“You’re telling me the Yule Queen makes snow?”
“Course she doesn’t. Don’t be daft.” Hawthorne spoke as if to a simpleton. “The Snowhound makes the snow. But he wouldn’t bother if the Yule Queen didn’t tell him to.”
Morrigan was completely lost. “So… these two, Saint Nick and the Yule Queen, they have to kill each other?”
“What? No. You’re so bleak.” He laughed. “They battle each other on Christmas Eve to see who has the best Christmas spirit. If the Yule Queen wins, her promise is a blanket of snow on Christmas morning and a blessing on every house.”
“And if Saint Nick wins?”
“Presents in every stocking and a fire in every hearth. You’d better pick a side. We’re a pro-Nick household, except for Dad secretly fancying the Yule Queen a bit. The Campbells next door are big-time Yule supporters, as you can see from all the green.” He pointed to the window; the house next door was decorated entirely with green banners, twisting ivy, and twinkling green fairy lights.
“What’s the green for?”
“Yule Queen supporters wear green, Saint Nick supporters wear red. Here, take this.” He pulled something out of the Swift family’s decoration box and threw it at Morrigan, who fumbled to catch it.
“What’s this for?”
“So you can support Nick, like me,” he said, shrugging. “Presents and fire—what’s not to like?”
It was a scarlet ribbon. Morrigan tucked it away in her pocket. “I’ll think about it.”
“Who do you support?” Morrigan asked Jupiter that night over dinner. “Saint Nicholas or the Yule Queen?”
“The Yule Queen,” said Jack, spooning mashed potato onto his plate. “Obviously.”
Morrigan scowled. “I wasn’t asking you.”
Jack had come home for the Christmas holidays a few days earlier, and had been doing his utmost to annoy Morrigan ever since.
“No, you were asking Uncle Jove, but you’re simpleminded if you can’t see that he’s pro-Yule. Are you a complete idiot?”
“Take it easy, Jack,” warned Jupiter, shooting him a look.
“Why?” snapped Morrigan. “He isn’t wearing any green. He hasn’t worn green at all this week. Are you blind in both eyes?”
“Bad form, Mog,” said Jupiter, and Morrigan was stung by the disappointment and surprise in his voice. Her insides writhing with guilt, she opened her mouth to apologize to Jack, but before she could speak he barreled on, apparently unfazed by Morrigan’s unkindness.
“Obviously he can’t be seen wearing green,” said Jack. “Important public figures should appear neutral at Christmas, that’s just good manners. But if you had a brain you’d realize Uncle Jove and I prefer elegance and finesse over flashy displays of consumerism. Saint Nick is just a capitalist fat cat with a good publicity department. The Yule Queen has style.”
Morrigan had no idea what he was talking about, but in that instant, she knew whom she would support. She took the red ribbon from her pocket and tied it in a tight bow around her ponytail, staring defiantly at Jack.
“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” said Jack, laughing. “Are you going to challenge me to a duel over the dinner table? Dessert spoons at dawn?”
“Come on, you two…”
Morrigan considered throwing her dessert spoon right at his smug face. “If the Yule Queen’s so great, where are all the Christmas plays about her? And why isn’t she in any ads? Saint Nick’s the face of Holly Jolly Toffee, Dr. Brinkley’s Holiday Fizz, and Tristan Lefèvre’s winter collection of cashmere bobble socks. I’ve never seen the Yule Queen on a billboard. I wouldn’t know her if I fell over her.”
Jupiter slumped down in his chair. “Why can’t we all just get along?”
“That’s because she has integrity,” said Jack, pointing his fork at Morrigan and ignoring his uncle. “Which is something your oversized friend and his gang of flying fleabags wouldn’t know if they fell over it.”
“Saint Nick is the soul of generosity, charity, and… and jolliness!”
“You’re just parroting what you’ve heard on the radio,” Jack muttered. (That was almost true—she’d read it in a newspaper advertisement for a sugary breakfast cereal with Saint Nick’s picture on the box.) “I suppose now you’re going to tell me his sick experimentation with artificial bioluminescence only makes the reindeer more magical.”
Morrigan slammed her hand on the table. “The reindeer are magical. Even the one with the nose.” She pushed her plate away with a clatter and stormed out, yelling over her shoulder, “And anyway, he was born like that!”
From the hallway, Morrigan heard Jupiter sigh. “Really, Jack, why are you and Mog always at each other? I hate having to umpire. Makes me feel like a grown-up.” He said the last word as though it tasted bad. “Why can’t you just be friends?”
“F-friends?” Jack spluttered. It sounded like he was choking on his dinner, which Morrigan found quite a pleasing mental image. “With that? Not even if you paid me.”
Jupiter’s voice went very quiet. “She’s a long way from home, Jack. You know how that feels.”
Morrigan frowned. Where was Jack from? she wondered. Where were his parents? She’d never thought to ask… but then, Jack didn’t like nosy questions.
“But she’s infuriating, Uncle Jove. And I don’t know how you think she’s going to get into the Wundrous Society, honestly, I mean, does she even have—”
Morrigan didn’t want to hear any more. She covered her ears and ran down the hall, up and up the spiral stairs, and into her bedroom, where she flopped down on the bed (a grand four-poster this week, wrapped in garlands of silver tinsel) and shoved her head under the pillows.
Morrigan awoke with a start. She’d been dreaming of the Show Trial again. This time she’d stood in front of the Elders trying to sing, but the only noise that came out of her mouth was the squawking of a parrot. The audience had pelted her with mashed potatoes.
She lay awake, listening to the sounds of the Deucalion. She could hear Frank’s gentle snoring from the floor above, Fenestra’s answering wheeze from across the hall, and the groaning of pipes from below. A fire crackled in the hearth; Martha must have lit it after Morrigan fell asleep.
It amazed her how she’d come to rely on these things, how normal this life felt to her now. When she thought about the prospect of failure in the Show Trial, of having to leave Nevermoor in just a few short weeks, she was surprised at how it made her chest ache.
But worse than being humiliated, worse than having to leave the Hotel Deucalion, worse than all of it was the thought of what might be waiting for her in the Republic. Was the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow still there, biding its time? Would her family welcome her home if they knew she was still alive? Could they protect her if the Hunt returned to finish her off?
Noises from the hallway jarred Morrigan out of her brooding. The thump of someone tripping up the last step. A splash. A whispered curse word. She threw off her blankets and tiptoed over to open the door.
In the low lamplight of the hall she saw an empty glass and a puddle of spilled milk on the floor. Jack was on his hands and knees, trying vainly to mop up the mess with the end of his nightshirt. Without a word, Morrigan fetched a towel from her bathroom and brought it out, kneeling down to help.
“It’s fine,” he mumbled. “I can do it. You’ll get your towel dirty.”
“You’ll get your shirt dirty,” she countered, smacking his hands away. He leaned back on his heels and let her finish.
“There,” she whispered once it was cleaned up. “You can put this in the laundry—what? What are you staring at?”
The look on Jack’s face was familiar. She’d had a lifetime of looks just like it, back in Jackalfax. It was fear and mistrust, mingled with reluctant curiosity and just a touch of abject horror. However, that wasn’t the most disturbing thing she noticed about his face.
“Your eyes are perfectly normal!” she cried, standing up at once, forgetting to whis
per. He followed less gracefully, nearly falling over as he continued to stare, openmouthed. His black leather patch was nowhere to be seen; both wide brown eyes were fixed on Morrigan. “You fraud. You’re not half-blind at all. Why have you been pretending all this time? Does Jupiter know?”
Jack said nothing.
“Stop staring, Jack, and answer me!”
Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs and Jupiter’s face appeared, rumpled with sleep. “What’s this racket? There are guests trying to—” He looked at Jack, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off Morrigan. “Jack?” he said quietly.
“Did you know?” demanded Morrigan. “Did you know he doesn’t need an eye patch?”
Jupiter didn’t answer her. He gave his nephew’s shoulder a gentle shake and Jack seemed to finally come to himself. He pointed at Morrigan with a shaking hand, which Jupiter took in his own.
“Cup of tea, I think. Come on.” He started to guide Jack down the stairs. “Go back to bed, Mog.”
Morrigan’s mouth fell open. “Me? Why do I have to go back to bed? He’s the one who’s been faking half-blindness.”
Jupiter breathed in sharply through his nose, his face suddenly fierce. “Morrigan!” he whispered hoarsely. “Back to bed. I don’t want to hear another word about this. Understand? Not a single word.”
Morrigan flinched. Jupiter had never spoken to her so severely. Part of her wanted to argue, to demand an explanation for Jack’s behavior, but one look at her patron’s stormy face and the words died on her lips.
Jack got halfway down the stairs before looking back. His eyes were clouded with confusion.
You and me both, Morrigan thought miserably as she clicked her bedroom door shut, dumped her milk-soaked towel in the bathtub, and climbed back into bed.
Christmas Eve was crisp and cool, and there was a tremor of excitement in the air. The Hotel Deucalion seemed to vibrate with high spirits as guests and staff alike prepared for the battle that was to take place in Courage Square at the center of Old Town.
“Jolly Christmas, Kedgeree,” Morrigan said as she passed the concierge desk, dinging the bell twice.
“Jolly Christmas to you, Miss Morrigan. And a glad Yuletide, too!”
The foyer was filled with noise and warmth. Guests scarfed down rum balls and eggnog as they waited for Jupiter’s signal to leave.
“Only a ribbon, Miss Morrigan?” asked Dame Chanda Kali. Dame Chanda wore her hair in green coils, with dangling emerald earrings, a matching emerald choker, and a forest-colored velvet cloak. She bit her lip as she surveyed Morrigan’s black dress, black coat, and black lace-up boots. “I’ve a darling crimson chapeau that might fit your little head. Or a ruby necklace? I have twelve. You could keep one!”
“No, thank you, Dame Chanda,” said Morrigan, who considered her ribbon quite festive enough.
Not for the first time that day she wished Hawthorne were coming to watch the battle. The Swifts spent every second Christmas in the Highlands, and Hawthorne had left Nevermoor the day before with one last promise to keep quiet about Ezra Squall. Morrigan had vowed to put the worrying mystery of the Squall apprenticeship out of her head and enjoy Christmas. Even so, in the back of her mind she cherished a hope that she wouldn’t run into Mr. Jones again before the Show Trial.
Watching the staff from her vantage point on the stairs, Morrigan had to admit they had festive style by the bucketload. Frank the vampire dwarf had painted his fingernails red to complement his red-lined cape, and Kedgeree was bedecked in layers of red tartan and tinsel. Martha showed her allegiance to the Yule Queen with a smart green coat and matching scarf. Charlie the chauffeur wore a pea-green tweed jacket and driver’s cap, even though he had the night off.
The clock began to chime and Jupiter ushered everyone out the front door to the forecourt, where a row of fancy carriages was waiting to take them to the big event. He winked at Morrigan and gave her a friendly nudge as she went by. Three days had passed since the incident with Jack, and Jupiter still hadn’t mentioned it. Morrigan had followed his lead, even though she was dying to ask about Jack’s eye patch.
Not tonight. She wouldn’t spoil Christmas Eve.
Morrigan had expected Courage Square to be a swirling sea of red and green, but instead there were large pockets of each color where pro-Nick and pro-Yule supporters gathered in droves, shouting slogans and trying to out-sing each other. Just as a chorus of “Ode to a Jolly Old Fat Man” or “Have Yourself a Jolly Little Christmas” exploded from a patch of red, a nearby patch of green would rise up with “The Yuletide Hymn” or “Green Is the Color of My Cheer.” Jupiter found a spot between two groups, where Morrigan could stand with the reds and Jack could stand with the greens and Jupiter could station himself between them to discourage any fisticuffs.
“You look like broccoli,” Morrigan said to Jack, making a face at the elaborate green hat that towered over his head like a small, artistically designed explosion. Then, just to be clear, she added, “Really stupid broccoli.”
“At least my support for the Yule Queen is obvious,” said Jack, adjusting his eye patch, which was once again covering his left eye. Morrigan had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking why he wore it at all when he obviously had two perfectly functional eyes. She’d scarcely seen him since the hallway incident. It was hard to tell whether he was avoiding her or if Jupiter had been purposely keeping them apart. “I notice you’re only wearing that pathetic little ribbon. Is it because you’re embarrassed to be seen supporting a morbidly obese trespasser and enslaver of elves?”
“The only thing I’m embarrassed to be seen with is that revolting hat.”
“Ding ding ding,” said Jupiter, making a T with his hands. He gave Jack a meaningful look. “Time-out, please, for the love of—ooh! It’s starting.”
A hush descended. People pointed into the northern sky, where a hulking figure was emerging from the dark. Morrigan held her breath, the excitement properly kicking in at last. A cheer rose up from the red sections as Saint Nicholas swooped down into Courage Square, his nine flying reindeer performing an impressive loop-the-loop and coming to land neatly on a raised platform in the center. A pair of elves jumped off the sleigh and began waving feverishly at the crowd, goading them like promoters at a troll fight to cheer more and more loudly for the jolly, white-bearded man as he heaved himself out of the polished mahogany- and-red-velvet sleigh.
Morrigan grinned. She had to admit she was pleased with her decision to support Saint Nicholas. His magnificent reindeer stamped and shook their great antlers back and forth, clouds of frosty air shooting out of their nostrils. The elves jumped up and down as the crowd bellowed their support for Nick, who waved and pointed at random people in the crowd as if they were old friends of his whom he’d only just spotted. One man actually fainted at the acknowledgment. Saint Nick, Morrigan decided, was a rock star.
She turned to Jack, feeling self-satisfied, but Jack merely shrugged.
“Just wait,” he said, smirking as he gazed to the south of the square.
She didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later, the sea of people parted for what looked at first like a small frost-covered mountain but was in fact the ten-foot-tall Snowhound moving through the spellbound audience. A beautiful woman stood proudly on his back, gazing out at the hushed square.
Morrigan had to fight the urge to say Ooooh. It was true, what Jack had said about the Yule Queen, all of it. She was the most elegant woman Morrigan had ever seen. She had style.
The Queen’s diaphanous green gown fluttered delicately behind her, flowing like silk underwater. Her hair fell in soft, shimmering waves past her waist and, like the fur of the splendid hound, was the color of freshly fallen snow. Her lips were pale and bloodless, her smile nothing less than a glowing expanse of white teeth and twinkling eyes that acted as a spotlight, casting everything around her into shadow. The masses gathered in Courage Square released a collective sigh of pleasure as she appeared to float toward the platform.
The Yule Queen stepped onto the platform and nodded at Saint Nicholas, who bowed in return. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the Yule Queen lifted her face to the sky and grew very still.
“Here we go,” whispered Jupiter.
It was faint at first, just a distant tinkling sound, like wind chimes or glass. Morrigan watched in amazement as each of the brightly shining stars over Nevermoor grew even brighter, morphing and moving until they somehow, impossibly, resembled millions of tiny silver bells reflecting the light of the city. A complex symphony of chimes filled the air. Morrigan gazed at the star-bells, breathless and enthralled, until each one jingled its last jingle and turned into a distant star once again.
Three seconds of awed silence followed this extraordinary display, and then every green supporter in the square erupted into passionate applause. Even some of the reds were clapping, albeit grudgingly. Morrigan felt like cheering out loud, so delighted was she by the Yule Queen’s magic, but couldn’t bear to give Jack the satisfaction. She stayed quiet.
All eyes were now on Saint Nick as he rubbed his hands together, turning in a circle to survey Courage Square. He began pointing erratically, and Morrigan at first thought he was doing his rock star thing again, until pockets of the audience began squealing and stumbling over each other. In each spot, a giant fir tree was sprouting rapidly from the ground, pushing people out of the way as they grew and grew—six feet, then twelve feet, then twenty, then forty, until there were a dozen evergreens towering sixty feet over the square.
Morrigan grinned and began applauding, but Saint Nick wasn’t finished. With a click of his stubby fingers, great shiny baubles of red and gold popped out of the branches, and thousands of fairy lights sparkled among the needles. The red supporters went mad.
Jack betrayed no reaction. His eyes were fixed on the Yule Queen, waiting to see her response.
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 22