“Hit it!” Fen shouted.
Morrigan reached up as high as she could, her fingertips nearly there… nearly there…
But Noelle’s friend was closer. She seemed to have recovered from her fall and was climbing up on Fenestra’s neck, shoving her knees right between the giant cat’s shoulder blades. She reached up, and Morrigan reached up behind her, and at the very same moment they both hit the target.
BANG!
It exploded in a cloud of golden dust, coating the other girl’s face, white clothes, and long, swinging braid in the color of victory…
…and missing Morrigan entirely.
“One at a time, please, one at a time!” shouted the harassed-looking Society official. “Now, who hit the target? Who rode the big cat?”
“I did,” Morrigan and the other girl said together. They turned to glare at each other.
“I did,” repeated Morrigan. “I rode the big cat.”
“And your name is?”
“Cadence,” interrupted the other girl. “My name is Cadence Blackburn, and I rode the big cat. I hit the target.”
“No, I hit the target! I’m Morrigan Crow, and the Magnificat is my steed. Cadence fell off hers—she was on the rhinoceros—and we went back to—”
“I was sitting in front,” cut in Cadence. “I was sitting in front, so you see I must have hit the target. Look at me, I’m covered in gold!”
The race official looked from Morrigan to Cadence and back again. “Is that true? Was she sitting in front?”
Morrigan was flabbergasted. She couldn’t deny that, in fact, Cadence had been sitting in front of her, and that was why she was covered in gold dust. But that was ridiculous! A silly technicality couldn’t mean anything—it just couldn’t. It wasn’t fair.
“Well, yes, but… only because we turned back and picked her up. She would have been trampled otherwise!”
The official snorted. “Think that’s going to get you a place in the Wundrous Society, do you?” He shook his head. “Why does everyone think valor and sportsmanship are going to win them any favors? We’re testing for tenacity and ambition, not bloody niceness.”
“But that’s not the point,” said Morrigan desperately. “The Magnificat was my steed, and she climbed that statue for me, not for Cadence. I hit the target! This is just—”
“Nonsense,” said Cadence in her low voice, like the hum of a wasp. She stepped closer to the official and looked up at him. “That cat was my steed. I hit the golden target, and I will go through to the next trial.”
The official handed her a little golden envelope, which Cadence pocketed with a look of triumph as she ran off.
Morrigan could have screamed at the unfairness of it, but no sound would come out of her mouth. Instead she leveled her gaze at the race official, cold and accusing.
“That cat was her steed,” he said, shrugging. “She hit the golden target. She will go through to the next trial.”
Morrigan deflated like a punctured bicycle tire. She was out. Game over.
At that moment Noelle sauntered past, surrounded by friends. She too was covered in shimmering gold dust and held her gold envelope like a trophy. “I saw a pink target on the corner of Roderick Street and just decided to go for it, I don’t know why. Maybe because pink’s my favorite color,” she said breezily. “Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be one of the hidden gold targets! Guess I’m just lucky.” She looked back at Morrigan, grinning at the sight of her still-white clothes.
Roderick Street, Morrigan thought bitterly, remembering what Noelle’s patron had whispered to her at the starting line. Roderick! It wasn’t a person; it was a direction to a golden target. Noelle hadn’t been lucky at all—Baz Charlton had helped her cheat! He told her where the hidden gold target would be.
No wonder she’d been the only candidate to know about the secret dinner! Baz was telling her secrets, handing her everything she needed to win the trials.
Morrigan slumped on the edge of the fountain, overwhelmed by outrage at Cadence’s and Noelle’s cheating, and by the crushing agony of her own defeat. She felt so foolish. Even worse, she felt terrified of what would happen next. She’d be kicked out of Nevermoor, of course, and then… and then…
The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow reared up in her mind’s eye like a great black swarm, blocking out the sun and casting the day further into darkness.
When Jupiter heard the story, he was dumbfounded. Fenestra was furious.
“Where’s that official?” she fumed, pacing back and forth and baring her yellow teeth. “I’ll take his clipboard and shove it right up—”
“We have to go,” said Jupiter suddenly, looking over his shoulder. “We have to go right now. He’s here.”
“Who’s—oh.” Morrigan’s stomach dropped somewhere south of her knees. Snaking through the crowd of candidates and patrons was a small brigade of brown-uniformed police officers, led by perhaps her third least favorite person in Nevermoor (after Cadence Blackburn and Noelle Devereaux).
Jupiter grabbed Morrigan’s arm and started to march her in the opposite direction, only to find their way out blocked by yet more brown uniforms. They were surrounded by Stink.
“I’ll be seeing those papers now, Captain North.” Inspector Flintlock, his face positively glowing with self-righteousness, held out his palm. “Hand them over.”
Morrigan held her breath. Would she get a chance to go back to the Deucalion, she wondered, before they deported her? Would she be able to say goodbye to the residents, and pack her things, and—Hawthorne! They couldn’t make her leave without saying goodbye to her friend, could they? She looked frantically around Courage Square, trying to see him one last time. Had he hit a target? she wondered.
And the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow, said a small, panicked voice inside. Will they be waiting for me at the border?
“To which papers do you refer, Inspector Flintlock?” said Jupiter, smiling pleasantly. “The morning papers? They’ll all be lining cat litter trays or wrapping fish-and-chips by now. I must say it is marvelous that you’re trying to keep up with current events, Flinty. Good for you. Let me know if you need help sounding out the big words.”
Flintlock’s jaw twitched, but the smile never left his face. “Very witty, North. Very witty indeed. I refer, of course, to your… former candidate’s Free State passport, her residential papers for the Seventh Pocket, and her educational visa for Nevermoor. The papers which, with one look, will convince me once and for all that your former candidate has every right to reside here in the First Pocket of the Free State, and isn’t in fact a dirty illegal smuggled from the traitorous Republic under cover of night.”
“Oh, those papers,” said Jupiter. “Why didn’t you say so?”
With a dramatic sigh, he made a show of patting down his jacket, pulling his pockets inside out, and even feeling through his luxurious beard for the nonexistent papers. Morrigan might have laughed at him, if it hadn’t been the least funny day of her life.
“I’m losing my patience, North.”
“Yes, sorry, they’re right here—no, sorry, that’s a hanky. Bear with me.”
Morrigan wondered if she should make a break for it. If she could sneak past the Stink while they were distracted, she might make it to the nearest Wunderground station.
She stepped sideways casually as an experiment. Nobody grabbed her. She looked around—the Stink were focused entirely on Jupiter and his paper-finding circus act. She took another step away, then another, remembering how Hawthorne had sidled off from the scene of the crime after his toad-spilling episode. Just a few more steps and she’d be swallowed up by the crowd and could run for it.
“Morrigan Crow!” boomed a voice. Morrigan froze. This was it. She was going to be arrested. Goodbye, Nevermoor. “Morrigan Crow! The girl on the cat! Where is she? Has anyone seen Morrigan Crow, the girl who rode the cat?”
It was the race official. He spotted her and came waddling over, waving an ivory envelope in his hand. �
�There you are! Thank goodness I found you. Here, this is yours.”
She took the envelope. “What is it?”
“What’s it look like? Your invitation to the next trial, of course.”
Morrigan’s head snapped toward Jupiter, who looked as stunned as she felt. Flintlock’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He looked like a goldfish that had been turfed out of its bowl and lay gasping for air on the carpet.
Morrigan hardly dared to hope she’d heard correctly. “But… but you said… but Cadence—”
“Well, yes, but there was… an incident. Bit embarrassing, actually. One of those blooming unicorns turned out to be the Pegasus with its wings tucked away and an upside-down ice cream cone glued to its head. Can’t believe we didn’t spot that earlier. Very cruel to the poor thing, of course, and totally against the rules. Even if they weren’t using the wings, the rule book clearly states that no flying animals may be used in the Chase Trial. Anyway, that candidate’s been disqualified, which means a place has opened up, and, well…” He looked a little sheepish. “Due to the, er, unusual circumstances surrounding your—er, well, we thought it was only fair. Congratulations.”
The man shuffled off, leaving Morrigan overjoyed, gazing at the precious envelope in her hands as if it were carved out of diamond. It wasn’t gold—it wouldn’t get her into the Elders’ secret dinner—but she couldn’t care less. “I got through,” she whispered, then more loudly, “I got through to the next trial!”
She ripped open the envelope and read the note inside aloud.
Congratulations, candidate.
You have proven your tenacity and ambition and have won a place in the next round of trials for Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society. The Fright Trial will take place in Autumn of One at a date, time, and location unspecified.
Jupiter laughed—a loud, explosive, joyful laugh that reverberated in Morrigan’s ears. Even Fenestra gave a wheezing chuckle. Morrigan felt like jumping up and down. She’d never been so happy, so relieved.
“Brilliant, Mog. Brilliant. Sorry, Inspector, you’ll have to wait for those papers. At this time, the question of Morrigan Crow’s citizenship remains a private matter for the Wundrous Society. Ha ha!”
Inspector Flintlock was practically foaming at the mouth. “This isn’t over,” he threatened, and in his rage he slammed his baton onto his own thigh for emphasis. Morrigan winced—that had to have hurt. “My eyes are everywhere, Morrigan Crow. I’ll be watching you—both of you. Very closely.”
The inspector turned on his heel and marched away, followed closely by his brown-coated brethren.
“Creep,” Fenestra called after him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE BLACK PARADE
Autumn of One
I need a queen, please.”
“What for?”
“Just do. Hand it over.”
Heaving a great, put-upon sigh, Hawthorne shuffled through the pack of cards until he found the queen of diamonds. “I don’t think you’re doing this right.”
After their Chase Trial success (Hawthorne had hit an orange target—riding a camel, definitely not a cheetah), Jupiter had promised that Morrigan and her friend could have a sleepover at the Deucalion on Hallowmas night—so long as they swore to ignore bedtime, eat lots of sweets, and get up to no good. True to their word, they’d already demolished handfuls of candy and were now teaching themselves to play poker in the Music Salon while they waited for Fen, who was taking them out to the Black Parade at midnight.
In honor of Hallowmas, the salon was lit entirely by candles and jack-o’-lanterns. Frank the vampire dwarf was singing an obnoxious song about beheading his fearsome enemies and drinking their blood. The guests clapped along, enchanted by the idea of the little man beheading anybody at all, fearsome or otherwise.
Morrigan arranged her cards in a fan on the table. “Poker!”
Hawthorne examined them. “That’s not poker.”
“Yes it is, look: The Queen of Diamonds was out in the park one day, walking her dog, Jack of Diamonds. She met the King of Hearts and they fell in love. They were married six (of hearts) weeks later and had three (of diamonds) children and lived happily ever after.” She grinned triumphantly. “Poker.”
Hawthorne groaned and slapped down his cards. “That is poker. You win again.” He pushed the large pile of Hallowmas sweets over to her side of the table.
“Thank you, thank you, friends,” the vampire dwarf was saying loudly. “And now, on this Hallowmas night, the night when we feel closest to those we have lost—in honor of my dear departed mother, I shall sing for you her favorite song.” His audience cooed sympathetically. Frank motioned to the pianist. “Wilbur, if you please—‘My Sweetheart Is a Garroter’ in D minor.”
“Where’s Fen?” asked Hawthorne, shuffling the cards listlessly. “It’s almost ten thirty! If we don’t leave soon, all the best spots will be taken.”
“My sweetheart is a garroter, my sweetheart loves to strangle. Her hands are wrapped around my throat, but my heart is in a tangle…”
Hawthorne had talked of nothing but the Black Parade since autumn began, and as Jupiter was marching with the rest of the Wundrous Society, he’d persuaded Fenestra to accompany Morrigan and Hawthorne in his place. Fen had agreed under extreme protest, and only after she’d extracted a promise from Jupiter that if they misbehaved, she could put itching powder in Morrigan’s bedsheets every night for a month.
“Fenestra does things on Fenestra time,” said Morrigan, biting into a sour skeleton.
“She grips me with her burly arms and the stars begin to shine. My scrawny neck is hers alone, her violent heart is mine!”
Frank finished his song with a grand flourish and a high note that made Morrigan and Hawthorne wince. The other guests broke into applause and the vampire dwarf took a deep bow.
“Any requests?” asked Frank.
“Sing something scary!” a young man shouted.
“Ah. Beheading and strangling not scary enough for you, eh?” There was a gleam in Frank’s eye. “Then perhaps you’d like to hear a song about… the Wundersmith?”
The guests gasped, then fell into nervous laughter. Across the card table, Hawthorne grew very still. “Shall we go wait in the foyer?”
“Fen said to wait here,” said Morrigan. “She’ll be cross if we leave. What’s wrong?”
“I just…” He swallowed and lowered his voice. “I wish he wouldn’t sing about the Wundersmith.”
“The Wundersmith.” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “What’s a Wundersmith, anyway? Why is everybody so scared of it?”
Hawthorne’s eyes bulged. “You don’t know about the Wundersmith?”
On the other side of the room, the piano clanked to a halt. “Can that be true?” called Frank. He was staring right at Morrigan. “Can this really be a child who has never heard the stories of the Wundersmith?”
His audience turned to look at Morrigan with shocked faces. “I mean,” she said, “I’ve heard of him, but…” She shrugged and bit the head off a gummy ghost.
“Can it be,” Frank continued, his voice rising, “that she knows nothing of the thing they call the Butcher of Nevermoor? The Curse of the Capital? That wicked devil with blackened mouth and empty eyes?”
Hawthorne made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Morrigan sighed. “So what is he?” she asked, exasperated.
“My child, my dear darkling child,” said the vampire dwarf, drawing his cape around him with a dramatic swish, “perhaps it is best you don’t know…”
The guests fell for his ruse. “Tell her, Frank,” they cried, clapping their hands with savage delight. “Sing about the Wundersmith!”
“If you insist,” he said, affecting a reluctant air. The pianist hit a loud, dramatic chord, and Morrigan giggled. This was all rather silly, she thought.
“Who—or what—is the Wundersmith?” Frank began. “Is he a man, or is he a monster? Does he live in our imaginations, or is he lurking
in the shadows, waiting… to… pounce?” Frank lunged at a group of women, who shrieked, first with fright and then with laughter. “Is he human, or is he a savage animal who will tear through the realm with talons and teeth until he has consumed us all?” Here he paused to bare his own impressive fangs, and there were gasps and giggles around the room.
“The Wundersmith is all of those things. He is a phantom that lives in the darkness, watching, always watching, biding his time until the day when we have let down our defenses, when we are not expecting him, when we have almost forgotten he existed.” Frank grabbed a candle from its holder and held it under his chin so that his face was eerily lit by the glow. “And that is when he will return.”
“Tosh,” said a quiet voice from the corner. Morrigan turned to see Dame Chanda playing chess with Kedgeree Burns, the concierge. They were staring at the board, deep in concentration and all but ignoring the musical goings-on at the opposite end of the room.
Kedgeree hummed in agreement. “Aye, utter nonsense.”
“Is it?” said Morrigan. “Then the Wundersmith isn’t real?”
Dame Chanda sighed. “Oh, the Wundersmith is real. But I wouldn’t ask that sharp-toothed showboat about it,” she muttered, nodding toward Frank, who was now doing a tap dance in the instrumental break. “He wouldn’t know the real Wundersmith from a potted agapanthus. He thinks it’s funny trying to scare people.”
Morrigan frowned. “But why is everyone so scared of the Wundersmith? What is it?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Dame Chanda. Kedgeree shook his head warningly, but she waved a hand at him. “Oh, Ree-Ree, she’s bound to find out sooner or later. Better to hear the truth from us, don’t you think, than a load of hogwash from some other fool?”
Kedgeree held up his hands in defeat. “All right, but I don’t think North will like it.”
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 18