The Trials of Morrigan Crow

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The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 14

by Jessica Townsend


  “Prime Minister Gideon Steed.”

  “Incorrect. The leaders of the Free State are innovation, industry, and thirst for knowledge.”

  Morrigan’s stomach dropped as though she’d missed a step on a staircase. In that instant she knew that she was not prepared for the sort of interview the Elders had decided to give. Any scrap of confidence she might have felt earlier had now abandoned her, and she felt suddenly seized by fear.

  “Who is Gideon Steed?” asked the bull, Elder Alioth Saga.

  Morrigan faltered. “He’s… he’s the p-prime minister. Isn’t he?”

  “Incorrect,” boomed Elder Saga. “Prime Minister Gideon Steed is a democratically elected steward of the Free State, a sentry who has been appointed by the people to protect the values, standards, and liberties that we hold dear.”

  “But he is the prime minister,” Morrigan insisted. This wasn’t fair. She’d answered the question correctly. “You just said so yourself.”

  The Elders ignored her protest.

  “How does one tell a true incendiary botanical from a tree that has merely been set on fire?” asked Elder Helix Wong.

  She knew this one. “The flames of an incendiary botanical never produce smoke.”

  “Incorrect,” said Elder Wong. “Incendiary botanicals are extinct; any tree that appears to be an incendiary botanical is a tree that has merely been set on fire, and should be extinguished immediately.”

  Morrigan groaned inwardly. She should have seen that coming. Of course fireblossom trees were extinct; Jupiter had told her that! Plus, she’d read in A Vegetal History of Nevermoor that nobody had seen a fireblossom burning in over a hundred years. She felt a twinge of annoyance at the trick question.

  “How old is the great city of Nevermoor?” asked Elder Quinn.

  “Nevermoor was founded one thousand, eight hundred ninety-one years ago, during the Second Avian Age.”

  “Incorrect. Nevermoor is as ancient as the stars, as new as powder snow, and as mighty as thunder.”

  “Well, this is impossible! How am I supposed to—”

  “When did the Courage Square Massacre occur?” asked Elder Quinn.

  Morrigan had started to answer (Winter of Nine, Age of the East Winds) when something came into her mind. She stopped and took a moment to let her brain form the answer before her mouth did. The Elders watched her expectantly.

  Don’t be afraid to make them wait.

  “The Courage Square Massacre,” she began haltingly, “occurred on… a dark day.”

  The Elders said nothing.

  “One of the darkest in Nevermoor’s history,” continued Morrigan. “A day when…” She paused while her brain scrambled for words. “A day when fiendishness triumphed over goodness. A day when evil took hold of Nevermoor and… and… shook it until its guts fell out.”

  The Elders continued to stare. Morrigan’s heart hammered in her ears. What more did they want?

  “A day never to be repeated,” she said finally. That was it; she had no more nonsense left in her.

  Elder Quinn smiled. It was a tiny smile, but Morrigan saw it. It was like a very small flower in a bed of hopeless weeds.

  The hunched little Elder looked as though she might be about to ask a follow-up question, and Morrigan felt suddenly terrified. She didn’t actually know very much about the Courage Square Massacre. She and Hawthorne had stopped for a tea break halfway through that chapter of The Encyclopedia of Nevermoorian Barbarism and forgotten to get back to it.

  Morrigan held her breath, hoping she’d done enough. Elder Quinn looked to her colleagues, who nodded curtly and returned to their papers.

  “Thank you, Miss Crow. You may go.”

  Morrigan emerged, blinking, into the sunshine. She walked in a daze down the steps of Proudfoot House to where Jupiter stood waiting.

  “How was it?”

  “Weird.”

  “Obviously.” He shrugged, as if she should have realized that weirdness was standard procedure for the Wundrous Society. “Your mate with the toads came out earlier, by the way. Said to tell you he got through to the next trial, and that you’d better get through too, or else. Then he and Nan Dawson had to rush off to a dragonrider training session, and I had to pretend not to be completely jealous of an eleven-year-old boy who gets to ride dragons. So, did you, er… did you get through?” he asked casually.

  Morrigan held up the letter she’d been given, still not quite believing it herself.

  “‘Congratulations, candidate,’” Jupiter read aloud. “‘You have proven your sincerity, reasoning, and quick thinking and may proceed to the next round of trials for Unit 919. The Chase Trial will take place at noon on the last Saturday in Summer of One. Details to follow.’ I told you. Didn’t I tell you you’d do it? Well done, Mog. I’m chuffed.”

  Morrigan wasn’t paying attention. She’d spotted the high-five twins leaving Proudfoot House. They ran, wailing, to their patron.

  “We c-can’t do it!” sobbed the first twin. “We’re c-completely unprepared!”

  “We don’t remember a s-single thing!”

  Somewhere in among the relief she felt at her own success, Morrigan felt sorry for the twins. That awful girl, Noelle’s friend, had obviously gotten inside their heads and rattled their confidence. She wanted to say something, to give them some sort of hint about what the Elders wanted, but Jupiter was already steering her away from Proudfoot House.

  The sun had come out, making the bare black branches of the tree-lined drive seem somehow less sinister than before. She lifted her face, letting it warm her, and absently reached out to touch one of the dead trees as she and Jupiter strode down the drive. A flash of searing heat and tiny purple sparks met her fingertips, and she snatched her hand back.

  “Ow!”

  “What?” Jupiter stopped short. “What’s wrong?”

  “That tree just burned me!”

  He stared at her a moment, then chuckled. “Very funny, Mog. I told you, fireblossoms are extinct.”

  Jupiter carried on ahead of her, and Morrigan examined her unblemished fingers. She reached out, cautiously, to touch the tree again. Nothing happened.

  She shook her head, giving a confused little laugh. Apparently her imagination did have a bit of nonsense left in it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHADOWS

  Summer of One

  With her first trial over and the next one months away, Morrigan was free to enjoy summer at the Hotel Deucalion. Days of splashing in the sun-drenched Jasmine Courtyard pool gave way to balmy nights of ballroom-dancing lessons, barbecue dinners, and long lounging sessions in the Smoking Parlor, relaxing in vaporous clouds of vanilla smoke (“to soothe the senses and bring happy dreams”). If occasionally her thoughts drifted back to Crow Manor, if she remembered how Grandmother was always slightly nicer in the summer, or wondered whether Ivy had yet had her baby, the thought was always quickly chased away by an invitation to help Charlie groom the horses, or to taste-test the menu for Frank’s next party.

  Sometimes Dame Chanda, who famously had six suitors (“one for each night of the week, except Sundays,” she explained nonchalantly), would enlist Morrigan’s help to choose her outfit for the evening. Together they would dive through the thousands of beautiful gowns, shoes, and jewels in the soprano’s wardrobe (which was nearly as big as the hotel lobby) to find the perfect ensemble for dinner and dancing with the man Jupiter had dubbed Monsieur Monday, a stroll in the park with Sir Wednesday of the Midweek, or a night at the theater with the Honorable Lord Thursday.

  Life at the Deucalion brought fresh curiosities daily—like the time Kedgeree summoned the Paranormal Services men to remove a pesky ghost that had been walking through walls on the fifth floor. Kedgeree said he didn’t mind ghosts, on the whole, as long as they didn’t have any annoying habits. But this one kept coming back, he said—they were already on their third visit from Paranormal Services—and while he’d never seen the specter himself, the stories and rumors
had so frightened some guests that he’d had to move them to another floor. Morrigan was allowed to watch the exorcism, but it wasn’t as impressive as she’d imagined. She’d been hoping to see a real ghost fly out of the building, but there was just a lot of sage-burning and weird dancing, and then the Paranormal Services men handed Kedgeree a bill for four hundred and fifty kred and left.

  The most disappointing thing about the summer, however—much more disappointing than the exorcism—was that Morrigan saw less and less of Jupiter. He was always being called away on business for the League of Explorers or dashing off to endless meetings, dinners, and parties.

  “Bad news, Mog.” Jupiter slid down the curved marble banister one Thursday afternoon and landed in the foyer, where Morrigan and Martha were folding napkins into swans. Martha’s swans looked perfect, like they could fly off in formation at any moment. Morrigan’s looked like drunk, angry pigeons. “Can’t take you and Hawthorne to the bazaar tomorrow night. Something’s come up.”

  “Again?”

  Jupiter ran a hand through his bright copper hair, hastily tucked his shirt into his trousers, and snapped his suspenders in place. “’Fraid so, old girl. The Nevermoor Transportation Authority has sent—”

  “Again?” Morrigan repeated. The NTA had been sending messengers to fetch Jupiter from the Deucalion all summer long. They usually only needed his help with “echoes on the Gossamer Line”—whatever that meant—but three weeks ago there’d been another derailment, and this time two people had been killed. It was front-page news for a week, and the Deucalion had gone wild with rumors about who was responsible and what it might mean. Some of the staff got into such a state of panic that Jupiter had to ban anyone from uttering the word Wundersmith.

  “I could take Morrigan,” offered Martha. “Tomorrow’s my night off, and Charlie’s taking me—I mean, Mr. McAlister and I—well, he’s going to the bazaar and he asked—I thought I might pop along too.” A crimson blush spread across Martha’s face. It was common knowledge at the Deucalion that she and Charlie McAlister, the hotel chauffeur, fancied each other. They were the only ones who still thought it was a secret.

  “That’s all right, Martha. You and Charlie will have enough on your minds.” Jupiter smirked. “We’ll go soon, Mog—promise.”

  Morrigan tried to hide her disappointment. The Nevermoor Bazaar was a famous market festival that ran every Friday night, all summer long. People came from all over the Seven Pockets just to see it, and lots of them stayed at the Hotel Deucalion. Every Friday at dusk, excited guests ventured out in carriages and on trains, and every Saturday morning they’d compare thrilling stories and photographs and purchases over brunch. But the summer was half finished and Morrigan still hadn’t gone. “Next week?” she asked hopefully.

  “Next week. Definitely.” He grabbed his long blue coat and threw open the front door, then paused to look back. “Wait—not next week. I’m scheduled on a gateway to Phlox II. Terrible realm. All the bloodsucking insect swarms of Phlox I, but none of the charm.” He scratched his gingery beard and gave a helpless chuckle. “We’ll sort something out. Hey, Jack will be home from orchestra camp next weekend. He’ll be here for the rest of the summer. So we can go together, all three of us. Four of us—Hawthorne too.”

  Morrigan had almost forgotten that Jupiter’s nephew lived at the Deucalion when he wasn’t at boarding school. Martha said he sometimes came home on weekends, but so far there’d been no sign of him.

  Jupiter stepped back inside to grab his umbrella and paused to look at her strangely. “Have you been having bad dreams?”

  “What? No,” Morrigan said hurriedly, glancing at Martha. The maid suddenly got very busy counting her swans and pretending not to hear.

  Jupiter waved his hand around Morrigan’s head as if brushing away invisible flies. “Yes, you have. They’re hanging around you. What have you been dreaming about?”

  “Nothing,” she lied.

  “It’s the Show Trial, isn’t it? I told you not to worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried about it.” Lie.

  “All right.” Jupiter nodded slowly, then leaned over her chair and whispered, “I’m really sorry about the bazaar, Moggers.”

  “Morrigan,” she corrected, reaching up to fix his collar, which had flipped in on itself. “Never mind. Hawthorne and I can do something else.”

  Jupiter nodded once, aimed a playful punch at Morrigan’s arm, and was gone.

  Next morning, there was a boy at Morrigan’s breakfast table. Sitting in her chair. Eating her toast.

  He was taller and older—perhaps twelve or thirteen—and though his face was mostly hidden behind a copy of the Sentinel, the top of his thick black hair was visible over the masthead. Flipping the pages of his newspaper and sipping blood orange juice, he leaned back in his chair as if he owned the place.

  Morrigan cleared her throat quietly. The boy didn’t look up from his newspaper. She waited a moment and then coughed loudly.

  “Go away if you’re ill,” he commanded. Another page flicked over. A slender brown hand emerged, took a piece of toast, and disappeared again behind the newspaper.

  “I’m not,” she said, taken aback at his rudeness. “Guests aren’t allowed down here. Are you lost?”

  He ignored her question. “If you don’t have anything contagious, you can stay. But don’t talk while I’m reading.”

  “I know I can stay.” She stood up straight, making herself taller. “I live here. You’re sitting in my chair.”

  At this, the boy finally—slowly—lowered his newspaper to reveal a long, dark face and a look of extreme displeasure. One eyebrow arched smoothly and his mouth curled into a scowl as he looked Morrigan up and down.

  Being accustomed to this reaction when meeting new people, Morrigan was less surprised by his disdain than by the black leather patch covering his left eye. She instantly recognized him from the school photo in Jupiter’s study: John Arjuna Korrapati.

  So this was Jack.

  He folded the paper and placed it in his lap. “Your chair? You’ve lived here all of five minutes and you’ve claimed the furniture? I’ve lived here five years. This happens to be where I eat my breakfast.”

  “You’re Jupiter’s nephew.”

  “You’re his candidate.”

  “He told you about me?”

  “Obviously.” He snapped open the newspaper and buried his face in it once again.

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until next weekend.”

  “You were misinformed.”

  “Jupiter’s away.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “How come you’re early?”

  He sighed heavily and the newspaper dropped. “Uncle Jove wouldn’t tell me what your knack is. I can only guess you have the gift of annoying people while they’re trying to read.”

  Morrigan sat across from him. “You go to that Graypants School for Clever Boys, don’t you?”

  “Graysmark School for Bright Young Men,” he snapped.

  Morrigan smirked. She knew the real name. “What’s it like?”

  “Just dandy.”

  “How come you’re not in the Wundrous Society, like Jupiter? Did you try out?”

  “No.” Jack folded his paper again, shoved a piece of toast in his mouth, and snatched his half-full teacup from the table before stomping out of the dining room and up the stairs.

  Morrigan wondered where his bedroom was, and what it looked like, and where his parents lived, and what happened to his eye, and how come he didn’t try out for the Society, and how she was going to make it through a half summer of his not-very-delightful company.

  As she reclaimed her favorite chair and a piece of toast, she made a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow and get there before Jack did.

  “Someone probably gouged it out with a hot fire poker,” said Hawthorne that night as he and Morrigan dragged out the board game chest in the Smoking Parlor (rose smoke tonight, hazy and pink: “to enc
ourage sweetness of temper”). “Or stabbed it with a letter opener. Or put flesh-eating insects under his eyelid and they ate it all up. Something like that.”

  “Ugh.” Morrigan shuddered. “Who would do that?”

  “Someone with a reason not to like him,” said Hawthorne.

  “So it could be anyone he’s ever met.”

  Hawthorne grinned and then, surveying the contents of the chest with a look of dismay, he asked, “We’re not actually doing this, are we?”

  “We are,” said Morrigan, pulling out a colorful box. She was determined to have a good night so that when he asked, she could honestly tell Jupiter it didn’t matter in the slightest that he’d canceled their promised trip to the Nevermoor Bazaar for the fifth week running. Not in the slightest.

  “Happy Housewives? Oh, come on… I haven’t played this since I was ten.”

  Morrigan ignored Hawthorne and began setting up the pieces. “I’ll be Mrs. Fuddledump, the kindly grandmother. You can be Ms. Fierceface, the unsatisfied career woman. Not terribly modern, is it? I’ll go first.”

  She rolled the dice and moved her piece, picked up a card from the center of the board, and read, “‘You have won a flower-arranging contest. Collect your prize: an embroidered apron, the perfect thing to wear while cooking dinner for your hardworking husband. Don’t forget to freshen your lipstick and fix your hair before he gets home.’” She put the card down immediately and began packing away the pieces. “Fine, then, what do you want to do?”

  “What do you think? Go to the Nevermoor Bazaar, of course. My brother Homer’s going with a bunch of his friends, I bet he’ll let us come if we promise to pretend we don’t know him.”

  “Can’t. I’m not allowed to leave the hotel without Jupiter.”

  “Is that a rule, though?” Hawthorne asked. “Did he actually say that? Because if he didn’t say it’s a rule, it’s probably… more of a suggestion.”

  Morrigan sighed. “There are three rules. I had to learn them by heart. One: If a door’s locked and I don’t have the key, I’m not allowed in. Two: I mustn’t leave the Deucalion without Jupiter. Three… I forget three. Something about the south wing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t go.”

 

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