In the end, though there were mixed reactions from the Elders and certainly a lot of disapproving faces in the audience, they had no choice. Cadence Blackburn didn’t just have a knack, she had a gift. A weird, mean gift. But a gift nonetheless.
“Number one!” said Hawthorne as Cadence’s name lit up on the leaderboard, bumping Anah down to second place, Hawthorne to fifth, and Noelle to eighth.
There were only three groups of five to go. Morrigan had given up looking for Jupiter and started looking for an escape route. As soon as her failure and humiliation in the Show Trial were complete, she’d have to make a run for it.
She hadn’t seen Inspector Flintlock, but she felt certain he was somewhere in the stadium, biding his time. Waiting for her to fall on her face so he could seize his moment and arrest her.
At last the final group was called. Morrigan made her way down to the arena gates with four other candidates. Hawthorne tried to go with her, but the ever-present clipboard-toting Wundrous Society officials shooed him back to his seat.
Morrigan was on her own.
She stood in silence as the first three candidates performed. The girl with very long hair stood in the arena and—to the horror of the crowd—chopped it all off, just above her ears. Moments later the hair began to regrow itself, and in mere minutes had fully replenished to its former length. Morrigan, like everyone else in the audience, was amazed. But apparently not the Elders. As Jupiter had predicted all the way back at the Wundrous Welcome, the girl did not make it into the top nine. She heaped both piles of hair—the one on the floor and the one on her head—into her pull-along wagon and moped out of the Trollosseum.
A ballet dancer. No place on the leaderboard.
A boy who could breathe underwater. No place.
Then it was Morrigan’s turn. The Wun official held the gate open for her.
She could leave now. The thought struck her like lightning—she could just turn and walk away. This was her last chance to avoid humiliation (followed by deportation from Nevermoor, followed by certain death), and she could do it—she could spare herself what was bound to be the worst moment of her life so far—if she just turned and walked away.
Do it now, she thought. Just go.
“Ready?”
A whisper in her ear. A squeeze of her shoulder. She looked up.
A ridiculous ginger head. A pair of twinkling blue eyes. A wink.
“Yeah. I’m ready.” She hesitated and then asked—one rushed, desperate, final attempt to get an answer before everyone else in the Trollosseum knew—“What is it, Jupiter? What’s my knack?”
“Oh, that.” He blinked owlishly at her, as if she’d asked the least important question in the world. “You don’t have one.”
Then he stepped boldly into the arena, expecting her to follow.
“Captain Jupiter North presents Morrigan Crow of Nevermoor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FOUL PLAY
The mood in the Trollosseum shifted when Jupiter stepped into the arena. The hum of distracted chatter turned to whispers. People actually sat up straighter. One of the Wundrous Society’s most celebrated sons had finally taken a candidate. They were dying to see what she had a knack for, this girl who had tempted the great Jupiter North into patronage.
Morrigan was also dying, but not from curiosity.
She was dying to run, dying to hide, dying for the arena floor to explode like a volcano and engulf the whole place in a wave of molten lava. Her heart was beating out of its cage like it wanted to attack something.
Not something. Someone.
How could Jupiter do this to her? All year long Morrigan had trusted him, certain that whatever her mysterious knack was, her patron knew about it. He’d told her not to worry, that he had the whole thing in hand… and now he’d gone and thrown her under a bus.
She didn’t have a knack. She’d been right all along.
Angry tears stung her eyes, threatening to spill over. How could he?
“May I approach?” Jupiter asked the Elders. Morrigan knew, having sat through more than seventy of these by now, that this was an odd request. But Elder Quinn waved Jupiter forward.
Morrigan stood alone in the center of the hushed arena as Jupiter spoke quietly with the Elders. She looked around at the curious faces in the stands, imagining how they’d laugh when they discovered it was all a joke, that Morrigan Crow of Nevermoor had no talent at all. Or maybe they wouldn’t laugh. Maybe they’d be angry at Jupiter for wasting their time.
Not as angry as me, thought Morrigan.
Then Jupiter did something very strange.
One by one, he held Elder Quinn, Elder Wong, and Elder Saga by their shoulders and pressed his forehead to theirs. They emerged from this odd exchange blinking and dazed, shielding their eyes, and stared at Morrigan for a long time in silent astonishment.
And then Morrigan’s name went straight to number one.
The Trollosseum erupted. People leapt to their feet, shouting at the Elders, demanding an explanation for this madness, demanding to see a knack from Morrigan Crow, the wretched interloper.
Morrigan herself was so stunned that she forgot to be mad at Jupiter. She stood frozen, absorbing the deluge of fury.
Bellowed accusations of favoritism and cheating echoed in the stadium. Morrigan saw Baz Charlton running down the stands, taking the steps three at a time, shouting incomprehensibly. Everywhere Morrigan looked, people were glaring at her. She scanned the crowd for Hawthorne, wondering if he too was angry. Could her friend possibly think her a cheat?
Jupiter strode over and took her hand, sweeping her along with him through a door at the back of the arena.
“Come, Mog. Let us leave the stroppy masses to their strop.”
The greenroom backstage was blissfully empty. There were a single couch, a tray of sad-looking sandwiches, and a jug of watery lemonade. Here and there on the walls were posters for past troll fights and dragonriding tournaments. Inoffensive panpipe music played in the background.
The room’s lone attendant, a young man in a Trollosseum uniform who appeared to be at least half troll (his knuckles dragged on the floor), offered them the tray as they entered. “Sammich?” he grunted.
“No, thank you,” said Jupiter. Morrigan shook her head. The half-troll got bored and left.
Morrigan took a deep breath, clenched her hands into fists, and was just summoning the right words to express her rage when Jupiter spoke up. “I know—I know. I’m sorry. Please, Mog, I’m so sorry. I know how confusing this is.” He was all remorseful eyes, appeasing voice, and shielding hands—Don’t hurt me, don’t shoot. “But listen. It’s about to get even more confusing, and there isn’t time to explain properly now. But I swear—I swear—when this is over, I will answer each and every one of your questions in excruciating detail. But I need you to be patient and trust me, even though you might not think I deserve it, just for a little while longer. Okay?”
Morrigan wanted to yell at him, to say no, no, of course it’s not okay, it’s the opposite of okay—but she didn’t. Instead, she hooked Jupiter’s little finger forcefully with her own, looking him dead in the eye. “Every question. Excruciating detail. Pinky promise?”
“Pinky promise.”
Seconds later the doors burst open and the Elders swept in, their faces schooled and emotionless, their cloaks billowing behind them. Each wore a golden W pinned at the throat.
“How long have you known?” demanded Elder Quinn. “Obviously since before Eventide, but how long before? Days, weeks? Months? Years?”
Jupiter held up his hands. “Elder Quinn, I understand you’re surprised, but—”
“Surprised! Surprised?” The tiny old woman seemed to grow three inches as she squared off to Jupiter, pointing her finger in his face. Morrigan felt like cheering her on. You tell him, old lady. “Jupiter Amantius North, I taught your patron. I taught your patron’s patron! I’ve known you since you were eleven years old, saved you from expulsion on
countless occasions—I even recommended you to the League of Explorers, and this is how you repay me?”
“Forgive me, but what difference would it have made?” Jupiter ran a hand through his hair, shrinking a little as the older woman paced angrily before him. “What could you have done about it? Could you have changed anything?”
Elder Quinn sputtered and stopped in her tracks. “Well—no, of course not, but a bit of warning would have been nice! I’m an old woman, North, you might have given me a heart attack out there.”
A heart attack? Morrigan’s eyes found Jupiter’s; what had he shown the Elders that was so shocking?
He looked guilty. “I’m sorry, Elder Quinn. I just didn’t want to do anything that might disrupt the gathering, I didn’t know if—I mean, it’s not exactly…” He trailed off with a helpless shrug. “I’ve never done this before.”
“When did the gathering begin?” asked Elder Wong, staring at Morrigan.
“Hard to pinpoint,” said Jupiter. “A year or two ago? Winter of Ten, perhaps, or Spring of Eleven? I’ve been paying staff in the Crow household for information here and there—tutors, cleaners, that sort of thing. Trouble is, they’re all so superstitious, it’s hard to sort out actual Wundrous events from silly stories. The cook was convinced Morrigan had killed the gardener by sneezing on him. Ridiculous.”
“Were there others?” asked Elder Quinn.
“Others?” Jupiter looked at her in surprise.
She raised an eyebrow. “You know exactly what I am asking you, North.”
“Right, others.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Three others registered.”
“And they…?”
“Didn’t show any signs,” Jupiter said resolutely. “Not worth pursuing.” Morrigan frowned. Three others registered…Was he talking about the three other children on the Cursed Children’s Register? Had he saved her and left them to the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow because they were “not worth pursuing”? She didn’t want to believe that.
“And aside from your superstitious household spies, North,” said Elder Wong, “any hard evidence?”
“According to the Wintersea News Network, Wunder shortages in Southlight and Far East Sang began around eighteen months ago. Yet from Winter of Ten through Winter of Eleven, Morrigan’s hometown experienced record highs in Wunder density and remained untouched by the Republic’s energy crisis. Until Eventide, that is, when Wunder readings in Jackalfax showed a sudden drop.” He paused, his eyes flickering over to Morrigan. “Eventide night, to be precise. Around nine o’clock.”
When you saved my life, thought Morrigan. When we escaped Jackalfax through the Skyfaced Clock. What did the Wunder shortages have to do with her?
“How in heaven’s name did you get her into the Free State?” asked Elder Quinn, then changed her mind. “Wait. Forget it—I don’t want to know. I’m sure it’s something illegal.”
Jupiter pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Elder Quinn. Truly I am. Like I said, I was scared to do anything that might disturb the gathering—I know it’s stupid, I know it makes me just as silly and superstitious as the Crows’ kitchen staff, but I worried that if I spoke of it aloud, I might… scare it off.”
“Well, perhaps that might have been for the best,” muttered Elder Saga, the great shaggy bull. Elder Quinn cut him off with a sharp look. Morrigan had to literally bite her own tongue to hold back the thousand questions that had been burning inside her since this conversation began.
“So I didn’t tell a soul.” Jupiter looked at the ground. “Not even Morrigan.”
The Elders went silent. Elder Quinn looked horrified, turning from Jupiter to Morrigan and back again. “You cannot mean—are you saying the child doesn’t even know—”
“Really, North, this is unacceptable, entirely against Society rules,” huffed Elder Saga. “To enter a child into the trials without her knowing why—unheard of! If your patron were here—”
“What about a safeguard pact?” Elder Wong interrupted. “We’ve just allowed a dangerous entity into the Society and nobody has thought to inquire about a safeguard.”
“I’m not dangerous,” Morrigan objected, while a tiny voice in the back of her head said… Yes, you are. You’re cursed. Was that what the Elders were talking about? Jupiter had told her all those months ago that she wasn’t cursed, that she’d never been cursed. Had that been a lie, too?
“Oh, this is absurd. Gregoria, Alioth—are we insane? What have we done?” Elder Wong threw his hands up. “There isn’t a citizen in the entire realm who would sign such a pact, let alone three reputable, upstanding—”
“Three?” boomed Elder Saga. “Heavens, no. A three-signatory safeguard would be fine were the child merely a conjurer of hurricanes or a mesmerist or some ordinary dangerous entity. For this, I suggest five signatories.”
Dangerous entity. Morrigan wished they’d stop saying that.
“Nine,” said Elder Quinn. Saga and Wong looked at her in surprise. “And that’s nonnegotiable, Captain North. We cannot accept fewer than nine signatories. Not for a—” she cut herself off, shooting Morrigan a fretful glance. “Not for this.”
“We might as well take her name off the leaderboard now,” said Elder Wong. “He’ll never get nine.”
“I have seven so far.”
The Elders looked taken aback. Jupiter retrieved a scroll of paper from his coat and handed it over. Morrigan tried to catch a glimpse, but he was too fast.
Elder Quinn raised an eyebrow as she examined the scroll. “Senator Silverback? Queen Cal? You do have friends in high places. And they don’t know—?”
“They know enough to be sufficiently warned,” said Jupiter. Morrigan thought she detected a tiny amount of doubt creeping into his voice. “But… no, nothing specific.”
“But they have met the child?”
“They will,” Jupiter assured her. “Soon. I promise.”
“They certainly trust you. And they appear to be qualified, at least,” said Elder Quinn, trailing her finger down the list.
“Qualified for what?” asked Morrigan, unable to keep quiet any longer. But if any of the adults heard her they paid no attention.
Elder Saga turned to Jupiter. “None of this matters, North, if you cannot find an eighth and ninth signatory.”
Jupiter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m trying, believe me. That’s why I was late to the trials today, I thought I had an eighth but it fell through. If I could just have a few more days—”
“I will sign the pact,” said Elder Quinn. The other Elders looked at her with alarm. “It’s not against the rules.”
“This is highly unusual, Gregoria,” said Elder Wong. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain.” She pulled a pen from the folds of her cloak and signed her name briskly at the bottom of the scroll. “At least someone on this list will know what they’re getting themselves into. Send me the paperwork this evening, North.”
Jupiter was momentarily silent, his mouth hanging open in shock. “I—th-thank you, Elder Quinn. Really—thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Elder Quinn sighed deeply. “I doubt that very much, dear. Nevertheless, we shall give you until Inauguration Day to find your ninth signatory. If you cannot find one, Miss Crow’s place in Unit 919 will be forfeit. That’s the best I can do.”
They left the Trollosseum through labyrinthine halls plastered with old posters and photographs of famous troll fights, Morrigan fighting to keep up with Jupiter’s urgent pace.
“I’m sending you and Jack back to the Deucalion with Fenestra, Mog,” he said, three or four steps ahead of her. “I’ve got to get that last signature, and I’m running out of options. I have one last lead, but it’s a long shot, and I need—”
“But you promised to tell me—”
“I know I did, and I will, but—”
“There they are! I found them!”
Baz Charlton stomped down the
hallway, followed by a flouncing, furious Noelle Devereaux, a bored-looking Cadence Blackburn, and the smuggest moustache in all of Nevermoor—Inspector Flintlock. Behind them, at least a dozen brown-uniformed officers of the Stink.
“Foul play!” cried Mr. Charlton, pointing at Jupiter and shaking with self-righteous rage. “Arrest these people, Inspector! Foul play! What was that, eh? What’d you do to the Elders? Some sort of sorcery?”
Jupiter tried to push past. “Not now, Baz, I don’t have time for your blithering.”
“Oh yes you do have time for my blithering!” said Mr. Charlton, moving to block him. “You might have hoodwinked the Elders, North, but you can’t fool me. You two have stolen the rightful place of my candidate, Noelle.” He pointed fiercely at Morrigan, who was surprised—last she’d seen, Noelle was still in ninth place on the leaderboard. One of the last two candidates must have bumped her off. Morrigan tried not to smile. “This little black-eyed beast doesn’t belong in the Society, and I’ll be going straight to the Elders to tell them that she’s—”
“That she’s a filthy illegal,” interrupted Inspector Flintlock, hitching his pants up and puffing out his chest. He looked back at the other officers, making sure he had their full attention. His moment had arrived, and he was going to savor it. “Smuggled in from the Republic and enjoying unlawful refuge in the den of a criminal element.”
Jupiter looked pleased. “I’ve never been called a criminal element before. How exciting.”
“Shut up,” snapped Flintlock. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and held it up for them to see. “I’ve got a warrant here. Now, I want to see some hard, physical proof that she is who you say she is, that she belongs in the Free State and isn’t just Republic scum trying to take advantage of our hospitality, or worse—spy on us for the Wintersea Party.”
“Come on, Flinty, this is embarrassing now,” Jupiter said impatiently. “I told you already—Wundrous Society members are outside your jurisdiction. You could lose your badge for this, pal.”
“That would be true, pal, were it not for the fact that the trials have now ended,” said Flintlock, looking extremely pleased with himself. He pulled out a second piece of paper and read from it. “You need to brush up on your Wun Law handbook, North. Article ninety-seven, clause H: ‘A winning candidate is not an official member of the Wundrous Society until receiving his or her golden pin on completion of the unit inauguration ceremony, and until that time his or her provisional membership may be revoked without due process if deemed necessary and appropriate by the High Council of Elders.’”
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 27