Morrigan laughed too. “What did you think happened to them?”
“Dragon bit ’em off.” He was smiling, but his face was still white, his hands still shaking as he ran them through his hair. “Big ugly thing.”
“So you were going to… fight a dragon?” she asked, grinning. “Legless?”
Before Hawthorne could respond, the night went dark and silent again, as if all the noise and light of the Black Parade had been swallowed up. As if the moon itself had gone out.
A match was struck in the darkness, and suddenly Morrigan and Hawthorne were surrounded by the veiled, candlelit faces of Coven Thirteen.
Hawthorne dug his fingernails into her arm. “I thought it was over?” he whispered.
“So did I,” she whispered back.
Their seven voices rose as one.
“We are the witches of Coven Thirteen. Abigail, Amity, Stella, Nadine. Zoe, Rosario, Sweet Mother Nell. (That’s the old bat who pretended she fell.) You have been chosen, young Swift and young Crow. You will proceed to the Trial of Show. Your courage and daring while facing a fright have served you both well on this Hallowmas night. So go with our blessing, go without fuss, and enjoy ten percent off at Cauldrons ‘R’ Us.”
The witches handed them each a voucher for a magic supplies shop and an ivory envelope, inside which was an invitation to the final trial—the Show Trial—to take place at the Trollosseum arena on the fifth Saturday in Winter of One.
Coven Thirteen blew out their candles and disappeared. The sights and sounds of the parade returned slowly, rising up around them as if someone were turning a dial, and finally—finally—the Fright Trial was truly over.
Morrigan’s legs had turned to jelly. She’d done it. She’d made it through the first three trials, as Jupiter had said she must. Now she only had to trust her patron to do as he’d promised: to get her past the Show Trial and into the Wundrous Society.
It sounded so easy in her head.
The parade was ending just as they got back, much to Hawthorne’s disappointment. He and Morrigan made their way through the dispersing crowd to find Fenestra, who was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s going to murder us,” groaned Morrigan. “Come on, let’s get to the Wunderground, maybe she’s looking for us there.”
“It’s not our fault, is it?” said Hawthorne, picking up the pace. “I can’t wait to tell my mom about the zombies, she’ll be so jealous.”
“I wonder if Cadence ever left the courtyard.”
“Who’s Cadence?”
“The girl who pushed me in the pond—that’s her name, Cadence Blackburn.” Morrigan ducked as a bat swooped overhead, its last hurrah for Hallowmas. “I wonder if she ever jumped in. Probably still sitting there, the chicken.”
Hawthorne looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“What happened after I left? Did you see her jump in, or—”
“See who jump in?”
“Very funny, Hawth—oof!” A woman in a pumpkin costume knocked into Morrigan and sent her sprawling to the ground, then hurried past without noticing.
“Dear me, how rude,” said a voice from above. “Are you all right? Let me help you.” Morrigan looked up, slightly dazed, to see a man in a gray overcoat with a silvery scarf wrapped around his neck and half his face. He made to reach out a gloved hand, but Hawthorne was already helping her up off the cobblestones.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Oh, it’s you,” the man said, pulling down the scarf to reveal a familiar pale face and bemused smile. “Hello again, Miss Crow.”
“Mr. Jones!” said Morrigan, dusting off her hands and trousers. “What are you doing back in Nevermoor?”
He blinked. “Just visiting some old friends. They were in the parade, I thought I’d lend my support.”
“I haven’t seen you at the Hotel Deucalion. Are you staying somewhere else?”
Mr. Jones looked faintly surprised. “Goodness, no. I’d never stay anywhere but the Deucalion. I’m afraid my employer couldn’t spare me for long this time; I’m only here for the evening’s festivities.”
“It’s a long way to come just for one night. You must really love the Black Parade.”
He chuckled. “I suppose I do.”
“Well… Happy Hallowmas.” She looked over his shoulder toward the Wunderground station and thought she could see Fen’s fluffy gray ears poking up out of the crowd. “We should go. It was nice to—”
“Are you here with your patron?”
“No, my friend. This is Hawthorne.”
Mr. Jones turned to Hawthorne with an amiable nod, his eyes very slightly narrowed in appraisal. “How do you do?”
Hawthorne glanced up at him distractedly. “Thanks. I mean—you too. I mean, good. Morrigan, we’ve got to go, Fen’ll be mad.”
“Right. Nice to see you again, Mr. Jones.”
“Wait—I’ve been meaning to ask how your Society trials are going.”
“Good, actually!” Morrigan couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “We just finished one now—the Fright Trial.”
“And you made it through?”
“Just,” said Morrigan, grinning. Suddenly she remembered that strange moment when she’d heard Mr. Jones’s voice in her head as the Hunt was closing in. Shadows are shadows, Miss Crow. Would it be weird to tell him?
“Congratulations!” He returned her smile. “Three down, one to go. You should be very proud. And I presume you know by now what your knack is?”
Morrigan’s heart turned over. Her smile faltered, and she was about to admit that, no, actually she didn’t, when—
“Morrigan,” Hawthorne said pointedly. “Itching powder.”
“You should go, Miss Crow. I think your friend is in a hurry. Good luck at the Show Trial.” Mr. Jones tipped his hat. “Both of you.”
To Morrigan’s great surprise, Fen waved off their harried explanations and apologies with a careless flick of her tail. “I know, I know. Fright Trial. Jupiter said.”
“You knew?” said Hawthorne.
“Course I knew.” Fen rolled her eyes. “Why do you think I pretended to be distracted while you tiny reprobates scurried away? Now, hurry up. If we miss the last train you two are carrying me home.”
They were following Fen through the station’s stuffy, unfathomable maze of stairways and tunnels when Hawthorne finally turned to Morrigan asked, “Who was that weirdo in the gray coat?”
“Mr. Jones,” she said, pulling off her scarf and shoving it in her pocket. “He’s not a weirdo, he’s nice.”
“He asked eleventy billion questions. I thought he’d never leave. How d’you know him, anyway?”
“He offered me an apprenticeship on Bid Day.”
Hawthorne’s eyebrows shot upward. “You got two bids? I was excited to get one.”
“I got four,” said Morrigan, her face turning scarlet. She hurried on, “But two were fakes. It was a prank or something.”
Hawthorne’s face grew thoughtful, and he was silent until they got to their platform. The three of them ran for the last train and leapt on board just before the doors closed.
“Do you know what it is yet?” he asked Morrigan as they settled into the last two seats. Fenestra sat on her haunches nearby, giving the other passengers her trademark glower.
“What?” She knew exactly what he meant.
“Your knack. It must be a really good one. To get four bids.”
“Two bids,” she corrected him, staring resolutely at her shoes. “And it can’t be that good if I don’t even know what it is.”
They sat in silence through the remaining seven stops, although Morrigan knew Hawthorne was dying to ask more questions. When they emerged into the cool night air, he finally cracked.
“So,” he said, nudging Morrigan with his elbow, “what school did the gray weirdo come from?”
Morrigan frowned. “He’s not from a school, he’s from a company called Squall Industries. And don’t call him that.”<
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“He wanted you for an apprenticeship, this Jones guy?”
“No,” said Morrigan. “It was his boss who bid on me. Ezra Squall.”
“Ezra Squall,” repeated Hawthorne, his brow creasing deeply. “Where have I—”
“Will you two please stop dawdling?” Fen shouted from nearly a block ahead of them. They ran to catch up. “What were you whispering about back there?”
“Nothing,” puffed Morrigan, just as Hawthorne said, “Ezra Squall.”
“Ezra Squall?” Fen nearly choked. “Haven’t heard those two words in a long time. How do you two know the name Ezra Squall?”
“How do you know Ezra Squall?” asked Morrigan. “Is he a friend of yours?”
Fen looked deeply offended. “Is that supposed to be funny? No, the evilest man who ever lived isn’t a friend of mine, thanks very much,” she snapped.
“The evilest man who ever lived?” asked Morrigan. “What are you—”
“Just shut up about Ezra Squall, will you?” Fenestra said, lowering her voice and glancing around. She was more serious, more agitated than Morrigan had ever seen her. “It isn’t funny to joke about being friends with the Wundersmith. If anyone heard you—”
“The… the Wundersmith?” Morrigan stopped walking. “Ezra Squall—the Wundersmith?”
“I said shut up about him.” Fen stalked down Caddisfly Alley ahead of them, leaving Morrigan and Hawthorne stunned into silence.
Only when they’d reached Morrigan’s room and settled into bed (two hammocks tonight, swinging side by side) did the two friends finally speak.
“It might be a different Squall.”
Morrigan snorted. “Yeah. I bet there are loads of Ezra Squalls around.”
They were quiet for several minutes, and then—
“I’m an idiot,” said Morrigan quietly. “Mr. Jones told me—he said Ezra Squall was the only person alive who knew how to control Wunder. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what a Wundersmith is.”
“S’pose it must be.”
“Of course. I’m so stupid.” She sat up and hung her legs over the side of the hammock. “Why does the evilest man who ever lived want me as his apprentice? Does he think…” She paused to swallow. “Does he think I could be evil too?”
“Now you’re being stupid,” said Hawthorne, sitting up as well. “You’d be hopeless at being evil. You don’t have the stomach for it. I could be evil. My evil laugh is brilliant. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Shut up.”
“Mwwwaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha—” He broke off, spluttering. “Oh, that one hurt my throat a bit, actually. Mwa-ha-ha—”
“Hawthorne, shut up,” Morrigan snapped. “Do you… do you think I could be…”
“What, evil? You’re serious, aren’t you?” He leaned forward to look at her in the moonlight. “No! Morrigan, of course you’re not evil. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It has to do with the curse, I know it does. They were right.”
“Who?”
“Everyone. My father. Ivy. The Registry Office for Cursed Children—everyone, the whole Republic! I’m cursed, so maybe—”
“But you told me Jupiter said the curse wasn’t—”
Morrigan wasn’t listening. “—maybe that makes me evil.”
“You’re not evil!”
“Then why does the evilest man who ever lived want me for his apprentice?”
Hawthorne thought for a moment, chewing his lip, then said quietly, “Maybe Jupiter will know.”
“Jupiter.” Morrigan’s heartbeat quickened. “So you think… you think I should tell him?”
Hawthorne frowned at her. “Well—yeah. Yeah, of course you should. You’ve got to! It’s the Wundersmith.”
“But I haven’t even met him!” Morrigan protested. “I’ve only met his assistant. You heard Dame Chanda and Kedgeree—the Wundersmith himself can never come back to Nevermoor. The city won’t let him.”
“What if he finds a way?” asked Hawthorne. Morrigan hated the growing dread on her friend’s face. She hated that she was responsible for it. “What if that’s why Mr. Jones is here? This is serious, Morrigan.”
“I know it’s serious!” she said, swinging forward in her hammock so violently that it nearly tipped her out. “Didn’t you hear Fen? ‘It isn’t funny to joke about being friends with the Wundersmith.’ What if Jupiter thinks I’m friends with Ezra Squall? What if he doesn’t want to be my patron anymore? And if the Stink found out…” She paused, thinking of Inspector Flintlock. As if he needed another reason to ship her back to the Republic. “Hawthorne, if I don’t get into the Society, they’re going to kick me out of Nevermoor.” And the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow will be waiting, she thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.
Hawthorne looked aghast. “Do you really think they’d… do you really think Jupiter would—”
“I don’t know,” said Morrigan honestly. Jupiter had chosen her, rescued her, and defended her, even though she was cursed. But if he knew that the evilest man who ever lived had chosen her too… would that finally be enough to change his mind? Morrigan didn’t want to find out.
Hawthorne stood up and began pacing the floor, a bundle of nervous energy. “We can’t let them kick you out. I won’t let them. But we need a plan.
“How about this: If you see Mr. Jones again, we’ll tell Jupiter everything. Everything. If not, we’ll just wait until after the last trial, once we’re both members of the Wundrous Society and nobody can possibly send you back to the Republic. Then we’ll tell him. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Morrigan. She felt guilty about keeping such a big, terrible secret from Jupiter, and even worse about dragging Hawthorne into it, but it was extremely comforting to hear her friend say we instead of you. She breathed deeply. “Okay, fine. And until then—”
“I won’t tell a soul.” Hawthorne stuck out his pinky finger, looking worried but determined, and Morrigan hooked it with her own. “Promise.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE BATTLE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
Winter of One
December was the hotel’s busiest month. The foyer buzzed constantly with guests checking in from all over the Free State, coming to experience Christmas in the big city.
Morrigan awoke one chilly morning at the beginning of winter to find that her new home had transformed into a Christmas wonderland overnight. The halls were decked with ribbons and evergreen boughs, the foyer lit up by shining, shimmering fir trees dotted with silvery baubles. The Smoking Parlor rolled out emerald-green waves of pine-scented smoke in the morning, red-and-white-striped candy cane smoke in the afternoon, and warm, spicy gingerbread smoke at night.
Even the chandelier was embracing the season. It had slowly grown all year long and finally was full size again, but for the past two months it had shifted and changed every few days, as if the Deucalion couldn’t settle on a final shape yet. So far this month it had been a shimmery white polar bear, an enormous green holly wreath, a sparkly blue bauble, and now a glittering golden sleigh.
Back in Jackalfax, Christmas had meant decorating a modest-sized tree and hanging the odd string of fairy lights (if Grandmother was feeling particularly festive, which she usually wasn’t). Occasionally Corvus would drag Morrigan along to the annual Chancery Christmas party, where she’d be whispered about by boring politicians and their boring families.
But Christmas in Nevermoor was a monthlong celebration that didn’t stop, with festive parties and themed suppers to attend almost every night. Choirs and brass bands performed carols in Wunderground stations all over town. The River Juro froze over completely, turning it into a traffic-free highway snaking through the city, and scores of people began ice-skating to school and to work.
There was a pervasive feeling of goodwill, but the season also inspired a competitive spirit between friends and neighbors, many of whom went to great lengths to out-Christmas each other. Houses were lit up in almost every neighborhood, each one brighter than the la
st, each street an extravaganza of tackiness and wasted Wundrous energy, flashing and twinkling and blinding anyone within a mile radius. It was garish and absurd. Morrigan loved it.
But the most intense rivalry of all was between the two public figureheads of Nevermoor’s holiday season.
“I don’t get it,” said Morrigan one afternoon as she and Hawthorne sat stringing popcorn and cranberries onto fishing line. “How can he get around the entire realm in one night? That’s impossible.”
Hawthorne had invited her over to his place to show her how to make traditional Christmas tree decorations. Outside, it was a chilly, wet December day, but here in the Swift family living room there were hot chocolate, carols on the radio, and a saucepan full of corn kernels on the woodstove, popping merrily away.
“It’s not impossible—ow,” said Hawthorne, sucking blood from the finger he’d just pricked with his needle. “It’s Wundrous.”
“But really, a flying sleigh? Powered by deer?”
“Reindeer,” Hawthorne corrected her.
“Sorry, reindeer. How do they even fly? They don’t have wings. Has he bewitched them?”
“Dunno. Why are you so bothered?”
Morrigan screwed up her face, trying to pinpoint exactly what was so strange about the whole thing. “It’s just… perverse, that’s why. What about the one with the glowing red nose? What happened to it?” She finished off her fourth garland and reached for the roll of fishing line to start another. “Was it an experiment? That’s sick.”
“I think he was born that way.”
“What about this Yule Queen lady? I’ve never even heard of her. At least Saint Nicholas is on all the soft drink and chocolate advertisements.”
Hawthorne popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. He’d finished making his garlands and was now working on unmaking them, one morsel at a time. “Dad says people really underrate the Yule Queen, ’cause she’s never in any Christmas plays or anything. But Christmas would be rubbish without snow, and where do you think snow comes from? It doesn’t just float out of the sky on its own.”
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 21