Hawthorne and his dragon soared in a wide circle above the arena before beginning their show in earnest. Hawthorne yelled a command Morrigan couldn’t quite make out and dug his heels into the animal’s sides, and they were off—rolling into tight somersaults, swooping over the stands, and taking steep dives down to the ground, only to pull back at the last second. They sped in a straight line with the dragon’s wings outstretched as Hawthorne stood up on its back, mimicking the movement with his own arms out, as if he were flying. Then he abruptly took his saddle and called out a command, and the dragon pulled its wings in tight and tumbled over in a 360-degree turn before outstretching its wings again without losing any height at all.
Morrigan had never seen Hawthorne like this—completely confident and in control, as if he were doing the thing he was born for. Shoulders back, eyes ahead. He commanded the dragon masterfully; it could have been an extension of his own body. Hawthorne was every bit the champion Nan Dawson had described.
The response of the audience confirmed it. Everyone—including the Elders—was in Hawthorne’s thrall, gasping and screaming as he sped downward to the ground and cheering when he pulled out of a dive or glided around the Trollosseum stands mere inches above their heads.
Morrigan was surprised by her friend’s talent. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed Hawthorne would be good, exactly. It was just that this poised, dazzling dragonrider was hard to reconcile with the boy who had once spent an afternoon showing her how he could make fart noises with his armpits.
As his final flourish, Hawthorne used the dragon’s fire-breathing mechanism to write his initials in the sky with smoke before coming to land neatly in the arena.
The audience and the Elders leapt to their feet to cheer Hawthorne as he climbed down off the dragon’s back and took a bow. Nobody cheered more loudly than Morrigan.
The Elders conferred briefly but seemed to be in perfect agreement; Hawthorne’s name went straight to the number one spot.
But the quality of the trials stalled again after that, and nobody from the next three groups was added to the top nine.
Finally it was time for the candidate Morrigan had been waiting all year to see. When Baz Charlton announced “Noelle Devereaux of the Silver District,” Noelle entered the arena like a queen at court. After a minute of preening she opened her mouth to sing, and it was like a choir of angels had exploded and spewed stardust over the Trollosseum.
There were no words to the song. It was a cloud of melody—a clear, sweet lullaby that seemed to surround Morrigan like a bubble of perfect contentment. A quick look around told her she wasn’t the only one; there were glazed eyes and tranquil smiles everywhere, as if Noelle’s voice had cast a strange, blissful spell. Morrigan never wanted the song to end. She had to admit that Noelle’s knack was truly, breathtakingly good.
How annoying.
The entire stadium—even Morrigan—applauded wildly as Noelle bowed and curtsied, blowing kisses into the crowd and beaming at the Elders. Hawthorne nudged Morrigan and made gagging noises, but it was too late for that. She’d already seen him wipe away a sneaky tear when the song ended.
Elder Quinn waved a fragile hand at the leaderboard and the names rearranged themselves so that Noelle the songbird was now in second place behind Hawthorne, with Shepherd the dog whisperer close behind. Noelle’s face fell for the briefest moment, as though disappointed she wasn’t number one, but she quickly recovered her poise and left the arena with her nose high in the air.
Morrigan’s stomach dropped. Noelle was going to get into the Society. Popular, talented Noelle was going to be in Unit 919, and so was Hawthorne, and they’d become best friends. Hawthorne would forget all about Morrigan, and Morrigan would have to leave Nevermoor, and Jupiter, and all her friends at the Hotel Deucalion, and she’d never see them again. She knew it. The certainty of it took her breath away, just as if a big, depressed elephant had sat on her chest.
Hawthorne seemed to know what she was thinking. (Maybe not the depressed elephant bit.)
“It’s easier to rank high near the beginning,” he said, elbowing her in the ribs as he took a long slurp of peppermint fizz. “There are plenty of people left to knock Noelle off the board. They’ll probably knock me off too.”
Morrigan knew he was just being modest, but she appreciated it all the same. “You know you’ll get in,” she said, elbowing him back. “You were amazing.”
As the afternoon wore on, Hawthorne’s prediction seemed unlikely. Although Shepherd quickly dropped out of the top nine, Noelle only went down two places. Ahead of her was Hawthorne, who’d dropped to second place, and in third was a boy named Mahir Ibrahim, who performed a long soliloquy in thirty-seven different languages with what Elder Quinn declared “perfect intonation.”
Currently in first place was Anah—the plump, pretty girl with golden ringlets, whom Morrigan remembered from the Wundrous Welcome. With her faded yellow dress, patent leather shoes, and hair tied back in a bow, Anah looked like she was off to Sunday school… which left Morrigan utterly unprepared for her unusual talent.
Anah’s patron, a woman called Sumati Mishra, boasted that her candidate had a knack for knowing the human body. To prove this, she volunteered to lie down on a metal hospital gurney while Anah sliced her open with a scalpel, removed her appendix, and sewed her back up again with neat, tiny stitches. Most extraordinarily, Anah did all this blindfolded.
Morrigan found it tremendously satisfying to watch Noelle Devereaux’s face drop when Anah went straight to first place and bumped her down to fourth.
The trials continued with mixed results as candidate after candidate took the nerve-racking walk to the center of the arena. Some were confident and brash, others looked like they were praying for the arena floor to open up and swallow them.
One frightened girl trembled so violently that she appeared to fade into the air, becoming incorporeal from the sheer terror of stage fright. Luckily, that was her knack—becoming incorporeal. She shimmered like a milky, pearlescent ghost in the sunshine and demonstrated her intangibility by walking straight through the Elders’ table. The audience was impressed. Gradually the girl’s confidence grew.
Unfortunately, it seemed her talent stemmed from her terror, because once she felt more comfortable and began enjoying the limelight, her body became substantial again. On her return journey through the Elders’ table, she bumped right into it and sent a jug of water flying over Elder Wong. She didn’t make it onto the leaderboard.
Meanwhile, Morrigan tried to quell the anxiety that had been growing in the pit of her stomach. Between each performance she scanned the rows of patrons.
“Where is he?” she muttered.
“He’ll be here.” Hawthorne offered her some of his popcorn, which she refused. “Jupiter would never miss your last trial.”
“What if he doesn’t make it?”
“He’ll make it.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Morrigan repeated over the roar of the crowd as Lin Mai-Ling ran a speedy twelve-second lap of the Trollosseum, then stamped her feet in frustration when the Elders waved her away kindly. The audience groaned in sympathy. “I don’t even know what my knack is supposed to be! How am I supposed to do my trial without him?”
“Look, he’ll make it, all right? But if he doesn’t…” Hawthorne craned his neck, looking around the stadium. “If he doesn’t, I’ll come down into the arena with you. We’ll think of something.”
Morrigan raised one eyebrow. “Like what?”
He chewed his popcorn and thought seriously for a moment. “Can you make fart noises with your armpits?”
The sun set behind the Trollosseum grandstands and the floodlights turned on. In Morrigan’s head they were like giant spotlights, designed to cast a very bright glow on her public humiliation.
The rankings shifted constantly, and the candidates in the top nine anxiously watched the leaderboard. Every time a new candidate was ranked, there were groans or tears or tantrums from th
e candidate who was bumped out of the top nine.
Morrigan glanced down at Noelle, two rows below, chewing her fingernails and glancing every five seconds at the leaderboard. She was now clinging to seventh position.
Just ahead of Noelle was a boy Morrigan recognized from the Book Trial, Francis Fitzwilliam, who’d whipped up a seven-course dinner for the judges. Each course took them on a roller coaster of heightened emotions that was bizarre to watch: from severe paranoia after a dish of grilled octopus to gales of gleeful laughter brought on by a blueberry soufflé.
In fifth place was Thaddea Macleod, a brawny redheaded girl from the Highlands who defeated a full-sized adult troll in single combat.
Hawthorne had dropped to fourth place, just behind a small, angelic-looking boy called Archan Tate. Archan was a violinist, and as he played he moved nimbly all around the stadium and through the rows of seats without missing a note.
He was very good, but the Elders didn’t seem inclined to add him to the leaderboard… until the very last moment, when sweet-faced Archan revealed his true talent. With a slightly sheepish grin, he emptied his pockets of what turned out to be quite a lot of jewelry, wallets, watches, and coins that he’d managed to purloin while playing the violin. Morrigan was deeply impressed. He’d even swiped Elder Quinn’s earring, right out of her ear!
Hawthorne didn’t seem at all put out that a pickpocket had ranked above him. If anything, he was delighted by Archan’s knack, even after realizing his own leather dragonriding gloves were among the pile of pilfered loot that the boy was now returning, piece by piece, to its rightful owners. “How did he do that?” Hawthorne kept saying, grinning widely and examining his gloves as if they might give him a clue.
Morrigan was about to say for the twenty-seventh time that she didn’t know, and would he please stop asking, when she saw Noelle’s sidekick enter the arena with Baz Charlton.
“That’s her.” Morrigan nudged Hawthorne. “That’s the girl we saw in the courtyard during the Fright Trial. Remember? Oh, what was her name…?”
She was the eighth candidate Mr. Charlton had presented that day; of his group it was Noelle who’d come the furthest. Morrigan looked at Noelle; she was watching her friend with a blank, disinterested expression—like she was just any other candidate.
Hawthorne shook his head. “What are you going on about?”
“Do you really not remember her?”
“Remember who?”
Bored, distracted murmurs rippled through the rows of candidates when Baz Charlton announced his candidate as Cadence Blackburn of Nevermoor. His voice was nearly drowned out by the restless audience talking among themselves. But unlike everybody else, Morrigan was paying close attention.
“Cadence! That’s her name. I forgot. How did I forget that?” Morrigan said to Hawthorne, who shrugged.
“Proceed,” said Elder Quinn, pouring herself a cup of tea. The Elders too were beginning to show signs of weariness; after several hours of judging, there were glances at wristwatches, chins leaning in hands, and long, openmouthed yawns.
Baz Charlton gestured to somebody in a small windowed room at the top of the stands. The floodlights dimmed, throwing the audience into darkness, and a film was projected onto the big screens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE MESMERIST
The scene that flickered into life was one Morrigan recognized: Proudfoot House gardens, on the day of the Wundrous Welcome. The camera panned shakily across the sunny lawn and bustling dessert buffet queue, before zooming in on two people: Noelle and Cadence. They stood near a huge green gelatin sculpture, which Morrigan also recognized. Hawthorne was a few steps behind them, predictably piling his plate high with cake and pastries.
“Tacky,” Noelle was saying on the screen. She poked the gelatin, making a face. “Horrid. Who serves this stuff at a party? We’re not in nursery school.”
“Right,” Cadence replied. She had been about to grasp one of the miniature molded gelatins surrounding the bright green behemoth, but she changed strategy at the last second and began spooning bread pudding into her dish instead. “Tacky. They’re so stu—”
“Mother would have a fit,” Noelle continued, talking over Cadence. “Can you believe they’re making us serve ourselves, Katie?”
“It’s… Cadence,” said the other girl, her face falling. “Remember?”
“Do you know how many servants the Wundrous Society employs?” Noelle continued as if she hadn’t heard. “And they put on a buffet? Don’t they know buffets are for poor people?”
Something flickered in Cadence’s eyes but was quickly gone. “Yeah, exactly,” she said, her hand hovering over a serving spoon, suddenly unsure.
“Forget it. Come on.” Noelle dropped her own dish in the middle of the table, then snatched Cadence’s pudding from her and tipped it upside down on top of a delicious-looking chocolate fudge cake. She flounced out of the tent, evidently expecting her friend to follow.
Cadence took one longing look at her ruined pudding, breathed in deeply, and made an abrupt turn, coming face-to-face with Hawthorne, who’d overheard everything and was trying not to laugh.
Cadence leaned in close to Hawthorne and spoke in the same flat, husky voice Morrigan remembered her using on the twins at the Book Trial, and again on the Society official at the Chase Trial.
“Don’t you think somebody ought to drop that big green thing right on her head?”
Hawthorne nodded solemnly.
Morrigan turned to the real Hawthorne sitting beside her. He looked deeply confused. “I don’t remember that,” he murmured.
The scene changed to show Noelle, Cadence, and a group of children—including Morrigan—gathered on the front steps of Proudfoot House. The image was partially blocked by a blur of green leaves. Morrigan supposed that the camera—and the person holding it—had been hidden behind a tree.
“Is that your knack?” Noelle was saying to Morrigan on the screen. “Using big words?”
Cadence giggled helplessly, but not—as Morrigan had thought at the time—at Noelle’s cruelty. She kept glancing upward, to where Hawthorne was positioning himself in the window with the gelatin. She was laughing at what was about to happen to Noelle.
“I thought it must be wearing horrible clothes or being as ugly as a gutter rat.”
The real Morrigan sitting in the Trollosseum stands felt her face flush. It’d been bad enough hearing that the first time, surrounded by a dozen strangers. Hearing it again in the presence of hundreds was close to torture. She slid down in her seat, trying to make herself invisible.
The scene unfolded as Morrigan remembered it, climaxing with Hawthorne’s magnificent gelatin drop, at which point the Trollosseum exploded with laughter. Hawthorne grinned at Morrigan.
“Might not have been my idea, but it was still brilliant.”
Several rows in front of them, Noelle was glaring at the screen and shaking her head, her eyes narrowed to slits. She seemed utterly shocked—obviously she’d had no idea about the knack of her so-called friend.
The next few minutes of film showed an incredible scene in which Cadence wandered down a posh street with a can of bright red spray paint in her hand, spraying rude words and pictures all along the immaculate white façades of the houses. By the time she was stopped by a brown-coated officer of the Stink, almost the entire street had been vandalized.
“Stop right there! What do you think you’re doing, you little menace?”
“Art,” she said flatly.
“Oh, art, is it?” the officer asked, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “Looks like crime to me. Maybe I should slap you in handcuffs!”
“Maybe you should slap yourself in handcuffs,” Cadence suggested. And the woman did, tightening them around her own wrists without a second thought.
Cadence put the can of spray paint into her hands. “Number twelve needs a bit more red. Have a nice day.”
“Have a nice day, ma’am.” With that final, dead-eyed
statement, the officer’s gaze slid past Cadence like oil over water and landed on the glossy white front door of number twelve, which didn’t stay white for much longer.
It was extraordinary, the things Cadence could make people do. It wasn’t nice, Morrigan thought, it wasn’t decent or honest—but it was extraordinary.
Morrigan had the uncomfortable experience of watching herself on the big screen yet again when Cadence’s film showed the debacle of the Chase Trial in its entirety, from the stampeding rhinoceros to Fen’s daring rescue to the moment of devastation when Cadence convinced the race official that it was she who ought to go through to the Fright Trial and not Morrigan.
But the film went further. It showed another conversation, a very different one, in which Cadence convinced the official that one of the unicorns was in fact a Pegasus in disguise. She pointed to its glowing silver horn—the perfect specimen of a genuine unicorn horn—and said, “See? Someone’s glued an upside-down ice cream cone onto its head. I can’t believe you didn’t spot this earlier. And its wings have been tucked away.” She pointed to the unicorn’s flawless white flank, which was decidedly wingless.
Morrigan was speechless. It was Cadence who’d gotten her through to the Fright Trial. She’d snatched away Morrigan’s spot and then given it back to her—just like that. Why? Did she feel guilty?
Scene after scene of manipulation and trickery followed. The film showed that it was Cadence who had convinced the high-five twins, way back at their very first trial at Proudfoot House, to quit before they’d begun. She’d even persuaded Elder Wong to act like a chicken during her Book Trial (a scene that was received with uproarious laughter from everyone but Elder Wong).
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 26