“Are you jealous? Is that it?” Morrigan threw the flashlight down beside him. “Jealous he chose me as his candidate and not you?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What—did you just—jealous? Of you? Why would I be jealous of you? You don’t even have a knack! You said so yourself, outside the Hall of—”
Morrigan gasped. “You were spying on us!”
At that moment, Hawthorne bounded into the foyer, shining his flashlight into his face and laughing maniacally. “Mwa-ha-ha, I am Hawthorne, killer of shadows, fear me, shadow-wolf, for I am your doom.”
“You’re too late, shadow-killer,” said Morrigan, grabbing his flashlight and tossing it at Jack. “The shadow’s already dead.”
“Oh.” Hawthorne’s shoulders slumped. “But I’ve just made up a victory song for when I vanquish it. I was gonna teach you the dance bit.”
Morrigan led him to the gold-and-glass elevator, speaking loudly enough for her voice to echo in the foyer. “Maybe you can rewrite the words to be about Jupiter’s weasel of a nephew, who spies on people and tells lies and makes everyone hate him.”
“Or about Jupiter’s talentless candidate, who’s too stupid to know how shadows work and runs around a hotel making an idiot of herself,” called Jack, settling back into the love seat with his book.
Morrigan jabbed the button for her floor, still seething. Hawthorne hummed, turning to her as the doors closed.
“What rhymes with weasel of a nephew?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CHASE TRIAL
Summer was dying, but it refused to go down without a fight. The last weeks of August brought a heat wave to Nevermoor, with blazing temperatures and blazing tempers to match.
“Can we please take this seriously?” Morrigan said irritably. “The second trial is only three days away.”
She’d been trying to talk to Jupiter for an hour, but his attention span had evaporated in the heat. He sat in a shady corner of the Palm Courtyard, drinking glasses of peach sangria and waving a handheld fan. Fenestra was sunbathing nearby, while Frank snored quietly under an enormous sombrero. Jupiter had given all staff the afternoon off. It was much too hot to work, and they’d been sniping among themselves all morning.
Jack, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen. Morrigan thought he was probably tucked away in his bedroom practicing the cello, which was where he’d spent most of the summer—at least, when he wasn’t kicking Morrigan out of the best spot in the Smoking Parlor, or criticizing her table manners during dinner, or scowling in her general direction. Morrigan couldn’t wait for him to go back to school so the Deucalion could feel like hers again. He’d reached heights of unbearable smugness when he’d been allowed to go to the Nevermoor Bazaar with his school friends. Morrigan had waited the whole summer for Jupiter to take her, but every week something more important would call him away. Now the bazaar was over for the year, and Morrigan had missed out. All things considered, she was happy to see the last days of summer… even if that meant it was time for her next nerve-racking trial.
“Do you think he’s okay under there?” Jupiter asked, cracking one sleepy eye open to look at Frank. “He’s not going to burn down to ashes, is he? I don’t know how dwarf vampires work.”
“Vampire dwarves,” Morrigan said. “And he’s fine. Can we please focus on the Chase Trial? I need a steed. And it can’t have more than four legs—that’s in the rules.”
“Right.”
“And I can’t fly.”
“You certainly cannot,” said Jupiter, taking a sip of sangria, “for you are Crow in name only.”
Morrigan huffed. “No, I mean—the rules say—”
“Lighten up, Mog,” Jupiter snorted. “I know what the rules say: You can’t ride a flying animal. There was some kerfuffle a few years back with a dragon and a pelican. Poor bird got burned to a cinder three seconds after takeoff. More of a pelican’t, in the end. Eh? Pelican’t?” He grinned lazily at Morrigan, but her sense of humor had also evaporated. “Anyway. They banned the whole bunch of them, and now everyone goes on the ground.”
The rules for the Chase Trial had arrived by messenger the day before, sending Morrigan into a spin. It shocked her to realize that all these weeks, she’d barely given the Chase a thought. Perhaps Jack’s annoying presence all summer had been a blessing as well as a curse. They’d been so busy arguing and getting in each other’s way, it hadn’t left any time for Morrigan to dwell on the upcoming trial.
“So,” she prompted Jupiter. “Steed. Four legs or less.”
“Fewer.”
“Four legs or fewer. Could Charlie teach me to ride a horse?”
“Not sure that’s the way to go, Mog,” said Jupiter. He waved away a buzzing insect. “I’ve never seen a Chase Trial myself, but I’ve heard they get pretty wild. You’ll need more of an all-terrain beast. Let me think on it.”
All-terrain beast. What in the world was an all-terrain beast? It was useless trying to get him to talk sense in this ridiculous heat. Morrigan vented her feelings by kicking at a tuft of grass growing out of the sandstone. “This is hopeless. What’s the point of the Chase Trial, anyway? Why do the Elders care who can win a race? It’s stupid.”
“Mmm, that’s the spirit,” said Jupiter distractedly.
She gave up and went to perch on the edge of a little pool, dipping her feet in as she pulled the Wundrous Society letter from her pocket and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.
Dear Miss Crow,
The Chase Trial will take place this Saturday at midday, in the heart of Nevermoor, inside the walls of the Old Town district. The United Nevermoor Councils and Guilds has granted us permission to evacuate the streets of Old Town temporarily, ensuring the event will be undisturbed by the public.
The remaining candidates have been divided into four groups. You are in the West Gate group. Please make your presence known to Society officials at Old Town West Gate no later than 11:30 on Saturday morning.
There are three rules:
1. Every candidate must ride a living steed. This can be any creature of transport with no fewer than two legs, and no more than four.
2. Flying creatures are strictly prohibited.
3. Candidates must dress in white clothes only.
Any candidate found in breach of these rules will be instantly disqualified.
The successful candidate in this trial will show daring, tenacity, and an instinct for strategy. Further instructions will be given immediately prior to the Chase Trial.
Warmest regards,
Elders G. Quinn, H. Wong, and A. Saga
Proudfoot House
Nevermoor, FS
A map was enclosed. Roughly circular and surrounded by medieval stone walls, Old Town was the smaller original city from which the rest of Nevermoor had grown outward in organic, misshapen swells, like a fungus. (This was according to Dame Chanda, who said she took an interest in the city’s history because the Honorable Lord Thursday—an amateur historian himself—had given her a membership in the Nevermoor Historical Society two Christmases ago.)
There were four entrances to Old Town: through the enormous stone archways of the North Gate, South Gate, East Gate, and West Gate, like points on a compass.
The map showed Courage Square at the center of town. Morrigan had only whizzed through Courage Square on the speeding Brolly Rail, but she remembered a broad, bustling plaza surrounded by shops and cafés and filled with people.
The square sat at the intersection of two streets stretching the length and width of Old Town. Lightwing Parade ran from north to south, with Proudfoot House at the far northern end, and the Royal Lightwing Palace (home to the Free State monarch, Queen Caledonia II) to the south. Grand Boulevard ran from east (starting at the Temple of the Divine Thing) to west (ending at the Nevermoor Opera House).
The map highlighted other landmarks—Dredmalis Dungeons, the Houses of Parliament, the embassies, the Garden Belt (a ring of green spaces circling the middle of Old Town, just
like a belt), the Gobleian Library, and perhaps a dozen more. Morrigan tried to memorize them, in case it turned out to be important.
“Dredmalis Dungeons,” she whispered, closing her eyes to test her memory. “East Quarter, Rifkin Road. Houses of Parliament: North Quarter, Flagstaff Walk. Gobleian Library: East Quarter—no, South Quarter—no, I mean—”
“West Quarter, dummy,” came a languid voice. Fenestra lay in a nearby patch of sunshine, licking her fur in long, listless strokes. “Mayhew Street. Do shut up.”
“Thanks,” Morrigan muttered.
She noticed Jupiter watching the Magnificat from the corner of his eye and turned to see what had him so fascinated. The combination of sunlight and saliva made Fen’s shabby gray fur look like molten silver. Her muscular legs juddered as she stretched out in a sudden, toothy yawn. She really was beautiful, Morrigan thought grudgingly. In her own terrifying way.
“Do you two mind?” Fen asked, her voice oozing derision. “I’m trying to have a bath. Perverts.”
Morrigan woke on the day of the Chase Trial feeling peaceful. For about five seconds, obviously, until she remembered what day it was and her peace turned to panic.
She still had no idea what creature of transport Jupiter had arranged for her. He’d spent the past three days having increasingly heated debates with the other staff on the merits of ponies versus camels, and whether a tortoise actually could win a race against a hare in real life and if they should try it just in case (Frank’s idea), and whether an ostrich counted as a flying animal even though it couldn’t fly, since it technically had wings. None of these arguments ended well, and none of them put Morrigan at ease.
As she dragged herself out of bed, the door swung open and Fenestra strutted in, tossing some clothes onto the chair with a shake of her massive head.
“Wear that,” she said. “New boots out in the hall. Martha’s bringing your breakfast. Be downstairs in five minutes, ready to go.”
And just like that, she was out the door without so much as a “Good morning.”
“Yes, I’m feeling super this morning, Fen, thanks for asking,” muttered Morrigan as she dressed in the white trousers Fen had left for her. “Nervous? Just a little.” She pulled on a shirt and socks—all white, as the rules stipulated. “Oh, thanks for the good wishes, Fen, you’re too kind. Yes, I’m sure the Chase will go just fine, and won’t at all end with me being trampled into the ground, arrested, and kicked out of Nevermoor.”
“Who are you talking to, Miss Morrigan?” Martha was standing in the doorway with a breakfast tray. Morrigan took a piece of toast and ran out the door, grabbing her boots on the way.
“Nobody, Martha,” she called. “Thanks for the toast.”
“Good luck, miss. Be careful!”
In the foyer, Jupiter and Fen inspected Morrigan for a long time before either of them spoke.
“She needs to tie her hair back,” said Jupiter.
“She needs to keep her mouth shut,” said Fen.
“She’s in the same room as you, so you needn’t speak about her as if she’s not here,” said Morrigan.
“See what I mean?” Fenestra growled. “I’ll not have her going on like that during the Chase. I’ll lose my concentration.” The Magnificat turned to Jupiter, her huge gray ears perking up hopefully. “Can we tape her mouth shut?”
“I rather think the Elders would frown on that sort of thing.”
Morrigan folded her arms, suddenly suspicious. “What are you talking about?”
“Ah,” said Jupiter, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “I’ve found you a noble steed.”
Morrigan, Jupiter, and Fen arrived at the West Gate at eleven o’clock to find a clamor of children, patrons, and animals. At the registration table, Morrigan and Jupiter both had to sign a waiver stating that if the Chase resulted in death or injury they wouldn’t sue the Society.
“Comforting,” muttered Morrigan as she scribbled her name. Her stomach did a funny little somersault.
She was surprised to see the steeds some candidates had chosen. Most were riding horses or ponies, but she also saw a lot of camels, a few zebras and llamas, an ostrich (so that answered that question), two haughty-looking unicorns, and one large, ugly pig. Morrigan gasped and grabbed Jupiter’s arm when she saw the unicorns, her terror momentarily giving way to delight, but Jupiter was unimpressed.
“Mind the pointy bit,” he said with a worried look at the magical creatures.
Fen was in a strange mood. She hadn’t made a single sarcastic remark all the way to the trial, and now she was pacing up and down the West Gate starting line, glaring at the competition. Jupiter approached her with caution.
“Fen?” She ignored him. He spoke up a little. “Fen? Fennie? Fenestra?”
Fen was muttering to herself in a constant low growl, her amber eyes narrowed. A large leathery-skinned rhinoceros had caught her attention.
“Fen?” prompted Jupiter again, gingerly tapping her on the shoulder.
“That one,” she said with a toss of her head. “That horned oaf with the funny ears. He’d better not get in my way. Better watch his big pointy nose, or I’ll let him have one.”
“One… one what?” asked Jupiter.
“Head-butt. Him and that little demon on his back.”
Jupiter and Morrigan exchanged a look. What had gotten into Fen?
“You… you do know that demon is a child?” said Jupiter carefully.
Fen snarled in response and pointed one paw at a small boy nervously clutching the reins of a pony. “And I’ll give him one, too, him and his hell-beast.”
Jupiter snorted into his hand, trying to cover it up as a cough. “Fen, that’s a pony. I think you’re—”
Fen shoved her face right up close to Jupiter’s and spoke in a low growl. “Him and his fat little half-horse come clip-clopping anywhere near me and they’re done for. Got it?”
The Magnificat then swept off toward a throng of candidates milling around the registration table and proceeded to pace threateningly before them.
Jupiter smiled uneasily at Morrigan, who was waiting for an explanation as to why Fen the Magnificat had transformed into Fen the prison-yard gangster. “She’s… competitive,” he offered. “Goes back to her days as a cage fighter.”
“A what?”
“Oh yeah. Fen was big on the Ultimate Cage Fighting circuit. Free State champion three years running, until she had to quit because of that scandal with the former prime minister’s son.”
“Scandal with the—”
“He started it. And he’s got a new nose now, so no harm, no foul. Oh, look—they’re calling you over.”
As she drew near the starting line, Morrigan wondered what sort of steed Nan Dawson had found for Hawthorne. (Last they’d spoken, he’d sworn his patron had a cheetah lined up.) She knew it was pointless searching for her friend in the crowd; he was in the South Gate group.
However, she did find someone else she knew—the one person she absolutely did not want to see.
“Honestly, they’ll let anything through these trials, won’t they?” Noelle Devereaux said loudly, leading a beautiful brown mare by the reins over to where Morrigan stood. She looked Morrigan up and down. “Is it still called the Wundrous Society? Or have they changed it to the Stupid, Ugly Society?”
Noelle’s friends laughed, and she flicked her hair over her shoulder, basking in their attention. She was flanked by her usual gaggle of followers, minus her friend with the long, dark braid—Morrigan wondered if the other girl had made it past the Book Trial.
“That would explain why you’re still here,” said Morrigan.
Noelle’s face turned a splotchy red. Her hand clenched tighter around the reins of her horse. “Or perhaps it’s called the Illegal Society now,” she snapped, glaring at Morrigan. “And that’s why you’re still here.”
Morrigan’s stomach did that funny little flip again. It was Noelle and her patron, the odious Baz Charlton, who had sent Inspector
Flintlock to the Hotel Deucalion. She just knew it. In that moment Morrigan hated Noelle, really hated her, for making her feel so afraid and desperate. Had Noelle any idea of the trouble she and Baz had caused? That they were putting Morrigan’s life in danger if she went back to Jackalfax? She wanted to lash out, to shout at Noelle, but she couldn’t. Not here.
“You could be disqualified for that, you know,” she said instead, pointing at Noelle’s hair.
Noelle was dressed, like the other candidates, all in white—from her smart ivory jodhpurs to her leather saddle and riding crop. Everything except the tiny gold ribbon poking through her thick chestnut curls. Morrigan knew it was a petty thing to mention, but she couldn’t resist.
However, instead of looking worried or tucking it away, Noelle curled the ribbon around her finger and looked even more smug. She moved closer and spoke quietly so that only Morrigan could hear. “Oh, this? Just my little message to the Elders. It was Mr. Charlton’s idea. He says it shows that I’m serious about winning the Chase. I want the Elders to know that I’m going for gold and I’ll see them at the secret dinner.”
“Secret dinner,” said Morrigan, scowling. It sounded like Noelle was making things up now, just to mock her. “What secret dinner?”
Noelle gave an incredulous giggle. “Your patron doesn’t tell you anything, does he? It’s like he doesn’t even want you to win.”
Turning to leave, she called back over her shoulder, “By the way, is that your steed?” She pointed at the pig Morrigan had spotted earlier, which was now snuffling around the ground looking for food. “How nice—you have matching faces.”
At the West Gate, a Wundrous Society official climbed up on a platform to address the candidates.
“Over here, please! No, leave your steeds for the moment, thank you. Quiet, please. Quiet!” she shouted into a megaphone. “Now listen carefully, because you will only hear these instructions once.”
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 16