The Trials of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  “I don’t think it’s the year for interesting physical features, unluckily for them,” Jupiter mused. “Nobody’s quite gotten over the girl with sledgehammer hands a few years back. Huge repair bill after she graduated. I believe she’s a professional wrestler now.”

  Jupiter walked Morrigan around the garden paths, making comments under his breath.

  “Baz Charlton,” he murmured, nodding discreetly toward a long-haired man in leather trousers and a wrinkled suit jacket. “Odious man. Avoid him like the pox.”

  A group of girls stood near Baz Charlton. One of them, with thick chestnut hair and a sparkly blue dress, glanced at Morrigan and whispered to her friends. They turned to stare. Morrigan smiled forcefully, remembering what Dame Chanda had said about first impressions, and the girls laughed. Morrigan wondered if this was a good sign.

  Jupiter took two glasses of purple punch from a passing waiter and handed one to her. She peeked inside; there were pink things floating in it. No—wriggling in it. There were pink, squishy, wriggling things in her purple punch.

  “They’re supposed to wriggle,” said Jupiter, noticing her look of disgust. “Wriggly things taste better.”

  Morrigan took a hesitant sip. It was delicious—an explosion of sweet, rosy light. She was about to admit as much when the man in leather trousers appeared. He slapped Jupiter on the back and threw a heavy arm around his shoulders.

  “North! North, me old mate,” he slurred. “Lost the plot, have you, North? Hamish over there tells me you’ve gone and bid on a child. They not paying you enough at the League of Explorers? Or have you decided to hang up your compass and let someone else be the big adventurer? Quiet life now, is it?”

  The man guffawed into his brandy. Jupiter grimaced, his nose crinkling unpleasantly.

  “Afternoon, Baz,” he said, with a very small amount of forced politeness.

  “This her, is it?” Baz Charlton squinted down at Morrigan. “Famous Jupiter North’s first-ever candidate. Won’t the tabloids be aflutter.”

  He waited for Jupiter to introduce him, but Jupiter did not.

  “Charlton. Baz Charlton,” the man said finally. He gestured grandly to himself, waiting for a spark of recognition from Morrigan. When no spark came, his face soured. “What’s your name, girl?”

  Morrigan’s eyes met Jupiter’s. He nodded. “Morrigan Crow.”

  “Bit miserable-looking, North, if you ask me,” Mr. Charlton whispered loudly into Jupiter’s ear, ignoring her altogether. Morrigan bristled. Was she supposed to walk around constantly smiling like an idiot? “She foreign? Where’d you find her?”

  “Nunya.”

  “Nunya? Never heard of it.” Baz leaned in close, his eyes gleaming, and whispered conspiratorially, “That in the Republic, is it? Smuggled her in, did you? Go on, tell your old friend Baz.”

  “Yes,” said Jupiter. “A town called Nunya Business, in the Keep-Your-Nose-Out Republic.”

  Baz Charlton chuckled humorlessly, looking disappointed. “Oh, very clever. What’s her knack, then?”

  “Also nunya,” said Jupiter, extricating himself smoothly from the man’s grip.

  “Playing that game, are we? Fine, fine. Makes no difference. You know me, I don’t push.” He looked Morrigan up and down. “Dancer? No, legs aren’t long enough. She’s not a brainiac either, not with that vacant look in her eyes.” He waved a hand in front of her face. Morrigan was tempted to slap it away. “One of the arcane arts, perhaps. Sorceress? Oracle?”

  “I thought you said it made no difference,” said Jupiter. He sounded bored. “Where’s your parade of candidates? Big haul this year?”

  “Only eight, North, only eight. Three girls,” Mr. Charlton said, waving vaguely toward the group that had laughed at Morrigan earlier. He sniffed and took a large swig of brandy. “And the boys are around somewhere. Small group, but not a loser among ’em. Terrific pickings this year. That one’s the real star, though. Noelle Devereaux. Don’t want to give too much away, but—voice of an angel. Never met a stronger candidate. She’ll rank number one, you mark my words.”

  Morrigan watched the girl and her friends. Pretty, well-dressed Noelle was talking nonstop while the other girls listened avidly. She was poised and confident, with an easy smile. Morrigan couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. Why wouldn’t the Wundrous Society want someone like Noelle Devereaux?

  “Congratulations,” Jupiter said blandly.

  “But this one, North,” continued Mr. Charlton, waving a hand at Morrigan. “I don’t understand. What’s the appeal? I mean, those eyes, North, those awful black eyes. The Elders don’t go for the mean-looking ones. This one would as soon kill you as look at—”

  He was cut off by a sharp look from Jupiter, his mouth left hanging open.

  “Consider your next words carefully, Mr. Charlton,” Jupiter said in the low, cold voice that Morrigan had heard from him only once before, on Eventide at Crow Manor. She shivered.

  Baz Charlton closed his mouth. Jupiter stepped aside, releasing the long-haired man from his gaze and allowing him to stumble away. He sighed as he smoothed down his yellow suit and gave Morrigan’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Told you. Odious man. Pay no attention.”

  Morrigan took a sip of punch, Mr. Charlton’s words ringing in her ears. The Elders don’t go for the mean-looking ones.

  “Baz is what we call a Spaghetti Patron,” Jupiter explained. He continued to guide Morrigan through the garden, waving to people here and there. “He scours the Free State for potential candidates every year and enters about a dozen into the trials, regardless of whether they’re truly ready, just to increase his chances of a placement. Like throwing strands of spaghetti against a wall and hoping one sticks, you see?”

  “Does it work?” Morrigan asked.

  “Maddeningly often.” He steered Morrigan left to avoid a boisterous group of teenagers who were trying to get his attention. “Ah, here’s young Nan.”

  A towering, broad-shouldered woman approached and shook his hand. “Captain North, in the flesh! I’d heard rumors you were taking a candidate, but I never believed it. Jupiter North, I said—not on your nelly. Here you are, though, candidate and all. Hello there,” she finished with a smile at Morrigan.

  “Nancy Dawson, meet Morrigan Crow.” Jupiter nodded at Morrigan, and she shook Nan’s proffered hand. She was younger than Jupiter, with an earnest, dimpled smile that made her burly frame less intimidating.

  “Pleasure, Miss Crow. I’d like to introduce my own candidate, Hawthorne, but he disappeared soon’s we arrived. Probably setting something on fire.” Nan rolled her eyes, but she looked pleased. “It’s not his official knack, troublemaking, but it’s a close second.”

  “What’s his official knack?” Morrigan asked. Jupiter’s gaze flickered to hers and his eyes narrowed slightly. She mumbled under her breath, “What? Is that a rude question?”

  Nan chuckled. “I don’t mind. Don’t go for all that secret squirrel rubbish, me.” She drew herself up. “I’m proud as punch to tell you that Hawthorne Swift is, in my humble opinion, the finest dragonrider in Nevermoor’s junior league.”

  “Ah, of course.” Jupiter grinned. “What else? A fine choice of candidate for the five-time Dragonriding Champion of the Free State.”

  Nan’s smile faltered, but only for half a second. “Former champion,” she corrected. She tapped her right leg, and Morrigan was surprised to hear a hollow knock. “Won’t be competing again soon, not with this old thing.”

  “Is that a false leg?” asked Morrigan. It took all her self-restraint not to reach out and tap it herself. Jupiter cleared his throat loudly, but Nan didn’t seem bothered.

  “Aye. A marvel of modern medicine and engineering, that is: cedar, Wunder, and steel.” She lifted her trouser leg to reveal a limb of wood and metal that somehow, miraculously, seemed to move and flex almost like the muscles and tendons of a real leg, as though the wood itself were alive. “That’s good old-fashioned Wun ingenuity, Miss Crow. You wo
uldn’t believe the things they can do at the Wundrous Society Hospital. Proper miracle workers, them.”

  “What happened to the real leg?”

  “Chomped off and swallowed by my opponent’s dragon in the annual tournament two summers ago. Ugly, vicious thing he was.” She took a sip of wriggly punch. “His dragon weren’t very nice either.”

  Morrigan and Jupiter laughed.

  “Still, mustn’t grumble.” Nan’s face broke into a bright, sincere smile. “I’m coaching full-time for the junior league now. It’s steady work, and I couldn’t ask for a better student than young Swift. He’s been riding since he could walk, and he’ll make a first-rate competitor when he’s old enough to enter the tournament. If he decides to give up his lifelong commitment to being a boofhead.”

  There was a sudden tinkling sound as patrons all around began gently flicking the rims of their glasses. The string quartet stopped playing. Three people—or rather, Morrigan noted with some confusion, one man, one woman, and one shaggy bull in a waistcoat—had assembled on the balcony.

  “That’s our newest High Council of Elders,” Jupiter whispered to Morrigan. “At the end of every Age, the Society elects three members to guide and govern us for the next Age. They’re the best and most brilliant of us.”

  “Okay, but why is one of them a bu—”

  “Shh, listen.”

  A reverent hush descended as one of the Elders approached a microphone stand. A thin, stooped woman with wispy gray hair, she seemed unbalanced by the enormous flowery hat on her head. Morrigan worried for a moment that she might topple over the balcony onto her face. One of the other Elders stepped forward to steady her, but the old woman slapped his hands away, clearing her throat imperiously.

  “As many of you will know,” she began, “I am Elder Gregoria Quinn. Beside me are Elder Helix Wong and Elder Alioth Saga.” She gestured first to the man, and then the bull. “We, the High Council of Elders, would like to welcome you to Proudfoot House on this important day. I know that for all of you children this is your first real experience of the Wundrous Society. And for most of you, it will be your last.”

  Morrigan winced at those stark words, and she wasn’t the only one. All around her, candidates shot furtive looks at their patrons, seeking reassurance. Could they possibly be as nervous as she was? Morrigan doubted it. What if it was her last time here? Jupiter still hadn’t said what would happen if she failed the trials.

  “My esteemed colleagues and I,” Elder Quinn continued, “wish to thank you, young candidates, for your bravery, optimism, and trust. To face the challenges you are about to face, with no promise of a place in the Society at the end of it all… that takes no small amount of gumption. We applaud you.”

  She paused to beam at the guests, and she and Elder Wong, a gray-bearded man with colorful tattoos covering his arms and neck, applauded enthusiastically. The bull, Elder Saga, stamped his hooves. Morrigan took a nervous sip of punch; her mouth had gone dry. “I’ve been told our candidates this year number more than five hundred! With so many talented young people in our midst, I feel certain we will find nine new Society members who will impress us, make us proud, and make us glad to know them for the rest of their lives.”

  Morrigan looked at Jupiter, but he was watching the old lady with rapt attention.

  Nine? They were only accepting nine new members? From more than five hundred candidates? Jupiter had failed to mention that small detail.

  Her heart sank. She didn’t have a hope. How could she possibly compete with Noelle, who had the voice of an angel, or Hawthorne, who’d been riding dragons since he could walk? Even the dog-faced boy stood a better chance than she did. At least he had a gimmick! Morrigan didn’t know what she had, but she strongly suspected it was a big fat nothing.

  “In the months to come you will be put to the test—physically and mentally—beginning with the Book Trial at the end of spring,” continued Elder Quinn. She paused to look sternly over her glasses. “We suggest you use your time not only to make new friends and form valuable alliances with your fellow candidates, but also to build strength of mind in preparation for what lies ahead.

  “Joining the Wundrous Society is a privilege granted to the few and the special. Among our members are many of the Free State’s supreme thinkers, leaders, performers, explorers, inventors, scientists, sorcerers, artists, and athletes. We are the special ones. We are the great ones. And there are times when some of us are called upon to do great things, to protect these Seven Pockets against those who would do us harm. Against those who would seek to take away our freedom, and our lives.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A boy standing nearby whispered “The Wundersmith,” and the handful of children who were close enough to hear him all looked stricken.

  The Wundersmith again, thought Morrigan. Whoever or whatever he was, it seemed that the specter of the Wundersmith loomed so large over Nevermoor that he needn’t even be mentioned by name to strike fear in people’s hearts. Perhaps it was because she was a Free State outsider, but Morrigan couldn’t help thinking it was a bit silly, given that Jupiter had said he hadn’t been seen for over a hundred years.

  “But,” continued Elder Quinn more brightly, “it must be said that the benefits of joining our ranks rather outweigh the challenges.” There was a ripple of knowing laughter across the garden. Elder Quinn smiled and waited for silence before continuing. “Children, look at your patrons. Look around you, at the members of our Wundrous family, and your fellow candidates.

  “You all have one thing in common. There is something in you that makes you different. A gift that separates you from your peers, from your friends. Even from your own family.”

  Morrigan swallowed. There were hundreds of people hanging on Elder Quinn’s every word. But somehow, she felt the old woman was speaking only to her.

  “I know from experience, that can be a lonely path to tread. Oh! How I wish we could fold each and every one of you under our wings. But to the nine of you who join us at the end of the year, I promise this: a place to belong. A family. And friendships to last a lifetime.

  “From today, you are official participants in the trials for Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society. The road will be long and difficult, but perhaps—just perhaps—something wonderful awaits you at the end of it. Good luck.”

  Morrigan clapped hard along with everyone else. Family. Belonging. Friendships to last a lifetime. Were Elder Quinn and Jupiter reading from the same brochure? Or had they peered into her heart and read a wish list she’d never known was there?

  For the first time, the Wundrous Society felt real to Morrigan.

  After a round of applause, most of the patrons and candidates returned to the dessert buffet. Jupiter hung back, leaning down to speak in Morrigan’s ear.

  “I’m going to catch up with some old friends,” he said. “You should go make some new ones.”

  He twirled her around and gave her a gentle shove toward a group of children wandering around the other side of Proudfoot House.

  You can do this, Morrigan thought, galvanized by Elder Quinn’s extravagant promises. Family. Belonging. Friendship.

  She lifted her chin in the air and followed the other children, practicing in her head what she would say. Was it best to start with a joke? Or perhaps a more direct approach? Could she simply say “My name’s Morrigan, would you like to be my friend?” Did people actually do that?

  At the front of Proudfoot House the children were milling on the steps. Baz Charlton’s candidate, Noelle, was addressing a plump, sweet-faced girl with rosy cheeks.

  “So you’re a nun, Anna?” said Noelle.

  “No, I’m not a nun. I live with nuns—the Sisters of Serenity.” The girl’s cheeks turned even rosier. “And it’s Anah, not Anna.”

  Noelle looked to her friends with barely stifled laughter. “Actual nuns? Nuns that dress like penguins?”

  “No, no.” Anah shook her head, and golden ringlets danced around her face, settling
prettily on her shoulders. Noelle twitched. Her hand shot straight up to her own lustrous, long hair, a lock of which she began curling feverishly around one finger. “They mostly wear normal clothes. Black-and-white habits are only for Sunday chapel.”

  “Oh, they only dress like penguins on Sunday,” said Noelle. She laughed, looking around to see who else found her hilarious. A few others joined in, but the tall, wiry, dark-skinned girl standing next to her seemed to find it funniest. She was doubled over with giggles, covering her mouth with both hands, her long black braid flipped over one shoulder. “And the other days they just wear cheap, ugly dresses, like yours? Did the penguins give that dress to you when you became a nun?”

  Anah’s blush had crept across her entire face. Morrigan cringed in sympathy. Had Anah been trying to make friends too? Had she approached Noelle, just as Morrigan had intended to do, only to be teased in front of a bunch of strangers? Risky business, this friend-making thing.

  “I’m not a nun,” insisted Anah. Her chin wobbled. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a nun,” she added quietly.

  Noelle cocked her head to one side, radiating false sympathy. “But that is something a nun would say, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Morrigan snapped.

  Everyone turned to look at her with mild surprise. She was a bit surprised herself.

  Noelle’s top lip curled. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” Morrigan said, raising her voice a little. “Leave her alone.”

  “Are you from the convent too?” Noelle said, raising her eyebrows at Morrigan’s black dress. “Don’t you penguins have a curfew? Why don’t you waddle off?” Her friend snorted in a most unladylike fashion.

  Morrigan was beginning to miss the old days in Jackalfax, when everybody had been terrified by her mere presence. She thought of Jupiter and drew back her shoulders, saying in a voice as low and cold as she could muster, “Consider your next words carefully.”