she brooded over her conversation with Mr. Jones. The curtains were thrown wide, and buckets of morning sunlight streamed in through a window that had grown from a small square into a floor-to-ceiling arch overnight. Which was weird—but not, Morrigan thought, their most pressing matter to discuss. “What’s my knack?”

  “Mind if I nick a pastry? I’m famished.”

  Martha had come ten minutes earlier with a breakfast tray. It sat untouched in the corner. “Help yourself. What’s my knack?”

  Jupiter stuffed his mouth full of pastry while Morrigan watched him and fretted. “I don’t have one, do I? Because you’ve got the wrong person. You thought I was someone else, someone with some big talent—that’s how it works, isn’t it? That’s how you get into the Wundrous Society. You have to be talented, like Dame Chanda. You have to have a knack for something. And you thought I did, and now you know I don’t. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Jupiter swallowed. “Before I forget—my seamstress is coming to fit you for a new wardrobe this morning. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Black. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Black’s not a color.”

  She groaned. “Jupiter!”

  “Oh, all right.” He leaned against the wall and slid all the way down to the floor, stretching his long legs out on the rug. “If you want to talk about boring things, we’ll talk about boring things.”

  Jupiter’s long red hair, streaked with gold in the sunshine, was slightly tangled and fuzzy. It was the most disheveled she’d seen him. He was barefoot and wore a wrinkled, untucked white shirt over blue trousers with suspenders that hung down untidily against his hips. Morrigan realized they were the clothes he’d worn the day before. She wondered whether he’d slept in them, or hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were closed against the light, and he looked as if he’d happily sit there all day, letting the warmth soak into his bones.

  “Here’s how it works. Are you listening?”

  Finally, Morrigan thought. With a curious mixture of relief and dread, she sat on the edge of the wooden chair, ready for some answers at last, even if they weren’t good ones. “I’m listening.”

  “All right. Now, don’t interrupt.” He reluctantly sat up straight, clearing his throat. “Every year, the Wundrous Society selects a new group of children to join us. Any child in the Free State can apply, so long as they’ve had their eleventh birthday before the first day of the year—you just scraped in, well done you—and provided they are selected by a patron, of course. The catch is… your patron can’t be just anyone. It’s not like other schools and apprenticeships, where anyone with more money than brains can sponsor your education. Your patron must be a member of the Wundrous Society. The Elders are very strict about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re rotten snobs. Don’t interrupt. Now, I’ll be honest,
Mog—”

  “Morrigan.”

  “—I’ve chosen you for my candidate, but that’s just the beginning. Now you have to go through the entrance exams—we call them trials. There are four, spread out over the year. The trials are an elimination process, designed to separate the Society’s ideal candidates from those who are… not so ideal. It’s all very elitist and competitive, but it’s tradition, so there you have it.”

  “What sort of trials?” Morrigan asked, chewing her fingernails.

  “I’m getting there. Don’t interrupt.” He stood up and began pacing. “The first three are different every year. There are many kinds of trials, and the Elders like to switch them around to keep things interesting. We won’t know what each one will be until we’re told. Some of them aren’t too bad—the Speech Trial’s fairly straightforward, for example. You just have to give a speech in front of an audience.”

  Morrigan swallowed. She could think of nothing worse. She’d rather face the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow again.

  “…and the Treasure Hunt Trial is fun, but I won’t lie to you—some of them are horrendous. Be grateful they got rid of the Fright Trial two Ages ago.” He shuddered. “They should have called that one the Nervous Breakdown Trial—some candidates never recovered.

  “But the fourth trial. That’s the one you’re concerned about. It’s rather dramatically called the Show Trial, but honestly, it’s very straightforward. Same thing every year. Each candidate who’s made it through the first three trials must stand before the High Council of Elders and show them something.”

  Morrigan frowned. “Something…?”

  “Something interesting. And useful. And good.”

  “Interesting and useful and good… you mean a talent, don’t you?” She braced herself. “They want to see a talent.”