PRAISE FOR

Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow

Exciting, charming and wonderfully imagined, it’s the sort of delightful, grand adventure destined to be many a reader’s favourite book.

— Trenton Lee Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of The Mysterious Benedict Society series and The Secret Keepers

Will hook readers aged 10 and up with intricate, imaginative detail and its sheer energy … a compulsively readable romp.

— Books+Publishing

Exciting, mysterious, marvellous and magical … quite simply one of the best children’s books I’ve read in years.

— Robin Stevens, author of Murder Most Unladylike

Readers, like Morrigan herself, will feel at home in this evocative novel where magic and confidence go hand in hand. An excellent and exciting work.

— School Library Journal

Enter the world of Nevermoor and its fantastical inhabitants, and be utterly enchanted.

— Courier-Mail

Fearsome and funny and original, it’s requisite reading for fantasy lovers of all ages.

— Libby Hathorn, CBCA Award-winning author of Thunderwith

The Nevermoor series

Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow

Wundersmith: The Calling of Morrigan Crow

Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow

Silverborn: The Mystery of Morrigan Crow

Dedicated with love to all the mothers who are missed.

Most especially to Mary Munday, Dianne Gordon
and Ingrid Hansen, who raised three of the most
Wundrous women in my life.

CHAPTER ONE

The Changing of the Skyfaced Clocks

Spring’s Eve, Winter of Three

Winter’s last midnight ticked closer.

A cluster of clocksmiths idled outside the Nevermoor Houses of Parliament, watching and waiting. The sky above them was black and filled with stars, but the Skyfaced Clock in its tower wore a pale wash of Morningtide pink, unchanged these past three years.

Across town, a second group of observers gathered in Bohemia beneath a similar clock set atop a glittering music hall, surrounded by a crush of Spring’s Eve revellers. A third stood beneath the old mercantile clock tower at the docks, ignoring the sailors and fisherfolk roaring obscene shanties from brightly lit boats. A fourth lingered near the small, almost hidden clock above the stone entrance to the Gobleian Library, and a fifth stood outside the Lightwing Palace, eyeing the royal family’s extravagant golden timepiece from a respectful distance.

There were more of these uncommon clocks scattered across the pockets of the Free State. Their faces bore no hands or numbers, only a circle of empty sky inside the glass. Tonight, every one of them had drawn an audience.

Olly Wainwright was on his way to the parliament clock tower himself, clutching a leather portfolio under one arm, beating a path through the festive hordes and very nearly running late (not a good look for a clocksmith’s apprentice). He should have realised the streets would be heaving, though in truth he’d never been allowed out on Spring’s Eve before. His mum always said it was a time for family, but even she agreed this was much more important than seeing in the new year with his obnoxious brothers and noisy cousins. This was official clocksmith business.

Olly arrived breathless and bright-eyed outside parliament, and scanned the crowd for his teacher. Spotting her surrounded by other chronologists, he slicked back his hair, neatened his bowtie, and made his way over to stand proudly at her side.

Just three months into his four-year apprenticeship, Olly had already learned more from Alejandra Rojas than all his previous school teachers combined. She was one of Nevermoor’s greatest living clocksmiths, and Olly knew how lucky he was to be learning the trade from an industry legend. He only hoped he hadn’t messed it up already.

‘So sorry I’m late, Ms Rojas,’ he whispered. ‘The Brolly Rail was ridiculous, I had to let four of them go—’

But she was already deep in conversation.

‘… and nobody wants a repeat of last Eventide, but I really believe we need to let all that go and allow ourselves to be bold again, don’t you?’

There was a general noise of assent from the others, except for one older gentleman who shook his head, puffing up like a pigeon in a rainstorm. ‘I am simply not convinced, Alejandra. The signs are weak, if you ask me.’

‘Your scepticism has been noted, Sir Benjamin.’ Ms Rojas flicked a furtive smirk in her apprentice’s direction, and Olly pretended to scratch his nose to hide a grin. Sir Benjamin Church had been knighted for his work in chronology, but was most famous for being a contrarian. ‘Though one might wonder, if you truly don’t believe the clocks will change tonight, why you’re here at all?’

The group laughed appreciatively, and even the old man gave a sheepish smile.

‘Curiosity,’ he admitted. ‘And a fear of missing out. I’ve been wrong before, after all.’

‘We’ve all been wrong before,’ said Ms Rojas.

There was an uncomfortable murmur among the clocksmiths, and for a moment nobody could make eye contact. They had all been wrong, only three years ago. Publicly, spectacularly wrong. The embarrassment of last Eventide – the end of the previous Age, which had come seemingly from nowhere, an entire year earlier than anyone had forecast – still stung. Nobody wanted to be wrong again. That sort of inaccurate projection could sink a clocksmith’s career.

‘But if we’re right …’ Ms Rojas let her words trail off like an untethered balloon.

Olly knew exactly what she was leaving unsaid, and he shivered with excitement. If they were right, the bells would toll at midnight and the realm would enter a glorious and treacherous new phase.

Basking: the second phase of the Age.

The empty skies inside the clockfaces would turn from the pastel rose of dawn to the blinding yellow-gold of the sun at midday. The colour was a warning. Historically, Basking brought equal splendours and dangers, just like the heat and brightness of the midday sun. It was a time of high-risk and high-reward; a time when a course for the current Age could – would – be set, for better or worse.

Ms Rojas had once told Olly that the face of Basking was like a roulette wheel. A wheel of fate. You had to let it spin, and hope it landed somewhere good.

‘It will happen tonight, friends, I’m sure of it.’ Shimmering with excitement, Ms Rojas nodded at Olly, who took his cue to open the leather portfolio he’d carried from her office. ‘The measurable signs have all been observed, yes? Look here – planetary alignment, confirmed. Climatological conditions, perfect. Geopolitical landscape, primed for sweeping change.’ As she spoke, Olly handed her the relevant supporting documents to pass around the group. Sir Benjamin gave them a sceptical squint.

‘And of course,’ Ms Rojas went on, ‘I think most of us agree we’ve already seen the first two Disturbances.’

Old Sir Benjamin gave an indignant huff, but the rest of the group nodded eagerly.

Olly had only recently learned about the Disturbances: three unusual, spontaneous and highly visible events which signalled – to those who knew what to look for – that the phase of Morningtide was coming to an end. The kind of signs that clocksmiths watched for, waited for, obsessed over, but most regular folk had never heard of. Ms Rojas made Olly memorise them on the first day of his apprenticeship.

The First Disturbance is a Rising Tide.

The Second Disturbance is a Falling Star.

The Third Disturbance is a Waking Giant.

‘Are we in agreement?’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘You lot can’t even seem to decide what the Rising Tide was.’

Ms Rojas smiled. ‘Well, I’m decided. It was quite obviously the Hollowpox. A mysterious wave of sickness sweeping through nearly the entire Wunimal population bears all the typical markers—’

‘That’s an obscenely Nevermoor-centric view and you know it,’ interrupted a woman in a green tweed coat. ‘The Hollowpox was contained before it affected anyone outside the capital, which doesn’t fit the universality of a Rising Tide at all. Additionally, the First Disturbance is typically an ongoing event and therefore, in my opinion, can only be the mounting unrest in the outer pockets of the Free State. Dafydd, tell her what you were saying earlier. Go on, man.’

She poked the younger clocksmith. His cheeks turned bright pink and he cleared his throat, looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘I— Well, I was only saying … That is, I’ve heard whispers of a call for reunion. You know, between us living here in the Free State and, er … the Wintersea Republic. My cousin lives near the Black Cliffs, and she says there’s a growing movement in the Sixth and Seventh Pockets—’

Alejandra snorted. ‘I’m not sure a handful of grumbling cliff-dwellers qualifies as a movement, Dafydd, but all right – let’s accept that the First Disturbance could be either the Hollowpox or this so-called unrest in the outer pockets. Moving on. We are all on the same page regarding the Second Disturbance, yes?’

Alejandra pulled several newspaper articles from the portfolio and handed them round the group; this time there was wholehearted agreement.

BRIGHT YOUNG STAR OF THE DRAGONRIDING WORLD KILLED BEFORE WINTER TRIALS

‘HEARTBREAKING WASTE OF PHENOMENAL TALENT,’ SAYS COACH OF MURDERED RIDER

SLAIN IN HIS PRIME: THE TRAGIC MURDER OF DRAGONRIDING’S MOST PROMISING YOUNG ATHLETE

‘Such a textbook example of a Falling Star,’ said Ms Rojas, ‘one might call it a little on the nose.’

‘And the Third Disturbance?’ Sir Benjamin’s question was met with silence. ‘Ah. Is this perhaps where your theory disintegrates, Alejandra? Where is our Waking Giant? We have, after all, only minutes to go.’

Olly glanced at his watch. Sir Benjamin was right. If a giant was to wake, it would wake tonight, on Spring’s Eve. There’d been plenty of speculation as to what it could be – something meteorological or political, most seemed to think, though one expert had warned of a dormant volcano in the Highlands that was due for an eruption.

‘You know as well as I do, Sir Benjamin: when it comes to the Third Disturbance, guesswork ahead of time is pointless.’ Ms Rojas shrugged. ‘We’ll know at midnight.’

As the hour drew nearer, nervous hands stilled. Silence descended. Olly dared not even blink.

When midnight finally arrived, a hurricane of held breaths was released into the air.

Pink turned to gold.

The Basking bells began to ring.

Hugs were shared and shouts of triumph rang in the air, and as his teacher clapped him joyously on the back, young Olly Wainwright felt a kind of excitement and belonging he’d never felt before.

Only in a tiny back room of his mind did he feel the slightest sense of unease. Just a prickle on his neck. A strange, quiet discomfort from the knowledge that somewhere, a giant had woken.

CHAPTER TWO

Nightbeacons and Fireblossoms

Four Months Earlier

Hallowmas, Autumn of Three

They lit the candles from the fireblossom trees this year. It was Morrigan Crow’s first time marching in the Black Parade on Hallowmas night, so she wasn’t sure how the Wundrous Society usually did it – regular old matches, she supposed. It gave her a small thrill of pride to see the brass candleholders passed from hand to hand, each wick held up to a low-hanging branch in its blazing autumnal coat of orange and gold.

I did that, she thought with satisfaction. The ever-burning trees lining the driveway up to her school building, Proudfoot House, had been bare, black-limbed spindly things for over one hundred years. Cold and dead. She’d brought them back to life using the Wundrous Art of Inferno – a power she couldn’t quite fathom and a skill she hadn’t entirely mastered, though her grasp of both grew stronger every day.

And here they were, weeks later. Still burning brightly.

‘Loving yourself sick right now, aren’t you?’ said Cadence Blackburn, following Morrigan’s gaze up to the trees. Her face was deadpan, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Just carve your name into the trunks and be done with it.’

‘Shush,’ Morrigan muttered, shoving her friend in the side.

Together they watched an older Society member reach up to a fireblossom branch, a black wax candle held in his trembling hand. The wick flared into life, illuminating the man’s sad smile.

Extremely rare and valuable, the long-burning ‘nightbeacon’ candles were brought out of storage every year for Hallowmas and carried into the grounds in a heavy wooden chest. The nightbeacons had an actual job to do that night, but they also played an important symbolic role in the Black Parade. Each one represented a member of the Wundrous Society who had died, and was carried by a member of their own unit who marched in their memory. Morrigan wondered who the old man was remembering. She tried not to imagine lighting a candle for anyone in Unit 919. The friends she’d met three years ago were now her siblings, and the idea of any of them not being by her side was unthinkable.

She shivered, pulling her heavy cloak tighter against a sudden sharp breeze. Autumn had curled its bony fingers tight around Wunsoc and strangled every breath of warmth from it, and tonight it felt as if winter wasn’t far behind.

But any displeasure Morrigan might have felt at the cold was smothered by her nervous anticipation of the Black Parade. Hundreds of members of the Wundrous Society stood in rows with their respective units, the formation stretching all the way up the long tree-lined drive, ending on the broad marble steps of Proudfoot House. They were waiting for a signal from the Elders and then they’d be off, through the gates and along the memorised parade route through Nevermoor.

On Morrigan’s other side, Hawthorne Swift was chatting with Mahir Ibrahim and fidgeting as if he had itching powder in his trousers. When he hitched up his cloak to adjust the clothes underneath, Morrigan caught a confusing glimpse of brown fur and plastic talons.

‘What in the Seven Pockets are you wearing?’ Mahir demanded, before Morrigan could open her mouth. ‘We’re supposed to be in uniform!’

‘On Hallowmas?’ said Hawthorne with disdain, picking a stray bit of lint off his furry chest. ‘No, thank you. I’m ditching this cloak as soon as we get to the end of the parade route. I won’t waste another second of my night not being a werewolf. You not wearing yours?’

Morrigan snorted. ‘Hawthorne, nobody’s wearing a costume yet except you.’

He raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly over Morrigan’s shoulder. She turned to see Cadence briefly open her cloak, showing a glimpse of an old-fashioned ivory lace frock and two painted bite marks on her neck, dripping with red.

‘I’m a vampire,’ Cadence said flatly. ‘Grr.’

On Mahir’s other side was Francis Fitzwilliam, whose eyes darted around restlessly, though the rest of him was frozen like a rabbit in a hunter’s beam, and on his other side was Lambeth Amara – perfectly still, small and solemn, perhaps the most dignified thirteen-year-old Morrigan had ever met.

‘I don’t want to march in the Black Parade,’ Francis whispered. ‘It gives me the heebie-jeebies.’

‘Oh, it’ll be fine,’ Mahir said in what sounded to Morrigan like a deliberately hearty, bracing tone. ‘Nothing bad’s going to happen. Right, Lam?’

Lam looked up in surprise. ‘How should I know?’

‘You’re the one who’s meant to … you know.’ Mahir made a vague wiggly fingered gesture around her head. ‘See what’s coming!’

‘Some things,’ she corrected him. ‘Not everything. I’m a short-range oracle, Mahir, not the weather report. Anything could happen.’

On Lam’s other side, Thaddea Macleod towered above the rest of their unit, shoulders back and eyes ahead, blazing with pride and eager to get going. Next to her, Anah Kahlo was a bundle of nervous excitement and had been told three times already by the older scholar behind her to stop bouncing on her toes. Finally, on the end of Unit 919’s row was Archan Tate, who’d chivalrously insisted on swapping spots with Anah, taking the outside position himself. He’d said it was in case of any shenanigans from the crowd, but they all knew it wasn’t the people in the crowd Arch was worried about. Not the living ones.

Morrigan craned her neck to look up the long driveway behind them, trying to spot a certain head of bright red hair among the crowd of black cloaks. Jupiter would of course be marching with his own Unit 895, none of whom Morrigan had met. Earlier that day she’d wondered aloud whether she might finally meet some of them tonight, but Jupiter was doubtful they’d stick around after the parade.

‘Busy people, Mog,’ he’d told her. ‘A bunch of busy, boring grown-ups. Things to do, places to go, people to see. You know how it is.’

Yes, she’d refrained from saying. I know exactly how it is.

Morrigan had never known anyone with quite so many things to do, places to go or people to see as her patron. Jupiter North was many things: the owner and proprietor of Nevermoor’s finest hotel, a captain in the League of Explorers, a volunteer bookfighter at the Gobleian Library and a Witness with the ability to see things others couldn’t … which meant he tended to stick his nose into every problem, riddle, adventure and escapade that came his way (and an awful lot of those seemed to come his way). All this combined to make him just about the busiest grown-up in the entire Unnamed Realm.

She spotted him, finally – his ginger head nearly as bright as the candle he held – and began to wave, then stopped.

‘Oh,’ she said aloud, to nobody in particular.

Jupiter was holding a candle.

Morrigan swallowed, counting the members of his unit. There were six in the line-up, but only Jupiter carried a nightbeacon candle. That meant one member of his unit was dead – someone he’d been close to, probably – while another two simply weren’t marching tonight. (That was unusual, but not unheard of. Participation in the Black Parade wasn’t mandatory, only very strongly encouraged by the Elders.)

Feeling a prick of sympathy and curiosity, Morrigan resolved to ask Jupiter later who his candle was for. (Though how to ask such a sensitive question politely, she didn’t know.)

In the second it took her to make that mental note, something strange happened in Morrigan’s head. It felt like a shadow streaking across her vision, but not her actual vision. Sort of … across her brain. She’d seen, or rather felt, something in the corner of her mind, but somehow she knew if she tried to examine it too closely, it would disappear. Like an urban fox stepping into the edge of a streetlamp’s glow, and then dashing out again before anyone could spot it.

What was that?

Was it something she’d forgotten? Something … she was supposed to do?

Morrigan stayed still, hoping the flighty thought would crystallise into something she could see or touch or remember.

‘Oi. You all right?’

‘What?’ Morrigan looked up, her unfocused vision resolving into a clear image of Cadence’s frowning face. ‘Sorry … what?’

‘You went funny again.’

‘Again?’

‘Yeah, all moony and faraway.’ Cadence narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you scared of the Unresting?’

Morrigan thought for a moment.

The Unresting.

Was that it? Was she scared of the Unresting? That must be it.

‘Yeah,’ she agreed, feeling oddly relieved that this explanation had been offered up. ‘Are you?’

‘Be an idiot if I wasn’t.’

‘I’m not scared,’ Hawthorne announced.

‘I rest my case.’

Before Hawthorne could respond, there was a sudden squeal of feedback from a microphone, and Elder Gregoria Quinn’s frail but amplified voice boomed from the steps of Proudfoot House. The gathered Society members hushed, turning to face her.

‘On this Hallowmas night,’ Elder Quinn began, her words ringing out across the grounds, ‘when the walls between the Living and the Dead grow thin, we will do our sacred, time-honoured duty. We will walk the streets trodden for hundreds of years by our Wundrous Society predecessors in the Black Parade.’

In the chill autumn air, the stooped woman looked like a small but mighty dragon breathing white frost from her nostrils. Elder Wong and Elder Saga stood to either side of her, as usual.

‘I shall remind you,’ Elder Quinn continued, ‘that each unit must watch over the younger unit marching ahead of them, according to tradition. Unit 919, this means you have the most important job of all. Unit 920 – the youngest and most vulnerable among us – need your care tonight. I know you won’t let them, or me, or your patrons down.’

At these words, Morrigan sensed Unit 919 standing taller, their shoulders straightening. The moment was slightly ruined by a giggle from behind them, and a boy from Unit 920 whispering, ‘Bit dramatic.’

‘Yeah, it’s just a long walk,’ his friend agreed with a snort of derisive laughter. ‘Most vulnerable to what? Blisters?’

‘Oi,’ Cadence said in her low hum of a voice, twisting around to glare at them. ‘Why don’t you save this conversation for next Hallowmas, when you might have a clue what you’re talking about?’

The two younger scholars stared at Cadence with wide eyes, as if she was a ghost that had appeared out of the Gossamer. (Her ability to go unnoticed was one of the dubious benefits of being a mesmerist.)

Morrigan wasn’t sure how she felt about the responsibility of watching over these clueless numpties, but she couldn’t really blame them for their cluelessness. To Unit 920, the Black Parade was just another weird Wundrous Society tradition, a bit of pomp and ceremony to remind the city how very special they were in their black cloaks and gold pins – how very important.

Unlike Unit 919, the youngest scholars hadn’t yet learned the true purpose of the Society they’d pledged their lives to. As far as they (and the rest of Nevermoor) knew, the Wundrous Society was an elite academic institution and lifelong members’ club. A highly prestigious organisation of extraordinary people with extraordinary talents.

But the members of Wunsoc had another, much more secret role to play in Nevermoor. This was a dangerous city – beautiful and magical and ridiculous, but dangerous – more than most people would ever know, because its greatest perils were deliberately hidden from sight. The Wundrous Society saw to that.

These dangers were the relics left scattered across the city by generations of Wundersmiths – people like Morrigan, born with the ability to summon and control and create with Wunder, the mysterious energy source that powered the realm and had a mind of its own unless you knew how to wield it.

Once upon a time, the Wundrous Society had existed to educate and elevate the Wundersmiths. Nine of them, always, born and reborn and reborn again through the Ages, one generation after another. The Wundersmiths were servants of the realm, but they were also powerful – infinitely more powerful than those they served. And power, Morrigan had learned, could be a dangerous and corrupting currency.

The Wundersmiths had been gone from Nevermoor for over one hundred years, and their creations – even the good, the great, the supremely well-intentioned ones – had been neglected and unmanaged in all that time. Which meant the Wunder that suffused and supported them, that was their lifeblood and skeletal framework all in one, had been left entirely to its own devices.

In some cases, that worked out just fine – the Wunderground train network, for example, was so meticulously engineered there’d been very little wiggle room for it to run wild and unchecked. Yes, occasionally a train gained sentience and held its passengers hostage, or a tunnel mysteriously blocked itself off for days at a time. But these minor inconveniences didn’t present much of a threat to the lives of ordinary Free State citizens.

Some Wundrous Acts, however, had gone rogue, become monstrous. They had to be dealt with. That was what the Wundrous Society did: cleaned up the messes left by Wundersmiths past.

They called this secret purpose ‘Containment & Distraction’, or C&D for short. The Society contained the dangers by any means necessary, keeping them under control while simultaneously distracting the public from their existence. It was a never-ending, exhausting battle – a battle that every member of the Wundrous Society signed up for as children, without having the slightest clue what they were getting themselves into. Just like Unit 920.

Part of Morrigan felt smugly superior, knowing she and her friends shared a terrible and thrilling secret with the older Society members. That they were grown-up enough to be trusted with the most frightening of truths, while these younger scholars – these mere children – were still being kept in the dark.

Another, quieter part of her wished she was still one of them. A mere child, kept safe in the dark.

‘We will march in a dignified manner that befits our standing in the community,’ Elder Quinn was saying when Morrigan refocused her attention. ‘Remember, the eyes of Nevermoor will all be on you tonight. Make the Wundrous Society proud.’

With those words, a clock tower somewhere in the distance struck midnight, sending a chill down Morrigan’s neck. Elder Quinn gestured for them all to turn around. Hundreds of pairs of black boots swivelled, crunching softly on the gravel.

There was something waiting outside Wunsoc. Morrigan felt a wave of disquiet enter the campus like a gust of wind as the gates swung open.

Like the rest of her unit, she’d been told what to expect, and how to respond. That she wouldn’t see them, but she would feel them.

That she mustn’t react. Mustn’t let her eyeline stray. Mustn’t, in fact, show by any word, gesture or expression that she was aware of their presence. They wouldn’t like that.

The Unresting didn’t like to be noticed.

CHAPTER THREE

The Unresting

One Week Earlier

‘Agony. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Existential dread. Deepest horror at the unending ignominy and pain of an eternity you can never escape. Imagine what those things might feel like … then slap ’em on a nasty old ghost face and you’ll have a rough idea of what the Unresting look like.’

Seven days before Hallowmas, the retired clairvoyant, Conall O’Leary, had delivered to Unit 919 the first in a series of lectures called Spectre Specifics: A Comprehensive Guide to the Classification of the Incorporeal Dead. The semester-long course would teach them to identify the various spirits, ghosts and ghouls occupying Nevermoor and determine what must be done with them: which ones could be safely ignored, and which must be dealt with by the Society. This introductory session was meant to prepare them for their first time marching in the Black Parade.

Morrigan sighed, dropping her chin to her chest. She’d so been looking forward to her first Hallowmas march. Nice tradition. Pleasant little walk to honour the dead. But no, of course nothing at Wunsoc could possibly be that straightforward.

The Black Parade, it turned out, was a ghost trap.

‘Sounds quite chilling, I know. But you might find it settles your nerves to think of it more as … paranormal pest control,’ Conall told them. ‘Now, most folks’ll never see the Unresting, because they don’t want to be seen. But fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – for us, the Unresting have been immortalised by many artists throughout the Ages. Some claimed to have seen the spirits themselves, others relied on the accounts of others. Here are a few depictions from history to give you an idea. Brace yourselves.’

Unit 919 shrank in their seats as Conall clicked through a dozen ghastly images projected into the air above their heads in the lecture theatre. Morrigan didn’t close her eyes, but she really wanted to.

The artists’ interpretations differed wildly in aesthetics, but their general vibe was as Conall had described: lost, guilty, miserable. One piece showed them with monstrously wide mouths twisted into a horrified ‘O’ as if screaming for help, their eyes no more than sunken, unseeing hollows in skull-like faces. Another depicted red flesh stretched taut across bone, with black veins creeping all over them like ivy, as if the blood had curdled inside, turning toxic and tar-like. Another showed them as pale, membranous, slug-like creatures, crawling along the ground.

The thing they all had in common was that none of them looked like a fun time.

‘Our nightbeacon bearers,’ Conall went on, fixing his bright, piercing gaze on each child in turn, ‘including yours truly, have the unenviable task of counting the Unresting as we gather them, and watching they don’t stray towards the public. We must manage this without looking directly at them or making eye contact or in any way acknowledging their presence, lest we agitate or frighten them.’

‘How do you get chosen for the job?’ asked Thaddea.

‘Someone in your unit has to die first, Thaddea,’ Mahir reminded her. ‘Which one of us are you hoping to kill off?’

She grinned. ‘Shall I write you a list?’

Conall waited for them to settle down before continuing. ‘If you’re lucky, you’ll never carry a nightbeacon, and the last time you see the wretches will be today, in these pictures.’ Leaning on his cane, he pointed the clicker at the horrible image above them. ‘The Unresting may look terrifying, but in truth they are pitiful creatures. Mopey, miserable and a touch skittish.

‘However, being pitiful doesn’t mean they deserve our pity. While they lived, they were people who did terrible, unforgivable things, and got away with them entirely. They died having never paid for their crimes. No justice, no punishment.

‘They’re undeserving of rest, and so they are Unresting. They cannot change their fate or make amends, so they wander ceaselessly, and their numbers grow a little more each year, because they’ll never move on from this plane. They’re not like the Unfinished Business crowd, who exist as a temporary paranormal presence until they Finish whatever Business they need to and then skip town; perhaps off to someplace nicer – perhaps not – who knows?

‘The Unresting are different. They’re stuck here, consumed by misery, and usually they want nothing to do with us. Like all spectral beings, though, on Hallowmas even they can’t help but be drawn back to the living. To peek through the curtain at the life they once knew, the life they crave to know again.’

Morrigan glanced around at Unit 919, most of whom were wide-eyed and uncharacteristically still. This was their first lesson with Conall O’Leary, whereas she knew him well by now. She’d spent most of this school year with him and the small, secret band of researchers who called themselves the Sub-Nine Academic Group, down in the basement of Proudfoot House in the equally secret School of Wundrous Arts, where Morrigan was the only pupil. She knew Conall was kind and curious, if occasionally gruff. He taught paranormal subject matter in the School of Arcane Arts and was also the head of the Wundrous Supernatural League.

‘Are the Unresting dangerous?’ asked Lam, looking up from the notes she was scribbling.

‘Not in the way you may be thinking, Miss Amara. These aren’t poltergeists, phantasms or bogeyfolk. The Unresting sit here, in the Harmless-Rare quadrant of Doctor Saperstein’s Spirit Spectrum.’

Conall clicked to a new image. The scholars exhaled in relief as the gruesome Unresting were replaced with a graph whose X axis and Y axis crossed in the middle to make four quadrants. The X axis was labelled HARMLESS on the left and HARMFUL on the right, while the Y axis ran from RARE at the bottom to UBIQUITOUS at the top. The Unresting sat a smidge below the horizontal line, in the lower left of the graph.

It was Thaddea who raised her hand to ask the obvious question. ‘If they’re so harmless, why are we wasting our Hallowmas night rounding them up when we could be doing something useful like … I don’t know, trapping something that’s actually dangerous?’

‘Or trick-or-treating,’ suggested Hawthorne.

‘Because, Miss Macleod, in the Wundrous Society’s slightly controversial opinion, Saperstein’s classification of the Unresting isn’t entirely correct. He classified them this way because they cannot touch the living, but of course physical harm isn’t the only kind of harm there is.’ Conall looked up, his expression thoughtful, and tapped his cane softly on the dais. ‘It’s hard to describe, but the Unresting exude a sort of … uneasiness. And they have an unhelpful tendency to gather, like the grit and grime that collects in the seams of the city. Leave them to build up in one place and they’ll quickly drag down the emotional health of a neighbourhood. People start having funny dreams. Find themselves getting angry for no reason. Crime rates go up. Folks feel anxious, unsafe … They move away, the neighbourhood empties. In the long run, it’s better for everyone if we intervene before that happens. Sweep out the grit before the machine breaks down.’

‘Sweep them to where?’ asked Morrigan.

He gave her a grim smile, tapping his cane again. ‘We’ll be relocating them to a non-residential area in the borough of Eldritch. Lots of dark, dangerous things in Eldritch. They’ll fit right in.’

Morrigan frowned. They did this every year? Eldritch must be bursting at the seams with Unresting, she thought. She wanted to ask how many there were, and how the Society made them all stay in one place, but Conall turned away, moving to drag a stool from the side of the dais. Arch jumped up to lend a hand.

‘Good man,’ the teacher said, sitting down with a sigh of relief. He clapped a hand on his knee. ‘Now, you may recall our parade last year was cancelled. That means this year’s will attract more Unresting than usual, so it’s more important than ever to stick to the rules. Let’s go over them one more time …’

CHAPTER FOUR

Monsters Welcome Never More

Hallowmas Night

One foot in front of the other.

Don’t react, Morrigan repeated in her head. Don’t let your eyeline stray. Pretend you’re not surrounded by dead people.

It was even harder than she’d expected at first. Not just because of the dread that enveloped her the moment she stepped outside Wunsoc, or the occasional hostile bump to her psyche from what she knew must be a close-passing ghost, but also because of the enormous, watchful crowds gathered behind the barrier on either side of Lightwing Parade. Morrigan felt the weight of their collective attention, the rise and fall of their excitement as the parade neared and then passed them, like two big lungs breathing in and out.

She envied the spectators a little. The Society took special measures to protect the crowds at the Black Parade from the effects of the Unresting, and so there was a calm, expectant, even jubilant mood on the other side of the barriers. She could see those ‘special measures’ dotted along the parade route, mingling with the crowd, their tails wagging and teeth bared in dopey, happy grins – spaniels and setters and retrievers and poodles, standing proudly with their human handlers, radiating good feelings all around with their shielding, reassuring auras. Dogs, according to Jupiter, were some of the most powerful and cost-effective buffers against psychological harm. Morrigan wished she could have tucked a Chihuahua into her pocket.

As they went on, though, it started to feel easier. The night seemed to shrink, drawing protectively around them like a great black cloak. The soft sounds of the crowd fell away, and the light from the streetlamps fell away, and the smell of sugared hazelnuts roasting and fairy floss spinning all fell away, fell away, fell away … until all Morrigan could hear was hundreds of footsteps marching in sync, and all she could smell was the burning wax of the nightbeacons.

The Unresting were drawn to the light cast by the black candles, which had been made for this purpose by the Royal Sorcery Council, laced with various ingredients designed to lure and trap them. (The RSC were famously protective of the recipe.) The ghosts would seek out the pools of candlelight and then be unable to turn away, hypnotised like insects hovering around a flame.

Poor Jupiter, Morrigan thought. She didn’t envy him his task tonight. Having to see their ghastly faces drawing closer around him, but never to look directly at them. Never let his hands tremble. If anyone could hold their nerve all the way from the north end of Old Town to Eldritch in the south, though, it was Jupiter.

Morrigan and her friends had learned the twisting, turning parade route by heart. Conall explained that it was designed to maximise the number of Unresting they collected along the way, snaking past prisons, temples, churches, courthouses and cemeteries. Places of misery and places of absolution. Those were the city seams he’d talked about, where the grit and grime liked to gather.

When they marched by the prison, Morrigan could see what he meant. Dredmalis Dungeon was grim. A bleak, stone-grey building surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire, bordering a graveyard crammed with busted old headstones, like a skull full of crumbling teeth. Even seeing it in her peripheral vision made Morrigan shudder.

She was relieved when they emerged from their East Quarter detour into the wide, open Lightwing Parade again … but that relief vanished when she heard a hiss from somewhere in the crowd.

‘Wundersmith!’

It was whispered with such savage force there could be no doubt it was meant as an insult or accusation.

Two hands instantly grasped for Morrigan’s and squeezed, concealed from onlookers by the long sleeves of their cloaks. Cadence on her right and Hawthorne on her left. Morrigan felt a lump in her throat, but tilted her chin up a little higher.

She was used to moments like this now. Ever since she’d been outed in the newspapers several weeks ago as Nevermoor’s first Wundersmith in over a hundred years, she’d been glared at, whispered about and occasionally shouted at by perfect strangers. It didn’t always feel like fear or hatred, exactly … sometimes it just felt like curiosity. But that still wasn’t fun. She didn’t want to be an object of curiosity.

Morrigan couldn’t say she blamed them, particularly. The last Wundersmith in Nevermoor had, after all, committed the quite memorable crime of murdering a bunch of people and attempting to conquer the city with his own army of monsters. It was understandable that Nevermoorians might be a bit touchy about the arrival of another one, with dangerous, unknown, potentially unlimited powers.

The trouble was, there was no way for Morrigan to publicly reassure people that she wasn’t planning to murder a bunch of people and conquer the city, without sounding quite a lot like someone who’s maybe planning to murder a bunch of people and conquer the city.

Ezra Squall had certainly managed to mess things up for her.

Morrigan blinked and stumbled, making the person behind bump into her with an impatient huff. She righted herself quickly and carried on.

What was that?

That weird brain-flicker again. A fox in the streetlight. A shadow across the moon. Something she’d forgotten.

‘Wundersmith!’

Another whisper. And then another.

‘Wundersmith, go home! Wundersmith, go home!’

Go home? What did they mean, go home? Home to the Hotel Deucalion, or … Did they mean … ?

Morrigan blinked, swallowing hard.

The whispers didn’t stop; they grew louder as more voices joined the chorus, and others began chanting—

‘SEND HER BACK. SEND HER BACK. SEND HER BACK.’

The parade was halted in its tracks as people swarmed through the barriers and into the empty street in front of them, a choreographed stream coming from every direction to block their path. Without thinking about it, Morrigan, Cadence, Hawthorne, Thaddea and Lam stepped in front of the younger members of Unit 920, and the others followed in a heartbeat.

‘SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK!’

The familiar voice of Laurent St James – founder of the Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor Party, campaigner against Wunimal rights, loud owner of terrible opinions and most notably, in the words of Jupiter North, ‘some rich idiot’ – boomed unpleasantly from his beloved megaphone.

‘Ugh, not this guy again. Hasn’t he shouted about you enough for one lifetime?’ Cadence muttered to Morrigan. ‘Take a day off, mate.’

‘The Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor say NEVER MORE!’ shouted St James. ‘Never more will we allow our city to be controlled by a maker of monsters, by a wolf in sheep’s clothing, by a too-powerful, too-dangerous, megalomaniacal despot!’

‘Is he talking about me?’ Hawthorne said quietly, grinning as he lifted the sleeve of his cloak to reveal his werewolf costume again. ‘How rude.’

Morrigan almost laughed, but not quite.

‘Never more will we allow our citizens to be put at risk! The Wundrous Society has smuggled in a WUNDERSMITH from the WINTERSEA REPUBLIC, our ENEMY NATION! We must rise as one and say NEVER MORE! Never more will we let them do as they please, running their wild schemes on the taxpayer’s coin and putting our children in danger!’ He paused, picking up a small child beside him and lifting her onto his shoulders. ‘We must rise up and DEMAND that they SEND HER BACK!’

Then he handed the megaphone up to the little girl, whose tiny voice grew monstrous as she shrieked, ‘SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK!’

Morrigan felt sick. She turned in a circle, but there was nowhere to go. She was surrounded by so-called Concerned Citizens holding signs with slogans like MONSTERS WELCOME NEVER MORE! and HEY WINTERSEA, WE DON’T WANT YOUR WUNDERSMITH! Though they’d grown since she’d last seen them, still they numbered only a hundred, maybe two. But there were thousands of Nevermoorians lining Lightwing Parade, and even some of them took up the chant. Unit 919 closed around her.

‘DO SOMETHING, you fool!’ came a sharp shout. Morrigan turned to the sound of the voice and saw a familiar pale face in the crowd, twisted with disgust. Her fingertips tingled with gathering Wunder. He was right, she ought to do something, she had to do something—

‘MOOOOGGGGG! MOG, I’M COMING!’

The sea of black cloaks parted to let Jupiter through, still holding his candle aloft. He launched himself to the front of the parade, blazing with righteous anger, shouting, ‘How dare you!’ and Laurent St James put the child back on the ground, squaring up to Jupiter and bellowing, ‘SEND HER BACK, SEND HER BACK!’ right into his face.

Several things happened at once.

Unbalanced, Jupiter dropped his nightbeacon. It rolled into the crowd of Concerned Citizens, still alight. The little girl reached down to pick it up. Time slowed to a crawl and Morrigan felt every drop of water in her body turn to ice. She wanted to shout a warning but the words stuck in her throat, so she ran for the candle instead, fingers tingling as she grabbed it just in time and—

They were everywhere.

Everywhere.

There was no Wundrous defence against this. No way of unseeing it.

The artists were all wrong, they were too gentle. They lied. The misery they’d painted wasn’t big enough, it wasn’t hard enough, it wasn’t frightening or painful or ghastly enough.

The Unresting wore their guilt on the outside like chains. Like thick vines creeping around their hands and feet, wrapped round their necks, forever twisting, tightening, squeezing.

The nightbeacon didn’t just let Morrigan see them, it let her hear them too. And that was worse. It was so much worse, it was unbearable.

No rest, they sang without words. No rest.

Morrigan wanted to weep. She wanted to run. She could hear words beneath the wailing, could hear her name spoken in familiar, panicked voices, but they felt so far away, and all she could see was the Unresting.

A ghoulish woman advanced on her, mouth open in a silent scream, reaching out with pale, grasping hands through a tangle of vines.

‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’

Before the words even left her mouth, Morrigan regretted them. A sea of faces turned towards her, black-socket eyes and gaping maws growing wide with horror or hunger.

She’d broken the rules.

She’d noticed the Unresting. And they’d noticed her right back.

For one breathless moment, Morrigan was certain they would swarm her … but what happened was somehow worse. They scattered, screaming a demonic chorus and howling into the night. Morrigan felt their collective anguish billow upwards like a mushroom cloud and then dissipate, leaving her dizzy and nauseous … and leaving the Black Parade utterly empty of the dead.

The Concerned Citizens watched, bemused, as their too-powerful, too-dangerous, megalomaniacal despot swayed where she stood, trembling violently, face drained of colour.

‘Mog. It’s all right. Give it to me.’

Morrigan was dimly aware that someone had been tugging fiercely at the nightbeacon, but her fingers were closed tight like talons around it, unable to let go.

‘They were everywhere,’ she said quietly, blinking against the sudden wash of light.

‘I know.’ Jupiter uncurled her fingers one by one.

‘I heard them.’

‘I know.’

‘I want—’

Morrigan didn’t know how to say all she felt. She wanted to unsee what she’d just seen, wanted to cut the memory of it out of her brain forever. To forget and forget and forget.

‘I know,’ Jupiter said again.

And she looked at him and knew that he did.

CHAPTER FIVE

Creepover

Room 85 was showing off.

When Morrigan had invited her whole unit to the Hotel Deucalion for a Hallowmas sleepover (or ‘creepover’, as Hawthorne insisted on calling it), she’d known her bedroom would do something interesting for the occasion. Nine four-poster beds with ghostly white hangings, perhaps, or nine giant carved pumpkins full of soft blankets, or maybe even nine cosy coffins lined with black velvet, at the bottom of nine freshly dug graves marked with their own individual headstones (she’d really let her imagination go to town on that one).

She had not expected her ceiling to rise sixty feet higher than normal, and a gnarled, twisting tree to grow all the way up to meet it, spreading upwards and outwards to push back the retreating bedroom walls.

She certainly hadn’t expected a staircase to carve itself into the trunk, curving around and around and up and up until it was obscured from view.

She hadn’t dreamed that amid those leafy heights – sprawled across metres of branches growing in every direction – a treehouse would appear, multi-levelled and many-roomed, and cheerfully lit with grinning jack-o’-lanterns and fairy lights strung all around. The dots of light criss-crossed and cross-hatched through the leaves to create the illusion of a wild, starry, spiderweb sky stretching far above them.

Unit 919 met the sight with a collective intake of breath. In response, the tree reached out one long, green-cloaked arm, crooking its twiggy fingers to beckon them closer.

Morrigan could not have been prouder. Aside from Hawthorne and Cadence, who were regular visitors, this was Unit 919’s first time in her home. It was a big moment. These people were her siblings, after all – her schoolmates and friends for life. The Deucalion had evidently decided to give them a suitably momentous welcome.

‘I can’t believe you live here, Morrigan,’ Lam said in a voice full of wonder and, as Her Royal Highness Princess Lamya had lived in an actual palace before coming to Nevermoor, Morrigan considered this high praise indeed. She beamed and took Lam’s overnight bag, hoisting it over her shoulder.

‘Come on, then,’ she said, trying to look as if having a giant treehouse appear in her bedroom was a mundane event. ‘Up we go.’

‘Oh! Morrigan no, you shouldn’t – I’ll carry it!’

‘I’m fine, Lam.’

Morrigan began climbing the stairs two at a time, just to prove she could. She’d already had Jupiter, Conall, Miss Cheery (Unit 919’s conductor) and Nurse Tim from the Wunsoc teaching hospital checking and double-checking and triple-quadruple-quintuple-checking that she was all right after the humiliating incident at the Black Parade. It was bad enough she’d scared off the Unresting, leaving them uncontained and roaming freely for yet another year. The last thing she needed was people fussing over her all night and reminding her of it.

The others began their ascent. Francis had brought more luggage than anyone else. Hawthorne and Thaddea carried the excess all the way up for him, complaining loudly until it was revealed that three out of his four overnight bags contained the makings of a grand midnight feast that he’d spent all week planning.

They soon reached the main platform, a large circular space surrounded by a wooden railing. It led outwards and upwards in nine directions by way of narrow staircases, wonky rope ladders and sloping branches, to nine human-sized nests, each containing a cosy assortment of pillows and blankets, and a tiny golden nightlight. There was no need for any roof other than the gently rustling foliage; Room 85 had provided a perfectly crisp, cool autumn evening, but without the slightest bit of chill or discomfort in the air.

‘I’ll take that one!’ Hawthorne declared when he spotted the highest nest, just as Thaddea pointed at it and shouted, ‘MINE!’

They scowled at each other, ready to fight it out or race to the top, but before a rumble could break out Francis adopted what Morrigan called his ‘head chef voice’ and began barking directions. This confident, bossy version of Francis rarely made an appearance, but whenever he showed up they all snapped to attention.

‘Hawthorne, pour the lime and gingermint punch from the green flask – there are cups in the smaller bag. Yes, Anah, I know you hate ginger – there’s cold spiced honeymilk in the yellow flask. Mahir, pass me that cast iron skillet. No, the big one. Morrigan, I thought you had a fireplace?’

‘Er – well, I did.’ Morrigan looked around the treehouse, wondering what her room had done with the hearth, when flames roared up in response from a large black firepit sunken into the centre of the platform. ‘Will that do?’

Francis gave a surprised nod. ‘Ideal.’

They got to work unpacking paper parcels of bacon chops and beef sausages, clean linen teatowels folded around freshly baked flatbreads, various pickles and chutneys in little jars, and jacket potatoes wrapped in foil. From one case emerged hand-pulled noodles and a flask of steaming savoury broth. From another, tiny speckled quail’s eggs and a bag of foraged mushrooms (Mahir and Morrigan sought double confirmation that they weren’t from the little shop at Eldritch Murdergarden).

Meanwhile, Francis laid out boxes of his best treats, from petite pink fancies (Arch’s favourites), to diamond-shaped pockets of flaky pastry stuffed with soft white cheese, sultanas and almonds, and sprinkled with cinnamon and honey. (‘You made Evening Stars!’ Lam shouted in rhapsodic delight when she spotted them.) Then, finally, the main event—

‘Firecracker-candy rosemary pineapple cake!’ Francis announced proudly, pulling a bright yellow confection from a cardboard baker’s box. The two-tiered cake was covered in little dried pineapple slices that curled artfully upwards to look like sunflowers, with a sprinkle of shimmering black sugar crystals at the centre of each one. Unit 919 burst into applause at the sight of it.

‘Aren’t we a bunch of swells?’ Hawthorne said moments later through a mouthful of loudly popping pineapple cake, beaming around at Unit 919 as they tucked into the phenomenal spread.

Francis was no ordinary chef, of course. His knack was something the Elders called ‘emotive gastronomy’, which meant his food could provoke feelings both subtle and powerful in those who ate it. Morrigan once tried a spiced lamb and apricot pie he offered her and had spent the whole afternoon in a mood Francis described as ‘the mix of glum disappointment and commiserative camaraderie one feels when one’s sports team has suffered a tremendous loss but one is surrounded by equally disappointed fellow supporters of said team’. The pie itself was delicious, however, and the experience certainly hadn’t stopped Morrigan eating pretty much anything Francis offered her. (Mostly it just made her glad she didn’t follow any sports teams.)

Fortunately, Francis had assembled their midnight feast with great care and forethought and the after-effects of his creations seemed to balance each other out, more or less. A formidable flare of temper from the beetroot chutney, for example, was quickly doused by a bite of an Evening Star, which encouraged a spirit of generosity and understanding.

A powerful urge to dance brought on by the noodles was dampened by the broth that accompanied them, which Francis said was meant to ‘evoke the sense that one has forgotten something very important and must sit still and look inwardly to remember what it was’. It made them all gaze into the middle distance for some time – except Hawthorne, whose inner dancer was too powerful for any broth.

‘Oh! Oh no,’ Francis cried at one point, jumping up to examine the jars of chutneys and pickles. He held one up. ‘Did anyone eat this chilli jam?’

Nobody raised their hand, but Cadence froze, holding a piece of bread with cheese and a dollop of the red-flecked jam halfway to her mouth.

‘Why do you— OI!’ she said, as Francis lunged to knock it out of her hand.

‘Sorry,’ he puffed, clutching the jar to his chest. ‘I meant to leave this one at home. It’s supposed to make you feel a little bit brave, but I haven’t quite got the recipe right yet. See?’ He held it out to show them the handwritten label, which read: DANGEROUSLY OVERCONFIDENT FLAVOURS. USE SPARINGLY. ‘Did anyone else—’

He was interrupted by a peal of giggles from above. They looked up to see Anah swinging from branch to branch, her yellow curls loose and wild. Hawthorne and Mahir cheered, and Thaddea was just about crying with laughter.

‘Someone bring her down,’ Lam said in a tight voice. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she didn’t want to see whatever she knew was coming. ‘Quickly, please.’

Suddenly Anah’s hand slipped. Unit 919 gave a collective gasp as she free-fell several metres before just barely grasping another branch, whooping with triumph and dangling high in the air.

‘I AM THE EMPRESS OF THE NIGHT!’ she cried elatedly. ‘I AM THE RULER OF THIS TREEHOUSE AND I SHALL HAVE YOUR ALLEGIANCE OR I SHALL TAKE IT BY FORCE!’

‘Come down, Anah!’ Morrigan called up to her.

‘SHAN’T!’

‘Thaddea,’ said Lam urgently, her eyes still closed. ‘Can you please—’

Thaddea had indeed already started to climb the trunk, while Francis rummaged frantically in one of his bags.

‘Here – give her this,’ he called after Thaddea, tossing her a bottle that she caught with ease.

She read aloud from the label, grinning. ‘Comedown Cordial. That’ll do it.’

Several minutes of coaxing and one large swig of cordial later, Anah sat by the fire wrapped in a blanket, more than a little embarrassed.

‘You have my allegiance, Empress Anah,’ said Arch, smiling as he raised a glass of punch, and the others joined in.

‘Who’s this funny little bunny king?’ Anah deftly changed the subject, reaching to pluck Emmett from his tree-trunk throne, adjusting his tiny golden crown with one finger.

Morrigan’s eyes widened. ‘Please don’t touch him!’

She realised the sharpness of her tone when Anah released Emmett immediately, squeaking, ‘Sorry!’

‘It’s okay,’ said Morrigan, more kindly. She forced a smile. ‘Sorry. He’s just … old, that’s all.’

As if sensing his importance, Morrigan’s bedroom had welcomed her stuffed rabbit, Emmett, by building him a series of increasingly elaborate homes. On various days Morrigan had woken to find him luxuriating in a straw-lined hutch or tucked into his own little bed beside hers. The recent addition of a crown felt appropriately elevating, she thought, for the rabbit she’d had since she was a baby. The rabbit that had belonged to her mother before her, and was imprinted with her mother’s love.

‘Why are we talking about stuffed toys?’ Thaddea grumbled. ‘This is supposed to be a creepover. It’s not very creepy, is it?’

‘Let’s tell ghost stories!’ said Hawthorne. ‘Scariest wins the jar of overconfident chilli jam.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Francis.

‘Scariest wins the last slice of pineapple cake?’

‘Fine.’

They spent the next half-hour telling the most chilling stories they knew. Thaddea’s tale of ‘Bloody’ Beathan Macleod – the headless Highlander who haunted Glen Aulay, where Clan Macleod had lived for hundreds of years – made Morrigan clutch Emmett closer and Francis whimper with fright.

Anah’s tale started out promisingly, with a bride and groom murdered on their wedding day, but quickly turned into a cosy love story that ended with the ghostly couple living forever in an ivy-covered cottage in the Better Place with their seventeen adopted dogs and a pair of chinchillas called Feather and Fluff.

Lam told a very matter-of-fact story about the ghost of her great-great-grandmother, the Dowager Queen Lawan, who haunted the throne room in the House of the Emerald Mountain – the palace where Lam and her royal siblings had grown up in Far East Sang. Queen Lawan had been poisoned by one of her ladies-in-waiting many Ages earlier, and Lam said she would still sometimes show up on important occasions in the royal court.

‘Only my grandmother, Queen Ama, and I can see Lawan,’ Lam told them, brushing pastry crumbs off her pyjamas. ‘But sometimes other people can hear her. Just the sound of her voice has driven lots of honoured guests away from the palace.’

‘What does she sound like?’ Francis asked in a whisper, pulling his blanket tighter as he watched Lam with wide eyes.

‘Um, sort of like …’ Lam cleared her throat and said in a nasal, rasping voice punctuated with retching noises, ‘Which one of you ugly little ingrates poisoned my tea? Hhuuuurrghhh. Was it you, Biggy Forehead? Or you, Anklechunk? Huuurrrghh. After everything I’ve done for you girls – lifting you from obscurity, making you my ladies, hurrrghh, giving you gowns and jewels and affectionate nicknames – and this is the thanks I get? Hurrrghh. Was it YOU, Whiffypits?’

They all exploded with laughter at this – except Lam herself, who looked nonplussed, and Morrigan, who was watching her thoughtfully.

‘Lam. You can see ghosts?’ she asked, beneath the roaring laughter.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Does that mean … Could you … Tonight, could you see the Unresting?’

‘No. I don’t think they wanted me to.’ Lam reached out to give Morrigan’s hand a brief, knowing squeeze. ‘I’m sorry you had to see them.’

‘You’re next, Morrigan,’ said Mahir.

‘I forfeit my turn,’ she replied, reaching for the spiced honeymilk, which she’d tried for the first time that night and was already developing a taste for. ‘I don’t know any scary stories.’

‘Course you do!’ Hawthorne insisted. ‘You told me that one about the boy in the forest, remember? With the shadow hunters and—’

‘I know what story we all want to hear,’ Thaddea spoke over the top of him. ‘And I think Morrigan knows too.’

‘What do you mean?’ Morrigan’s heart rate quickened. She couldn’t deny she’d seen the Unresting. But did they really want her to describe it? Like it was some silly, spooky story she’d read in a book, and not the most frightening moment of her life?

‘The Hollowpox,’ Thaddea said, as if it was obvious. ‘What happened that night? How’d you destroy the Hollowpox? About time you told us, isn’t it?’

Oh. That.

Morrigan frowned. ‘I have told you.’

‘Not all of it. Whenever it comes up you go all weird and act like you’ve lost your memory or something.’

‘Leave it, Thaddea,’ said Cadence.

‘She doesn’t have to tell us,’ said Arch. ‘You don’t, Morrigan. If it’s hard to talk about, or—’

‘Yes, she does,’ Thaddea snapped at him, then turned back to Morrigan. ‘We’re your unit. We’re supposed to trust each other. How can we trust you if you won’t tell us the truth?’

The truth.

Morrigan looked up into the branches overhead. Was there some truth she hadn’t shared? No. She wasn’t hiding anything from them. If there was a story about that night, she would have told them. She would have—

But there was something, wasn’t there?

A fox skirting the streetlight. A shadow across the moon.

Before she could remember what it was, she heard a faint, faraway knock and a distant voice calling out, ‘Mog? Hello? I don’t want to interrupt the festivities, but I thought you might—’

‘COMING!’ Morrigan jumped up, grateful for an excuse to escape this curiously upsetting conversation.

It took her several minutes to descend the enormous tree-trunk, cross the cool, grassy bedroom floor and open the door to find Jupiter’s nervous face peeking in.

‘How’s it going?’ he whispered theatrically. ‘Everything okay? Everyone having fun? Are you all getting along? Do you need anything?’

Morrigan squinted into the warmly lit hallway. ‘Why are you talking like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the villain in a pantomime,’ she said. He was moving his mouth in a ridiculously exaggerated fashion – as if she wouldn’t possibly understand him unless he OVER-ENUNCIATED – but barely making any noise. ‘Nobody can hear you from down here, they’re all up in the tree.’ She opened the door and waved him in.

‘They’re all up in the wh— OH! Oh my.’

He let out a long, low whistle, peering into the branches. The treehouse seemed even further up than it had before. (Morrigan wondered if that was Room 85’s way of assuring the privacy of their conversation.)

‘Gosh,’ Jupiter continued. ‘The old girl’s really outdone herself this time, hasn’t she?’

They grinned sideways at each other. Morrigan wasn’t convinced anyone but Jupiter truly loved the Deucalion as much as she did.

‘And?’ he asked.

‘And what?’

‘My previous questions remain unanswered: is everything okay? Is everyone having fun and getting along? I also have follow-ups now that I’ve seen the tree. Firstly, how many boxes of marshmallows shall I have sent up, and do you need—’

‘Jupiter, we’re fine, honest.’

‘But it’s your first big sleepover! I want everything to go smoothly.’

Morrigan smiled. ‘You don’t need to worry so much.’

‘I think I’m just a bit nervous,’ Jupiter confessed sheepishly, hunching his shoulders and stifling a tiny giggle. ‘Aren’t you nervous?’

‘Why would I be nervous? I see these clowns every day.’

As if to illustrate her point, Hawthorne’s voice came booming down from the treehouse.

‘… AND LO, THE GHOST LET OUT A TREMENDOUS AND TERRIFYING SOUND FROM HIS HAUNTED BOTTOM-TRUMPET …’ He took a deep breath and made a long, loud, flatulent noise, and a stream of sugar-fuelled giggles erupted from the others. ‘… AND ALL AROUND HIM DID QUAKE TO SMELL ITS FURY!’

Morrigan clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.

‘Yes, but … not like this,’ Jupiter said in a fretful whisper, ignoring the uncouth interruption. He began to pace restlessly. ‘Mog, they’re in our home! Enjoying our hospitality! Judging us!’

‘Nobody’s judging us, what are you talking about? Jupiter, really – go to bed. Everything’s fine. I promise.’

I promise. The words made a faint little ping in the back of her mind, like a butter knife tapped on a glass.

He stopped pacing and looked at her then. Really looked at her, in the deliberate way that he sometimes did. In the way that told her he was seeing something important. Something invisible to anyone but a Witness. He looked at her.

And Morrigan looked at him.

And there was a moment, she thought, when each held something in their throat, in their mouth, on the tip of their tongue.

Then the moment was gone. Her mind unravelled itself like a knot, unclenched like a fist. The tension left her, and all she felt was a gentle wash of relief she couldn’t quite trace back to its source.

‘If you’re sure,’ Jupiter said finally.

Morrigan nodded, smiling. ‘I’m sure.’

It was a real smile, free of all doubt. She was sure. What had she been so preoccupied by just now? What was there to worry about? Nothing.

‘Mog … you do know nothing that happened tonight was your fault?’

Her stomach dropped. There it was. Nothing to worry about except the failed Black Parade, and the scattered ghosts, and the hundreds of people who wanted to send her back to the Wintersea Republic.

She grimaced. ‘But the Concerned Citizens—’

‘Are numpties,’ he said, ‘as we’ve previously discussed. Big, embarrassing numpties who need to get a life.’

‘But they were there because—’

‘Because they have too much time on their hands.’

‘I shouldn’t have picked up—’

‘I shouldn’t have dropped the nightbeacon, but when you picked it up you saved that little girl from a sight that would have frightened her half to death. You did it without thinking, and it was very brave.’

‘But the Unresting!’ she insisted. ‘I looked right at them! It was rule number one and I just—’

‘Reacted instinctively, the same way anyone would have.’

‘But the WHOLE POINT OF THE BLACK PARADE—’

‘Is nothing for you to worry about. The Wundrous Supernatural League will come up with a top-notch Plan B, you’ll see. We’ll help them workshop it in our next C&D gathering. It’s what we’re good at.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, Mog. I promise. I just want you to forget all about it, climb back up to that splendid treehouse, and see if Hawthorne will tell his farting ghost story again so I can hear the whole thing from outside in the hallway before I go to bed. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight,’ Morrigan replied as he turned to go, and then – ‘Jupiter, wait.’

He turned back in a flash, closing the few paces between them. ‘Yes? What is it?’

‘I am a bit nervous,’ she admitted, and his eyes softened as he squeezed her shoulder with one hand and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up with the other.

‘You’ve got this, Mog.’ Pausing in the doorway on his way out, Jupiter glanced up at the tree one last time and shook his head. ‘This old place is awfully fond of you, isn’t it?’

When Morrigan made her way back to the top of the treehouse, the others had already claimed their sleeping spots. Hawthorne was licking a stray bit of pineapple cake from a plastic werewolf talon, and Cadence was carefully wrapping her hair in a silk scarf to sleep in. They waved Morrigan over, having saved her the nest between theirs, and she smiled as she noticed Emmett sitting on her pillow, wondering which one of them had picked him up for her. As they settled in, the treehouse drew its branches closer together so they could whisper silly things in the dark and giggle deliriously.

One by one, the nine scholars fell asleep, cradled in the arms of the most wonderful tree they’d ever seen, while starlight winked improbably through the leaves overhead.

Morrigan woke with a start, heart racing. She peered over the edge of her nest to the main platform below. The firepit had all but died and most of the jack-o’-lanterns had blinked out, but the fairy lights were still aglow. She could hear Hawthorne’s gentle snoring from the branch to her right, and Cadence’s deep breathing on her left. There was no other sound but the whisper of the wind in the tree and her heartbeat in her head.

She felt a familiar uncertainty creep in. That frustrating feeling that there was something she should have done, something she kept forgetting, something important.

Something she had to tell Jupiter? That was it.

She pulled the blankets closer, resolving to seek him out first thing in the morning. Whatever the something was, surely she’d remember it by then.

Why not now? asked a tiny voice in her head. Why not go see him now? Now’s as good a time as any. Go now.

And before she could talk herself out of it, Morrigan left her warm, cosy nest. She crept down the rope ladder, across the platform, down the spiralling tree-trunk staircase, already beginning to forget why she was out of bed …

TELL HIM, the voice inside her head demanded.

Tell him what? Morrigan wondered irritably. But she kept moving forward, out of her darkened bedroom and into the soft light of the hall, where she came face to face with—

‘You,’ she whispered, gripping the door handle. ‘What do you want?’

A hunter made of smoke sat astride a horse made of shadow. Red eyes glowing like embers, the hunter extended an open hand in invitation. Morrigan took it without thinking, out of instinct or muscle memory, and—

Oh, she thought, the moment their hands met. At last, the shy little fox inside her head stepped boldly into the glow of the streetlight. Now I remember.

She sighed.

‘I’ll get my coat.’

CHAPTER SIX

Hush

They met on the Gossamer, as always, in the middle of a golden-bright bridge across the River Juro that existed for nobody but them. Morrigan dismounted smoothly from the shadow horse and watched it carry the hunter off into darkness with the disappearing sound of hooves on cobblestones.

Ezra Squall stood beneath a gaslight, looking out across the glittering black water below. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored coat over a dark grey suit, and a mood of quiet expectation simmered in the air around him.

‘Well?’ he said without looking at her, as if they were already mid-conversation.

‘Well, what?’

‘Shall I lift the Hush?’

Morrigan stepped cautiously into the pool of light, considering the question. It was the same one he’d asked her in their previous lesson, and the one before that; the memory emerged as effortlessly as a bit of driftwood floating to the surface of the river.

‘No,’ she said slowly. Turning the prospect over in her mind, she found it made her queasy. ‘Not yet.’

Squall sent a quick, calculating glance in her direction. He looked as if he wanted to argue, but changed his mind. ‘As you like.’

‘Will we start with mice?’

He gave a quizzical blink.

‘You said I could begin learning Masquerade tonight,’ she reminded him, as the events of last week returned to her. ‘You said you’d show me how to Masquerade as an unnimal, and that we should start small, with rodents or—’

‘I did say that, yes,’ he agreed, brushing an invisible speck of something from his lapel. ‘But that was before you made an absolute shambles of the Black Parade. We have a new agenda now.’

Ah. A splinter of a memory reappeared. He’d been there. Of course he’d been there. It was his familiar voice she’d heard, his pale face she’d spotted in the crowd.

DO SOMETHING, you fool!

‘Jupiter said what happened with the Unresting wasn’t my fault.’ She’d been quite ready to assign herself the blame earlier, but she certainly didn’t want to hear it from Ezra Squall, of all people.

‘That’s because he cares more about your feelings than the truth. It was quite obviously your fault. Did you hear anyone else scream?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Would you rather I lie to spare your feelings, or help you fix the problem you’ve created?’

She didn’t need to answer that. ‘How?’

But Squall had already turned away and was striding over the Gossamer bridge, a jerk of his head the only indication that he wished her to follow.

‘Where are we going?’ Morrigan called after him, scowling.

‘To feed a monster.’

They might have travelled across town more efficiently by shadow horse – or even taken the Gossamer Line, which was specifically made for travelling across the invisible web of energy that connected everything in the realm – but Squall preferred walking. He said he always seized a chance to see the streets of Nevermoor at night when they were empty of people, but Morrigan strongly suspected he was, in fact, seizing the chance to deliver a lecture.

‘What’s this monster we’re feeding?’ she asked for the third time since they’d set off, and for the third time he ignored the question. Morrigan tried to suppress a flutter of nerves. She hated surprises. Especially monstrous ones.

Squall gave an impatient huff, and she huffed back at him, and they walked in seething silence for half a block before he spoke again.

‘This isn’t sustainable, Miss Crow. I told you that you could decide when to remove the Hush.’

Morrigan sighed. This again.

‘But I assumed the challenge would lie in persuading you not to remove it too soon,’ he continued, ‘not that you would want to keep it there forever.’

‘I don’t want to keep it forever. I’m not ready yet, but—’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘I forgot what a coward you can be.’

The accusation stung because it was true.

After she’d signed the apprenticeship agreement that night in the hospital, three days had passed before Squall arrived unannounced for their first lesson. Morrigan had spent two of those days recovering from the exertion of bringing the Wunimals back to themselves, and the third in a state of high panic over what she’d done.

How could she possibly tell Jupiter she’d willingly apprenticed herself to Ezra Squall – banished Wundersmith, enemy of all Nevermoorians, most-dangerous-person-in-the-Unnamed-Realm Ezra Squall? After all Jupiter had done to prevent that exact scenario?

How could she explain it to Cadence and Hawthorne? To Jack and Miss Cheery and the rest of Unit 919 and … and everyone else who’d ever believed in her and defended her, who’d welcomed her to Nevermoor and made it feel like home? She’d signed a contract with someone widely regarded as the evillest man who ever lived, and yes she’d done it to save the victims of the Hollowpox, but—

No, she thought. Not entirely true.

That was the deal they’d made initially – a cure for the Hollowpox in exchange for becoming his apprentice – but in the end, Squall had given her a choice. He’d nullified their bargain by saving the Wunimals before she signed the contract.

Morrigan could have walked away. But the moment Squall had used his own powers through her, shown her the scope of what a real Wundersmith could do, she’d known for certain that she would never become one without his help. Never master the Wundrous Arts, never be fully in control of the dangerous amount of magical energy that swarmed around her every second of every day. Ezra Squall had shown her that to truly be a Wundersmith was to have a universe inside.

That was what Morrigan dreaded explaining to Jupiter and her friends. How could she possibly expect them to understand that feeling?

When Squall sent the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow to fetch her for their first lesson, his solution to her panic had been surprising.

‘You don’t have to tell them.’

Morrigan had been aghast. ‘What? Of course I have to tell them! I can’t keep a secret like this! They’ll know. They’ll know I’m hiding something, and it will make everything horrible. I can’t just—’

‘Yes, all right, enough. I quite get the picture.’ He’d sighed a deep, put-upon sigh. ‘What I mean is, you don’t have to tell them yet.’

And so, with Morrigan’s agreement, Squall had put a Hush on her. Just a bit of Wundrous trickery to allow her some time to breathe.

That’s all she needed, Morrigan had told herself. A few days of forgetting, maybe a week. Just to get into the rhythm of her new lessons without being crushed by the guilt of this enormous secret, and the constant dread of having to confess it.

But one week had turned to two … and now it was three going into four.

Morrigan took a deep breath as they left Old Town via the East Gate, their faces briefly illuminated by pink flames from the torches outside the Temple of the Divine Thing.

He’s right, she thought miserably. You are a coward.

‘It wasn’t meant to be a long-term arrangement,’ Squall said waspishly. ‘The Hush is harmless now, even if this particular variety makes you seem a vacant fool at times. But if you let it sink its claws in, you’ll be even more useless to me than you are now.’

‘Just one more week,’ Morrigan insisted. ‘I’ll figure out how to tell Jupiter, then you can remove the Hush in our next lesson, I swear—’

‘Enough! Why am I wasting my time teaching you anything if you insist on returning to a blank slate again and again? If you cannot practise between our meetings, there’s little point having them at all.’

‘I’m not a blank—’ she began indignantly, but his voice steamrolled over hers.

‘Do you even remember what you learned last week? Or the week before that, or the week before that?’

‘I don’t think—’

‘Of course not.’ Squall threw a hand up and stormed onwards across the footbridge, coat billowing behind him. ‘Well, never mind. No need to practise. No need to learn the Wundrous Arts at all! You’re only the sole heir to a legacy of nine bloodlines spanning hundreds of years of tradition, power and craft. Whyever should you take such a trivial matter seriously? What could possibly—’

He was silenced at the apex of the bridge when a great wave roared up from the Juro, curving into an arch directly above his head. It hovered there precariously, sheltering both Squall and the bridge beneath a dark umbrella of water that threatened to crash down at any moment.

He looked up, jaw clenching and unclenching, and turned slowly to face his pupil.

Morrigan stood at the threshold of the bridge, arms aloft and slightly shaking, holding up the enormous wave of dirty river water from afar, with all the strength she had.

‘I was going to say,’ she said, with only a slight tremble of exertion in her voice, ‘I don’t think … that I’ve … entirely forgotten.’

She would have liked to raise an eyebrow at that moment, but unfortunately couldn’t spare the concentration. Her focus was already wavering and her arms were burning with the effort of keeping a kilolitre of water in the air. Weaving wasn’t Morrigan’s strongest Wundrous Art by any means, but she felt indescribably smug at having remembered the mechanics of it. Blank slate, indeed.

Squall said nothing. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and watched her for ten seconds … fifteen seconds … twenty. His face was impassive, while Morrigan’s twisted with increasing strain until at last, her muscles and mind gave out simultaneously and the wave descended in a grand, dramatic CRASH.

He didn’t even flinch. The water couldn’t touch him through the Gossamer, of course. It went straight through his body and poured down the curved footbridge in both directions and over the sides. Morrigan jumped out of the way as it splashed the toes of her boots.

Squall gave an unimpressed sigh. He tilted his chin back to eye her appraisingly, and said, ‘Waterwhip.’

Right, Morrigan thought as she pushed up her sleeves. A test, is it? Fine.

She took a deep breath and hummed a little more Wunder to her fingertips, casting her mind back to the Weaving trick he’d taught her in their first official lesson. She coaxed a fine column of water from the Juro, whispering a quiet ‘yes’ as it rapidly built speed and energy, coiling upwards into the air, round and round like a snake, stretching and narrowing. She held out her hand and the waterwhip came to it effortlessly, the two fitting together as if moulded that way.

Morrigan raised her arm high and cracked the swirling whip in the air like a lion tamer. The resounding SNAP! was a shock to the system, bouncing sharply off the surrounding buildings. Grinning with satisfaction, she flung the whip over the side of the bridge and it broke apart mid-descent, rejoining the river as a shower of droplets. She looked to Squall for a reaction, but his face was mask-like.

‘Shadowcloak.’

Easy. She reached out as if to pluck a bit of shadow from beneath the bridge. Wunder – ever watchful, ever eager to do her bidding – gathered around her fingers and stretched out far beyond them to execute the task. It was like an extension of herself – two ghostly arms that didn’t obey the laws of physics, only her intention.

Weaving had always made Morrigan feel a bit that way; as if she had an extra set of arms, an extra pair of Wundrous hands that were bigger, more terrible, more wonderful and monstrous than her physical body. Squall had told her in their first proper lesson that this was exactly how Weaving was supposed to feel. He’d shown her how to create a physical embodiment of that feeling – to throw her power beyond herself, like a potter throwing clay on a wheel. He called it her ‘reach’, and was constantly telling her to use her reach, remember her reach, extend her reach, sense with her reach. Sometimes she felt like whacking him over the head with her reach.

Morrigan draped the cool, soft shadow across her shoulders and over her head, covering herself in darkness like a shawl. It wasn’t perfect; more a subtle camouflage than an impenetrable hiding spot, and she had neither the skill nor stamina to make it stick longer than a minute or two. But someone walking by would probably look straight past her.

He beckoned her onwards and the quiz continued, with Morrigan scrambling to remember all she’d learned. She gathered up a small stretch of footpath and shook it out like a rug (her new favourite trick). She threw her voice so that it bounced around the buildings like a chorus of birds. She took a puff of steam from a passing Wunderground train and a film of condensation from a window and wove them into a little raincloud that hovered in the palm of her hand.

Together they made their way through the boroughs, using the occasional Swindleroad – dangerously magical alleyways that swallowed you up in one part of the city and spat you out somewhere else altogether – to quicken the journey. Squall’s knowledge of Nevermoor’s geographical tricks and secrets was virtuosic.

The city wasn’t nearly as dead as Morrigan thought it would be at this time of night. Occasionally they encountered a stray costumed reveller stumbling home from a Hallowmas party, or heard snatches of music and laughter from a basement flat, or window high above. Every time they passed someone on the street, Morrigan snatched up a bit of shadow to cover herself, just in case. What with her face and name having very recently been splashed all over the newspapers with the incendiary headline wundersmith!, she didn’t want to risk being recognised. Not after what had happened at the Black Parade. And especially not when she was walking the streets with what amounted to an invisible man, looking very much like she was talking to herself.

When Squall stopped giving instructions, Morrigan couldn’t hide a satisfied smile. ‘I remembered everything,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes,’ Squall conceded, ‘but you haven’t shown the slightest bit of improvement, much less mastery.’ The smile dropped from Morrigan’s face. ‘Miss Crow, I’ve scarcely set the bar above ankle height. These tricks are the things we Wundersmiths used to play at in our morning warm-ups. Silly little artifices we’d mastered by the age of ten.’

Morrigan felt her little bubble of pride deflate as rapidly as if he’d popped it with a needle.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she snapped. ‘Just trying to think … what was I doing at age ten? Oh yeah, I was pretty busy that year having no idea what a Wundersmith was. Can’t believe I forgot to teach myself how to make a whip out of water. How embarrassing.’

Squall looked poised to argue again, so she turned and stomped off in the direction they were headed.

‘Your shadowcloak is too slow to gather, and nowhere near dark enough,’ he said bluntly, catching up to her in three long strides. ‘If someone was actively looking for you, you’d have been spotted within seconds. We need to work on your eye for value.’

Morrigan was almost too annoyed to respond, but curiosity won. ‘Value of what?’

‘Value in this case refers to the relative depth of lightness and darkness in any given context. We’ll discuss it in another lesson. Likewise your stamina,’ he continued before she could get a word in, ‘which remains abysmal. You should be able to keep yourself shadowed for hours. You should be able to conceal entire buildings under darkness! This is a weakness that can only be addressed with consistency and PRACTICE. Which brings us back to the removal of – yes? What have you found?’

Morrigan, who’d been glaring furiously at the cobblestones, looked up to find they were surrounded by black-smoke hunters on horseback. The Hunt towered above her, blocking out most of the ambient light. She shivered as the horses whinnied and stamped their hooves.

One of the hunters raised a hand, trailing smoke and shadow through the air to form a strange series of images Morrigan couldn’t decipher, but which apparently made perfect sense to Squall.

‘I suppose that ought to have been predictable,’ he said with a quiet sigh. ‘Keep looking. Is the harbour clear?’

Morrigan tried to track the snatches of imagery that followed: a sailboat, a broken window, a chain.

‘And has it stirred?’

A dolefully blinking eye. A ripple of water.

‘Good. Go on ahead, but keep to the shadows and await our arrival,’ Squall instructed the hunter as he took the reins of two shadow horses and handed one to Morrigan. She had to tilt her head all the way up to look at the beast, startling as it breathed two jets of velvety black smoke from huge, flaring nostrils.

The pack of hunters disappeared again into the night, one amorphous body of darkness trailing hundreds of fiery red embers.

Following Squall’s lead – though with more difficulty and less grace – Morrigan mounted her horse. She adjusted her seat in the saddle, feeling a sense of dread settle into her bones. She almost didn’t want to ask again.

‘Where are we going?’

Squall was barely paying attention to her; he was instead looking to the horizon, brow furrowed. A thin line of inky blue light had already begun to rise into the black sky. ‘Hmm? Oh – to feed the Guiltghast. Like I said.’

‘The what?’

Squall stared back at her for some time before he spoke. ‘Good grief … You’re not serious? They told you about the Unresting, but not about the Guiltghast?’

When Morrigan didn’t answer, he gave a chuckle that managed to sound disbelieving and bitter and slightly hysterical, all at once.

‘Oh, that’s precious,’ he said lightly, rubbing his eyes with one hand. ‘That is priceless. Absolute vintage Wundrous Society. Layer upon layer of secrets and lies, always doling out crumbs of knowledge on a strictly need-to-know basis. Aren’t they tired of it yet? Aren’t they bored?’

‘I’m bored,’ muttered Morrigan. ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’

‘No.’ Squall dug his heels into the side of his steed and turned it to face the creeping dawn. ‘I’m going to show you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eldritch Moorings

Their search ended in the dirtiest part of the river Morrigan had ever seen. Eldritch Moorings was a tiny, tucked away harbour – barely more than a crumbling jetty with a handful of rowboats bobbing beside it – accessed through a broken-down wire fence at the end of an alley, behind an old bait shop. Morrigan wrinkled her nose as she peered off the edge of the wooden walkway. A cold, sour-smelling fog rose from the black surface of the water.

‘And you’re sure it’s down there?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘I can’t see anything. How can you tell?’

‘Several ways.’ Squall took a deep breath. ‘The first and most obvious, to me at least, is that Hani Nakamura – like all Wundersmiths – had a signature energy to her creations. You will develop a sense for these things. You will learn to feel a Wundrous Act before you see or hear it, and eventually you’ll be able to pinpoint when it was created and by whom. But in the absence of that finely honed intuition, there are other things even you might notice. Look around. Tell me what you see.’

Morrigan turned in a slow circle, surveying their surroundings. ‘Boats. There are seven – no, eight little boats. And this narrow boardwalk surrounding the water. And the crooked little wooden buildings hanging over the top of it.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Well, there isn’t much light, is there? It’s hard to see anything.’

She frowned. That was a little odd, come to think of it. And in fact—

‘There are lampposts,’ she went on, pointing to them spaced out along the boardwalk. ‘They’re just unlit.’ Several of them had smashed glass, and most were covered in seagull droppings and in desperate need of a paint job.

‘What else?’

‘These buildings are all empty,’ Morrigan observed, squinting. It seemed obvious, now she was really looking. Half of them were boarded up, and in the far corner the door of a grotty pub was half hanging off its hinges. ‘And those chains holding the boats, they’re all rusted. This place is abandoned, isn’t it?’

‘Seems that way,’ Squall agreed, turning to face her. ‘If you’re ever in search of a monster, look for an absence of life. Nevermoorians – human, Wunimal and unnimal alike – usually have good instincts when it comes to avoiding certain places, even if they’re not entirely conscious of it. The Guiltghast tends to move around, settling into the cracks of the city and sucking them dry before moving on. But it looks like it’s been here for some time.’

Morrigan wrinkled her nose. ‘And … you’re saying this thing, this … Guiltghast – it eats the Unresting?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘It eats … ghosts?’

‘It eats guilt.’

An unwanted image entered her mind of the Unresting swarming to the light of the nightbeacon candles. She could still see the hollow misery in their faces, still feel the guilt and despair radiating from them. What was it Conall had said in his Spectre Specifics lecture? We’ll be relocating them to a non-residential area in the borough of Eldritch. Was ‘relocating’ really just code for ‘delivering on a silver platter’?

‘I’m surprised it hasn’t woken yet,’ Squall went on. ‘It’s used to having a delicious banquet delivered every Hallowmas, but as the last Black Parade was cancelled, this will be the second year it’s missed out. It must be famished by now.’

Morrigan resisted the urge to point out that last year’s Black Parade was cancelled because of the Ghastly Market, which was Squall’s fault. So, she wasn’t entirely to blame for the Guiltghast going hungry.

‘And this is the whole point of the Black Parade?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘This is why the Society marches every year, just to … just to pick up a takeaway and shove it down the Guiltghast’s gob?’

Squall winced, appalled by her choice of words. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s the whole point. I doubt they consider their glum little march in memoriam to be a complete façade.’ He gave a cynical eyeroll. ‘But yes, it’s more or less a front for the foraging of the Guiltghast’s annual supper, which will hopefully put it back into hibernation for another year.’

‘Seems like a lot of trouble to feed one monster.’ Morrigan leaned over to look warily at the water again. ‘Why don’t they just let it fend for itself?’

‘It’s complicated.’ His expression was unreadable. ‘The long-term problem of the Guiltghast is something we’ll have to deal with in the future. For now, we shall adopt the Wundrous Society’s chaotic sticking-plaster solution. Aren’t we daring.’

‘I don’t understand why they didn’t just tell Unit 919 all this,’ Morrigan said, dumbfounded. ‘We’re a part of C&D now. They told us about the Unresting. Whatever the Guiltghast is, it can’t be any scarier than—’

She was cut off by a bark of laughter from Squall. ‘What? You thought because you’d passed their little loyalty test, you’d made it to the inner sanctum? No more secrets, no more lies? Oh dear.’

Morrigan said nothing, because she didn’t want to admit the truth … which was yes, that was exactly what she’d thought! Hadn’t Unit 919 proven themselves trustworthy?

Unable to bear the smug look on his face, she changed the subject. ‘What exactly do you mean when you say it eats guilt, how can it— AHH!’

Morrigan yelped in fright and leapt back from the water’s edge, her heart beating like a drummer in a jazz band. She’d seen it. She’d seen something. A pale, luminescent, enormous something had flashed beneath the water and disappeared.

‘Did you just see— Was that … ? WHOA!’

It rose near the surface again, and this time she managed to get a better look before lunging backwards in terror. The thing she’d seen was easily the size of a whale, but it was shaped more like a giant squid or a huge, ghostly jellyfish or something in-between. Its blobby, translucent body trailed long white tendrils behind it, and it blinked one sleepy eye up at her, round and glowing and roughly the size of a wine barrel lid, before disappearing into the depths again.

‘Bit more awake than you thought, yeah?’ she asked Squall, in a pointed and perhaps slightly hysterical tone.

But Squall, unperturbed, stepped closer to the edge of the boardwalk, hands behind his back as he peered into the black water. ‘Oh no. You’d know if it was properly awake, trust me. Even in hibernation, it can move through the waterways. If it stayed completely still it would simply die. It needs to keep moving so it can passively siphon off little bits of guilt from wherever – whomever – it can.’

‘Then why has it stayed in Eldritch so long?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s about to enter its third year of starvation and is probably conserving energy. Eldritch is precisely the sort of place where its food source will always be abundant – plenty of nefarious people doing nefarious things. This thing is much smarter than the Society gives it credit for. Hani Nakamura didn’t build a fool.’

‘What exactly did she build?’

‘The Guiltghast is a sort of … living vessel,’ Squall explained. ‘It was made to painlessly collect and consume the confessions of people who’d committed crimes – mostly swindlers and con artists and such – so they might be presented as evidence in court. Its purpose was to seek absolute truth and ensure justice for the innocent. Unlike flawed, corruptible human beings, you see, the Guiltghast is incapable of extracting a false confession.’

‘How do you know?’ Morrigan asked.

‘Because it can’t eat them.’ He tilted his head. ‘As to your earlier question … it’s not exactly in peak operating condition these days, but once upon a time it had quite a refined extraction process.’

‘Which was?’

He made an ambiguous gesture. ‘Different methods for different people. For some it used kindness. Promises of absolution, like a balm for the soul. For others, a sly and coaxing admiration – the chance to boast of their misdeeds to an audience that falsely promises never to tell.’

Morrigan felt an unpleasant tingle on her neck. She was imagining a gigantic, spectral jellyfish whispering words of solace in her ear.

‘Unfortunately, over many years and in the absence of adequate supervision, its technique has corroded into something far less subtle.’ He began to pace the water’s edge as he spoke. ‘Quite the spectacle, really. If given the chance, it will hunt down someone reeking of guilt and reach out with those lovely long tendrils to draw the victim in, almost suffocating them as it absorbs their guilty conscience. The victim screams themselves hoarse until, finally, they’re released – minutes or hours or sometimes days later – all their guilt taken away from them, now a morally blank slate. Mostly intact, but not always. Usually alive. But not always.’

Morrigan was beginning to feel queasy again. ‘Doesn’t exactly sound painless.’

‘No. Like I said. Not in peak operating condition.’ Squall heaved a grim sigh. ‘There are Wundrous Acts that have flourished even without the presence of an astute Wundersmith in Nevermoor to maintain them – the Brolly Rail, for example – and there are others that have grown wild.

‘The Guiltghast sits very firmly in the second category. Its appetite expands with every passing year. The Wundrous Society thought they’d come up with an elegant solution in allowing it to gorge itself on the Unresting every Hallowmas … and I will admit, as Wundrous Society solutions go, it is one of their neater ones.’ He paused, grimacing as if that admission caused him physical pain. ‘It certainly kills two birds with one stone. But they’ve also created for themselves an impossible, never-ending, ever-growing task.’

Morrigan thought about it. ‘The more the Guiltghast eats, the hungrier it gets … and the less there is to feed it?’

He nodded. ‘Precisely. There isn’t a boundless supply of terrible people in the world, despite what some would have you believe. Ah, speak of the devils and they shall appear.’

Morrigan was so focused on what Squall was telling her, she hadn’t noticed the low, rumbling growl behind them. She turned to see his pack of shadow wolves, eyes burning red, slink into the harbour.

They’d brought the Unresting. Morrigan thanked her lucky stars that she couldn’t see them this time, but she still felt the wave of nauseous despair they carried around.

‘Is that it? You could only round up four?!’ Squall glared fiercely at the pack, and they melted into the shadows, whining.

‘Wunsoc gathered dozens in the parade,’ Morrigan couldn’t resist pointing out.

‘Yes, well, that was at midnight,’ he snapped. ‘It’s almost dawn—’ He cut himself off, rubbing his forehead in frustration. ‘We need to wake up the Guiltghast.’

The smirk dropped from Morrigan’s face. ‘Wake it up?’

‘How else do you think we’re going to shove a takeaway down its gob? You’ll need to give it a small shock, which won’t make it happy—’

‘Oh, good. I’m ever so keen to annoy a giant, starving jellyfish monster.’

‘—but it should sense the Wundrous energy around you and, thinking you’re Hani Nakamura, rise to the surface,’ Squall continued, ignoring the feeble joke.

Morrigan’s eyes bulged. ‘Oh, good! I’m ever so keen to pretend I’m a giant, starving jellyfish monster’s mother.’

He ignored that, too. ‘A small electrical pulse will do the trick. Wait for my signal.’

Admittedly, there was a small part of Morrigan that felt morbidly curious to see the Guiltghast. But it was at war with the much larger part of her that really, really didn’t want to wake up the owner of that enormous eye.

And there was another, much more pressing thing. She was deeply ill-at-ease with the idea of feeding one monstrous thing to another. Something about it made her feel like she was playing judge, jury and executioner. Now that she knew what the Black Parade was really about, it had taken on a whole new grotesque meaning.

‘Let me think for a minute,’ she said, tugging at her coat sleeves.

Squall made a noise of frustration. ‘Do I really need to explain the urgency to you? Miss Crow, there is a small window each year in which the Unresting are remotely biddable, and that window is now millimetres from closing. If the Guiltghast goes another year without being satiated, it will soon wake up and start hunting its own prey.’ He fixed his black eyes on hers. ‘Believe me, the Wundrous Society is not up to the task of containing a hungry, fully conscious Guiltghast. They only have two strategies: stick plasters or throw grenades. If I allow them to handle this it will end in catastrophe.’

It was a chilling warning, but something in Morrigan’s gut still didn’t feel right.

‘I don’t want to do it,’ she said in a quiet, resentful voice.

‘Why?’ Squall snarled.

She heaved a deep breath. ‘I’m not you, I can’t just go around killing everything!’

‘What in the Seven Pockets are you talking about? You’re not killing anything, the Unresting are already dead! They’re not even proper ghosts, just … miserable, desperate imprints of miserable, desperate energy. Do them a favour and put them out of that misery.’

Morrigan hesitated for a moment, then changed tack. ‘You really think it’s a good idea to wake that thing up from a two-year-long hibernation, just to feed it four measly ghosts? I saw how many the Wundrous Society was planning to feed it – dozens and dozens.’

Squall was visibly annoyed by this logic. She saw his resolution wavering and raised her voice to bring the argument home.

‘Four isn’t a feast, it’s barely a snack! Don’t you think it might antagonise—’

BANG!

Across the water, in the far corner of the tiny harbour, the door to the abandoned pub was thrown open and smacked against the wall. This absurd clamour was chased by a gleeful peal of laughter. A teenager in a green silk ball gown and glittering black witch’s hat stumbled through the doorframe, off balance but triumphant.

‘TOLD YOU!’ she shouted. ‘Eldritch! HA! Put it on the map!’

‘Heavens above. Supervise your sister, won’t you?’ said another girl wearing a pink princess dress and golden crown, giggling helplessly. They were followed by three more teenagers in the fanciest of fancy dress, staggering from the darkened building into the moonlight.

‘If I could do that,’ said one of the boys, brushing cobwebs from his sequined silver suit jacket, ‘do you think we’d be here at all?’

Morrigan was so confused by this sudden invasion, she didn’t notice the departure of the Unresting until she heard Squall swear under his breath. He’d already begun to furiously weave the Gossamer bridge that would take Morrigan home, signalling the end of the lesson.

‘Well, that’s that chance gone for another year. If you had listened to me,’ he hissed, ascending the golden-white structure one irate step at a time, even as it built itself under his feet, ‘and done as I told you the moment I told you—’

‘You mean if YOUR smoky dogs had managed to round up more than a canapé?’ she shouted at his back, suddenly fuming. ‘We can’t wake it up and offer it NOTHING! What do you think it’ll do, curl up and go back to sleep? Of course not, it’ll go for the nearest person with a whiff of guilt about them, and let’s see, who might that be? Maybe THE GIRL WHO’S KEEPING A TERRIBLE SECRET FROM EVERYONE SHE CARES ABOUT?’

‘Hello?’ came a voice from behind her.

Morrigan gasped as she spun round to see the boy in the sparkly suit peering into the shadows where she stood. He’d left his friends on the other side of the harbour; they were now screaming with laughter and pretending to push each other into the water.

‘Is everything—’ The boy hesitated, then stepped slightly closer, looking half frightened and half concerned. ‘Are you quite all right?’

Morrigan retreated deeper into the shadows, grasping for a bit to cloak herself in. When she was certain the stranger couldn’t see her anymore, she turned and ran after Squall before the Gossamer bridge disappeared completely.

Squall refused to discuss their failed undertaking any further that night but, at her insistence, he had at least reinstated the Hush. For one more week only, and that was final, he’d warned, before leaving her at Station 919 outside the glossy black door that led to her wardrobe.

It was a delicate thing, the timing of it. The Hush would take a minute – maybe two – to fully descend, dampening the noisy edges of her mind like a blanket over a birdcage. If Morrigan entered the Deucalion too soon, she risked running into Jupiter before her memories of the evening and Squall and the apprenticeship were sufficiently occluded.

On the other hand, if she waited too long, she might just find herself standing in Station 919 in the middle of the night with no memory of how she got there. That would be terrifying, and Morrigan knew the first person she’d tell would be Jupiter. A can of worms best left unopened.

There was, however, a sweet spot of maybe fifteen seconds when she couldn’t quite remember where she’d been or who she’d been with, but somehow knew instinctively that the not-remembering was part of her plan. Morrigan stood with her hand on the door, counting down, and when that strange and contradictory sensation arrived, she went home.

The journey to the top of the treehouse was longer than her usual walk back to bed. Her fifteen seconds were up even before she’d finished climbing the spiralling tree-trunk stairs. By the time she was back in her cosy nest between her two best friends, and Cadence stirred drowsily from sleep to ask where she’d been, Morrigan could answer without hesitation, without guilt, without treachery.

‘Nowhere.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Civic Tasks

‘The tournament just doesn’t work like that,’ Nan Dawson, Hawthorne’s patron, was saying in exasperation when Morrigan arrived late to her last lesson the following day, trying to slink into the room unnoticed. ‘We can’t enter him into it six months before the opening ceremony! The competitors in next summer’s tournament have already been training for months – years, in some cases.’

‘According to my information,’ said another familiar voice, ‘your scholar’s been riding dragons since before he could walk.’

Morrigan almost groaned aloud. If there was a list of people she’d least like to be surprised by when walking into a classroom, Holliday Wu from Wunsoc’s Public Distraction Department – who had deliberately exposed her as a Wundersmith to everyone in Nevermoor mere weeks ago – would be at the top.

Other names on her No Thank You list would certainly have included Baz Charlton, Cadence’s odious patron, who’d tried to get Morrigan kicked out of Nevermoor during the entry trials three years ago, and Hester Fitzwilliam, Francis’s patron (and aunt), who’d threatened to pull him out of the Society altogether when she’d learned there was a Wundersmith in his unit.

Walking into a room with all three of them present felt like a very unfunny practical joke, but Morrigan couldn’t exactly take it personally; the small room was packed with all of Unit 919 and their patrons and Miss Cheery.

‘Morrigan, come sit with me,’ Miss Cheery said quietly, beckoning her over. The rest of the unit was already seated on chairs arranged in a semicircle, looking excited and jittery.

‘Sorry I’m late, Miss,’ Morrigan whispered as she settled in. ‘Where’s Jupiter? Shouldn’t he be here too?’

But Miss Cheery’s only response was a slightly tense shrug.

Holliday was sitting on top of a desk at the front of the room. To her left stood a man Morrigan recognised as Carlos, one of her colleagues from the Public Distraction Department.

It was somehow especially galling that Holliday looked, as usual, like she’d just been styled for a photo shoot. Morrigan couldn’t help admiring her outfit: a crisp white shirt with sage-coloured waistcoat and trousers – accessorised with a little sprig of lavender in the breast pocket – and tall black lace-up boots. Her long hair was swept up in a topknot exposing a shorn undercut, and she wore a subtle pair of gold wire-framed reading glasses.

Classy, was Morrigan’s grudging assessment.

The publicist frowned thoughtfully at Hawthorne, who had slid halfway down the chair next to Nan, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Holliday murmured something to her colleague, who sighed and said, ‘Well, he needs a haircut for starters.’

‘Mmm. Let’s get a salon appointment in the calendar.’

Hawthorne’s expression turned to terror as one hand went protectively to his riotous brown curls.

Holliday returned her attention to Nan. ‘Sorry – what’s the difference between him and the other competitors?’

Nan squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘The difference is that those riders have been training with their dragons, specifically for that event. You can’t just ride any old dragon! Not for the biggest competition in the Free State. Every reptile entered in the tournament is a Class-A specimen bred by a licensed, reputable breeder and registered to the Tournament-Calibre Dragon Index from birth.’

‘You’ve just said a lot of things I don’t care very much about, Nan. But go on, do elaborate,’ said Holliday, casually sticking her pen into her topknot and leaning forward, all ears.

‘Those dragons are all owned by obscenely wealthy stables and have been conditioned by career trainers their whole lives. They are extremely rare, extremely valuable and extremely already claimed for the tournament by much older, much more experienced riders than this thirteen-year-old,’ Nan said, grasping Hawthorne’s shoulder. Then she added quietly to him, with a reassuring squeeze, ‘No matter how smashing a rider he happens to be.’

‘Shucks, Nan,’ said Hawthorne.

Holliday waved a hand. ‘We’re the Wundrous Society. We’ll gently move one of those riders out of the way for him.’

Nan groaned loudly and rubbed her face with both hands. ‘It doesn’t WORK like that! Dragon owners are powerful, serious people. They don’t care about Wunsoc status and they’re not going to trust their most precious commodity to a teenage athlete, they’re just not.’

‘Nan’s right,’ agreed Hawthorne, a little wistfully. Morrigan knew it cost her friend something to admit that. He couldn’t wait to ride in the tournament. ‘None of the owners would be that silly. It’s too big a risk.’

‘Dragonriders are selected long before Opening Flights,’ Nan explained. ‘They’re contracted to the owner and their stable and they train twelve to sixteen hours DAILY with the specific dragon they’re going to ride. They painstakingly build a bond with their steed. You can’t just move them out of the way, gently or otherwise! And yes, one day Hawthorne will be one of those riders. No doubt. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t tournament-ready by fifteen, and that will make him the youngest competitor in at least half a dozen Ages. But right now? Absolutely not.’

‘Excellent passion! Love all that. I’m pretty confident we can find a way around this, though. Leave it with me,’ said Holliday. Nan opened her mouth to continue arguing, but the publicist made a little zip motion. ‘Let’s put a pin in the dragon stuff and circle back later, okay? I want to get through the whole unit. All right, now that you’re all present—’ (her eyes flicked pointedly in Morrigan’s direction) ‘—the session can properly begin. We’re here for the assignment of your first civic tasks. Are any of you familiar with this term?’

Morrigan and the rest of the unit all shook their heads.

Holliday slid off the desk and began to pace as she spoke. ‘Civic tasks are your introduction to playing a part in the D bit of C&D: Distraction. As you get older, you’ll decide for yourselves how best to serve Wunsoc’s dual mission, and it will become clear who among you leans more naturally into Containment, and who has more to contribute to Distraction – but there will be times you may be called on for either, or both.

‘Every single member of the Wundrous Society can and must contribute to our standing in the community, and it’s never too early to begin.’ She clapped her hands once. ‘Starting today, with your first civic tasks. You might think of them as … little publicity projects.’

Morrigan felt herself hunch inwards, already loathing the sound of little publicity projects. She glanced around to see her friends split between curiosity, excitement and terror. Only Cadence looked utterly disinterested.

‘I’ve spoken with your patrons prior to the session today, to get a head start,’ Holliday continued. ‘We already have a few interesting prospects in the pipeline.

‘Thaddea Macleod – love your entire thing,’ she said, giving Thaddea a firm thumbs-up. ‘The strength, the power, the discipline, the accent, the hair, the biceps. Superb! Your teachers tell me you’re a hard worker, tough as nails … and you’d probably take down an angry rhinoceros in single combat if it looked at you funny.’

Thaddea turned to grin at her patron, a burly man named Sid Macrae with big pink cheeks, a large yellow moustache and many colourful tattoos. He beamed proudly back at her.

‘Yer pure dead brilliant, No-Retreat,’ he said in a brogue even thicker than his scholar’s, wiping a tear from his overbright eyes. ‘I’m always sayin’ it.’

‘Now, your task,’ continued Holliday. Thaddea leaned forward, eager as ever for permission to start punching something. ‘We’ve found you a volunteer position teaching self-defence to senior citizens at a community hall in Bloxam, and I’ve organised for a columnist from Elderly Vibes Magazine to interview you about it next week.’

Hawthorne snorted with laughter but managed to successfully pass it off as a sneeze.

Thaddea said nothing, and Holliday seemed to interpret her look of dismay as nerves about the interview. ‘Oh, don’t worry – you’ll be fine. Do you like your grandparents?’

Thaddea slumped in her chair and gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘I s’pose?’

‘Great! You can talk about what an honour it is to give back to the elderly and so on. Try to think of a cute anecdote about, I don’t know, baking with your grandma or feeding the ducks with your gramps or whatever. Or just make one up, it doesn’t matter.’

Thaddea thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. ‘When I was five, I was attacked near a faerie glen by a Great Hilly Beast and I bit off three of its toes and it ran off yelping and I took the bloody toes home to my nan and she sewed ’em into a wee pouch on a necklace, so I’d have something to remember my first proper victory.’

Holliday stared at her, and Morrigan could tell she was trying to decide whether the story was real or made up. (It was for sure real; no one in Unit 919 would even need to ask.) ‘Ace! Let’s workshop that one together before the interview. Right, moving on. Where’s Lambeth Amara?’

Lam raised a hand. She was sitting at the end of the row, beside her patron: a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome and serious man called Wayra. Morrigan had never heard him say much; he always allowed Lam to speak on her own behalf. Morrigan had wondered how much of this was simply his personality and how much was because his scholar was in fact a secret royal.

Wayra was one of the few living members of the Wundrous Society to have come from Far East Sang, the Wintersea Republic state where Lam’s family ostensibly reigned. Her grandmother, the queen, had charged him with the task of smuggling Lam into Nevermoor to join the Wundrous Society, where she could harness her gift of seeing the near future and control the debilitating headaches that came with it. It was a dangerous and treasonous thing for the royal family to have done, and if their actions were ever discovered by the Wintersea Party (who actually ruled all four states in the Republic), their freedom – or worse, their lives – would be forfeit.

Fortunately, Queen Ama was both brave and clever; she’d taken in a young orphan girl from a nearby town who would spend the next several years living quietly and happily in the palace, posing as the sequestered Princess Lamya.

Of course, Holliday knew none of this.

‘Lambeth,’ she said again, looking down at her notes. ‘The Elders tell me I can’t do anything public with you for the time being, but they haven’t said why.’ She looked up at Wayra, who stared back silently. Holliday turned to Lam herself.

‘Any clue?’

Lam shrugged. ‘I’m shy.’

Morrigan could feel Unit 919 bristle. They all knew the truth about Lam and had promised to protect her secret no matter what. A thread of tension in the room seemed to tauten as they waited for further probing.

But if there was one thing Holliday was good at, it was reading the room. She nodded briskly. ‘The Elders must have their reasons. Most people find child oracles unnerving, anyway. It takes years to develop the sense of theatre and charm you need to be convincing, and without it the whole thing can come off a bit creepy – no offence. I’ll come back to you in a year or two.’ She moved on, consulting her notes again. ‘Next up … Anah Kahlo. Ooh, a healer! Terrific.’

‘Surgeon, actually, Miss,’ Anah corrected her timidly. ‘Or I will be. I plan to specialise in—’

‘Nope,’ said Holliday, making the zipping gesture across her mouth again. Carlos made a big ‘X’ with his forearms. ‘I’ll stop you there. You’re not a surgeon, or even a surgeon-in-waiting. That doesn’t test well. Nobody, and truly I mean nobody, wants to imagine a thirteen-year-old rummaging about in their organs. Plus, “surgeon” makes people think of scalpels and hospitals and that yucky disinfectant smell.’

‘I like that smell,’ Anah protested meekly. ‘And I’m fourteen, I had my birthday last—’

‘Healer, on the other hand, is soothing,’ Holliday went on. ‘Healer is mysterious. Healer is non-threatening. Got it? Now tell me what your knack is.’

Anah glanced uncertainly at her patron, Sumati Mishra, and at Miss Cheery, who was looking stony-faced at Holliday. Then she said in a mouse-like voice, ‘I’m a … a healer?’

‘Spot on,’ Holliday said, extending a thumbs-up. ‘Anah, we’re going to have you visit the Royal Lightwing Children’s Hospital and shadow a doctor on their rounds. Sound fun?’

‘Oh, yes please,’ said Anah, sitting up taller.

‘Great. Ooh! Carlos, let’s find her a little white lab coat for the occasion. I know – adorable, right?’ Carlos was making a sound like he’d just seen a litter of puppies.

But Sumati looked sceptical. ‘You don’t want people thinking of hospitals … but you’re sending her to a hospital. In a lab coat.’

‘It doesn’t matter if she goes to a hospital,’ said Holliday. ‘It doesn’t matter if she wears a lab coat or hangs a stethoscope around her neck or juggles syringes, as long as we call her a healer while she does it. That’s the important bit. Right, next is …’ She consulted her notes again. ‘Mahir Ibrahim. Mahir, apparently you’re a … polyglot. Cool word. Please tell me it means you’ve got super speed or X-ray vision?’

‘Hmm?’ Mahir, who’d been reading a book for the entire lesson, straightened up and blinked dazedly. His young patron, Grace Mulryan, whispered in his ear, and Mahir cleared his throat. ‘Oh. Sorry. It means I speak multiple languages.’

Holliday sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut as if grappling with a sudden migraine. ‘Um … okay. Cool. How many languages? A good round number, like two hundred? Something that’ll look nice in a headline, yes?’

‘Forty-one.’

Her face fell slightly. ‘Forty-one.’

Mahir shrugged. ‘I’m learning an obscure Northern Grommish dialect, so it will be forty-two soon.’

Holliday actually grimaced at the words ‘obscure’ and ‘Grommish’, and made a few hurried scrawls in her notebook. ‘Okay. Forty-two’s … fine.’

Miss Cheery seemed to have finally had enough. She choked out a noise of exasperation that made Morrigan jump. ‘Forty-two languages is not fine, it’s extraordinary, Holliday. How many people do you know who can speak forty-two languages?’

‘At age fourteen?’ added Grace, glaring daggers at Holliday. She gave Mahir a consolatory pat on the back, but he had returned to his book and seemed wholly unbothered.

Holliday pressed her lips together and nodded. ‘Yeah, no, I completely agree. It’s brilliant! Truly Mahir, it’s brilliant. We’ll round it up to fifty. Moving on to—’

‘I don’t get this, Holliday,’ Carlos interrupted her, gesturing vaguely at Unit 919. ‘What’s the theme here?’

‘Theme?’ said Miss Cheery. The edge in her voice had sharpened to a point. ‘What do you mean, theme?’

‘Oh, you know. Most units have one.’

‘Mmm,’ said Holliday. ‘Carlos is right, actually. Previous High Councils tended to select nine candidates from the Show Trial who ultimately sort of … fit together, somehow. Unit 914 are all talented musicians and composers and vocalists – they were a dream to work with. My own unit have quite disparate knacks, but we’ve all pursued careers of public influence – orators, diplomats, politicians, activists, publicists. And Carlos, your unit are all—’

‘Extremely good-looking, yes,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘But perhaps I see the theme with these children now. The Elders were going for some sort of motley vibe, I think. A bunch of misfits, yes? Fun.’

‘Wh-what? No!’ sputtered Miss Cheery. ‘None of them are misfits. They are nine incredibly talented and well-rounded children in the Free State’s most elite organisation of remarkable people!’

Holliday made an indistinct noise that might equally have been concession or doubt as she flipped through her notebook. ‘Look, I know all this. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t remarkable. And – wait, isn’t there a musician in this unit?’

‘That’s me, ma’am,’ said Arch, raising a hand. ‘Archan Tate.’

Holliday tilted her head to the side. ‘Nice manners. Great face. Heart-throb potential for sure. We’ll start putting you in some of the teen magazines in a year or so, once you’ve developed a decent jawline. Are you in a band?’

Miss Cheery gave a faint groan.

‘Oh, er – this is more of a hobby, really,’ said Arch, gently tapping the violin case he’d brought from his last lesson. ‘I’m actually a pickpocket.’

Holliday’s nose wrinkled. ‘You what?’

‘My scholar plays the violin beautifully,’ clarified Arch’s patron, a refined but slightly weather-beaten man called Whitlam Skuld. ‘But that’s not the talent that won him a place here. Archan is a pickpocket. And a magnificent one.’

Holliday looked from Whitlam to Arch, staring blankly for several moments, then clicked her fingers. ‘No. He’s a liberationist.’

‘I’m … sorry?’ said Arch, frowning.

‘We don’t say pickpocket. Comes with a whole host of negative connotations, the main one being that people don’t like being pickpocketed. You’re a liberationist.’

‘What’s a liberationist?’

‘A champion for the underdog. You liberate money and goods from the unworthy and give them to the needy.’

Arch looked utterly puzzled. ‘I usually just give people their things back.’

‘Then why steal them in the first place?’ asked Carlos.

He shrugged. ‘For fun?’

Holliday opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a booming knock on the door a second before it swung open and a wide-eyed woman swept inside, announcing in a breathless voice, ‘They’re not coming!’

‘We’re just about to wrap up here, Judith—’

‘Holliday!’ she cut in sharply. ‘They are not. Coming. To Wunsoc.’

Carlos gasped, and Holliday’s face drained of colour. It took her a moment to recover her voice. ‘What do you mean they’re not coming? They RSVP’d. Everything’s ready, we’ve just spent two days decorating the formal parlour! We’ve done them a HIGH TEA for goodness’ sake! Judith, you did specify the invitation was from the High Council of Elders?’

‘Yes, of course, but … they’ve asked you to come to them.’

For the second time, Holliday was silenced. She sat down as if something had pushed her, then stood up again in a rush, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear.

‘The message said they’ll send a chauffeured vessel to fetch you from their rendezvous point,’ Judith confirmed. She, too, looked shocked and slightly terrified. ‘It will be there in …’ She checked her watch, eyes bulging. ‘… seventeen minutes.’

‘Seventeen minutes? But I haven’t even explained – we were supposed to have—’ Holliday closed her eyes for a moment, pressing the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. She took several deep, slow breaths, opened her eyes, and was once again as cool as a cucumber. (Morrigan felt simultaneously impressed by the instant transformation, and weirdly satisfied having witnessed that little crack in Holliday’s composure.) ‘Right. Okay. Unit 919, patrons, Miss Cheery – we’ll continue this in our follow-up session on Friday.’ She smoothed down her waistcoat and straightened her shoulders. ‘Morrigan Crow? Come with me, please. Your first civic task begins right now.’

Morrigan jolted at the sound of her name.

‘Now?’ Her stomach seemed to turn in on itself. ‘What is it?’

Holliday’s face gave nothing away.

‘You have some very important people to meet.’

CHAPTER NINE

Seventeen Minutes

Holliday and Carlos steered Morrigan firmly out the door and down the long hall, closely flanking her like an honour guard. (Or prison guards.)

‘I promised them there’d be no cameras,’ Holliday muttered, her boots click-clacking briskly on the marble floor. ‘They’re so infuriatingly private. But we were supposed to at least have that Hathaway-Hightower chap from the Sentinel there to get a quote for his column. I imagine that was half the point of this last-minute location change – to avoid any press.’ She sounded most disgruntled at the idea of being outmanoeuvred. ‘I’ll see if I can get one of the younger ones on record myself. Carlos, please can you do something with the hair?’ she finished, grimacing in Morrigan’s direction.

Carlos huffed dramatically. ‘With what, Holliday? My bare hands? You want me to claw at her head like a mother bird? Am I some sort of kestrel? I had everything set up outside the formal parlour. I cannot work under these—’

‘Just do your best, pal.’ Holliday smiled tightly.

They were nearing the railpod bank at the end of the hall. A snakewun minor teacher and several chattering scholars were queuing ahead of them, but Holliday swept past, ushering Morrigan into the first arriving pod with a breezy apology. The teacher gave an indignant hiss.

‘So sorry, everyone! Forgive me, Professor Dresser, we’re in a hurry! Oh—’ Holliday raised an eyebrow, looking over Morrigan’s shoulder. ‘You’re coming too, are you?’

‘Obviously I’m coming.’ To Morrigan’s great relief, she turned to see Miss Cheery on their heels, looking livid. She slipped in just before the doors slammed shut, squishing the four of them into a brass pod built for three.

‘Isn’t this cosy.’ Holliday’s weary voice was muffled behind Miss Cheery’s curly hair. ‘So glad you could join us, Marina.’

Carlos pulled a lever and the pod took off with a lurch, barely a second after Morrigan reached up to grab one of the safety loops dangling from the ceiling.

‘This isn’t in Morrigan’s timetable,’ said Miss Cheery. ‘You haven’t run any of this past me. Does her patron know?’

‘Of course,’ Holliday assured her. ‘Elder Quinn summoned him to the Elders Hall earlier for a briefing – that’s why he wasn’t in our session.’

The tension in Morrigan’s stomach eased a little, knowing Jupiter had at least some idea of what was going on. If it was anything too dreadful, he would surely have put a stop to it.

‘Who am I meeting?’ Morrigan asked, emboldened. ‘And what’s my task? Is it something to do with the Wundrous Arts?’

‘It’s absolutely nothing to do with the Wundrous Arts.’ Holliday’s voice was deceptively casual, with the slightest tremor underneath. ‘In fact, for the next hour, do not even mention the Wundrous Arts. You are simply a thirteen-year-old girl named Morrigan Crow. Understood?’

Someone’s singing from a different songbook, Morrigan thought, exchanging a troubled glance with Miss Cheery. Was this the same Holliday Wu who had literally shoved her in front of a crowd of strangers mere weeks ago, like the pushiest of stage parents, and told her to perform something exhilarating from her Wundrous Arts repertoire? Morrigan felt her hackles rise at the memory.

The railpod spiked suddenly upwards and all four passengers buckled at the knees.

‘Morrigan, listen to me closely,’ Holliday continued. ‘I’ve realised something important. We’ve been trying to reconcile what the Society needs from you, with what Nevermoor expects from you. Wunsoc demands that we all help maintain the Society’s good reputation. But your Wundersmith status is a direct threat to that reputation. It shouldn’t be, I know it shouldn’t, ’ she held up a hand to halt Miss Cheery’s rebuttal, ‘but it is, and we can’t deny it. The Nevermoor public are afraid of you. I think the protest last night at the Black Parade has driven that home for all of us.’

Morrigan felt her stomach curl with embarrassment at the memory, but Miss Cheery gave an aggressively indignant scoff.

‘Morrigan ended the Hollowpox, for goodness’ sake! What more does she have to—’

‘I know that, Marina.’ The discomfort on the publicist’s face spoke volumes. Morrigan could only assume that, like everyone else, Holliday wanted to know how she’d done it, and also very much did not want to know how she’d done it. ‘And you know that, and most people in the Society know that, but NEVERMOOR DOESN’T KNOW THAT. Not really. I’m sorry, Morrigan, but most people don’t look at you and see the girl who ended an epidemic. They look at you and see Ezra Squall the Sequel.’

Morrigan flinched at that bluntness.

‘So, we need to remind them that a Wundersmith isn’t all you are,’ said Holliday. ‘In short, Morrigan, we need to humanise you.’

They took a sharp left, then a right, then lurched nauseatingly around a bend.

‘What do you mean, humanise her?’ demanded Miss Cheery. ‘What is she, a walrus?!’

‘Marina, my love,’ Carlos said with a sigh, ‘you could stop thinking the worst of us for five seconds, just for the sake of efficiency, yes?’

But Morrigan was remembering something Jupiter had once told her. He’d known she would ultimately make it into the Society, because she was a Wundersmith and there was no other place for her … but he’d wanted her to go through the entry trials first so that the Elders knew what sort of person she was.

In the hope they’ll continue to see you as a person first, he’d said, and a Wundersmith second.

Holliday was watching her curiously. ‘You understand what I’m saying, don’t you Morrigan?’

‘I … yeah, I think so.’ She glanced at Miss Cheery, nodding to convey that she was okay. ‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Holliday took a big breath, looking genuinely relieved. ‘Because here’s where it gets interesting: we’ve been doing some research these past few weeks. Into your family. Your story. Your past, before you came to Nevermoor. Trying to form some picture of Morrigan Crow, the girl behind the Wundersmith.’

Morrigan probably should have been affronted by this invasion of her privacy, but all she could think was what a tedious job that must have been. She could have supplied the highlights herself if they’d asked: born cursed; bane of family’s existence; surprise visit from strange redhead; faked own death; bumpy ride through clock in giant mechanical spider. Done.

Holliday shared a conspiratorial look with Carlos. They were practically vibrating with excitement now. ‘We were hoping to uncover a bit of miserable backstory from your childhood in the Wintersea Republic. Something we could feed the papers to garner public sympathy in your favour.’

Miss Cheery made a noise of disgust, and Morrigan cringed. As a former ‘cursed child’, she had miserable backstory in spades, naturally. But she’d rather set it to polka music and sing it live at the Nevermoor Opera House with a chorus line of dancers behind her than use it to garner public sympathy. How mortifying.

‘But as it turns out, we were looking for the wrong thing, in very much the wrong place. After that piece about you in the Sunday Post—’

‘The one where you exposed me as a Wundersmith?’ Morrigan interrupted flatly.

‘That’s the one,’ Holliday said, without remorse. ‘Look, we did what we had to, for the good of the Society. But consider this my way of making it up to you.’

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. ‘How?’

‘After that piece, the Elders were approached by a woman called Margot Darling. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, this woman said she tried to meet you in the days after the article was published, but that large lobby cat of yours threatened to gouge out her eyes for lying about who she was. Except she wasn’t lying.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s your aunt.’

Morrigan snorted. ‘Oh, that. Yeah, there were lots of people saying lots of wild things, trying to get into the Deucalion and catch me doing something Wundersmithy. Sorry to disappoint you, but she was lying. I know that for a fact, because I don’t have any aunts.’

‘You do, actually,’ Holliday insisted, lips twitching as she tried to contain a grin. ‘In fact, you have three. Lady Margot Darling, Lady Miriam Darling—’

‘HOLD UP,’ Miss Cheery cut in. ‘You’re not talking about—’

‘—and Lady Modestine Darling. Yes, I am talking about the Darling sisters.’

Miss Cheery was staring, open-mouthed. ‘That means Morrigan’s family is—’

‘Yes.’

‘So that makes Morrigan—’

‘Yes.’ Holliday beamed, her face flushed with delight. ‘Morrigan, you’re a Darling!’

Morrigan blinked. She felt dazed. ‘Um. Thanks?’

‘No, listen to me. You are a Darling,’ Holliday repeated, ‘with a capital D. Your mother was born into the Grand Old House of Darling, in the Silver District. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

My mother.

Morrigan experienced a strange sensation of sudden, rising warmth, all the way up to her scalp. She felt like a cup being filled to the brim with hot tea.

Holliday grabbed her shoulders and squeezed them, eager to get the message across.

‘Morrigan. You are Silverborn.’

CHAPTER TEN

The Grand Old House of Darling

My mother was from Nevermoor.

The railpod screeched to a violent halt and Morrigan was thrown against the wall. The doors opened onto what looked like the middle of a lake, but was in fact a crowded Wunderground station covered in half a metre of water. Passengers in knee-high wellies sloshed in and out of train carriages, piggybacking small children and hugging shopping bags to their chests as if this was all business as usual. A shabby wooden sign above the platform read OGDEN TOWN STATION.

Leaning out of the pod, Holliday gave a piercing whistle and tapped her golden W pin to gain the attention of a water taxi driver. She needn’t have bothered; a whole cluster of them had already perked up at the sight of the distinctive Wundrous Society vehicle. Holliday, Morrigan, Carlos and Miss Cheery stepped straight from the pod into a grubby tin motorboat driven by a white-haired woman in a captain’s hat, smoking a pipe.

‘Where to, love?’

‘The gates.’ Holliday checked her watch. ‘Get us there in six minutes and there’s an extra ten kred in it for you.’

As they sped off into the wind, swirls of peppery green pipe smoke swam around Morrigan’s head, combining with the smell of the murky brown water and strong whiffs of diesel from passing boats. It was a noisy, busy part of the river, crammed with working vessels of all kinds – water taxis, fishing boats, rubbish barges – and the sky clamoured with seagulls circling piles of landfill and divebombing fishery workers, hoping for a snack.

Morrigan’s senses were overloaded. The chug of the motor and the screeching of gulls made conversation impossible, even if she’d felt capable of speech. Adding to all this noise were the five words repeating on a loop in her head.

My mother was from Nevermoor.

The thought was slippery and strange. It kept sliding away from her like oil on the river, unable to gain purchase.

My mother was from Nevermoor.

They arrived at their destination – an imposing gatehouse set into a sandstone wall in the river – with two minutes to spare. An arched silver gate loomed above the little motorboat, and the captain explained she could take them no further.

‘Not licensed for it,’ she said. ‘Too shabby for them in there.’

‘This is perfect, cheers.’ Holliday paid the woman in cash, checking her watch again as they clambered out of the boat and up the sandstone steps to a small, dry pier jutting out from the wall and surrounded by water on three sides.

Holliday blanched when she took in Morrigan’s windswept appearance.

‘Carlos. Please.’

Carlos immediately began to fuss, making one last effort to smooth Morrigan’s hair as best he could.

‘What do you know about my mother?’ she demanded, batting him away. ‘How do you know this Lady Margot’s telling the truth? She could be a sociopath. What’s Silverborn?’

Holliday had turned away to watch the silver gate, but she suddenly rounded on Morrigan, looking stricken.

‘Don’t say that word!’

‘Sociopath?’

‘Silverborn.’

‘YOU said it!’

‘I … Ugh, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have said …’ Holliday pressed a hand to her temple, searching for the correct words. ‘You’re of the Silver District. Your origins are … aristocratic. That is to say—’

Morrigan frowned. ‘Posh?’

‘Just say Silverborn,’ said Miss Cheery, rolling her eyes. ‘Everybody does.’

There was a grinding noise, and the gate began to rise slowly, revealing a strip of sunlit turquoise water beyond.

‘Not everybody,’ Holliday said in an urgent whisper. ‘Certainly nobody from the Silver District. They consider it offensive. Morrigan, listen to me … it is extremely important that you make a good first impression, so please don’t repeat that word, and remember what I said earlier. No Wundersmith stuff— OH! Hello there!’

Her voice rose an octave as another boat glided into view through the silver gate. It was different to their water taxi in every way imaginable: long and slender, carved from wood and painted glossy white. The graceful upwards curve of the prow made Morrigan think of a swan’s neck, and it was decorated all over with a subtle, delicate pattern of pearlescent white flowers.

A man in grey velvet livery stood at the stern, slicing through the water with a single long oar that resembled a feather.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the oarsman, bowing deeply. ‘My name is Mr Hounslow. I come on behalf of Darling House to escort you into the Greater Circle.’

‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Hounslow,’ Holliday said in an uncharacteristically genial voice. ‘I am Holliday Wu, and this’ – she put a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder, giving her the subtlest nudge forward – ‘is Morrigan Crow. We are most honoured to be invited.’

‘It is my honour to receive you! But … I’m afraid I only have three names on my invitation,’ said Mr Hounslow, glancing at the other two behind them. He unfurled a small golden scroll from his pocket. ‘Morrigan Crow, Holliday Wu and Carlos Aguilar.’ He gave them a small, apologetic grimace. ‘Of course, we would never allow your surplus companion to be stranded. I shall have another vessel sent from our boathouse to return them to Ogden Town Station.’

Before anyone else could say a word, Morrigan grabbed Miss Cheery’s hand and said to her in a clear, calm voice, ‘I’m so glad you were invited too, Miss Aguilar. There’s no way I’d be getting in that boat if you weren’t coming.’ She looked at Holliday, making sure her full meaning was felt. ‘No way in the world.’

Holliday’s face betrayed a moment’s annoyance at this little trick, but she gave a resigned sigh and turned to Mr Hounslow, smiling thinly. ‘Just the three of us, then.’

It was like entering a painting. Or a dream.

Morrigan had seen the Silver District on the Living Map inside Proudfoot House, of course. But no map – not even a vast, sprawling miniature city full of wonders – could possibly have conveyed the feeling of the place.

The most striking thing to Morrigan was how instantly the colour of the water changed. Once they were through the gates it was like they’d sailed into a blue lagoon, so clear and sparkling she could see schools of fish darting deep beneath the surface. It reflected the perfect sky above, bright azure and streaked with peachy-purple sunset clouds.

Morrigan wondered briefly if the Silver District existed, like Wunsoc, inside its own little climate bubble, where everything was just a little bit more. But this wasn’t more; it was completely different. It was glorious.

Just like in Ogden Town, the streets here were made of water, with little stone footpaths and bridges allowing pedestrians to navigate between buildings. But while the houses and businesses of Ogden seemed to hang over the water like heavy brows, squat and dilapidated, the architecture here was grand and soaring. A pastel rainbow of elegant townhouses rose six, seven, eight storeys high. The canals were wider and the bridges brighter too, their warm sandstone reflecting the golden hour light.

And it was peaceful. There were plenty of people around, but nothing about their movements or attitude felt urgent. They lounged on dainty tables that spilled out of cafés on to the footpaths, sipping cool drinks and sheltering beneath parasols from the late afternoon sun. They strolled arm in arm, or floated meanderingly in painted wooden boats. They picnicked barefoot in pockets of green parkland or idled in sunlit squares by tinkling stone fountains.

After the harried chaos and noise of Ogden, the Silver District was a lazy, sumptuous daydream. Amid this sudden serenity, Morrigan realised she’d been clenching her hands into white-knuckled fists almost from the moment they’d left Wunsoc. She forced her fingers to uncurl.

She’d never been on a boat before today. Not even one of the rowboats available for hire during the summer on Lake Varg, back in Jackalfax, where she grew up. Morrigan had always envied the children whose parents took them punting on those sunny days, even if the lake was an ugly, manmade thing.

Using slow, controlled strokes that made it seem like they were drifting on a cloud, Hounslow propelled them through winding canals until they emerged onto a broad, lively expanse of water filled with pleasure boats of all shapes and sizes.

‘This is the Splendid Canal,’ Mr Hounslow told them, tipping his hat as they passed a three-tiered white riverboat, trimmed with flowering wreaths and decked in fairy lights. ‘Our main traffic arterial; a turquoise vein that flows with the Silver District’s social and commercial lifeblood.’

They cut across the wide canal and into the next neighbourhood of canals and bridges, at the end of which they reached a second gatehouse. This time there was no silver gate set into its archway, but instead an enormous, violently crashing waterfall. The oarsman aimed their tiny boat directly towards it, and Morrigan gasped as she realised he meant to take them straight through.

‘Nothing to fear,’ Mr Hounslow shouted to them jovially over the roar of the rushing water. He tapped the pocket where he’d put the scroll. ‘The Greater Circle’s protective checkpoints will automatically lift for the people who live there, as well as their household staff and invited guests.’

Invited guests. Carlos, not Miss Cheery.

Holliday looked suddenly terrified, her eyes widening in the direction of the waterfall, and Miss Cheery gripped the side of the boat. Morrigan knew all three of them were wondering the same thing: exactly how smart was this waterfall?

Humming softly, Morrigan felt a tingle of Wunder in her fingertips. She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to think. Fast.

‘I – oh, dear,’ she heard Mr Hounslow say behind them. ‘The waterfall isn’t usually this slow to reverse itself. Perhaps I should turn—’

Reverse itself. It was meant to reverse itself. Obeying her gut instinct, Morrigan imagined reaching out through the Gossamer and then … she could feel it. Some extension of herself reaching far beyond her body, grasping the crashing water’s edge like a curtain, pushing it up towards the bridge. The force of the waterfall was powerful and the effort made her shake. She kept her eyes shut tight, breathing steadily and hoping with all her might she could hold it for long enough.

When Morrigan opened her eyes, Miss Cheery was staring at her in amazement.

No. Wundersmith. Stuff, Holliday mouthed fiercely, glaring daggers.

‘Goodness me, that took longer than usual!’ The oarsman gave a hearty laugh of relief, clearly quite shaken but trying not to show it to his passengers. ‘Now if you look straight ahead, just over that bridge you’ll see a glimpse of the famous Paramour Pleasure Gardens, the beating heart of the Silver District, at the centre of every aspect of life for the old families …’

Mr Hounslow’s voice faded behind the roar of blood rushing in Morrigan’s ears. The rest of their brief journey through the Greater Circle was a blur. She tried to focus only on the reassuring feel of Miss Cheery’s hand holding hers tightly, ignoring the way her nervous system twitched with residual Wunder.

They moored outside an immaculately manicured garden, and Mr Hounslow led them up a hedge-lined path to a house that looked almost as big as the Hotel Deucalion. Flowerbeds bloomed abundantly with roses and hydrangea bushes like enormous watercolour clouds. A pair of swans glided by on a little pond, so picture-perfect Morrigan half suspected they were trained to do this whenever guests arrived.

‘Forgive me for not offering a tour of the grounds,’ Mr Hounslow said in a hushed voice as they entered a grand and elegant foyer. ‘I know Lady Margot is eager to see you as soon as possible.’

Morrigan could see why he felt the urge to whisper. As soon as they’d crossed the threshold, she felt the quietness of Darling House as an almost physical sensation. A serene, dignified silence that filled the space to just the right amount. Like a glass with the water ballooning slightly above the rim; precise and perfect.

As they followed Mr Hounslow down a long hallway, Morrigan peeked into each impressive room they passed. Sitting rooms and music rooms and sunrooms and studies. She tried to drink in every detail. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, she just thought …

She should feel something. Jupiter said people left pieces of themselves everywhere. Love, joy, anger, hurt feelings … all the invisible trails and smudges and fingerprints that added up to a life. If this was truly her mother’s childhood home, she should have felt something the moment she walked in the door. Shouldn’t she? A bolt of thunder. Fireworks. A tingle down her spine, just … something.

But all Morrigan felt was a heady mix of disappointment and vindication.

You’re wrong, Holliday, she wanted to say. This wasn’t my mother’s home at all. That woman is a liar.

‘Lady Margot asked me to bring you here, to the Receiving Room,’ Mr Hounslow said as they reached a set of mosaic-tiled doors.

‘Wait—’ began Morrigan, overcome by a sudden urge to flee.

But it was too late.

The doors opened and she was thrust into an enormous room, the loveliest she’d ever seen. The walls were glass from floor to double-height ceiling, offering a stunning view of the grounds beyond. Buckets of sunshine poured in through the windows and refracted, casting rainbows all around. The intricate mosaic pattern of the doors was carried through the vast floor, swirling into imagery of roses and climbing vines. Real rosebushes with pink, peach and crimson blooms filled the place with a heavenly scent, and tall potted trees cast pools of dappled shade here and there. It made Morrigan think of the Deucalion’s conservatory, except this was less a steamy overgrown jungle than a lovingly maintained indoor garden.

In the centre of the room, lit by angular beams of sunlight, four strangers stood as if they’d been posed there for a painting.

Morrigan could swear she felt her heart stop beating in her chest.

Back in Jackalfax, in the house where she grew up, there was a room she called the Hall of Dead Crows … though everyone else called it the Portrait Hall. Its walls were crowded with oil paintings of deceased family members stretching back generations.

Banished to the far end of the hall and nestled unlovingly between Bartholomew ‘Craven’ Crow (a distant cousin who’d died while running away from his Wintersea Republic Armed Forces regiment) and Cuddles Crow (a family guinea pig several generations back, overfed to death by a too-loving toddler), was a portrait of Meredith Crow. Her mother.

Morrigan had always liked to search for her own face in the painting. Sometimes she fancied there was a bit of her around the mouth, maybe, in the slight downward turn of its right corner. Or in the ear that poked out from her mother’s hair – it had the same curve as Morrigan’s, she was sure of it.

Alas, that was where the similarities ended.

Meredith Crow was a pink-cheeked, pixie-ish woman with a soft round jawline, a small red mouth like a bow, and straw-coloured hair that drew down into a widow’s peak. She had a look of mild surprise, and Morrigan always thought it was due to the artist having painted her mother’s eyebrows in what she assumed was an exaggerated, almost cartoonishly angular point, and given her a pair of eyes roughly the size and colour of a Highland cow’s.

But now Morrigan could see there’d been nothing exaggerated about it. Now there were four heart-shaped faces fixed upon hers – all wearing her mother’s faint look of surprise, all with her wide brown eyes and her bow-shaped mouth and dramatically arched brows.

These were her mother’s people. No doubt about it.

‘Lady Darling. Noble daughters of Darling House.’ Mr Hounslow gave a deferential bow. ‘May I present—’

The older woman standing slightly in front of the others held up one tremulous hand, killing the words in his mouth.

‘Leave us, Hounslow.’

The silence that followed Mr Hounslow’s departure was not a filled cup; it was a swoop in the stomach when you miss a step.

The woman stared at Morrigan, eyebrows arched in that look of perpetual surprise. Morrigan knew exactly what Lady Darling was doing. She was searching for evidence too. Trying to feel something.

‘Good afternoon, Lady Darling,’ said Holliday, gamely jumping in to facilitate. ‘Lady Margot. Thank you for inviting us into your—’

Lady Darling’s hand went up again and Holliday instantly stopped talking. Apparently the woman wasn’t done staring yet.

Morrigan could only stare back at her, her mouth and brain having temporarily ceased communication with each other.

Lady Darling was tall and willowy, with silvery-white hair arranged in a chic, sophisticated style, and that familiar pixie-like face. She wore a simple, yet graceful, black dress and a string of pearls around her neck. She looked simultaneously fragile and powerful.

The three younger women surrounding her – Morrigan’s aunts, she supposed – all wore near identical expressions of reserved, tranquil benevolence, smiling warmly at Morrigan but waiting for something. Waiting, she suspected, for a cue from their mother.

But still Lady Darling said nothing.

Morrigan realised with a sudden ringing clarity that she had somehow made it to age thirteen-and-almost-three-quarters without ever having considered the existence of this woman – of any of them. Never wondered who her mother’s family were or whether they were still alive. If they might be wondering about her, too. The thought nearly made her laugh. Why was it so funny, that lack of curiosity?

After an excruciatingly long moment, the old woman shook her head and held a trembling hand to her mouth, turning away from Morrigan and wilting into a nearby chair.

The daughters were by her side in an instant. One of them gently took her mother’s arm, placing it in hers with a reassuring pat.

‘I do believe Mama is quite overcome,’ said another, the most glamorous of the three, as she stepped forward to take Morrigan’s clammy hands in her own cool, slender ones. The shoulders of her dress were so sharp they could have put someone’s eye out. Everything about her was lean and angular except for her big, round eyes, which were fixed brightly on Morrigan.

‘Dearest niece.’ Her voice was a low, pleasant hum. ‘I’m your Aunt Margot. It is such an indescribable happiness to meet you.’

There was a scratching sound to Morrigan’s left, and they all turned to see Holliday scribbling in her notebook.

‘Oh!’ she said, looking up. ‘Apologies. You don’t mind if I quote that, do you? For the Sentinel. Just a small, tasteful piece in the Society pages.’

‘Ms Wu – welcome to our home,’ Lady Margot said warmly, disregarding the bold request. ‘How can we ever thank you for bringing Morrigan into our lives?’

‘Oh no. It’s an honour, Lady Margot.’ Holliday slipped a tiny camera out of her pocket. ‘Though perhaps you might allow me to take a photograph of the happy reunion?’

‘Absolutely not,’ came Lady Darling’s voice from across the room.

Another missed-step silence.

‘Tell us about your studies at the Wundrous Society, Morrigan,’ Lady Margot said, gently smoothing the jagged moment. Her smile reached all the way up into her eyes. ‘You must possess an astonishing talent. What sort of extraordinary things are you learning?’

Morrigan stared at her, mouth open. Was that really what she wanted to talk about? School?

‘Morrigan is completely brilliant,’ Miss Cheery stepped in determinedly, glaring at the oblivious Lady Darling. ‘She’s an extremely valued member of the Wundrous Society. We all care about her very much.’

‘It warms my heart to know that Morrigan has so many treasured companions in her life. My greatest hope is to soon be counted among them.’ Lady Margot beamed at Morrigan, then turned to her mother. ‘Mama, isn’t it an honour to have a member of the Wundrous Society in our family?’

Lady Darling ignored her.

‘And her patron is Jupiter North!’ Holliday annnounced, looking around the Darlings for some sign that they were sufficiently impressed. ‘Captain Jupiter North, of the League of Explorers. Owner and proprietor of the Hotel Deucalion, Nevermoor’s only nine-star hotel,’ she clarified, pausing again. ‘He’s … quite famous?’

‘How lovely,’ Lady Margot said in a polite voice that indicated she’d never heard of Jupiter or his hotel.

Morrigan remained silent and watched her grandmother, who was still frowning in the opposite direction. Was Lady Darling upset because she was overwhelmed by meeting her granddaughter for the first time, or because she didn’t believe Morrigan was her granddaughter? She wanted to explain about the portrait in Crow Manor, about her certainty that these women were indeed her mother’s family.

But the words wouldn’t arrange themselves properly, so she simply blurted out, ‘She looked just like you.’

Lady Darling finally turned to look at her again, a bewildered, sceptical expression on her face. ‘Of course Meredith looked like me,’ she said coolly. ‘She was my daughter.’

Her gaze travelled up and down Morrigan with unequivocal purpose, lingering on her face, until Morrigan understood the full meaning of her words.

She caught her own reflection in the glass behind Lady Darling and was struck by the contrast. Coarse, thick black hair, square jaw, a nose that bent ever so slightly to the side and a thin mouth that seemed eternally poised on the verge of snarling. All traits she shared with her father Corvus, her grandmother Ornella and every ancestor in the Hall of Dead Crows, where her own portrait now hung between Great Aunt Vorona and an uncle who’d died in childhood.

It wasn’t, Morrigan realised, that Lady Darling thought she had the wrong family, that her mother had in fact come from some other lineage. She knew Meredith was theirs.

She just didn’t believe Morrigan was Meredith’s.

It felt like the ground had slipped from beneath her feet.

This woman was trying to steal something from her. Something she’d kept safe all her life. Of course Meredith Crow was her mother! She’d stared at her portrait a million, billion times. She knew her by heart.

Morrigan felt a tingle in her hands as Wunder bristled in the air around them, ready to charge at her command, but she took a deep breath and held them firmly at her sides.

‘Come now, sisters, you’re being shy!’ Once again, Lady Margot tried valiantly to rescue the situation. She waved the other two women forward. ‘Don’t you wish to welcome our niece?’

‘Welcome home, dear Morrigan,’ one of the aunts said warmly. ‘I’m your Aunt Miriam. We’re overjoyed to meet you, darling.’

Welcome home. The words swam in Morrigan’s head.

Welcome home? Home to the Silver District? Home to this house?

‘I’m ever so glad you’ve come home to Nevermoor,’ whispered the aunt who looked the youngest, as she boldly enveloped Morrigan in a hug.

Ah. So that’s what they meant, she realised. Welcome home to Nevermoor.

But she was already home. Nevermoor wasn’t her home because it was where her mother had grown up. It was her home because she’d made it her home. Because she’d taken a chance and followed a stranger through a clockface and competed for her entry to the Wundrous Society and scrambled and fought to claim a place in this mad, wonderful city, and this mad, wonderful city had claimed her right back.

And here they were, these strangers with her mother’s face, welcoming her as if she’d just arrived. As if Nevermoor was a gift they were bestowing on her. What could she possibly say, except—

‘Where have you been?’ It came out more accusatory than she’d intended. She hadn’t known how angry she felt until the words spilled out of her mouth. But she was. She was so mad.

‘Oh! Er … please forgive her,’ said Holliday, rushing to intervene. ‘Morrigan is—’

‘I’ve been in Nevermoor for nearly three years. How did you not know that?’

‘How …’ Lady Margot seemed to hesitate for a moment, processing the question. She glanced fretfully at her mother, then down at her own clasped hands.

‘And what about before?’ Morrigan went on, her head spinning. ‘Did you know my mother was in the Wintersea Republic? Did you know that I existed?’

Lady Margot looked at her mother again, then back to Morrigan, staring at her for a moment. ‘Please … there’ll be time to talk about all of this. It’s much more complicated than—’

‘It isn’t that complicated, Margot dear,’ murmured Lady Darling. ‘It seems increasingly straightforward to me.’ She raised an eyebrow, before her gaze turned back to Morrigan.

There it was again, that scornful doubt etched in the lines of her face. It twisted in Morrigan’s gut like a knife. She wanted to run back to Wunsoc and find Jupiter and make him promise that Holliday and the Elders would never make her come back to this house, and never ever ambush her like this again.

But she was trapped. And the claustrophobic feeling of being stuck in this room, this house, this secretive district with all its gates and waterfalls, agitated the part of her that wanted control. Told her to take it back.

Morrigan reached out through the Gossamer again, just like at the waterfall, only this time her eyes were open. She gasped as the white-gold glow of Wundrous energy – invisible to anyone but her – ballooned out beyond her arms, extending into something beautiful and grotesque and colossal. A pair of monsters she could control but just barely – monsters that were her.

Those Wundrous hands lifted the mosaic floor by the edges and shook out the room like an enormous rug. Wunder poured into the tiles until they became a rolling mosaic ocean, a tumult beneath her feet, causing the walls to vibrate and the glass in the windows to shatter. The Darlings shrieked and toppled over one another, their perfect poise disappearing in a swell of shock.

Morrigan knew Holliday would kill her, she knew the Elders would be furious, but in that moment she didn’t care. In that moment she felt good. Surrendering to the swarm of Wunder, gathering it up and throwing it out beyond her like that, had felt like finally stretching restless legs. Like scratching an itch or cracking her knuckles. Sheer, intense relief.

But in the aftermath of what she’d done, her relief washed away almost instantly, chased by a growing sense of panic and regret – and surprise.

She hadn’t meant to put so much force behind it. She wasn’t even sure what she’d been trying to do. She’d just … she’d just wanted Lady Darling to stop looking at her like that. To wipe away that look of doubt and protect this one precious thing that was hers. The certainty of her mother’s face.

With the floor still trembling, every person in the room turned to Morrigan as if seeing her properly for the first time.

All those terrified faces. Holliday’s deep dismay. Miss Cheery’s wide-eyed shock. And her mother’s face, her mother’s face, over and over.

Never had Morrigan wanted to undo anything as desperately as she wanted to undo this. The sudden certain knowledge that she could have known her mother’s family, if only she hadn’t made this one, split-second, world-ruining mistake …

‘I—’ Morrigan began in a small, cracked voice. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’

She felt her face crumple.

Miss Cheery stepped towards her, reaching out. ‘Morrigan—’

She needed time to think. She needed this nightmare to just stop for a moment.

And as soon as that desperate thought entered her mind, the room and everything in it ground to a halt. The air suddenly felt as thick as molasses.

Miss Cheery stood frozen, arms extended, only centimetres away. Holliday and the Darlings were still as statues. In the sudden quiet, Morrigan heard her own shallow, rapid breaths like the scrape of a blade on a whetstone.

She’d seen this before. She’d watched her old teacher, Professor Onstald, do this.

Unfortunately, there was no time to unravel the fact that she had just performed a flawless execution of Tempus – a Wundrous Art she’d not had even one single lesson in – because in the middle of the wrecked Receiving Room in the Grand Old House of Darling, a bridge of golden-white Gossamer was building itself in front of her eyes, and a familiar man in a long grey coat was striding across it, flanked by two black wolves.

Morrigan watched in astonished silence as Ezra Squall came to stand beside her, hands in pockets, and surveyed the damages with a weary sigh.

‘Busy day?’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tempus

The shadow wolves slunk close to Morrigan, and she felt one brush against the palm of her hand. The Hush lifted, a familiar shift in her mind as instant and effortless as if someone had turned on a lamp in a dark room, and her memories walked, fully formed, out of the shadows.

That trick – using her reach, shaking out the floor – he taught her that. Squall. But it had only taken her by surprise because she didn’t know she could do it. Because she wouldn’t let him remove the Hush. Because she wasn’t ready to tell the truth about her apprenticeship.

Morrigan’s fury turned inwards, and she clamped it down. She had to fix this.

‘Can they see us?’ She waved a hand in front of Miss Cheery’s face, watching for any minute reaction. ‘Can they hear?’

‘I think not.’ Squall tilted his head. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ she pressed, feeling close to hysteria. It was bad enough she’d just destroyed part of their house. Now she’d let the most hated man in Nevermoor into it. ‘When Professor Onstald did this it was like … I’d slowed down, but he hadn’t. I could still hear and see everything.’

He took a leisurely stroll across the room to Lady Darling, leaning in to examine her eyes up close. ‘Mmm. This is a full stop. Onstald’s work was an ellipsis at best. The tortoisewun could stretch time, but stopping it completely was a skill he never mastered.’

‘Then how have I mastered it already?’

He laughed. ‘You haven’t mastered it either, I’m afraid. This is a fairly typical first invocation of a Wundrous Art. Happens to most young Wundersmiths at some stage. It happened to you before, remember?’

‘When I breathed fire for the first time.’

‘You’d never learned the art of Inferno, but in a moment of rage, you invoked its fullest and purest expression.’ As he spoke, Squall wandered to the far side of the room, admiring the view from the shattered window. The grounds of Darling House swept down towards the Greater Circle canal, and the floral expanse of the Paramour Pleasure Gardens beyond that. ‘Powerful feelings can forge powerful pathways into discovering our abilities. Rage and Inferno are siblings; they have an obvious connection. Tempus, on the other hand … let me guess. You did something stupid. You panicked. You wanted to take it back.’

Morrigan nodded. Her heart still felt like a bird beating its wings violently against a cage. ‘How do I end it? How do I start time again?’

Squall gave an indifferent shrug. ‘It’ll start itself.’

‘When?’ she demanded, and her voice echoed desperately in the vast, still space.

‘Once you’ve calmed down, I expect.’ He swung back around to her then, suddenly annoyed, and jabbed a finger towards the Darlings. ‘You know, this is precisely the sort of distraction we don’t need right now. Whose idiotic idea was it? Introducing you to your mother’s family?’

‘I don’t – Holliday’s, I suppose …’ Morrigan took a deep, slow breath to try to calm her thumping heart rate, then had a sudden realisation that spiked it again. ‘Wait, how did you— What do you know about my mother’s family?’

‘You don’t think I do background checks before attempting to kidnap people?’ he asked wryly. ‘Meredith “Malcontent” Darling, the newspapers called her. By all accounts a silly, spoiled twenty-year-old, born with a silver spoon and a rebellious streak. Nobody seems to know how she found her way through the border, but after graduating from a very exclusive finishing school she absconded from the Free State, leaving the Grand Old House of Darling to pick up the tattered remnants of their reputation.’

Morrigan’s mouth fell open. ‘She ran away … from Nevermoor? To the Wintersea Republic?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ said Squall. ‘The enterprising Miss Malcontent wormed her way into the inner circle of the Wintersea Party, married a ranked member as educated and ambitious as herself, and helped to hoist him up the political ladder. I refer, of course, to your loathsome father.’

Morrigan raised both eyebrows. She and Squall disagreed on many things, but at least they were in lockstep on Corvus Crow.

‘Young, well-bred Mrs Crow was the darling of the party wives for a brief time,’ he went on. ‘Until she had the misfortune of conceiving you.’

‘Did you know her?’ she asked, letting the insult roll off her back.

‘No.’

‘You must have!’ she accused him. ‘You’re in Wintersea’s inner circle, aren’t you?’

He gave her a scathing look. ‘It’s not as exclusive a club as you might think, and I’ve never made it a habit to play backgammon with the spouses of politicians.’

Morrigan pulled her coat tight around her ribs, trying to cocoon herself as she paced back and forth, smashed tiles crunching beneath her boots. Her head was reeling, overloaded with the mountain of new information that had been shovelled into it in one afternoon.

My mother was from Nevermoor.

My mother ran away from Nevermoor … to the Wintersea Republic.

My mother was a traitor.

That’s what all of this added up to, she realised, connecting the dots in her mind. Meredith Darling had left the Free State and married a member of their enemy nation’s ruling political party. That was treason. When Lady Margot said it was complicated, she’d been understating it.

Corvus and Ornella had never told her anything about her mother, and she’d known better than to ask. She had no memories, no letters, no stories. Meredith Crow was just a lovely face, an idea that lived in the confines of a gilt frame, locked away in the dark and lonely Hall of Dead Crows.

But this new person, Meredith Darling – this woman she was meeting for the first time … She was a traitor. Meredith Darling was a rebel. She was a person, a real human being who existed and had stories and made choices – dreadful ones, apparently.

And perhaps Morrigan should have been appalled by this revelation. But the truth was, she was exhilarated by it.

After thirteen years, her mother had at last come to life.

And here she was, standing in the house where Meredith had grown up, staring at her family, who held all those missing stories and memories in their hands like long-lost treasures … and with one reckless, idiotic, catastrophic impulse, Morrigan had thrown it all away. Just because she couldn’t control her temper.

She felt the unreasonable urge to lash out at someone else. ‘You knew my mother’s family lived in Nevermoor and you just, what? Forgot to mention it?’

Squall looked at her with pure, perplexed amusement. ‘I don’t recall you hiring me as your on-call detective. I’ll invoice you for the legwork, shall I?’

Morrigan glowered but ultimately had nothing to say to that. Of course he hadn’t told her. Why would he? Out of the nonexistent goodness of his nonexistent heart? The man murdered eight of his own friends; not bothering to tell Morrigan she had relatives in Nevermoor was hardly the worst of his crimes.

‘Your precious patron, on the other hand,’ he continued, ‘seems to have been holding out on you all this time.’

‘I – Jupiter?’ Morrigan yelped incredulously. ‘He doesn’t know any of this! Holliday said the Elders were briefing him about it this afternoon. If he knew before then, he would’ve …’ She trailed off. He would have told me, a voice finished in her head.

Squall’s eyelids drooped like a hound. ‘Why don’t you ask Captain Wonderful and find out?’

‘Why are you even here?’ She’d wanted to pivot to a less prickly topic, but only as she asked the question did Morrigan realise how odd his arrival actually was. ‘We weren’t supposed to meet today.’

‘Believe me, I have better things to do. I felt this little disturbance through the Gossamer and had a sneaking suspicion you might have done something calamitous.’ He gestured at the mess she’d made of the Receiving Room. ‘But I can see now you’ve got a terrific handle on things, so I’ll just—’

‘Wait!’ A tiny seed of hope began to blossom inside her chest. She didn’t know how to fix this mess, but Squall did. ‘You can turn back time. Lean on me through the Gossamer, like when we destroyed the Hollowpox. Please. You can use Tempus to undo all this!’

Squall gasped in faux surprise. ‘Can I really? Lucky me.’

‘I—’ Morrigan faltered. Admittedly she’d never taken a lesson in Tempus, so she couldn’t say she understood its scope. Her hope began to wilt. ‘Are you saying … Is that not something you can … do?’

‘I can do it,’ he said. ‘What I’m telling you is that I won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It isn’t particularly ethical, for one thing.’

Morrigan’s jaw dropped so dramatically, it might have unhinged itself like a boa constrictor. ‘SAYS THE MURDERER.’

He ignored that. ‘And for another, I don’t believe it serves you to conceal your true nature. Why not let them see what you’re capable of? Sometimes a healthy bit of fear is a good thing.’

‘Why would I want them to be afraid of me? I’m not you!’ she shouted, close to tears of frustration. ‘Don’t you get it? They won’t want anything to do with me now. They’ll never invite me back here! Not now that they know I’m dangerous.’

‘Oh, I doubt that.’ Squall stepped close to examine Lady Margot, a curious expression on his face. ‘If anything, they know you’re valuable.’

‘Just one minute,’ she pleaded. ‘One minute so I can un-ruin everything!’

‘Just one minute,’ he mocked her. ‘Just one more week. Unravel time! Don’t remove the Hush! Do you know how pathetic you sound? I’m not your magical butler, Morrigan Crow. That’s not the nature of this arrangement. How will you find the courage to stand on your choices if I clean up every mess you make?’

‘Is that what this is about? The Hush?’ Morrigan tugged at her white shirt collar, suddenly unable to bear the fabric against her skin. The stillness of the room, the stillness of time, was stifling, and her own voice sounded unbearably shrill in her ears. ‘Fine. I’ll give you back the week I asked for if you’ll give me this one minute. Deal?’

A warm breath of air drifted in through the broken window, tickling the back of her neck. Time was slowly, slowly beginning to grind back into life.

‘Deal?’ she pressed him frantically.

But Squall shook his head as he stepped onto the Gossamer bridge and began to walk backwards across it. He flung a hand vaguely in the direction of the Darlings.

‘I really think they ought to know what they’re dealing with.’

‘Wait— No!’

But it was too late. Squall had gone, the Hush was descending in Morrigan’s mind and time was stretching like caramel, like a rubber band ready to snap back at any second. This still, quiet reprieve was about to end, and she was going to have to stand on her choices after all, to face the consequences and the mess and all those terrified, disappointed faces.

But the Hush hadn’t fallen all the way yet. There was still a window of escape if she chose to take it.

Morrigan whistled, low and eerie. Her escape route galloped out of the shadows, eyes like burning coals. She mounted her shadow horse, and by the time Darling House had stuttered back to life, she was gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Secrets and Lies

The wonderful and terrible thing about a horse of smoke and shadow is that it will keep running until you tell it to stop. It never tires, never hungers or thirsts.

But when minutes or hours (it was difficult to tell) had passed and the thrill of escape had softened into dull relief and Morrigan had grown dizzy from zooming through blurred landscapes, she kicked her heels into its flank and said, ‘Home.’

Windswept, dazed, and weary to her bones, she had no idea what time it was when she dismounted in the forecourt of the Hotel Deucalion, but it was already dark. Morrigan watched the horse gallop away, melting into distant shadows, and as she turned to trudge up the steps to the brightly lit lobby, the memory of how she’d come to be there melted into the shadows, too.

‘Have you seen Jupiter?’ she asked Kedgeree, at the busy concierge desk.

‘Man’s been gone all day and we’ve had three stag parties, a wedding and a witchery conference all checking in. Would’ve been nice to have the extra pair of hands, I’ll tell you that much for free,’ he grumbled, though he didn’t really seem cross. Good-natured Kedgeree was never really cross.

‘If you see him—’

‘I’ll let him know you’re looking,’ he promised. Then, correctly guessing where she was heading, he added, ‘Schedule’s about to change over. It’s one of your favourites tonight.’

Morrigan dinged the concierge bell out of habit and wandered upstairs to the Smoking Parlour, arriving just as the rainbow-speckled scented clouds (‘Fairy Bread’, according to the schedule on the door, ‘ for an afternoon sugar rush’) changed to pale yellow (‘Popcorn: to invoke a calming childhood nostalgia’). Picking a cautious path through the furniture amid the salty-buttery haze, she made her way to her favourite hiding spot, a high-backed armchair facing the corner window. As soon as she was safely cocooned, the enormity of the day’s events came crashing down on her all at once.

Morrigan had left the Silver District without a second thought. Miss Cheery would be so worried.

Holliday would be furious. The Elders would be furious. The Darlings, left to deal with the splintered remains of their once-elegant Receiving Room, would surely be the most furious of all.

‘I’m furious,’ Morrigan said quietly. And she knew she had a right to be. But annoyingly, it wasn’t the kind of fury that made her want to throw things and stomp her feet and scream at the top of her lungs. It was the kind she hated, that made her want to shove her face into a cushion and cry with frustration. That’s precisely what she was about to do when she heard raised voices from the hallway.

‘… kept in the dark because you knew I would object to it unreservedly, and don’t try to deny that. This is an UNFORGIVABLE breach, Holliday, and your department will face consequences this time.’

‘We were doing our jobs, for goodness’ sake, and as a matter of fact—’

The door to the Smoking Parlour flew open with a bang, and suddenly the argument was inside the room.

‘—the Elders not only agreed, they insisted on it.’

‘And there’ll be consequences for them too!’ Jupiter roared.

Holliday stayed calm. ‘Easy, tiger. Try to remember you’re talking about the High Council of Elders.’

‘I am talking about a child being used like a chess piece.’ He ground the words out between his teeth.

‘EVERYONE OUT!’ shouted a third familiar voice. ‘Smoking Parlour’s closed.’

Morrigan poked her head out from behind the armchair to see Fenestra the Magnificat physically removing every guest from the room – literally pawing people out of chairs and nudging them towards the door with her gigantic fluffy head, before shutting it in their outraged faces. It was the sort of behaviour Jupiter would have disapproved of on a normal day, but now he simply let her get on with it and made a beeline for Morrigan’s favourite spot.

‘Mog?’ he called, wafting away the popcorn smoke so he could see better. ‘There you are! Thank goodness!’

‘How did you disappear like that?’ Holliday asked her. ‘One second you were there and then – poof. Gone. Marina just about had a heart attack.’

‘I … don’t know. Something Wundersmithy, I guess.’ There was something in the periphery of Morrigan’s mind that instinctively wanted to tiptoe past any questions about her disappearance. Everything that had happened after she destroyed that beautiful rose-scented room was a blur. ‘I just sort of … panicked. And then I was here.’

Fen and Jupiter exchanged a curious glance.

Morrigan barrelled ahead. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin everything. It was an accident, I—’

The publicist waved a hand to stop her. ‘We’re sending in a clean-up crew, they’ll put everything back the way it was.’

‘I don’t just mean the house.’

‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘My department is drafting an apology letter to the Darlings for you to sign.’

‘And who’s going to write your apology letter, Holliday?’ Jupiter asked.

‘Oh, I’ve apologised to them already. A LOT. Who do you think was left behind to make excuses? I explained that Morrigan had only learned about them today and was probably still processing, but—’

‘He meant to Morrigan,’ snarled Fen.

Holliday groaned. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I did this for Morrigan. Were you not at the same Black Parade that I was at? Did you not see a city full of people ready to shout her out of town for being a Wundersmith?’

‘I saw a small group of idiots—’

‘Yes, and small groups of idiots have this funny little thing they do where they become BIG groups of idiots,’ she said, ‘much faster than you can imagine. We have to rewrite the story – show Morrigan in a different light. The Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor won’t be able to keep bleating about sending her back to the Republic, because the fact is, Morrigan isn’t from the Republic. She’s a true Nevermoorian. Better than that, she’s from the Silver District!’

‘Why is that better?’ Morrigan asked.

Holliday made an amused, slightly impatient sound. ‘Because the old families of the Silver District are enormously influential in almost every mundane sphere of Nevermoorian life – legal, political, financial. Dragonsport. The arts. They’re all over the society pages, week after week. People can’t get enough of them. People respect them.’

‘People respect their money,’ Fen said cynically.

‘Yeah, they do,’ agreed Holliday. ‘And if Morrigan’s connection to the Grand Old House of Darling shuts down this ridiculous conversation about whether she has a right to be here, if it humanises her in the eyes of her detractors even slightly, I don’t think any of us will care whether it’s the Darlings’ money that people really respect. Do you?’

Fen’s lip curled above her fangs, but she didn’t respond.

‘It shouldn’t matter where she’s from, or who her maternal relatives are!’ Jupiter insisted. ‘Morrigan’s a Nevermoorian because she’s here, living in this city, making up its fabric, like you and me and everyone else.’

‘I. Agree. With. You.’ Holliday collapsed into an armchair, pressing her hands over her eyes in frustration. ‘But unfortunately my job isn’t to shrug and say it shouldn’t matter. My job is to acknowledge that it does matter to some people, and to find ways to head off the trouble those people could cause for Morrigan and for us in the Society.’ She looked up and pointed at Jupiter. ‘So if you could stop treating me like the enemy … And Morrigan, if you could try not to destroy any more stately homes … that would make my job at least fifty per cent easier. Ta very much.’

‘I didn’t do it deliberately,’ Morrigan muttered.

‘Of course not, Mog. This isn’t your fault.’ Jupiter looked at her fixedly. ‘What did they do to upset you? What did they say?’

Morrigan swallowed. How could she answer that? They welcomed me home to Nevermoor? My grandmother looked at me funny? I can’t explain it, guess you just had to be there?

She cleared her throat, feeling suddenly quite clammy, but was spared by a knock on the door. It swung open, and a tall woman in an elegant blue travelling cloak stepped inside.

‘Lady Margot?’ Holliday scrambled to her feet, eyes wide. Morrigan instantly felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Jupiter beside her.

‘Please forgive my intrusion,’ said Lady Margot, coughing slightly as she waved the popcorn clouds out of her face with a delicate gloved hand. Her eyes landed on Morrigan and she gave a warm, almost apologetic smile. ‘Morrigan … I know this is extraordinarily forward of me. I only … well, I feel rather embarrassed by how I handled our meeting this afternoon.’

Morrigan frowned. She hadn’t been expecting that.

Lady Margot paused, seeming to measure her words. ‘Growing up in the Silver District gives one a deep-rooted sense of propriety above all else. I was taught from a young age how to make polite conversation about the weather, but frank and meaningful heart-to-hearts were never on the curriculum. And that’s what we should have had, Morrigan, the moment we met. The truth is, I was afraid that if I said too much, too soon, it might frighten you away, and that was the last thing I wanted.

‘I know now that I vastly underestimated your resilience and intelligence,’ she continued, taking a careful step closer, ‘and if you’ll give me a second chance, I’d like to speak more openly with you, dear. Will you allow it?’

Morrigan didn’t know what to say. She really hadn’t been expecting this. She nodded, and her aunt went on.

‘When my younger sister – your mother, Meredith – fled Nevermoor into the Wintersea Republic, we lost all contact with her. Our mother and late father, may he rest in peace, were frantic with worry. They tried everything to find Merry and bring her home, even hiring private investigators to track her down. But scant details could be procured through the Free State’s tight borders, and it was only when we learned she’d married a man called Corvus Crow and joined …’ – Lady Margot choked a little on her words, her eyes welling with tears – ‘… joined the Wintersea Party … that Mama and Papa finally accepted she was lost to us.’

Morrigan felt her stomach drop. Her mother had run away to the Republic? And joined the Wintersea Party? She shook her head, feeling the strangest flash of déjà vu.

‘But isn’t that …’

‘Treason,’ whispered Lady Margot. ‘You must understand, Morrigan, your mother wasn’t a bad person. She was young and foolish, and I believe she fell under the influence of ill-meaning people who took advantage of her trusting nature.

‘But the shame of it nearly tore our family apart. My father fell ill almost immediately, and we lost him only months later.’ She wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘After his funeral, Mama refused to speak about her at all. It was as if Merry had never existed …’

Lady Margot trailed off with a small sniffle, pulling a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbing at her nose before continuing.

‘We received an anonymous letter ten years ago telling us that Meredith had died three years earlier, but the letter said nothing of the circumstances of her death, and my mother refused to inquire any further. I know that might seem strange or cold to you. But I knew she was trying to protect herself from more heartbreak.’

Jupiter cleared his throat to speak, but Lady Margot hadn’t finished.

‘What you must know, Morrigan,’ she went on in a rush, stepping closer to her and speaking in a clear, deliberate way, ‘is that, until recently, we had no idea that Meredith had a child. Then I saw you in the newspaper. It seemed too strange a coincidence to be possible. A thirteen-year-old girl with the name Crow, allegedly smuggled into Nevermoor from the Republic? I couldn’t shake the idea from my mind that we were connected somehow.

‘You asked me today if we knew that you existed, or that you were in Nevermoor.’ Lady Margot glanced up briefly at Jupiter, then reached out hesitantly to take Morrigan’s hand in her own. ‘And I want to be sure that you and your companions understand: we didn’t know about you at all.’

Morrigan felt Jupiter shift suddenly beside her as if he wanted to say something, but before she could turn to look at him Lady Margot grasped her shoulders and spoke with a firm, quiet desperation.

‘My biggest regret is that I never had the chance to take you away from that wretched place myself. But we have our lives stretching ahead of us, dearest girl, and I want so much to be in yours, if you’ll allow it. And of course, with the permission of your guardian, who I’m certain has only your ultimate happiness and well-being at heart.’

Lady Margot nodded up at Jupiter then, and Morrigan was surprised by his sudden inclusion in the conversation. She thought perhaps it took him by surprise too, because she looked up to see that his face was a storm of emotion. He recovered in the space of a microsecond and gave Morrigan a nod and an encouraging smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘Oh, and you don’t need to answer this now, dear,’ said Lady Margot, standing up to leave, ‘but this weekend my youngest sister is marrying her childhood sweetheart, and we’d be overjoyed if you would do us the honour of attending. Your Aunt Modestine was only a little girl when we lost Meredith, younger than you are now, and I think she loved her most of all. I know it would mean so much to her if you were to be there.’

‘I … don’t have anything to wear to a wedding,’ was all Morrigan could think to say.

Lady Margot beamed at her. ‘I can send you a dress! Oh, please do come.’ She pulled two pieces of paper from her pocket. ‘Here’s the invitation … and this … Morrigan, dear, this is a letter from my mother. I don’t know what it says, but I beg you to read it with an open heart.’ She leaned down and kissed Morrigan twice on each cheek. ‘Goodbye, dearest niece. I hope I’ll see you very soon.’

Morrigan watched her aunt glide out of the room and then looked down at the card she was holding. It was simple but stylish, with curling silver text embossed on snowy white cardstock.

Lady Mallory Darling

and

Mr Vincenzo and Mrs Olivia Rinaldi

request the honour of your presence for the blessed union of

their children,

Lady Modestine Evelyn Darling and Mr Dario Eugenio Rinaldi.

Dario and Lady Modestine are to be wed at the Chapel of the Divine Thing within the grounds of the Paramour Pleasure Gardens, at two o’clock in the afternoon on the tenth Saturday of Autumn.

A formal reception in the Glade will follow.

Fenestra insisted on escorting Holliday and Lady Margot out of the Deucalion herself (presumably to make sure they left, and maybe for the chance to accidentally show Holliday her claws on the way out). Alone together in the wake of this bizarre, whirlwind visit, Morrigan and Jupiter stood in silence for a long and uncomfortable moment, before he finally spoke.

‘You must be exhausted.’ He sat gingerly on the arm of a chair and sighed with his whole body. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t we pick up Jack from his dorm and head into Old Town? Take our minds off things. Tuesday night’s mushroom pie night at the Dusty Deacon—’

‘You knew about them,’ Morrigan cut in, watching his face closely for a reaction.

She’d meant to phrase it as a question. She wasn’t certain what she was saying was true – there was some part of her, in fact, that was certain it couldn’t possibly be true – but it came out of her mouth as a statement, and she knew instantly that she’d meant it that way.

Because she knew Jupiter.

A Jupiter who’d just discovered Morrigan had relatives in Nevermoor, on the same day she did, would have been shocked and elated. He’d have been as wrong-footed as Morrigan herself, certainly. But he’d have asked a million questions of Lady Margot, and a million questions of Morrigan, about how she was feeling and what she was thinking.

A Jupiter who was discovering all this alongside her wouldn’t look so resigned. He wouldn’t look so grim or so … guilty?

He nodded, shattering any hope that she was wrong. ‘I knew about them.’

‘How long? Did you …’ She swallowed. ‘Did you know before you met me?’

He nodded again. ‘Meredith Darling’s defection from the Free State was a big story at the time,’ he said, playing nervously with the cuffs of his sleeves. ‘And Ornella Crow had some idea of where her daughter-in-law had come from. It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots.’

Morrigan felt her throat tighten but forced herself to speak. ‘I’ve been here nearly three years. And for all that time, you knew that I had family in Nevermoor – that my mother was from Nevermoor – but you never thought to mention it to me. Why?’

‘It’s … complicated—’

‘I am SO SICK of being told how COMPLICATED everything is,’ Morrigan shouted, punching the upholstery of an overstuffed chair. ‘Telling the truth shouldn’t be complicated, Jupiter! You just have to decide not to lie.’

‘I desperately wanted to tell you, Mog.’

‘Then why didn’t you? You knew what this would have meant to me,’ she said in a halting, choked voice. ‘To have a family who cared about me.’

The sorrow in his face was so deep it looked like it had been carved there.

‘Morrigan,’ he said quietly but fervently. ‘You have a family who cares about you. I care about you. So very much. Jack cares about you. Fen, Kedgeree, Dame Chanda. Hawthorne and Cadence and—’

‘I mean a proper family,’ she said flatly, cutting him off. ‘A real family.’

Jupiter flinched at those words. He looked devastated, and Morrigan was surprised to find she felt a small, vicious, uncomfortable delight in having wrought that devastation.

See what it feels like, she thought savagely, even as she wanted to cry. Even as she fought her instinct to take it back and apologise.

‘My mother’s family …’ she said, ignoring the crack in her voice. ‘And they want me! Don’t you understand this is the one thing I wanted so badly I could never even let myself imagine it?’

Jupiter seemed to be at war inside his own head. He stared at Morrigan for a long time, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He went to speak then stopped himself, blinking repeatedly, before trying again.

‘This is all my fault, Mog. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about the Darlings sooner. The truth is …’ He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes overbright. ‘The truth is I was being selfish. I thought … I was sure they would fall in love with you the instant they met you and they’d … they’d want to take you away from us. From me. I was scared. Can you ever forgive me?’

Morrigan didn’t answer that.

‘You didn’t tell me I had a family in Nevermoor,’ she said slowly, trying to keep her simmering anger from boiling over, ‘because you thought … because you were worried … they would love me too much?’

Jupiter looked horrified. ‘Please, Mog, what I meant was—’

‘Stop,’ she said, holding up a hand to silence him. She backed out of the Smoking Parlour, knocking over a side table in her haste to leave. ‘Please. Just … don’t.’

Only once she was alone in her bedroom did Morrigan take out the note her aunt had given her. It was written in the most elegant handwriting she’d ever seen, and she read and reread and reread it through eyes blurred with tears.

Dearest Morrigan,

Please forgive a foolish old woman. I behaved abominably. The loss of my daughter took something from me I can never get back, and today I let the pain of that grief get the better of me.

All this time I have missed you from my heart without even knowing. Were it possible, I would gladly trade ten years of my future to have shared just one week of your past.

We can never make up for all that lost time. But will you let us try?

Your loving grandmother,

Lady Mallory Darling

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Silverborn Saga

‘… your loving grandmother, Lady Mallory Darling.’

Morrigan was sure that by the time she finished her retelling of the weirdest, longest, simultaneously most exciting and upsetting afternoon in all human history, her best friends would have questions. But when she finished reading the note and looked up, Cadence and Hawthorne were like a pair of barn owls, wide-eyed and silently staring. She half expected one of them to hoot.

‘That’s it,’ she prompted them. ‘That’s the whole story.’

They sat facing each other in a triangle, cross-legged on the platform of Station 919, wrapped in blankets to protect against the occasional gust of cold wind from the tunnel. Morrigan had stormed through her wardrobe with the intention of knocking on Hawthorne’s and Cadence’s station doors until they answered, but they’d already been there waiting for her, eager for the details of her first civic task.

‘He really knew?’ Hawthorne asked in a small, disappointed voice. ‘Jupiter knew this whole time that your mum’s family are here in Nevermoor?’

Morrigan nodded, unable to say anything past the sudden lump in her throat.

‘Nah, that’s not right.’ He shook his head adamantly, pure resentment crossing his features. ‘That is bang out of order. You don’t keep a secret like that from someone. I’m telling my mum about this.’

Despite everything, that made Morrigan giggle. ‘Your mum? What’s she gonna do?’

‘Agree with me,’ he said seriously, and she laughed again, feeling perhaps the teensiest, tiniest bit lighter. ‘I can’t believe your mum was from Nevermoor. Morrigan, this is huge.’

‘Yeah. It’s … yeah.’

‘And you have three aunts and a grandma! That’s …’ He paused for a long time, frowning into space as he counted on his fingers. ‘Right, if we’re going by the average acceptable amount of birthday-card and major-holiday money, times thirteen birthdays and twelve Christmases, times four relatives, adjusting slightly upwards because they’ve ALSO never taken you to the zoo or the ice cream parlour or anything like that, that’s like … over a thousand kred they owe you.’

‘Hawthorne!’

‘Plus they’re loaded, so you should probably expect double the going rate. What? Don’t look at me like that. Homer reckons it’s important to plan for the future even at our age, and I’m just saying … a thousand kred could buy future Morrigan a LOT of souvenirs at the Nevermoor Bazaar next summer.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘No, you’re right. That would do you for the next twenty bazaars!’

Cadence, meanwhile, was watching her with an odd expression that made Morrigan slightly uncomfortable.

‘Say something, Cadence.’

‘You’re … Silverborn.’

‘Silverborn!’ Morrigan snapped her fingers. ‘That’s the word! Holliday told me not to say it in front of the Darlings because they’d find it offensive.’

Cadence snorted. ‘Yeah, I bet they would.’ She jumped up, dropping her blanket. ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

In her absence, Hawthorne filled Morrigan in on what had happened after she’d left Wunsoc that afternoon.

‘Nan came to watch my last dragonriding practice session of the day, and guess what?’ His cheeks were pink with excitement, and he couldn’t wait for her to guess. ‘I’ve been invited to do an exhibition ride in the Winter Trials this weekend! It’s not quite as big a deal as the Nevermoor Dragonriding Tournament in the summer – basically I get to show off some tricks and entertain the crowd – but still.’ He shrugged. Morrigan could tell he was trying not to look too pleased with himself, but it was hard to hide a grin that big.

‘That is a big deal!’ she said, punching him lightly on the leg. ‘Brilliant! What do you get if you win?’

‘Nobody wins, exactly. It’s more about getting your face out there and starting to build a reputation among the professionals. All the dragon owners watch the exhibition rides, and you want them to remember you next time they’re on the hunt for a young rider to take one of their saddles.’

‘I thought Nan said all the dragons for next summer’s tournament are claimed?’

‘Yeah, the Winter Trials are sort of a formality – all the paired riders and dragons who want to compete next summer have to be listed in the official registry by the end of winter, even if they’ve been riding together for years. But there’s always the chance someone will retire, or get horribly injured!’ he said optimistically. There was a creaking sound and they both looked up to see Cadence’s door opening halfway down the platform. ‘Mum and Dad are so chuffed. You’ll come watch, right?’

Morrigan beamed. ‘Try and stop me.’

Cadence dropped down beside them, flushed and breathless, clutching a pile of well-thumbed paperbacks.

‘And you’ll come too?’ Hawthorne asked her. ‘On Sunday?’

‘Winter Trials? Course I’m coming,’ she said, laying out her bounty on the floor. ‘Check it out. I had to sneak these from my gran’s bookcase. I’m not technically allowed to read them, so obviously I’ve read them all.’

The books were bound in various pastel shades, a dozen in all. Each cover bore an illustration of a beautiful young person dressed in fine clothes, striking some melodramatic pose, with a shiny foiled banner across the top that read: A Tale from the Silverborn Saga.

‘What exactly are we looking at here?’ asked Hawthorne.

Cadence looked appalled. ‘Are you serious? Only one of the most popular book series ever written. Used to be, anyway – they’ve fallen a bit out of fashion now. But there must be about a hundred Silverborn books, and anyone who’s ever read the society pages knows they’re obviously about real people from the Silver District.’

‘Who reads the society pages? You?’ asked Hawthorne, bemused.

‘Like this one,’ Cadence went on, ignoring him. ‘This is obviously about Lord Conrad Carrington, heir to the Grand Old House of Carrington.’

She thrust a thin lavender volume under Morrigan’s nose. The cover showed a foppishly handsome man in a fancy brocade coat, gazing at himself in the mirror with obvious adoration.

‘Clarence Coxcomb,’ Morrigan read the title aloud, and turned it over to the blurb on the back.

The rumours are true: Lord Clarence Coxcomb III is in search of a spouse!

With all the marriageable young people of the District throwing themselves at his feet, Clarence is sure to be wed by summer’s end. His dashing physique, wardrobe to die for and eye-watering inheritance make young Lord Coxcomb the most eligible Silverborn bachelor of a generation!

When Clarence finally looks beyond his own perfect nose and falls for the charming, yet serious, Ahmed Astute, he is in for a rude awakening. Ahmed’s beauty and wealth are easily a match for the arrogant lord’s own, but his wisdom and modesty set him far beyond Clarence’s reach.

Will a reputation as the vainest man in the District ruin Lord Coxcomb’s chance at true happiness? Or can Ahmed tame his mighty ego?

Morrigan giggled. ‘Tame his mighty ego?’

The three friends took turns giving dramatic blurb readings from titles such as Wilhelm Whispers (the searing story of a salacious gossip-hound getting caught in his own scandal) and Gigi Grand (a beloved high-society daughter is disinherited and disowned when she runs away to be a singer in a jazz band).

‘Who are all these people?’ Morrigan wondered aloud.

‘That’s the game.’ Cadence leaned in, eyes gleaming. ‘There are whole book clubs and societies devoted to unpicking exactly who each book is about. My gran used to be in one called The Silver Sleuths. I reckon she just liked the mystery part of it, because the books themselves are pretty stupid if you ask me.’

‘Couldn’t the author get in trouble for writing about real people?’ asked Morrigan.

Cadence gave a short bark of laughter. ‘No one from the Silver District has ever publicly admitted to reading the saga or even knowing about it. Gran says they’re too dignified, but I think they’re too embarrassed. Oh and by the way, this one?’ She tapped a fingernail on the mint-green cover of Marguerite Misanthrope with the gleeful air of someone who’s been waiting to bestow a precious gift. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s about your dear Aunt Margot.’

Morrigan gasped, and her head shot up to see Cadence smirking.

‘Yeah, you can borrow it,’ she said, before Morrigan could ask. ‘But if you dog-ear the pages, I’ll dog-ear you.’

Morrigan’s bedroom rudely woke her the next morning with bright sunshine pouring in through uncurtained windows three times their normal size, accompanied by a trumpeting alarm clock and a furious beating on her door. She’d stayed up half the night devouring the first ten chapters of Marguerite Misanthrope, the tale of a pretentious ice queen who spurns her every would-be suitor, declaring she will never marry because nobody is clever or interesting enough to catch her attention. Ultimately, the haughty Marguerite is swept off her feet by a humble tradesman and scandalises the district by marrying far beneath her social station. It wasn’t Morrigan’s usual fare, but she found herself compelled by the story, wondering how much of it was true. Lady Margot hadn’t seemed like an ice queen to her.

She reluctantly left the warmth of her duvet and plodded to the door, opening it to find the entire doorframe filled with a giant grey head and a pair of huge amber eyes glaring at her.

‘I’ve been knocking for ten minutes,’ Fenestra growled. ‘Why’s your door locked?’

Morrigan dragged her feet back to bed. ‘Have you forgotten that two weeks ago you waltzed in here at five o’clock in the morning trying to recruit me for your ambush of the milkman?’

‘I haven’t forgotten your lack of loyalty,’ said Fen, pushing the door shut with her great fluffy behind. ‘I’d have handled it myself, but we don’t all have the luxury of opposable thumbs, do we?’

‘I have nothing against Doug, and I really don’t think he deserves to be egged.’

‘He always forgets my two bottles of cream-top! I don’t drink that half-fat rubbish and he knows it. Anyway, shut up. I’m not here to talk about Doug. Sit down.’

Morrigan, who had already crawled back under the covers, opened one eye to glare at the Magnificat. ‘I’m horizontal.’

‘Good. Now, listen.’ Fenestra jumped onto the octopus armchair in the corner. ‘I know Jove is an idiot. Jove knows Jove is an idiot. He’s messed up plenty of times and in plenty of ways. But I also know he’s never had a bad intention in all the years I’ve known him. Especially not when it comes to you or Jack. I know this time it feels different—’

‘He lied to me, Fenestra. About my own family! For three years. I don’t know how I’m supposed to just forget it.’

Fen sighed, batting away a wandering tentacle. ‘I’m not suggesting you forget anything. I’m just saying, talk to the idiot. He’s been in his study fretting all night long and, lucky me, I’m the one who gets to hear all about it. Just go see him and put me out of my misery, will you? At least let him try to explain.’

‘Did he put you up to this?’

‘He specifically asked me not to interfere.’ She licked a paw and swiped at her long whiskers. ‘Now, tell me you’ll do what I said and I’ll be on my way.’

Morrigan gave a small, resentful shrug. ‘I’ll consider it.’

‘Good enough.’ Fenestra leapt from the chair to the door in one big pounce, then looked back over her shoulder. ‘And you’ll also consider—’

‘I’m never going to help you egg Doug.’

By the time Morrigan knocked on his study door, she wasn’t sure whether she’d come to give Jupiter a chance to explain, or a piece of her mind. But it didn’t matter either way, because the only person she found inside was Jack, leaning on the mantle and frowning into the fireplace.

‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted out by way of greeting.

Jack stirred from his brooding to look at her, uncomprehending. ‘Hmm?’

‘It’s Wednesday, I thought you weren’t home until the weekend.’

‘Uncle Jove sent a message this morning. He needed to see me.’ The eye patch he wore to guard against the constant visual bombardment of being a Witness was pushed up on his forehead, but he snapped it back into place and sank into one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. A table beside him held two full mugs of cold milky tea that had congealed on top.

‘Where is he then?’

‘Gone,’ said Jack, exhaling heavily. ‘He had to travel off-realm for the League of Explorers.’

Morrigan made a loud, angry, wordless noise, clenching her hands into fists and pressing them over her eyes. How could Jupiter have gone off-realm now? She vented her feelings by kicking the side of his heavy wooden desk, hurting her toe quite badly in the process.

‘OW!’

‘What is your problem?’ Jack stood up in surprise.

‘He’s done this deliberately,’ she said fiercely as she hopped on her other foot, eyes watering. ‘He knows I’m angry with him, so he’s gone on some bogus trip just to avoid me!’

‘Er, no,’ said Jack. ‘He was summoned to catch a gateway before it closed. It was an urgent assignment.’

‘Sure,’ she scoffed.

‘Maybe – and I know this’ll sound absolutely wild to you,’ Jack snapped, ‘but maybe the world doesn’t actually revolve around whatever stupid thing you’ve got going on? Maybe he’s gone off-realm because he had to, because it’s his job?’

Morrigan flinched. She’d thought Jack of all people might understand how she felt. He was as familiar with Jupiter’s sudden and unpredictable absences as she was; they’d vented their annoyance about it to each other plenty of times.

Fine, she thought, furiously blinking back tears all the way to her room. If Jupiter was too much of a coward to talk to her, if he was so gutless he had to run away to another realm just to avoid having a conversation, then for all she cared he could never talk to her again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kidnapped

The rest of the week was perfectly miserable.

There was no word from Jupiter, nor from the League of Explorers about when he might return. (So, the usual.)

Jack didn’t go back to school, instead remaining at the Deucalion where he ordered all his meals from room service and didn’t leave his suite once. For three days, all Morrigan heard from across the hallway was furious cello practice and the occasional sound of a bow being thrown at the wall. Part of her wanted to bang on his door and demand to know what his problem was, but she refused to be the one to break the icy silence between them.

Instead, she spent her evenings after school rereading Marguerite Misanthrope and dithering over whether to attend her Aunt Modestine’s wedding. Her curiosity about the Darlings had only intensified, and the chance to learn more about her mother from the people who knew her best was sorely tempting. But on the other hand, Lady Darling’s dubious scowl still lingered in Morrigan’s memory, and the idea of returning to the scene of her recent crime made her feel like vomiting.

The decision was made for her on Friday afternoon, during Unit 919’s follow-up session on their civic tasks. Holliday had a bee in her bonnet about the wedding and was insisting that Morrigan absolutely had to attend. So, naturally, on her way out of Proudfoot House that afternoon, Morrigan ticked the ‘I am regretfully unable to attend’ box on the invite without another moment’s thought, sealed it in the provided pre-addressed envelope, and dropped it into the outgoing mail pile in the Commissariat.

She knew she was being contrary, and she wasn’t exactly proud of it. But after her week had gone so egregiously pear-shaped, this small act of rebellion made her feel like she’d clawed back some control over her life.

Morrigan fell asleep on Friday night certain she’d made the right decision, only to wake on Saturday morning with a small, sinking regret in her stomach. All through breakfast she tried to ignore the sensation and enjoy her waffles, making detailed plans to stay distracted all day.

First on her agenda was helping Charlie, the transport manager, to polish the Deucalion’s small fleet of pink and gold motorcars, something he did in the forecourt every Saturday. Charlie was delighted to have company and, mistaking Morrigan’s keenness to keep busy for a genuine interest in motoring, regaled her with his opinions on every luxury vehicle to hit the market in the past ten years. (Morrigan found that if she interjected with the occasional, ‘Oh, wow’ or ‘That sounds cool’, he kept filling the silence quite cheerfully.)

‘The Leonine RS5, now that’s the real star of the new Atherton line,’ Charlie told her as he vigorously buffed a side mirror. ‘Zero to a hundred in five seconds. Vertical acceleration, too – you can drive it up the side of a building for a hundred metres!’

‘Oh, wow.’

‘And the fireball capabilities are incredibly advanced from the RS4 – still nothing compared to the Bello Quixote, but – oh my sweet sultana scone, is that an Aurora?!’

‘That sounds cool.’

Charlie made a spluttering sound. ‘It is! That is an AURORA AMPHIBIA SPRINT! Oh my word, I can’t believe it. Do you know how much they’re worth? There are only a dozen in existence. Martha has to see this! I’ll be right back – do NOT let that car leave!’

Charlie disappeared into the lobby, leaving Morrigan to stare at the grand open-top motorcar that had just swung into the forecourt, its silvery-green paint shining iridescent swirls in the sunlight.

Before the engine had even stopped, a familiar young woman in an extravagant bridal gown and veil leapt from the passenger seat and ran for the front steps. Eyes red-rimmed and face streaked with mascara, Lady Modestine Evelyn Darling came to a sudden halt in front of Morrigan.

‘I was only eight when she left us,’ Lady Modestine blurted out, her huge eyes filled with emotion. ‘It was … the worst day of my entire life. She was my favourite person in the whole wide world, and she never even said goodbye to me.’

Morrigan stood very still. She didn’t know what to say. Her aunt took a timid step towards her, then another.

‘Today …’ Modestine went on in a whisper. Her chin wobbled, but she fought to bring it under control. ‘Morrigan, today is my wedding day. Merry should be here. She should be here to fix my veil before I walk into the chapel, and to tell me how pretty I look and that she’s proud of me and that everything … that everything is going to be okay.’

She glanced back at the man in the driver’s seat, who Morrigan thought must be the groom. He wore a black tuxedo with a little white flower fastened to the lapel and was watching Modestine with obvious concern.

‘When they told me Meredith had a daughter, and that you were here in Nevermoor, where you belong … it was almost like hearing Merry herself had come home. Because …’ She frowned, gripping a handful of her dress as she rounded up her thoughts. ‘Because you’re a part of her, Morrigan, and she was a part of me, and … well. Goodness. Don’t you think that means we’re a part of each other?’

‘Yes,’ said Morrigan, and found that she meant it. ‘I suppose it … could mean that.’

Her aunt smiled at her through fresh tears. ‘I know Mama behaved dreadfully the other day. We all told her so after you left. But she’s a hedgehog, really.’

‘A hedgehog?’

‘Mmm, prickly on the outside but with a very soft underbelly,’ she said, laughing shakily. ‘I’m sure she wants to know you just as desperately as I do, Morrigan. As we all do. Oh please, please change your mind and say you’ll come.’

Morrigan chewed on the side of her mouth. What could she possibly say to that, except—

‘Of course I will.’

Lady Modestine squealed with happiness and pulled her into a crushing hug. Her perfume was strong and sweet, and made Morrigan a little dizzy. She felt her hand gripped tight and suddenly she was being pulled towards the Aurora.

‘Wait! I can’t go like this – I’m wearing dungarees! I need to—’

‘Open the boot, darling!’ Modestine called to the driver, and it popped open to reveal at least a dozen dresses in various shades, fabrics and styles, all in Morrigan’s size and all far too expensive looking to be stuffed so haphazardly into the boot of a car. ‘There’s a little room in the back of the chapel where you can change, but darling I’m afraid we must hurry … I’m supposed to be saying my vows in five minutes! Dario will be ever so worried.’

Morrigan glanced at the driver. ‘That’s not Dario?’

Modestine trilled with laughter. ‘Dario? Heavens no! It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before they meet at the altar. That’s Sunny.’

‘Sunil Ghoshal, best man,’ he called from the driver’s seat, giving a little salute. ‘A pleasure to meet you. Apologies for the ambush.’ He smiled sheepishly.

Modestine pulled out a gown that could only be described as pastry-like: a puffy, peach-coloured confection of many layers and impressive volume. She gave a gasp of great rapture. ‘This one! Oh, it’s divine. With your lovely dark hair? It’s so perfect I could cry, I could just cry.’

Morrigan tried to arrange her face so that it didn’t telegraph the full extent of her horror. ‘Yes, so could I.’

Lady Modestine began ushering her into the car just as Charlie returned, tugging a bemused Martha towards the shimmering Aurora.

‘What’s going on here?’ Martha asked sharply, running down the last few steps. ‘Morrigan, are you … being kidnapped?’

‘Um, no,’ Morrigan assured her from the backseat, holding up the dress. ‘I think I’m … going to a wedding.’

‘We really must dash!’ Modestine clambered into the front seat, squishing folds of white silk organza around her until it looked like she was sitting in an overfilled bubble bath, then turned to wave at a concerned-looking Martha and Charlie. ‘But I promise we’ll take the very best care of dear Morrigan! We’ll bring her back tomorrow!’

Sunny pulled out of the forecourt with a screech of tyres. As they sped down Humdinger Avenue, Modestine threw her hands in the air, veil streaming behind her, and shouted elatedly, ‘I’M GETTING MARRIED TODAY, NEVERMOOR! AND MY NIECE IS COMING TO MY WEDDING!’

Sunny shook his head, laughing. ‘Put your seatbelt on, you’re going to give me a heart attack.’

Morrigan couldn’t help grinning at her aunt’s unrestrained, contagious joy, and as she leaned back into the wind, she felt a little of her own unease melt away.

She was on her way to a family wedding, of all things! Right here in Nevermoor. In that moment she decided that, even wearing the peach puff-pastry travesty, she was going to enjoy every minute.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Golden Couple

The good thing about Modestine, Sunny and Morrigan being the last to arrive was that, after she’d changed into the dress, Morrigan could simply wait for the bride to walk down the aisle before sneaking quietly into the last pew.

Miraculously, they were only twenty-five minutes late – thanks largely to the Aurora Amphibia Sprint, which lived up to both its second and third names. First it sprinted through several boroughs to Ogden-on-Juro. Then, with some seriously impressive shapeshifting of rubber and metal, it transformed from an open-air roadster into a closed-top subterranean vessel, zooming beneath the Silver District waterways at high speed. (Morrigan couldn’t wait to tell Charlie.)

The Chapel of the Divine Thing in the Paramour Pleasure Gardens was extremely grand – more like a cathedral, really, with its dramatic stained-glass windows and intricate carvings, and filled with glorious bouquets of red and pink roses.

The brief ceremony featured quite a lot of inappropriate giggling from the bride and groom, who seemed awfully young to be getting married, and didn’t appear to take the institution very seriously.

But they did look beautiful together, Morrigan thought. Lovely Modestine with her shiny blonde curls, big doe eyes and spotlight smile, and handsome Dario with his wavy dark hair, deep dimples and warm, sunlit skin. If their silliness together was any indication of what married life would look like, things certainly boded well for their future. At least they’d probably have fun.

At the end of the ceremony, an officious man in a tuxedo jacket and kilt announced there’d be an interval while the bride and groom and their families had photographs taken. Guests were encouraged to partake of the plentiful canapés and champagne being readied for them outside in the sunshine, to play croquet and other lawn games, or to ‘promenade on the green’ (which was, Morrigan surmised, a fancy way of saying ‘go for a walk’), before dinner and dancing in the Glade, beginning at sundown.

A string quartet struck up a lively march and the giggling newlyweds left the chapel beneath a shower of flower petals and well wishes. Under cover of this joyful ruckus, Morrigan slipped quietly outside, nervous to be spotted by any of the Darlings. She knew she was here by invitation, but there was still a part of her that was sure their hospitality might be revoked when they saw her again and remembered what she’d done to their home.

Pushing aside that fear, though, it was a real treat to have time on her own to explore the park. She meandered down a shaded pathway until she came to a large, signposted map of the Pleasure Gardens, carved meticulously into wood and framed by blue and purple hydrangeas.

Along its length and breadth, the map showed two long intersecting paths lined with landscaped gardens and rows of trees, meeting in the Glade right at its heart, inside which stood a circular structure simply labelled the pavilion. Morrigan needn’t worry about getting lost on her way to the reception, then; all roads, it seemed, led to the Glade.

There were other landmarks scattered across the map, and rambling pathways that connected them. The Chapel of the Divine Thing stood in the south-east corner, a boathouse and pier on the north side and another on the south, a small open-air theatre to the west, a hedge maze, a tea house, and multiple gazebos, fountains and ponds dotted here, there and everywhere.

Bordering the Pleasure Gardens were twelve equidistant footbridges. They radiated out like the spokes on a vaguely oblong-shaped wheel – or perhaps the hours on a wonky clock – connecting the park to twelve smaller islands across the Greater Circle canal. Morrigan read their names aloud, clockwise from Mahapatra Bridge to Choi Bridge, to Fairchild and so on … before landing on Darling Bridge in the west.

She recalled from her visit earlier in the week that Darling House was directly opposite the Paramour Pleasure Gardens … which meant that the house was on its own island. Her mind boggled. These people really did have a very silly amount of money.

Several hundred wedding guests had dispersed throughout the park, strolling in their finery and soaking up the glorious afternoon sun. Morrigan found it surprisingly easy to melt into the background.

Nobody was staring at her. Nobody was whispering about her as she went by. Occasionally someone made a banal comment about the weather, and one woman even complimented her dress. (Morrigan scrambled for something complimentary to say in return, and landed stupidly on, ‘What a lovely big hat.’) But nobody narrowed their eyes at her or hissed Wundersmith under their breath. They were all far too polite.

Morrigan breathed the perfumed air deeply, letting the unexpected feeling of freedom wash over her. She could get used to this.

‘Miss Crow! Miss Crow? Over here please!’

Her bubble of tranquillity popped as the kilted man who’d made the post-ceremony announcements rushed towards her, beckoning frantically.

‘There you are, young lady!’ He lifted a small handheld radio to his mouth and pressed a button. ‘Bird in the hand! Stand down everybody, I repeat: BIRD IN THE HAND.’

Panicking, Morrigan blurted out, ‘I was invited!’

Before she could explain that she was allowed to be there, a team of black-jacketed people descended to escort them over to the pier. There the newlyweds, the bridal party and the two families were gathered, surrounded by half a dozen photographers and assistants carrying equipment. The man marched Morrigan directly towards a flustered-looking Lady Margot, in quiet conversation with her sister Miriam.

‘… suggested she put it in her safe with the others after she reads it, and I hope for my sake she does read it, but you know how stubborn – OH, Mr Stirling, you found her!’ Lady Margot cried when she spotted them, and threw her arms open in welcome. ‘Morrigan, darling, you had us so worried! Didn’t you hear the announcement about family photos?’

Morrigan hastily wiped a few canapé crumbs off the front of her dress. ‘Um – yes? Sorry, I thought guests were meant—’

‘Guests, dearest, yes. But you’re family!’ Lady Margot said kindly, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her down towards the water. Morrigan felt a tiny flutter at those words. ‘Come now. Everyone’s so excited to meet you.’

A menagerie of painted boats bobbed calmly in the canal. Moored alongside a flock of Darling House swans with their slender white prows were striped tigers with roaring mouths full of teeth, elephants with noble grey trunks, dragons in a rainbow of colours, and foxes with curling red tails.

The Darlings and Rinaldis were being directed by Mr Stirling to board the swans and dragons, while his assistants lit a flotilla of paper lanterns and pushed them out onto the water. The effect of this in the fading afternoon light was, Morrigan had to admit, quite magical.

‘Do you like the dress?’ Lady Margot asked her.

‘Oh! Er. Yes, it’s … peachy.’

‘Meredith loved it too,’ she said, looking suddenly misty-eyed. ‘She wore it when she was just about your age. You look as beautiful as she did.’

Morrigan looked down at the dress, feeling suddenly strange in it … though not necessarily in a bad way. If her mother had loved this dress, perhaps she could try to like it a little more, too.

‘You’ve just missed Mama, regrettably,’ Lady Margot went on. ‘She had a little dizzy spell after the ceremony and has gone home to rest before dinner. But she sends her love.’

‘Oh!’ Morrigan felt guilty at the relief that engulfed her. It was Lady Darling she’d been most nervous to see. ‘I … hope she’s all right?’

Lady Margot squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘You are sweet.’

‘Noble Darlings and honourable Rinaldis,’ Mr Stirling called loudly from the front of the group, clapping his hands for their attention. ‘Please step into your assigned boats.’

A handful of tiny, noisy children were being coaxed and bribed into the boats by a regiment of uniformed nannies. Amid the chaos, Morrigan was swiftly bundled into a swan with Lady Margot and her husband Tobias, and her other aunt, Lady Miriam, and her wife Winifred, and launched onto the shimmering canal. The photographers all ran to their places along the bank and on top of Darling Bridge, where Mr Stirling was shouting instructions to everyone on the water below.

‘Mr and Mrs Darling, eyes up here please!’ He waved at Dario and Modestine, who were mid-conversation with Sunny in the boat behind theirs and kept twisting around to chat. ‘That’s the way, facing us. No, back to us again, please. Big smiles!’

Morrigan turned to the eldest Darling sister. ‘Lady Margot—’

‘Do call me Aunt Margot, won’t you?’

‘Oh – um, all right. Aunt Margot, did he just call Modestine and Dario, Mr and Mrs Darling?’

Aunt Margot laughed drily. ‘You thought they’d be Mr and Mrs Rinaldi?’ She and her sister shared a knowing smile.

‘Everyone who marries into the family takes the Darling name,’ said Aunt Miriam, as Winifred slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Mama insists on it. She’s very old-fashioned.’

Morrigan frowned in confusion. ‘Is that old-fashioned?’

‘In the Silver District, yes,’ said Aunt Margot. ‘The tradition is that whoever marries into a Greater House from a Lesser House will take the Greater name.’

‘What if they’re both from Greater Houses?’ asked Morrigan.

‘Miriam and I flipped a coin.’ Winifred gave an easy shrug. ‘My grandmother wasn’t best pleased, but fortunately I have legions of siblings and cousins to carry on the Babatunde name. And my father said Winnie Darling made me sound like a glamorous movie star, so that was that,’ she finished, fluttering her eyelashes at Miriam, who laughed.

‘Not everyone sticks to the old ways now, of course,’ added Aunt Margot. Some of the young people of Lesser Houses take umbrage.’

‘Not my young person,’ came a familiar voice from the golden dragon boat as it cut through the water to coast alongside them. Modestine held out her crystal champagne coupe for her new husband to top up, and he obliged with a dashing smile. ‘Dario is ever so pleased to join the Darling brood.’

‘Honour of my life!’ declared Dario, and there was warmth and laughter in his eyes. He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘I enjoyed my tenure as a Rinaldi boy, but I’m only truly in my element now, as a Darling Man. Don’t you agree, Tobias? You don’t miss being a Clark lad, surely?’

Aunt Margot’s husband turned to Dario, eyebrows raised, and lifted his empty glass in acknowledgement. ‘To our excellent wives! May we endeavour to deserve them.’

Dario drank to that, then smiled brightly at Morrigan, his cheeks dimpling. ‘I insisted we paddle over here so I could have the honour of meeting my new niece. Thank you so much for coming to our wedding, Morrigan. Modestine and I are both looking forward to getting to know you better when we return from our honeymoon!’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Modestine, rocking the boat a little in her excitement. ‘I’ve made a list of things we’ll do together! Shopping sprees, trips to the theatre … and of course you must come and see Dario fly. He’s the finest dragonrider who ever lived!’

‘But she could see that tomorrow at the Winter Trials, surely?’ asked Tobias, turning to Dario with a slight look of alarm. ‘You’re not planning to leave for your honeymoon before the big event, Mr Darling? We have tickets to see you.’

The groom took another gulp of champagne, peering into his glass. ‘Of course not. I have a responsibility to the Rinaldi Stables, after all.’

‘Dario is a career man,’ Modestine explained to Morrigan in a whisper, covering her mouth as if she’d said something scandalous. ‘He has a job.’

Margot winced slightly at that word. ‘We’ve talked about this, dear. What Dario has is a special interest.’

‘A treasured hobby, my love,’ added Miriam.

‘That he gets paid for,’ said Modestine obstinately. ‘Which makes it a J-O-B. Dario is very talented and I intend to support his dragonriding career for as long as he wants to do it.’

‘We can call it a hobby if it puts you at ease, Margot,’ Dario said, flashing his unimpressed sister-in-law a charming grin. ‘Don’t we all need a creative outlet?’

Morrigan perked up a little. ‘My friend Hawthorne is a dragonrider, too! He’s brilliant. He’s even been invited to do an exhibition ride tomorrow at the Winter Trials.’

‘How thrilling,’ said Modestine, clapping her hands with delight. ‘Dario will be riding Alights on the Water Like a Seabird, isn’t that right darling?’

Dario nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. Alights is a Rinaldi Stables dragon – she and I have been flying together for years. As long as I’m around, nobody but a Rinaldi will ever take her saddle.’

‘I do wish we didn’t have to delay the honeymoon,’ said Modestine, with a put-upon sigh. ‘But it’s only one day. The beaches of the Third Pocket will simply—’

‘MR AND MRS DARLING!’ came an amplified voice from the bridge ahead. In his desperation, Mr Stirling had managed to rustle up a megaphone. ‘PLEASE GET BACK IN FORMATION. WE ARE LOSING THE LIGHT. I REPEAT, WE ARE LOSING THE LIGHT!’

Dario saluted the wedding planner in acknowledgement and jumped into action, using a long golden oar to push along the canal bed. As they neared Darling Bridge, a game of chicken erupted between the groom and his best man to see who could stay standing longest before ducking underneath the bridge at the last second. Dario won, but his distraction cost him the tip of his golden dragon’s curling tail, which hit the curve of the bridge in just the wrong spot, the metal point scraping and sparking horribly against the stone underside until it broke off, falling into the boat with a loud clang.

‘Sorry, Papa!’ Dario called out sheepishly to his father, as Sunny collapsed with laughter.

‘Faster, driver! Faster!’ cried Modestine, giggling deliriously and thrusting the bottle of champagne in the air. ‘We’re losing the light!’

When Mr Stirling and the photographers were at last satisfied that they had captured every angle of the newlyweds in the perfect light, the bridal party and their families were set free to make their way to the Glade for the reception. The little cousins were smothered in kisses from their parents and ushered across the bridge to Darling House by the nanny brigade, and the youngest Rinaldis were waved off with their nanny in a green dragon boat.

The eldest Darling cousin, seven-year-old Marigold, tried to kick up a fuss about coming to the party. Margot patiently explained to her daughter that the wedding reception wasn’t for children, and Tobias pointed out that even Dario’s eleven-year-old sister had returned to Rinaldi House without complaint, and when that didn’t work, Modestine promised to buy her niece a kitten if she went home to bed like an angel.

‘I already have a cat!’ Marigold pouted. ‘I want a dragon!’

‘A DRAGON?’ boomed Dario, picking her up and swinging her around. ‘What do you need a dragon for when you can already FLY?’

Marigold squealed happily as Dario zoomed her across the bridge while his new wife and best man followed, cheering them on loudly.

Morrigan heard a tutting sound and glanced over to see Aunt Margot watching the newlyweds with a disapproving grimace. She wasn’t the only one who noticed – Aunt Miriam chuckled and looped an arm through her sister’s.

‘They’re young,’ she reminded Margot. ‘You know they don’t take anything seriously.’

Margot gave her an exasperated look. ‘Really, Mim. They’re a pair of golden retrievers.’

‘Whatever can you mean by that?’

‘Oh, you know. Every partnership needs a wolf and a golden retriever,’ she explained. ‘In my marriage, I am the wolf, and Tobias is the retriever. Sweet, uncynical and – bless him – a little bit stupid. Two wolves in one marriage can be trouble, but two retrievers … that’s a recipe for disaster.’

‘I don’t think we need to worry about that, Margot,’ said Miriam, laughing breezily. ‘Not least because people aren’t dogs.’

Upon their arrival at the reception, the aunts were immediately rushed away on bridal business by the wedding planner, and Morrigan was left on her own to stare, slack-jawed, at the opulence of it all.

The Glade was a romantic fairyland, awash with the bright golden flames of burning torches and what looked like millions of tiny twinkling stars. Tunnels of wisteria arched over the pathways, meeting in the centre of the clearing where a full orchestra played a waltz beneath the handsome white Pavilion. An ocean of flowers seemed to pour from its turreted roof, twisting down the white columns and overflowing onto the grassy floor. The Pavilion was surrounded by dozens of round tables, swathed in soft draping fabric and laid with the finest porcelain dishes, crystal goblets and gleaming silverware.

Morrigan made her way through the humming crowd of wedding guests, past an elevated wooden dance floor sheltered by a canopy of green vines and fairy lights, and through a gallery of swan and dragon ice sculptures. Finally, she came to a seating chart in the far corner and, finding her name, felt her stomach drop somewhere below the floor.

There she was: MISS MORRIGAN CROW, squeezed between LADY MIRIAM DARLING on one side and MR COSIMO RINALDI (Dario’s brother) on the other … at a long, rectangular table, set apart on a raised platform, presumably so everyone could see the bride and groom and their families at every moment throughout the evening.

Morrigan could almost feel herself breaking out in hives at the thought of being that visible. But her sudden panic was derailed by a tickling breath in her ear, accompanied by a low, dangerous whisper.

‘Don’t even think about sitting at that table.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Fun Table

A white-gloved hand reached over Morrigan’s shoulder to the seating chart, plucked her name card from the bridal table, and relocated it to a round one in a far corner of the Glade. Morrigan slowly turned to see that the mystery hand belonged to an older girl in a blue silk gown, standing arm-in-arm with a boy in a tuxedo.

‘There. Now you can sit with us at the fun table.’

Morrigan stared at them, nonplussed. ‘I’m not sure if … I mean, is that allowed?’

‘Anything’s allowed if you do it with confidence,’ she said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Come along!’

‘Um. Sorry, I think my aunts are expecting—’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said the boy, and he stopped a passing member of staff with a hand on their shoulder. ‘Please tell Lady Margot that the beloved grandchildren of her noble neighbours, Lord and Lady Choi, have adopted her niece for the evening and promise to return her only after she’s had the best night of her life.’

The girl linked her free arm proprietarily through Morrigan’s and steered her away. She could have refused, she supposed … but on balance, the prospect of spending all night on display at the bridal table seemed worse than being seized by a pair of rich, overconfident teenagers.

‘I’m Lottie. This is my brother Louis. To answer your inevitable questions, yes, we are twins, and yes, we are the only fun people at this entire wedding.’

‘The only fun people?’ said a beautiful but haughty-looking girl, as they arrived at the table. She gestured to the other teenagers sitting beside her. ‘What are we, then?’

‘Oh, Zara, you know she meant all of us,’ said Louis placatingly as he pulled a chair out for Morrigan.

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Lottie, shooting him an annoyed look for speaking on her behalf. ‘Zara, you’re very pretty but you can be quite mean, which is boring. Barty’s unbearably smug. Shukriya never stops talking about her horses. Violet never stops talking about her boyfriend. Tolu never stops talking about himself, and Sebastien—’

‘Lottie,’ said Louis, half amused and half exasperated, stepping in before she could roast the whole table.

‘What?’ said Lottie. ‘They know all that! Doesn’t mean they’re not my friends.’

Louis began a round of much friendlier introductions, but only got halfway through before the Glade was suddenly lit up by a shower of sparks exploding all along the perimeter. There were gasps as they arced upwards to create a fizzing dome of fireworks, then the orchestra struck up a jubilant waltz and the bride and groom took to the floor for their first dance. Predictably, they chatted and giggled the whole time, and halfway through they beckoned the best man and the maid of honour (one of Modestine’s childhood friends) onto the floor and switched partners, swirling away still smiling and laughing. The newlyweds seemed determined to enjoy their day just as they liked.

Dinner was served next – an endless number of strange and unexpected courses, each no more than two bites. The wait staff brought silver tray after silver tray, announcing such dishes as, ‘cold soup of sea urchin in a golden garlic broth’ and ‘warm salad of hand-foraged wood-ear mushrooms on a bed of salted riverweed’, all of which sounded absolutely foul to Morrigan, and all of which tasted exquisite. (She tried to keep a mental list of the textures and ingredients so she could give Francis the rundown on Monday.)

Their table was far enough away from the main event that it felt like they were spectators at the wedding rather than participants, and the running commentary of gossip from the twins and inappropriate laughter from their table went largely unobserved. Morrigan wouldn’t have called it the best night of her life, exactly, but she was at least having fun.

‘Over there, table seven: the woman wearing an entire museum’s worth of diamonds?’ Lottie whispered. ‘That’s the magnificent Lady Lavinia Everard, and the handsome specimen next to her is the newest Lord Everard. There have been seven so far, but this one’s a keeper. Half her age and the dumbest, sweetest man who ever lived. Adores her. We’re crossing our fingers for him.’

‘Ooh, look alive. Table twelve,’ said Louis. ‘Is that Jaswinder Kapoor and Marius York? They’re very cosy for two people whose parents despise each other.’

‘The Kapoors and the Yorks are friends again,’ Lottie told him. ‘All that business with the honey badger and the peacock is water under the bridge.’

After their final bite-size morsel was cleared away (‘pickled pigeon heart with burnt chocolate and parsnip mousse’), somebody tapped a butter knife to a crystal goblet, and it was echoed in a resonant chorus of pings across the Glade, like a choir of fairies.

‘I know it’s tradition for the best man to give the first speech,’ came the amplified voice of a young, soft-spoken man at the end of the bridal table. ‘But as I am Dario’s only brother, I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr Ghoshal, for cutting the queue. I’m reminded of something our father once told us, Dario …’

‘Ugh. How marvellous, Ogden Town Dario has something to say,’ a boy in a green dress shirt muttered with a sneery laugh. ‘Honestly, you’d think the wealthiest family in the district could afford to buy their second child a personality.’

Morrigan turned to the twins. ‘Ogden Town Dario?’

‘Oh, just a stupid bit of Silver District slang,’ said Louis quietly. ‘You’ll think it’s awful, and you’ll be right. Calling someone the Ogden Town someone else is like saying they’re sort of … the poorer, lower-quality version. Because—’

‘Ogden Town is the poorer, lower-quality version of the Silver District,’ said Morrigan unsmilingly. ‘I get it. Cool joke.’

Louis cleared his throat, squirming in his seat, and Lottie scrunched her nose apologetically. At least they had the decency to look embarrassed.

Unfortunately for Cosimo Rinaldi, Morrigan could sort of see where the nickname came from. Unlike charming, cheerful Dario, his younger brother was serious and sombre, and nowhere near as handsome.

The fun table had just begun debating whether to make a run for it when, finally, something mildly interesting happened.

‘Sir, please, this is a private event,’ came a small, nervous voice from the exit near their table. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to—’

‘I know it’s a private event, you dolt. I was invited.’ The second voice was cool and languid. Morrigan twisted in her chair and saw that it belonged to a man dressed quite unsuitably for any wedding, let alone a wedding in the Silver District, in a wide-brimmed black hat, dusty green overcoat, a wrinkled, untucked T-shirt and corduroy trousers that were slightly frayed at the hems. He leaned against the outside of the hanging wisteria tunnel with a newspaper tucked under one arm, carrying a small, grease-stained paper bag. He fished a creased silver and white invitation from his trouser pocket. ‘Here. Read it and weep.’

Morrigan heard a gasp beside her, and Lottie whispered, ‘Louis, look who’s here.’

‘I believe you, sir,’ squeaked the black-jacketed staff member. ‘But I’m afraid your name isn’t on the guest list, which means you mustn’t have sent an RSVP, and the seating arrangements are—’

‘Flexible enough to accommodate one more honoured guest,’ said Aunt Margot, smiling calmly as she arrived on the scene. ‘Table four can accommodate our friend here, I believe. The Mahapatras will be delighted to welcome their new neighbour.’

The unexpected guest gave Aunt Margot a lazy sideways grin from underneath his hat. ‘Thrown a spanner in the works, have I? Apologies, Lady Darling.’

‘Not at all. It’s a most welcome surprise to have you here. We were all beginning to think you a recluse. And my mother is Lady Darling,’ she said graciously. ‘I am Lady Margot.’

He pulled a chestnut from the paper bag, threw it in the air and caught it in his mouth. ‘Course you are. All these funny little rules, however do you keep track?’

Lottie made a sound that could have been laughter or choking, eyes wide in disbelief as she watched them head towards table four. ‘Scandal! I cannot believe the Vulture showed up.’

‘Who?’ asked Morrigan.

‘Just about the least popular person in the Silver District,’ murmured Louis. ‘I can’t believe he was invited.’

‘Of course he was invited, Louis,’ said Lottie. ‘The Vulture’s the only person in the district who gets invited to everything, attends nothing, and as a result everyone is relieved. There’s no way the Darlings wanted him here, but they couldn’t have excluded him either. Too dangerous.’

‘What do you mean, dangerous?’ asked Morrigan. ‘Why is he called—’

Before she could finish her question, another tinkling chorus of butter knives on crystal began to ripple through the Glade. Up on the Pavilion, Modestine stood in front of a silver microphone, radiant with excitement. The orchestra had quietly packed up and departed during the speeches, and behind her the bandstand was hidden behind a red velvet curtain.

‘If you would all indulge me for a moment,’ she said without preamble, ‘I have a very special surprise for my best friend. Dario, this is my wedding gift to you … and also to you, our beloved friends and family. I do hope you’ve brought your dancing shoes, because I’m THRILLED to welcome to the Paramour Pleasure Gardens for the first time and hopefully not the last … Dario’s favourite band and mine, the incomparable GIGI GRAND AND THE GUTTERBORN FIVE!’

The velvet curtain swept open, and there was a collective dramatic gasp across the Glade, followed by a silence so profound, Modestine might have just announced she was setting the Pavilion on fire.

On stage was a five-piece band dressed in black suits, fronted by a woman with a luxurious mop of bright copper curls. She wore fiery red lipstick, extremely high heels and a champagne-coloured, fully sequined, very short dress. She was one of the most glamorous people Morrigan had ever seen.

‘Please,’ said Gigi Grand with a coy smile, leaning into the silver microphone. ‘We’re all friends here. You can call me Gi.’

A few people in the Glade laughed uncomfortably. There was a strange feeling in the air, a perilous vibration Morrigan felt but didn’t understand.

‘Draaaamaaaaaaaa,’ Lottie whispered, fanning herself with her place card. Morrigan had never seen anyone so gleefully, euphorically shocked.

With a big, bold blast of trumpet and a crash of cymbals, the Gutterborn Five came raucously to life.

‘Look at all you fancy cats in your fancy furs,’ Gigi purred in a honey-warm voice as the band pulled back to a steady, expectant thrum of double bass. ‘Bet you never thought you’d see this gorgeous face again. My my, isn’t it good to be home … A-one and a-two, and a-one, two, three, four!’

Modestine led a punch-drunk Dario onto the dance floor, laughing with delight as her husband stared at the bandstand in a daze. Gigi Grand gave him a theatrical wink and Dario fell to his knees then leapt up again, pulling an ecstatic Modestine in for a hug. Apparently, her surprise was a hit.

The night was suddenly buzzing – partly with the full swinging force of the band, but mostly with the astonished whispers spreading like wildfire through the Glade.

‘Is this the greatest day of your life, Lot?’ asked Louis, grinning at his sister.

‘Absolutely,’ Lottie breathed. She looked like a child let loose in a sweet-shop. ‘First the Vulture, now Gigi Grand and the Gutterborn Five? What a bounty of scandal on this blessed day.’

Morrigan laughed, but she was confused by what felt like an overreaction. Perhaps this wasn’t the sort of music she’d have expected to hear at her aunt’s elegant wedding – certainly not after the string quartet and the orchestra – but she didn’t think it was that scandalous.

‘Do people in the Silver District not like jazz?’ she asked the twins.

They burst into laughter.

‘It’s not the jazz that’s the problem,’ said Louis, bending his head towards her to be heard over the music. ‘It’s the people playing it. Surely you’ve heard of Gigi Grand and the Gutterborn Five?’

Morrigan rolled the name around in her head until it snagged on a memory. ‘Oh! Um, yeah, I think they played at the New Delphian one time. That’s a theatre in the Bohemian District.’

‘Oh, we know the New Delph,’ said Lottie.

‘We’ve seen Gigi play in all the big Bohemian music halls,’ added Louis. ‘The New Delphian, The Hanging Gardens, Cutthroat Disco, Tenderblood, Big Bear Hall, Little Bear Hall—’

‘Twice,’ said Lottie.

‘Oh yes, twice at Little Bear before the Stink shut it down,’ Louis agreed. ‘When did you see Gigi at the New Delphian, Morrigan?’

‘Not last Spring’s Eve but the one before,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t see her play … I just saw her name on the marquee on my way to the Old Delphian.’

Louis and Lottie both looked at her with slightly piqued interest.

‘You went to the Old Delph?’ said Lottie.

‘Yes.’

‘What for?’

‘To see the Angel Israfel.’

The whole table turned to look at her then. Morrigan felt her cheeks grow warm. To this entire group of older teenagers, she’d suddenly become more interesting than Gigi Grand, her Gutterborn Five and whatever drama was unfolding.

‘You saw the Angel Israfel?’ whispered Zara. ‘At the Old Delph?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not thinking of the New Delph?’ said Barty, a little sneeringly. ‘Because we’ve all been there, obviously.’

‘Shut up, Barty,’ said Lottie. ‘She said what she said. Besides, the Angel Israfel would never play the New Delph, you nincompoop.’

‘How did you get there?’ asked Zara, leaning in.

‘My patron took me.’

Barty rolled his eyes. ‘Sure, but how? Hardly anyone knows how to get there.’

Morrigan cringed inwardly. It felt like they were testing her and, unfortunately, she didn’t think she was going to pass. It had been well over a year – almost two – since that Spring’s Eve when Jupiter had taken her to see his friend Israfel.

‘Um. I don’t know, it was sort of … weird. We went down a Tricksy Lane, I think. I don’t really remember – I mean, I remember a bit,’ she said in a rush, as the table seemed to slump in disappointment. Zara turned her attention back to Gigi Grand, and Barty and the others all followed suit. Perhaps they’d decided she was making it up. She looked down at the table, picking at the petals of a fallen peony from the floral centrepiece.

‘I’ve heard the way it changes, anyway,’ Louis said kindly. ‘That’s how they keep it a secret.’

‘I really have been there,’ said Morrigan, hating the defensive sound of her own voice. She sounded exactly like a stupid little kid making things up for attention. ‘I’m telling the truth.’

But Louis was smiling at her. ‘I know you are. I can tell.’

‘How?’

‘I overheard you in the topiary garden this afternoon, complimenting Camilla Whittaker’s disgusting hat.’ He snorted. ‘You’re a dreadful liar.’

Morrigan couldn’t help smiling too. She opened her mouth to say something cutting about the hat, but was suddenly distracted by the sight of someone she hadn’t seen in almost two years.

Someone she’d hoped never to see again.

Noelle Devereaux was being pulled forcefully towards the exit by a woman who had her wrist clutched tight and looked ready to commit murder. They bustled past Morrigan’s table, followed by an equally livid man.

‘This is the last bridge, Maxwell, the very last bridge between us and that wretched family,’ the woman was muttering, ‘and tonight they have merrily set fire to it. I will never forgive the Darlings – nor the Rinaldis – for their cruelty. Someone is going to pay for this. Mark my words.’

The man harrumphed in agreement, but Noelle was looking back at the Pavilion longingly.

‘Mummy, I want to stay,’ she said. ‘Please, I want to see Gigi!’

Noelle’s mother spun around to face her and said in a menacing hiss, ‘Her name isn’t Gigi, you silly little fool.’

Noelle flinched as if she’d been slapped. Her chin trembled and a quiet sob tumbled from her mouth as she blinked back tears. Morrigan felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for her one-time rival. (And as the last time she’d seen Noelle, she and her former patron Baz Charlton had been trying to get Morrigan rejected from the Wundrous Society, arrested and kicked out of Nevermoor, ‘unexpected’ was perhaps an understatement.)

Most unfortunately, at that moment Noelle glanced over and saw Morrigan witnessing her dressing-down. Her eyes locked on Morrigan’s with the most vicious, hate-filled glare, and then she was yanked away by her mother.

‘Well, I suppose Lady Dev was bound to burst a capillary,’ said Louis.

‘Why?’ asked Morrigan. ‘What was that about?’

‘Oh! You don’t know? Louis, move – she doesn’t know,’ said Lottie, her eyes lighting up as she leaned across her brother to share the gossip with Morrigan in a loud whisper. ‘Gigi Grand is just a stage name. Her real name is Georgette Devereaux. She’s—’

‘Noelle’s sister?’ Morrigan said, cottoning on. Lottie nodded eagerly.

Ah. Of course she was Noelle’s sister. Now Morrigan could see the resemblance. Both girls were pretty, with upturned noses and thick shiny curls and, though Noelle was lithe and angular where Gigi was soft and round, they had a similar way of holding themselves that seemed to tell everyone in the room they were the most important people in it.

And, of course, they both had extraordinary singing voices. Morrigan could still recall her mingled feelings of envy and delight when she’d heard Noelle sing during her Show Trial. Her voice was like a thousand tinkling bells, light and airy and agile. She sounded like an angel flown in from the Better Place.

Her older sister, on the other hand, sounded like she’d made a deal with the Wicked Thing. Gigi’s voice was by turns bright and full and bombastic, then deep and smoky and dangerous.

‘Why aren’t her parents happy to see her?’ Morrigan asked.

‘Would you be happy to see the daughter you hadn’t spoken to for three years?’ said Louis. ‘The infamous runaway daughter who dreamed of a most unsuitable life on the stage? Who fled the Silver District to live in a rat-infested flat in a disreputable neighbourhood with her bandmates?’

‘The eldest daughter you cut out of your will,’ Lottie added, ‘and banned from ever setting foot inside the Greater Circle again?’

Morrigan frowned. The tale of the infamous runaway daughter sounded uncomfortably familiar. Her own mother had run away from Nevermoor, disgracing her parents and scandalising society, and Morrigan herself had fled Jackalfax. She found she could empathise with Gigi – a girl cast aside from her family because she didn’t live up to their expectations – and felt an urge to defend her.

‘It sounds like Gigi’s the one who should be unhappy to see them,’ she pointed out. ‘Not the other way around.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Louis, smirking, ‘but doesn’t it look like she’s having fun?’

It was hard to convince her, but eventually Louis, Lottie and their friends dragged Morrigan onto the dance floor. Gigi Grand and the Gutterborn Five kept up a steady, swinging pace, luring more and more of the reserved Silver District crowd to cast away propriety.

Morrigan didn’t know how to dance. She felt a bit embarrassed at first, but Louis and Lottie were utterly unafraid to look foolish, and their high spirits were so contagious that soon she too was letting loose. They danced and sang and laughed until they were red-faced and sweaty, and when Gigi announced she was going to rest her vocal cords while the Gutterborn Five played on, Louis suggested they take a break also.

‘Mother and Father are leaving soon. We’ll go and say goodnight and then fetch the drinks. You get the sweets,’ he said, pointing Morrigan towards a magical array of desserts that had been laid out while they danced. ‘Meet back at the table.’

Louis led his sister away, and Morrigan turned her attention to the dessert table.

There were platters of pastries and towers of tarts, many-tiered stands stacked with tiny cream fancies and chocolate truffles. A whole rainbow of marzipan delicacies and chocolate eclairs were monogrammed with the bride and groom’s initials in gold leaf. An immense white-cake centrepiece, taller than Morrigan, was crowned with two-foot toffee shards painted to look like the stained-glass windows of the chapel. A pair of life-size meringue swans floated down the middle of the table on a river of chocolate. A two-metre-high dragon carved from sugar rock stood on its haunches with spun-caramel wings outstretched and, thanks to some clever engineering, blue and pink clouds of fairy floss floated dreamily above the whole display. Morrigan did a thorough two laps before making her way back to the fun table triumphantly, a plate piled high with treats in each hand.

Arms starting to give way slightly, Morrigan was relieved to spot the twins by one of the exits and was about to call out to them for help, when she saw they were still saying goodbye to their parents. She decided to wait, standing far enough away that it wouldn’t look like she was eavesdropping, but close enough to catch a glimpse through the hanging wisteria.

Their mother was tall and statuesque, and looked a lot like Louis and Lottie with their shiny dark hair and noble features. She wrapped a stole around her shoulders and leaned in to kiss both her children on their cheeks. Their father stood a little further away in the shadows, but as he stepped closer to hug his son and daughter goodnight, Morrigan felt her chest constrict. Her wrists finally gave way, and the two small dessert mountains fell to the grassy floor of the Glade with a soft flump-flump, leaving great rivers of custard and chocolate all the way down the front of her gown.

She’d seen Louis and Lottie’s father before. A few times.

Never like this, of course. Never calm and smiling, or patting his son warmly on the back, or throwing his head back to laugh at something his daughter said.

Never without an angry, purpling complexion, or a placard in his hands. Never not shouting into a megaphone or riling up a crowd of desperate people to scream something hateful about someone he didn’t like.

He looked quite different, Laurent St James, when he wasn’t inciting an angry mob.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Flight of the Golden Dragon

Morrigan felt a staticky tingle in her fingers and a burning in her chest.

Louis and Lottie St James. Son and daughter of Laurent St James. The man who wanted to send her back to the Wintersea Republic.

She took slow, even breaths, trying to control a sudden frightening urge to breathe fire.

‘Please, Miss, allow me,’ said a member of the wait staff in a discreet murmur, retrieving the plates from the ground at her feet.

Morrigan shook herself out of a stupor. ‘Sorry! I’ll do it – no, please, just leave it—’

Another waiter bustled over to help clear away the pastry massacre and Morrigan was edged out, left to look on uselessly and apologise repeatedly. She heard a now-familiar laugh and looked up to see the twins making their way back to the table, heads together, joking about something.

She was immediately certain it had all been a trick – ‘adopting’ her for the evening, making her believe they were friends. Had Laurent St James put them up to this himself? To find out more about her and … use it against her somehow?

Her face grew hot. She felt unbelievably stupid for ever having thought a pair of rich fifteen-year-olds wanted the pleasure of her company with no ulterior motive.

She turned and fled before they could spot her, winding around tables, dodging guests and weaving through the forest of ice sculptures on the other side of the Glade. She didn’t know where she was going; her only plan was to get as far away from the so-called fun table as humanly possible.

‘—specifically said to be on the lookout! You should have had staff stationed outside the Glade to intercept him.’

Morrigan pulled up short when she heard angry whispers coming from the path ahead.

Obeying her gut instinct, she retreated beneath the shadow of an ice dragon, peering around the curve of its enormous wing. Aunt Margot was talking to Mr Stirling, the wedding planner. Neither of them looked happy.

‘I was forced to offer him a place with the Mahapatras, one of our most prominent families,’ Aunt Margot continued in a low, furious voice, ‘and goodness knows what trouble he’s causing there.’

‘W-well, I-I didn’t …’ spluttered Mr Stirling. ‘Surely there was another place at the table of a Lesser family, if that’s what—’

‘We cannot insult one of our Greater Circle neighbours by placing him at a Lesser table,’ Margot said icily. ‘Especially not the Vul—especially not Mr Smithereens. Thank goodness I spotted him first and not you, or you’d have committed a faux pas from which my family might never recover. As for this dreadful band—’

‘Ah!’ Mr Stirling puffed himself up indignantly. ‘Yes. This band. Do you truly believe I would book the Nevermoor Symphony Orchestra only to criminally underutilise them? They were supposed to play all night! This Gutterborn Five nonsense was your wretched sister’s doing, and as much a surprise to me as anyone else!’

‘How dare you call my sister—’

‘I’ll call her exactly what she is,’ Mr Stirling cut in. ‘A wretched, selfish, thoughtless fool who has singlehandedly wiped out my reputation with her heinous prank! This wedding was my MASTERPIECE. I should be rolling in job offers from every family in the district by this time tomorrow, but instead I shall be stained by gossip and ridicule, thanks to your ghastly little—’

‘It was YOUR job to keep this event under control, and not to let Modestine’s whimsy get the better of her!’ Aunt Margot snapped. ‘You failed catastrophically, and in doing so, threatened an already precarious relationship between two important families. And you will speak respectfully of my sister, Mr Stirling, or I will have you removed.’

The man gave a short, hysterical laugh. ‘Lady Margot, I shall gladly remove myself from this hive of scandal and disgrace. And first thing Monday morning I will speak to my solicitor about suing your family for reputational damage.’

He turned and stormed out of the Glade.

‘Where are you going?’ Aunt Margot called after him, sounding panicked by his departure, despite having threatened to kick him out. ‘Your job isn’t finished! The cake-cutting is scheduled in fourteen minutes, and goodness only knows where the groom has disappeared to! Don’t you dare leave my sister in the lurch, or—’

‘Or what?’ he growled, turning back. ‘You can’t threaten me, Lady Margot. I will have the final word on this matter. Your family will regret crossing me.’

When she was certain the coast was clear, Morrigan escaped the Glade and found herself wandering the paths of the Paramour Pleasure Gardens, chewing over the events of the evening. Her enjoyment of the wedding had fizzled and then completely evaporated with the appearances of Noelle Devereaux and Laurent St James – the two people who quite possibly despised her most of anyone in the world.

Her unhappiness was compounded by the sudden realisation of how cold and tired she was. Outside the warmth of the Glade, a chilly fog drifted off the canal, and the shadowy Pleasure Gardens felt much less inviting than they had in the golden glow of sunset. Morrigan clicked her fingers to conjure a small flickering fire, caging it in her hands. There was no danger of anyone seeing her use Inferno out here; the sounds of music and chatter floating from the Glade told her the party was still in full swing.

Without paying attention to where she was going, Morrigan found herself on the deck of the boathouse, watching the colourful boats bobbing in the water. She bit her lip as the seed of a terrible idea planted itself in her head.

It couldn’t be that hard to paddle one of these things, surely. There wouldn’t be much canal traffic to dodge at this time of night.

Perhaps it was dishonest to steal a boat, but … well, she wouldn’t really be stealing it, would she? More like borrowing. She could paddle her way out of the Silver District, leave the boat at Ogden Town Station, take the Wunderground home to the Deucalion and … figure out the rest later?

She felt a little guilty at the thought of leaving without so much as a word to her aunts. But then again, a question was growing louder in the back of Morrigan’s mind …

Why did the Darlings invite Laurent St James to the wedding?

Aunt Margot said she’d seen the story about Morrigan in the newspaper, and that was how she’d learned of her existence … Surely, then, she must have seen the furore afterwards from St James? Why would they invite him to be in the same place as their niece and grandchild, when he’d so aggressively declared his opposition to her? Was the preservation of Silver District etiquette simply more important?

Morrigan exhaled fiercely through her nose. Before common sense could kick in, she let that wave of indignation carry her right into one of the narrow, flat-bottomed swan boats, climbing over the seats and lifting the feather-shaped oar with both hands.

It was heavier than she’d expected, and holding on to it while standing up was much harder than it looked.

‘You can do this,’ she told herself sternly. ‘It’s not that hard.’

But as it turned out, it was that hard. She couldn’t see how anybody could simultaneously steer and paddle and keep their balance. The more she tried to control the swan’s rocking, the harder and more violently it rocked, until she’d lost her grip on the oar altogether and watched in dismay as it slipped beneath the water.

‘ACK! No.’

In a panicked fumble, Morrigan reached out to claw it back, lost her footing and tumbled over the side of the boat with an enormous SPLASH.

It took a few false starts and one particularly hairy moment when her dress caught on something beneath the water, but after several minutes and a hard yank to rip the skirt, she managed to crawl back into the boat. Struggling to catch her breath, Morrigan flopped down on one of the little plush seats, dripping canal water and feeling utterly furious at herself.

She’d finally resigned herself to the horrendous prospect of returning to the Glade, when she heard the splash of an oar breaking water, and murmuring voices from across the canal. She turned towards the sound and saw the prow of the golden dragon boat slice through the darkness beneath the nearest bridge, emerging in moonlight. There were two figures inside; one was facing away from her, but the other was unmistakably Dario Rinaldi.

Morrigan instinctively threw herself to the floor of the swan boat. The last person she wanted to see while making her unauthorised getaway was Aunt Modestine, especially having so thoroughly ruined the dress that once belonged to Meredith. She couldn’t bear the thought of making someone cry for a second time on their wedding day.

The golden dragon came to a stop just one boat away from Morrigan. She squeezed her eyes shut and contorted her body as far into the shadows as possible, trying to quiet her heavy breathing and pounding heart.

‘Sweetheart, please.’ Dario’s voice was clear in the still, quiet night. He sounded sad. ‘You should go back to the Glade. They’ll be looking for you.’

There was a sigh followed by a long silence.

Finally, Dario gave an awkward chuckle. ‘You realise Mr Stirling will kill me if I don’t keep to schedule? Truly, I can’t tell if we hired a wedding planner or a drill sergeant—’

‘I’m tired, Dario. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.’

Morrigan frowned. The second voice was a woman’s, low and husky.

It was not Aunt Modestine’s voice.

‘We only need to be patient for a little longer, my love.’ Dario sighed. ‘Just until the spring, and then—’

‘But you don’t know that!’ the woman insisted. ‘It could be another year, or more. Why must we wait so long to be happy?’

‘Georgette, darling—’

Morrigan gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth and held her breath.

Georgette. Gigi.

‘—I swear to you, it’s true,’ continued Dario, thankfully covering the sound of Morrigan’s shock. ‘All the people I’ve spoken to say the same thing: Basking is coming.’

Georgette Devereaux scoffed. ‘And which people would those be?’

‘Swotty people who know about these things,’ he said, a teasing smile in his voice. ‘Experts. Please, please trust me. I know it’s going to happen. And as soon as spring arrives and the Silver Assembly is done, we won’t have to hide anymore. I can come to Bohemia. We can finally be together … but we must stick to the plan. Everything’s going to be okay, Georgie.’

‘It’s not. You’ll always be tied to the Silver District. There’s too much holding you here – the business, your dragon—’

‘I’m tied to you,’ the groom said coaxingly. ‘I love you more than anything. I love you a million drag—’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Her voice broke as she cut him off. ‘I can’t bear it. Watching the two of you together tonight, seeing you have everything we never can—’

‘Darling, don’t say that. We will—’

‘I should never have come back here. I forgot how much I hate this place.’

‘Georgie—’

‘Goodbye, Dario.’

Morrigan heard water lapping aggressively against the dragon boat and high-heeled shoes clicking on the wooden pier.

‘Wait!’ cried Dario. ‘Georgie, please, don’t leave like this. Let’s just—’

‘Go, Dario,’ she called back to him bitterly. ‘It’s nearly midnight. Your wife is waiting for her surprise.’

Morrigan could do nothing but wait, eyes wide with shock, staring up at the starlit sky. Shivering with cold, she stayed there until Gigi’s footsteps disappeared into the distance, until the splashing of Dario’s oars faded beneath the bridge, until the only sound she could hear was the soft whoosh of the water and her own heart thumping in her ears.

‘Where are you going, o son of the morning …’

Halfway back to the Glade, Morrigan had stepped into a darkened gazebo to make herself at least somewhat presentable before re-entering the arena.

‘Up with the sun where the winds are warming …’

Singing the familiar Morningtide’s Child – her song to summon Wunder – she conjured a dry heat to her fingertips and ran them lightly all over the dress and through her hair, revelling in the warmth as the canal water steamed and evaporated. The peach gown hadn’t quite recovered its full puffy volume from before the dunking, but at least the clean water in the Silver District canals had washed away the chocolate. She carefully ripped off a hanging strand of fabric, hoping no one would notice the tear.

Feeling much more comfortable, Morrigan climbed onto the sandstone table and propped her boots up on the seat. She put her head in her hands, hating absolutely everything. How, she wondered, had a single night managed to take so many awful turns, one after the other? The Silver District was looking more tarnished by the minute.

She couldn’t stop thinking of how glowingly Aunt Modestine had spoken about Dario, and the adoring way she looked at him. Her best friend, she’d called him.

Morrigan groaned, rubbing her face agitatedly. Should she tell the Darlings about Dario and Gigi?

The quiet was broken by the gentle voice of Sunny Ghoshal over the microphone. ‘Friends and honoured guests of the bride and groom, we have one last treat for you this evening. The new Mr Dario Darling requests that you all leave the Glade and make your way towards Darling Bridge, where he has arranged a special gift for the love of his life, as is tradition. A Midnight Surprise to end the evening with a bang.’

Morrigan watched an exodus of happy, excited guests swarm in the direction of the boathouse. With a sigh, she decided she might as well join them instead of sitting in the dark on her own like a weirdo.

As she reached Darling Bridge there was a loud, rumbling roar like the sound of an engine, and then a chilling screech rent the air. The crowd ducked as one when an enormous dark shadow passed dangerously close overhead.

Everyone looked up to see a dragon, roughly the size of two elephants, rising higher into the sky. It screeched again and breathed a great plume of bright orange fire; Morrigan could feel the heat of it on her face. The wedding guests gasped as it soared above the rooftop of Darling House, spiralled swiftly around its highest peak, then tumbled into a steep dive towards the canal.

For all that he was a rotten liar and a scoundrel and a cheat … Dario was a truly magnificent dragonrider.

‘The jewel in the Rinaldi Stables crown,’ declared a man standing near Morrigan on the footbridge, raising a half-empty wine glass to the dragon and her rider. ‘Alights on the Water Like a Seabird. I’ve got a thousand kred on her to top the leaderboard in the Winter Trials.’

The ancient reptile zoomed down the centre of the canal, so close to the water she could have reached out a talon and broken its surface. It was clear where she got her name.

Morrigan was no dragon expert, but you couldn’t be best friends with Hawthorne Swift without picking up some reptilian knowledge. Alights on the Water Like a Seabird was a luminescent breed, she knew that much. That meant she had her own internal, biological source of light that spidered out across her thick hide in shimmering waves. She glowed like precious metal, like a moving sunset.

Guided by Dario, Alights flew high above the canal and loosed a shower of sparks from her jaws, flying in a tight and complex series of manoeuvres while breathing a constant stream of fire to write words in the sky.

I LOVE YOU

There was a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the guests.

‘Oh, my sweet little prince!’ cried a woman Morrigan recognised as Olivia Rinaldi, the mother of the groom.

‘That’s my brilliant boy!’ bellowed Vincenzo Rinaldi, standing with an arm around his wife’s waist. ‘Look at that precision! Oh, Cosimo, don’t look so cross.’ Vincenzo laughed and clapped his younger son on the back. ‘He didn’t tell you he was taking her out of the stables, eh?’

Cosimo was watching the spectacular display through narrowed eyes and looking just as sombre as he had all day. He shook his head and said nothing.

Vincenzo gave an indulgent shrug. ‘It’s a gift for his beautiful bride! We do silly things when we are in love.’

Seeing his father wouldn’t allow him to be a stick in the mud, Cosimo relented and gave a small, grim smile. Vincenzo laughed again, drawing him in for a sideways hug. Morrigan noticed there were tears in the older man’s eyes.

‘My wonderful boys,’ he said loudly. ‘Such talent and brains in one family! How did I get so lucky, eh?’

But Dario and his dragon weren’t quite finished. They flew in a wide circle above the bridge and then looped back around to finish the message.

A MILLION DRAGONS

Morrigan felt sick.

I love you a million dragons. That’s what Dario had been trying to say to Gigi, when she cut him off to say goodbye.

The message in the sky wasn’t for Modestine. It was for the woman he truly loved.

There was much clapping and cheering as the words turned to smoke, leaving their ghostly impressions in the sky. Alights on the Water rose higher again, performing an astounding series of loop-the-loops. Morrigan turned to look at the hundreds of wedding guests spilling down from the bridge and onto the banks of the canal.

She couldn’t see Gigi Grand anywhere. But because everyone else had their eyes on the sky, Morrigan was the first to see the boat.

For the second time that night, she watched the Rinaldis’ golden dragon glide slowly out from beneath a Greater Circle bridge, cutting through the dark water.

The real dragon flew away into the distance as a shower of sparks exploded above the canal with a great big BANG … then another, and another – the whole sky lighting up with fireworks to mark the end of the display. Morrigan felt a chill on the back of her neck as the scene below her was fully illuminated. Someone was lying on the flat bottom of the boat, arms thrown out at an odd angle.

She stared for a moment, trying to make sense of what she was seeing … when a blood-curdling scream from somewhere on the bridge split the air in two. Someone else had seen him too.

It was Dario in the boat. Impossibly. Unmistakably.

Dario, who just moments ago had flown off into the night on the back of a dragon.

Dario, lying on the floor of the golden boat as dark, wet blood pooled around him, spreading from beneath his back.

Young, handsome Dario, whose eyes stared lifelessly up at the sky, reflecting the glow of the fireworks.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Winter Trials

‘… less than ideal conditions as a spectator of course, but I spoke to some of today’s competitors earlier and they couldn’t be happier with the outlook. As a former champion yourself, Tofty, what are your thoughts?’

‘You know what, Eddie, this is the sort of weather dragonriding dreams are made of! You often find the Winter Trials give an easier flight than the summer tournament, and today’s a perfect example. Grey skies make for better visibility, with no risk of flying into the sun, and this steady drizzle will significantly lower the risk of anyone being accidentally set ablaze. Though of course we can never rule it out, ha-ha! No, but seriously, I’d be delighted to compete on a day like this and from the energy I’ve seen in the stables, I reckon today’s riders are poised to take advantage of their good fortune.’

‘The rain certainly hasn’t dampened spirits out here in the packed stands either, Tofty. There’s a genuine buzz in the air. But, of course, we must acknowledge this morning’s tragic news – the untimely demise of the great Dario Rinaldi is a tremendous blow for dragonsport.’

‘It certainly is, Eddie. I had the honour of competing against young Dario in my final tournament before retiring, and let me tell you, even as an eighteen-year-old that lad gave me a run for my money. That was his first professional tournament, and it’s been a pleasure to watch his star rise and rise these past five years. Not only a great rider, but a good man. Rinaldi made friends everywhere he went, even among his rivals. He will be dearly missed.’

‘Indeed, and by nobody more than his beloved flight partner, Alights on the Water Like a Seabird. She’s a notoriously temperamental dragon, Alights, and famously attached to her late rider. I think you’ll agree, Tofty, it’ll be hard for the Rinaldi Stables to find a replacement – but if it’s possible, it will happen here at the Winter Trials.’

‘They’ll certainly have their pick of the best, Eddie! Riders from across the Seven Pockets have crept out of the woodwork this morning following the news that one of dragonsport’s most prestigious saddles is up for grabs. What a thrill to be present for this historical … er, though, of course, very sad time in dragonsport. Very sad indeed.’

The amplified voices of the commentators were nearly lost beneath the chatter of the lively Trollosseum crowd, who seemed to have forgotten what a sad time it was in all their excitement. They queued cheerfully to place last-minute wagers and bought steaming meat pies and buckets of popcorn from the concession stands, and barely seemed to notice the persistent misty rain that permeated coats and pooled in empty seats.

Huddled and shivering beneath their brollies, as far from other spectators as possible, Morrigan and Cadence had spent the last hour raking over every detail of the wedding day. From teary bride to cheating groom to surprise murder, and all the strange and upsetting events in between.

‘Wow,’ said Cadence, puffing out a big breath after Morrigan finally finished. ‘Wow. I mean … sorry about the dead groom and everything. Nasty stuff. But can you imagine if you’d missed all that?’

‘Cadence.’

‘I’m just saying, it’s a good thing you decided to go. What did the Stink say? Who’d they question? Did they arrest anyone?’

‘No idea.’ Morrigan reached into Cadence’s popcorn bucket and helped herself to a big handful. ‘I wasn’t around for that bit. Aunt Margot sent me home before they arrived.’

Cadence frowned. ‘That’s weird. It’s not like they wouldn’t have had somewhere for you to sleep. There must be about twenty bedrooms in a house like that.’

‘It sort of … seemed like they wanted me out of the way? Maybe they were worried the police would think I had something to do with it.’

‘That’s stupid.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, I mean that would be stupid of them. How many thirteen-year-old murderers do you know?’

‘How many Wundersmiths do you know?’ Morrigan held her hands up, heading off Cadence’s inevitable objection. ‘I know Wundersmith doesn’t equal murderer, obviously. But to most people it basically does, doesn’t it? It’s like Holliday said. Wundersmith equals Ezra Squall. Ezra Squall equals murderer.’ She shrugged, trying to look unbothered. ‘It’s not stupid to think people could make assumptions.’

‘As long as your mum’s family aren’t the ones making assumptions,’ said Cadence, eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t think so,’ Morrigan said truthfully. ‘They probably just had enough to be getting on with without having to worry about me, too. It was horrible. Aunt Modestine couldn’t stop crying.’ She paused as rapid-fire images played in her mind: Dario and Modestine giggling together in the golden dragon boat … Dario and Gigi whispering together … Dario, empty-eyed, lifeless … ‘Honestly, I didn’t want to stay.’

‘Shame, though,’ said Cadence. ‘You could have eavesdropped on the investigation.’

‘You can’t just eavesdrop on a police investigation.’

‘Oh, that’s where you draw the line, is it?’ Cadence raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds to me like you were doing quite a lot of eavesdropping last night.’

‘Not deliberately,’ Morrigan muttered, mildly indignant.

‘Hey, no judgement from me. If those two didn’t want their very private conversation overheard, they should have done a thorough perimeter check. Dummies.’ She winced, looking sideways at Morrigan. ‘Er, may he rest in peace.’ She thought about it for another second, then added, ‘The jerk.’

‘Hmm.’ Morrigan couldn’t disagree. Perhaps it wasn’t kind to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn’t exactly kind to be sneaking off for a romantic punt down the canal with your girlfriend hours after marrying your wife, either.

‘Cadence, do you think I have to … I mean, I probably shouldn’t tell the Darlings, right? About Dario and Gigi? They already have to deal with all the attention from Dario’s …’ She trailed off, biting her lip, and left the awful thing unsaid. ‘Would I just be making everything worse? I don’t want to bring more scandal to the family when they’ve been so welcoming to me … even after I accidentally destroyed their house.’

Cadence’s mouth turned down. ‘I don’t see how it would help anyone to know about it now. Except … well.’ She paused. ‘If Gigi Grand is the murderer …’

‘She can’t be,’ said Morrigan. ‘I heard her leave for the Glade, remember? Then Dario rowed away down the canal.’

Her friend looked sceptical. ‘Did she make it to the Glade, though? She could have doubled back. You said she wasn’t at the bridge during the dragonfire thing.’

‘I’m not sure, though. Maybe I just couldn’t see her. There were heaps of people.’

‘That’s probably the first thing we need to find out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if we’re going to solve the murder—’

‘If we’re going to what?’ spluttered Morrigan, nearly choking on a piece of popcorn. She swallowed and coughed, thumping her chest. ‘How would we do that? Why would we do that, when the police—’

Cadence cut her off with a withering glare and handed her the large peppermint fizz they were sharing. ‘Sure. We’ll leave it to the professionals, shall we?’

‘Um … yes?’

‘I’m just saying, from everything you’ve told me I can already think of at least five people who might have done it, and I haven’t even broken a sweat.’

‘Five? Who?’

‘No, no,’ Cadence said superciliously. ‘You’re right, let the Stink handle it. Nobody needs my expert opinion.’

Morrigan laughed. ‘Cadence.’

‘Shush, it’s starting.’

A blast of triumphal music rang out over the speakers, and the commentators’ idle chatter suddenly took on a much more stately and official tone.

‘Good people of Nevermoor! Welcome to the first day of the Winter Dragonsport Trials!’

A cheer rose from the crowd, and Morrigan straightened up to peer at the Trollosseum floor. Hawthorne’s exhibition flight was the first event of the day.

‘I am your host Edwina “Eddie” Longleat of Radio Nevermoor’s longest-running breakfast show, Brekky With Eddie, and I’m delighted to be here once again with the legendary Jem Tofty, three-time Free State Dragonriding Tournament champion and my partner in crime behind the microphone.’

‘Always a pleasure to be here with you, Eddie. Now, in the grand tradition of Winter Trials past, today’s event will kick off with a spectacular opening flight display from some of the industry’s most talented up-and-comers – but this year is, of course, a little different. Today we pay tribute to one of our own, the late Dario Rinaldi, and we ask that everyone in the stadium be upstanding for a minute’s silence to honour the memory of one of dragonsport’s greats.’

Cadence and Morrigan stood along with the thousands of other spectators.

Down on the floor of the arena, seven out of a dozen huge metal doors stationed around the perimeter slowly opened with a dramatic grinding sound. Morrigan’s breath caught in her throat as she watched seven riders step boldly from the shadowy recesses and into the centre of the stadium, their dragons loping alongside them in a terrifyingly graceful synchronicity.

The seven dragons were as individual as their riders, in a range of jewel-like colours and varying sizes (the smallest wasn’t much bigger than a draught horse; the largest could have sat on its hind legs and peeked through the third-floor window of the Hotel Deucalion). Some bore iridescent feathers like oversized exotic birds, some glowed with bioluminescent scales, and there was even one that shimmered like a disco ball, as though it was covered in mirrored glass.

Hawthorne was the youngest in the group by far, though his riding leathers with their wide shoulder plates made him look older than he really was. He was accompanied by Burns With the Fire of a Thousand Wood-Burning Stoves, a mid-sized dragon from the Wunsoc stables beneath Proudfoot House. Burns With had bright, blushing coral-pink scales and a tail almost twice the length of his body that was in constant movement, either lashing wildly in the air or twitching like it wanted to slap somebody but was resisting the urge.

When the minute’s silence ended, the riders signalled in unison to their dragons, who all lifted their beautiful, fearsome heads and blew a breath of gentle sparks up to the sky. Only when the last spark had disappeared did the riders take their saddles, and the dragons took to the air.

‘And they’re off!’ cried Jem Tofty.

The disco-ball dragon soared close above the stands, tumbling one hundred and eighty degrees onto its back mid-flight to a roar of appreciation from the crowd as the rider hung upside down from one hand, waving with the other. She climbed back up again and the dragon curled its wings around its body like a sleeping bat, then pirouetted in the air like a ballet dancer, throwing splashes of light all around the Trollosseum.

‘Beautiful work there from Emily-Joy Leung and Glitters Like a Good Night Out. And here comes Callum Wheeler on the back of Born on the Eve of the Queen’s Coronation – OH! The Iron Fist, now that’s a bold first move! Ooh, Callum not quite nailing the landing, but I do admire that courage.’

While each rider and their dragon took a turn to show off their best moves, the others soared high above in restless circles, awaiting their moment in the spotlight and giving each other as wide a berth as possible. Morrigan tried to absorb the whole spectacle – it was truly amazing, she’d never seen so many dragons in the sky all at once – but she found it hard to take her eyes off her friend, even as he circled in wait.

Hawthorne was a completely different person on dragon-back, and she never tired of seeing his transformation into this self-assured, masterful athlete. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact change. It was a certain tilt of his head and shoulders, perhaps, the way he held himself tall and still. That was it, she thought – his stillness. It was the only time she ever saw him fully focused on one thing; like nothing existed but him and the dragon.

‘And last up, we have Hawthorne Swift riding Burns With the Fire of a Thousand Wood-Burning Stoves. Oof, that is a smooth line on the Dawson Carousel, a tricky move made famous by five-time champion and legend of the sport, Nancy Dawson. And it’s a double – no, triple Tremaine Tornado, then straight into a one-eighty-degree Boxwood Special, no hesitation there from young Swift. Eddie, will you LOOK AT THAT DIVE! OUTSTANDING!’

It was obvious why the event organisers had saved Hawthorne’s display for last; he wasn’t just good, he was the best.

‘That is one talented kid, Tofty! Sharpest, bravest angle I’ve seen on a Boxwood Special in quite some time. Very impressive stuff. Swift’s future in dragonriding looks brighter than ten thousand wood-burning stoves.’

The pair went on about Hawthorne’s technique and control and poise, and when the whole thing was finished, Cadence and Morrigan jumped to their feet, screaming and cheering as he left the arena with his dragon, both their heads held high.

Hawthorne joined them in the stands after checking in with his family. It took him ages just to make his way over, because people kept stopping to shake his hand and congratulate him. Morrigan and Cadence greeted their newly famous friend with a two-person standing ovation. Anyone else might have been embarrassed, but Hawthorne bowed low and waved as if to a crowd of admirers. Eventually, they pulled him into a seat and shoved the half-empty bucket of popcorn into his hands to make him stop.

‘What’d you think?’ was the first thing he said.

‘Completely brilliant,’ said Morrigan, throwing an arm around his shoulders and squeezing tight.

‘You were the best by far,’ Cadence agreed.

Hawthorne’s face turned pink with pleasure. He stuffed some popcorn in his mouth, then swallowed quickly as his next words came out in a rush. ‘Oh! Can you believe the news about Dario Rinaldi? Everyone’s talking about it in the changing rooms – apparently he was stabbed to death.’

Morrigan took a deep breath and launched into her second retelling of the events of the wedding. Hawthorne interjected every five seconds with comments, questions and gasps of shock, so Cadence made him shove a leather dragonriding glove in his mouth until the story was over.

When he was finally allowed to remove the glove, he blurted out, ‘Your aunt’s fiancé was DARIO RINALDI? You didn’t tell me that bit!’

Morrigan shrugged. ‘I didn’t know he was famous.’

‘But hang on, if Dario was already dead … who was riding Alights on the Water?’

‘Nobody knows. It was hard to see from the bridge. Definitely not his brother – Cosimo was standing near me.’

‘Couldn’t have been him anyway,’ said Hawthorne. ‘Dario’s the only Rinaldi who ever took a saddle. His brother just takes care of the business stuff.’

‘So, if we can figure out who this mystery rider is,’ Cadence said in a hushed voice, leaning forward, ‘it might lead us to the murderer.’

‘You think whoever was riding the dragon killed Dario?’ asked Morrigan.

Cadence scrunched up her nose. ‘I don’t know about that. Why would you kill someone and then stick around to risk getting caught, just so you could take a dragon for a joyride? Not worth it.’

‘Might be worth it,’ said Hawthorne, with a wistful look on his face, ‘to ride a dragon like that.’

‘Oh really?’ said Morrigan, laughing. ‘You’re saying you’d murder—’

‘Well no, obviously I wouldn’t, but I reckon some people might.’ He clocked the two girls staring at him incredulously and shook his head. ‘You two don’t understand, you don’t know what dragonsport people are like. The money floating around this industry is stupid. Like, stupid, STUPID money. And not just prize money, I mean sponsorships, stable contracts, betting, ticket sales. The top-tier athletes riding the top-tier dragons can make millions in just one season, and the owners will make hundreds of millions. The chance to ride a prestige dragon like Alights on the Water? Yeah, I reckon there are people who’d kill for that.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Cadence agreed, frowning. ‘And even if the mystery rider isn’t the murderer, they must have been in on it. So, who was it?’

‘You’re our industry expert,’ Morrigan said to Hawthorne. ‘Who do you know with the skill to ride a dragon like Alights?’

He shoved two big handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. ‘What did you say Dario wrote in the sky? I love you something something—?’

‘A million dragons.’

‘Right.’ He took a long slurp of peppermint fizz. ‘A message that complex, written that quickly, by only one rider and one dragon, that’s like … hard. Really hard. It requires a level of communication and cooperation with the dragon that not every rider can achieve. Dario and Alights had that connection, which is frankly a miracle. Alights is incredible, but in dragonsport circles she’s famous for being, um … a bit crabby? She once burned down the Rinaldi Stables because some poor stablehand put her favourite blanket in the wash. They had to rebuild the whole thing.’

Morrigan frowned. ‘I saw Alights dive and glide on the water, and a bunch of other stuff that she did absolutely perfectly, and somehow it wasn’t Dario in that saddle. If they were so bonded, and she’s such a cow to everyone else, how is that possible?’

Hawthorne went quiet, thinking hard, then puffed out his cheeks in a big sigh of defeat. ‘I honestly can’t think who the other rider could have been. I don’t know anyone Alights would fly for like that, except Dario.’

‘Sounds like he might be impossible to replace,’ said Cadence. ‘All these riders might have come for no reason.’

Morrigan glanced over at the end of their row. The people who’d been sitting there had got up to leave, and one of them left their crumpled, slightly soggy copy of the Evening Sentinel on the floor. She got up to fetch it, squinting at the front-page headline, and began to read.

BRIGHT YOUNG STAR OF THE DRAGONRIDING WORLD FOUND DEAD BEFORE WINTER TRIALS

A man has been stabbed to death on his wedding day in the gated Silver District in Ogden-on-Juro. Nevermoor City Police are investigating in conjunction with the Silver District Watch.

‘Maybe,’ Hawthorne agreed, pausing to throw a kernel of popcorn into the air and catch it in his mouth. ‘But I reckon whoever the mystery rider is, they’ll want to throw their hat in the ring at some point during the Winter Trials. Makes sense, right? I’m surprised the Stink aren’t here to scope out suspects.’

‘Hmm,’ said Cadence, with a pointed look at Morrigan, who was returning to her seat. ‘Maybe they need some help to solve the case?’

Morrigan’s eyes widened in surprise as she read the next sentence. ‘Or maybe they’ve already solved it.’

Wedding planner Crispin Stirling, 52, was detained for questioning early this morning and has been arrested under suspicion of murder.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Detective Blackburn Investigates

‘All aboooooard,’ Miss Cheery sang, hanging halfway out of Hometrain as it pulled up at Station 919 early the next morning. She bounced onto the platform before it fully stopped, waving a handful of papers. ‘Happy Monday! Fresh timetables for fresh-faced scholars! Get ’em while they’re hot.’

Morrigan finished her last bite of toast and licked a stray bit of strawberry jam off her thumb, accepting the new timetable with thanks as she filed into the cosy carriage behind Francis.

‘Ooh, oyster-diving and shucking after lunch,’ he murmured, looking over his day ahead. ‘Nice.’

‘More singing lessons, Miss?’ groaned Mahir. ‘Can’t we give it up now? It’s getting embarrassing.’

‘Don’t know what to tell you, mate.’ Miss Cheery pulled the battered train door shut after Lam boarded last. ‘I tried, but your patron keeps insisting that music is the most beautiful language of all.’

‘Not the way I do it,’ he muttered, falling heavily into a beanbag.

Morrigan glanced around as everyone took their usual spots on the couch and overstuffed floor cushions. ‘Miss, wait, Cadence isn’t here yet. Should I knock on her door?’

‘No need.’ Settling into her seat at the front, the conductor held up a crumpled scrap of paper. ‘She went in early to visit the library and left me a note, which was helpful of her. I know everyone’s enjoying the open station privileges that come with being second-year scholars, but maybe you could all learn how to leave a note, rather than just not turn up? Even if you are doing something super important, like visiting the Sub-One bakery to watch the first sourdough of the day rise,’ she finished, looking pointedly at Francis.

Unit 919 passed the journey to Wunsoc noisily, swapping and comparing classes.

‘Does everyone have another Spectre Specifics class, or just me?’ asked Arch, peering over Hawthorne’s shoulder, and they all confirmed the lecture with Conall O’Leary on Thursday afternoon.

‘Ugh, not Civic Tasks again,’ groaned Thaddea. ‘First thing on a Monday, Miss? Why do you hate us?’

Miss Cheery’s reflection in the windscreen wore an expression of distaste. ‘Hmm. That one wasn’t my choice, I’m afraid. But at least you’re all in it together, right? You did tell me you wanted more classes as a group.’ It was clear from her voice she knew this argument was weak.

‘Says here “conductor attendance welcome”, Miss,’ Thaddea pointed out archly.

‘Welcome but not required, Thaddea. Welcome but not required.’

Holliday and her team were late for the session, and so was Cadence, but the rest of 919 put the extra time to good use by complaining about their civic tasks.

‘I thought I’d take it easy on them, ’cos it was my first class and I was worried about someone breaking a hip … but they don’t play fair, these senior citizens!’ Thaddea slumped in annoyance. ‘Mrs Lewis kept whacking me round the shins with her walking stick, completely unprovoked. And I caught Mrs Shipman putting a laxative in my cup of tea during the break! Their idea of self-defence is psychotic. Why are you all laughing? I’m telling you these oldies are trying to kill me.’

‘Everyone at the hospital kept calling me cute,’ said Anah, scrunching her face into a scowl, ‘and nobody let me do anything. A patient came in with an excellent gash on his leg from a lawnmower accident, and when I offered to suture it the student doctors all laughed at me! One of them got to suture it, and he did a RUBBISH job. Wish I could have watched your exhibition ride instead, Hawthorne.’

‘Yesterday was one of the greatest days of my life,’ Hawthorne said dreamily. ‘Er – sorry you lot aren’t enjoying your civic tasks, though. Guess I got lucky,’ he added with a sheepish smile.

Thaddea tilted her head. ‘I did sort of enjoy bits of mine. I’ve never taught anyone anything before. That felt … I dunno. Cool.’

‘Could you teach me some self-defence?’ Francis asked. The others looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. ‘Four older sisters.’

Thaddea blushed, obviously pleased to be asked, though she tried to act nonchalant. ‘Yeah, s’pose. You could all do with learning how to defend yourselves, to be honest. Especially you,’ she finished, nodding at Morrigan, who laughed in surprise.

‘What? Why me?’

Thaddea’s face was serious. ‘Look at what happened on Hallowmas. Those people were scary. If something like that happens again – some puffed-up pelican tries to corner you – you should be ready to snatch their placard and whack ’em round the shins with it, Mrs Lewis-style.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the best way to deal with people like that,’ said Arch. ‘But you’re right, we can’t let them keep trying to make Morrigan’s life miserable.’

‘I know exactly how to deal with them.’ Hawthorne leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. ‘I’m going to start my own protest group.’

Thaddea snorted. ‘What – Numpties Against Hygiene?’

‘No,’ he said defensively, giving his armpits a quick investigatory sniff. ‘I’m calling it the Unconcerned Citizens of Nevermoor. We’ll protest wherever the Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor are protesting, but louder and with bigger signs.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Morrigan, grinning. ‘And what are you against?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then what are you for?’

‘Not much.’

‘And what exactly are you hoping to achieve?’ asked Arch.

Hawthorne shrugged and closed his eyes. ‘Not really bothered.’

They were all still laughing when the door swung open, and Cadence marched into the room like a woman on a mission.

‘I ran into that Carlos bloke. He said to tell you all that our session this morning is cancelled.’ She dropped her satchel with a heavy thud beside the desk at the front of the room. ‘They accidentally double-booked a photoshoot with … something, dunno, wasn’t listening. Anyway, we’ve got a free period.’

The rest of the unit cheered and stood to leave, but Cadence gave a piercing whistle that made everyone wince and cover their ears.

‘Did I say I was finished? Sit down, we have something important to discuss.’

There was a mild grumble of complaint, but everyone took their seats again. It wasn’t even a mesmerism thing; they all just knew better than to argue with Cadence by now.

‘Right. You all heard Morrigan’s Silverborn, right?’

Morrigan made a face at that, burning with embarrassment.

‘Does that mean we have to call you ma’am now?’ asked Thaddea, elongating the vowel sound for effect.

Mahir grinned. ‘Or is it Madam?’

‘M’lady?’ suggested Hawthorne. He swept into a low bow.

‘Oh, shut up.’

Mahir dropped to one knee. ‘Very sorry, Your Grace, please don’t chop off our heads.’

‘Can I just remind you,’ Morrigan huffed, folding her arms, ‘that one of us is a literal princess, and it isn’t me?’

‘Don’t bring me into this, m’lady,’ said Lam.

‘ANYWAY,’ Cadence shouted over their laughter, pulling out a thick folder from her satchel on the floor. ‘I’m guessing you also know about the murder of Dario Rinaldi, and that Morrigan was at his wedding that night.’

There was a murmur of affirmation, and a few sympathetic glances that again made Morrigan’s cheeks turn pink.

Cadence passed around a stack of newspaper articles. There were nearly a dozen pieces about the murder itself, plus older snippets following Dario’s career as a dragonrider, bits and pieces about the Darling sisters cut from the Society pages – mostly paparazzi shots of them at fancy parties, fashion shows and the opera – and finally, one small article from six months ago about Crispin Stirling and his role in planning the prestigious Darling–Rinaldi wedding.

‘Familiarise yourself with these. I’ve spent the morning in the library gathering up anything that might be useful to our murder investigation.’

‘But the murderer’s already been found,’ said Mahir, holding up an article detailing Mr Stirling’s arrest.

‘Hear me out.’ Cadence took a big breath. ‘Morrigan, you said there were hundreds of people at this wedding. And within hours the police reckon they’ve already found the murderer? They can’t have interviewed everyone at the wedding, and I think pinning it on the wedding planner is very suss.’

‘Why?’ asked Francis.

‘Because of these.’ She took a small stack of books from her satchel and held them up one by one. They had the familiar Silverborn Saga pastel covers with the silver-foiled banners across the top, but instead of A Tale from the Silverborn Saga, the banners read A Silverborn Mystery. ‘There are a few spin-off series in the Silverborn Saga, and one of them is the Silverborn Mysteries. There were only seven ever written, and I found five of them in the Recreational Library on Sub-One.’

‘I didn’t think we were allowed in there,’ said Anah. ‘Isn’t it for graduates and academic staff?’

‘Yes,’ Cadence said calmly. ‘It’s called rule-breaking, Anah. Try it sometime, you might like it.’ She passed out the paperbacks among the group. Morrigan took an apricot-coloured one called Pawsington Precious: The Mystery of the Missing Diamonds. ‘No murders, just dumb mysteries like: Who stole my fluffy white cat’s diamond-encrusted collar? Who vandalised the gazebo in the Pleasure Gardens? Who smashed this antique vase that probably cost the same as a two-storey house in any normal part of town? Stuff like that. Anyway, I skipped to the last pages to see whodunit—’

Mahir gave a loud, genuine gasp at this grievous offence.

‘—and you know who always dunit?’ Cadence finished, ignoring the interruption.

‘The butler?’ said Arch.

‘You’re not far off. It’s always someone not from the Silver District. Staff. Visitors. Outsiders. A housemaid, a sneaky journalist, a visiting orphan. And you know who always finds the culprit? The Silver District Watch,’ she held up the Evening Sentinel article about Crispin Stirling’s arrest, ‘who are investigating alongside the Stink.’

‘These people are so fancy they have their own fancy police force?’ asked Thaddea.

‘And you think they’ve pinned it on the wedding planner,’ said Mahir, nodding slowly, ‘because it’s easier than blaming one of their own.’

‘Bingo,’ said Cadence. ‘And if it turns out not to be him, which it most likely wasn’t since there’s obviously more to the story – for starters, none of these newspaper articles even mention the mysterious unknown dragonrider—’

‘The what now?’ Thaddea interjected.

‘We’ll come back to that,’ said Cadence. ‘The Sentinel reported this morning that Crispin Stirling is claiming innocence. If the police can’t prove he did it soon, they’ll have to find another suspect. Another outsider, I’m betting. Perhaps somebody most people already think of as a dangerous entity.’ She looked at Morrigan, who felt all the other faces in the room turn towards her. ‘Who do you reckon they’ll point the finger at next?’

There was a tense silence as Unit 919 processed this question. Morrigan swallowed, feeling simultaneously worried and annoyed by how right her friend was.

Cadence jabbed a finger at the newspaper article. ‘That’s why I’m going to find out who really killed Dario Rinaldi. I’m going to solve this murder and protect our friend. Our sibling. Who’s with me?’

Every hand shot up in the air.

‘None of you needs to do this,’ Morrigan told them, even as a warm feeling of gratitude swelled in her chest. ‘Why don’t we just wait and see—’

‘Right!’ Cadence jumped up to retrieve a notebook and pen from her satchel. ‘First, we need to write down everything we know about the crime. The victim. The cause of death. Everyone who was present at the wedding – that’s going to help populate our suspect list.’

Morrigan looked at her askance. ‘All right, Detective Blackburn. How do you know so much about this stuff?’

‘Do you know how many murder mysteries I’ve read?’

‘No.’

Cadence rummaged in her apparently bottomless bag again and pulled out a battered hardback, tossing it to Morrigan. It had a picture of a man screaming in terror on the cover, with a shadow of a hand holding a knife cast across him. ‘My current read. This is number four hundred and twenty-seven, The Widow’s Pique. Gran borrows them from the Gobleian Library. Our favourite series are Inspector Gravely Investigates, and the Ermeline Pine Murders, but I won’t say no to a Teashop Triplets cosy crime.’

‘Ooh – I’m partial to a Freddy Barnes and the Fearsome Four mystery!’ said Anah.

‘Freddy Barnes is rubbish,’ said Cadence, with a look that made Anah flinch. ‘I won’t even discuss those books in the same room as an Inspector Gravely.’

‘Oh! Er – sorry.’

‘No, Anah. I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d been reading such subpar mysteries.’ Cadence gave a weary sigh and began building a small pile of books. ‘Here – take these. Two Ermelines, four Gravelys and a Teashop Triplets. It’s my favourite. The triplets visit the seaside on the trail of a serial pie thief. I’ve read it twelve times and, as you can see, it’s still in perfect condition, so if you crack the spine there’ll be another murder to investigate.’ Anah was looking at Cadence blankly, so she clarified, ‘Yours, Anah. Because I’ll murder you if you crack the spine.’

‘Oh! I see.’ Anah took the books with a nervous laugh. ‘Um, thanks?’

Cadence turned her attention back to Morrigan, pen and notebook in hand. ‘Right, let’s bring everyone up to speed, shall we?’

CHAPTER TWENTY

New Deal

Every day after school when Miss Cheery dropped Unit 919 at their private station, she waved them off and shouted, ‘Be good! Sleep well! See you in the morning!’, before the lights of Hometrain disappeared into the tunnel. Every day the platform echoed with last-minute plans and jokes and chatter, a noisy chorus of see-you-tomorrows and smell-ya-laters. Every day the nine station doors swung open, each as individual as the scholar it belonged to, and out drifted little hints of home life. Warmth and light and cooking smells and murmuring voices. The ecstatic barking of Asparagus, Francis’s yappy little schnauzer, and the boisterous bellowing of Baby Dave, Hawthorne’s younger sister.

Behind Morrigan’s glossy black door, she knew, was always the promise of a cheerful family-style dinner with the hotel staff, or a cosy supper and fireside chat with Jupiter in his study. Afterwards she might fill her clawfoot tub with floral bubbles and sink into it with a book, or recruit someone to play board games with her in the Smoking Parlour. That moment of crossing the threshold from school to home was full of lovely possibilities, and usually Morrigan’s favourite time of day.

But tonight, she stood outside her door as the others all slammed shut one by one, gripping the handle. The possibility that Jupiter would be home and the possibility that he would still be off-realm sat uncomfortably side by side in her mind, and she honestly didn’t know which outcome was preferable.

‘Wanna come over?’ she asked Hawthorne before he could disappear through his door. (Cadence had already rushed home for the Monday night pottery class she was taking with her mum and gran.)

He looked tempted but shook his head. ‘Can’t, it’s meat-free Monday at my place. Mandatory for all members of the Swift family. You should come! Dad’s doing his world-famous Pumpkin Soup Surprise.’

‘What’s the surprise?’

‘It’s just pumpkin soup, but when he ladles it into your bowl, he yells, “SURPRISE!”’

Morrigan considered it, then reluctantly turned her door handle. ‘Better not. Just in case … you know.’

‘Yeah.’ Hawthorne grimaced sympathetically. ‘Still no word from the League?’

She shook her head and, grasping for a change of subject, said, ‘Do you think Cadence can solve Dario’s murder?’

‘I reckon Cadence can do pretty much anything she sets her mind to.’

‘Mmm. Pity I can’t do Tempus yet. I could just make a ghostly hour from the time of the murder. It’d all be over in five minutes.’

Hawthorne’s face lit up. ‘Hang on. Why couldn’t you—’

‘I was joking!’ she said, before he could get too carried away with the idea. Ghostly hours were small, preserved pockets of time – useful or interesting moments plucked from history to be observed in the present. Morrigan had visited plenty of them on Sub-Nine, to watch lessons given by Wundersmiths past. But creating one was another thing altogether. ‘I’ve never had a single lesson in Tempus. One time—’

She stopped abruptly as something faltered in her memory. It was like running through the woods and feeling her jumper snag on a sharp branch.

What was that?

‘One time what?’ Hawthorne prompted, and Morrigan blinked dazedly at him, mentally retracing her steps.

‘Oh. Um, one time … one time Rook said it’s the hardest Wundrous Art to learn and we’ll probably have to save it for last, which means I’m years away from making a ghostly hour, if I ever manage it. Hopefully by then the murderer will have been—’

‘OW! I’m coming, Baby Dave, geez!’ Hawthorne shouted, snatching his hand back from the half-open door. He held it up to show Morrigan the angry red bite marks on his fingers. ‘I’d better go, sorry. My sister turns into a goblin if she doesn’t get dinner at five o’clock sharp. See you in the mor— OW! STOP IT, BABY DAVE, THAT’S NOT NICE.’

The door to Hawthorne’s place slammed shut behind him, leaving Morrigan alone on the platform. Shaking off her hesitation, she cracked open her own wardrobe door and felt the Deucalion beckoning her home.

Before she could step inside, however, an unearthly howl sounded from deep within the Wunderground. Skin prickling all over, she let the wardrobe door click softly closed again.

The eerie sound was joined by galloping hooves getting louder and closer, until finally a lone black horse emerged from the dark mouth of the tunnel, eyes burning red. It leapt from the track to the platform in a single bound.

The horse slowed to a trot and then a walk, its head bobbing up and down as it approached her like a friend. Morrigan stared, unblinking, and instinctively reached up to touch the strange, velvety softness of its muzzle – somehow both shadow and solid, both there and not there. The horse responded by lowering its head and nickering softly against her hand. A tingle shot through her fingers and all the way up her arm.

‘Oh,’ she murmured, as the Hush lifted like a stage curtain in her head and her memories quietly returned.

Itching with new purpose and excitement, Morrigan climbed smoothly onto the horse’s back and, without missing a beat, it launched them both onto the track and headlong through the black tunnel. The cold wind whipped at her face, making her eyes stream, and for a time she couldn’t see anything at all … then suddenly she was rushing towards a speck of light growing bigger and brighter until it surrounded her … and Morrigan and the shadow horse were flying through it, flying across a golden Gossamer bridge and finally emerging in a strange, circular room awash with pale pink light, at what felt like the top of the world.

Ezra Squall was a small silhouette in an enormous round window, apparently contemplating the early-evening hustle and bustle of Old Town far below. Beyond the gates of the city’s first borough, Greater Nevermoor sprawled for miles – a rose-tinted ocean of twinkling lights, split by the twisting black snake of the River Juro. A blood-orange sun sank behind the skyline.

Morrigan dismounted with ease, and as her shadow horse disappeared into the Gossamer, the words were already tumbling from her mouth: ‘I want to learn Tem—’ She cut herself off, stopping abruptly in the middle of the room to stare at him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Testing a theory.’

‘Looks like you’re sniffing a window.’

‘I’m not sniffing a window.’ He ran the tips of his fingers down the curved ledge, one cheek pressed up against the glass. ‘I’m trying to get close enough to sense a very subtle shift in energy. It’s difficult through the Gossamer.’

He beckoned impatiently and she joined him with a resigned sigh. ‘Stand there, in the centre. That’s it. Hold up your palms and place them gently on the glass – gently, you should be barely touching it. Can you feel the vibration?’

‘There is no vibration.’

‘Close your eyes and wait until you feel it.’

Morrigan closed her eyes.

‘The only thing I feel is ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘If this is a joke it’s not … Oh.’

‘Move slowly outwards, to the edge of the window,’ Squall instructed. ‘Pay attention to where your skin touches the surface; notice any changes in sensation?’

Morrigan narrowed her attention to her fingertips and took slow, deliberate steps to the right. The vibration remained constant almost all the way to the edge of the enormous circular window.

‘There,’ she said, stopping. She tapped the glass softly, a few centimetres from the edge. ‘It changes right there.’

‘What does it feel like? What’s the difference between the centre and the outer edge?

‘The centre is like …’ Morrigan hesitated, trying to think of the exact right words to describe it. ‘You know that feeling when you’re standing on a Wunderground platform, and if you’re still, you can sense the first rumble of your train arriving, even when it’s deep inside the tunnel? It’s like that. And not just the physical vibration of it, I mean … it sort of … makes me feel like my train is about to arrive. The anticipation of it. It’s like my legs are getting ready to step on board.’ She opened her eyes to look at Squall, expecting him to scoff or say it didn’t make sense. But he was watching her with a thoughtful frown, taking in her words as if she was an academic expert on the niche topic of Windows Doing Weird Stuff. Morrigan let her hands travel slowly to the right, over the invisible seam where the energy shifted. ‘The outer edge is … noisier. It feels like …’ She bit the side of her mouth. ‘It feels like that moment when the train flies out of the tunnel and everything is bright and loud, and there’s a rush of wind and for a second you feel unbalanced. Like if you stand too close to the edge you might be swept away by it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah.’ She closed her eyes again, just for a second, frowning. ‘It’s moving. This outside bit is sort of … pushing into the centre. I think.’

Squall nodded decisively. ‘The clocksmiths are right, then.’

‘Come again?’

‘The Age marches onwards,’ he explained. ‘Morningtide is ending. Basking will arrive in the spring.’

Basking is coming. Dario had said that to Gigi, she remembered, outside the boathouse on the night of the wedding.

An image came to mind of the Skyfaced Clock in Jackalfax. The last time she’d seen it she’d been with Jupiter, in his arachnipod, and they were climbing right through its inky black face. Before the black of Eventide, it had worn the twilight blue of the Gloaming, and before that the sunset orange of Dwendelsun … and before that, the golden yellow of Basking.

Morrigan blinked, looking around the vast circular room in its rose-coloured glow. The colour of Morningtide.

‘Are we … inside a Skyfaced Clock?’

‘We’re inside the Skyfaced Clock,’ Squall corrected her. ‘The original one, above the Houses of Parliament. A Wundrous Act to which all other Skyfaced Clocks in the realm are connected, the one from which they take their cue to change colour as the phases turn.’

‘Wait.’ Morrigan surveyed the vast, empty space. She’d seen it from the street once or twice, but up close it was much bigger than she’d realised. ‘You’re saying this clock decides when Morningtide turns to Basking, and Basking turns to Dwendelsun and so on?’

‘It doesn’t decide anything,’ he said. ‘A clock can’t decide when the Age will turn, any more than it can decide when the sun will rise. It was designed to pick up on certain signals and track shifts in energy as the Age progresses, and to convey the moment when those shifts reach a critical point. When one kind of energy,’ he tapped the outer edge of the window glass, ‘overtakes another.’ He tapped the centre. ‘That’s what we mean when we talk about the phases of the Age: they are periods of differentiated energy, with the power to influence events both personal and universal.

‘The energy of Morningtide is forward-facing, optimistic, calm. Not passive, but expectant; the realm breathes in, and plans may be quietly set in motion. Morningtide is a ballerina rising to her toes, just before the stage lights come up. The calm before the storm.

‘Basking, on the other hand, is a cymbal crash. It is a spotlight at full force, an orchestra at full volume. The ballerina in flight. The storm itself.’

‘In a good way or a bad way?’

He shrugged. ‘Could be either. Could be both. Basking is a time of surprises, danger and sweeping change. A time when the Age will decide what it wants to be remembered for.’

‘How will we know when it’s decided?’ Morrigan asked, feeling a little shiver.

‘It will make sure we know.’

They stood quietly at the window for a minute or two, watching the evening unfold on the streets below. Lanterns blinked into life across Old Town. Commuters finishing their workdays swarmed the closest Wunderground and Brolly Rail platforms.

Master and apprentice inhaled in sudden unison. Without taking her eyes off the view, Morrigan said, ‘I want to learn Tempus,’ at the exact moment Squall said, ‘Time to learn a new Wundrous Art.’

They glanced sideways at each other in surprise.

Morrigan gave a hesitant nod. ‘We’re agreed then.’

‘Not quite,’ said Squall. ‘You will learn Tempus, eventually. But not now.’

‘Why not? I’m ready. You saw what happened at Darling House. I made time stop. So why can’t I—’

‘Why the sudden rush to learn Tempus, specifically?’ He turned to face her, curious.

Morrigan wondered how much she should tell him about her motivations, and ultimately decided on the bare minimum. ‘I want to learn how to make a ghostly hour.’

Squall looked for a moment as if he might burst into laughter, but he managed to control himself. ‘To create a ghostly hour, you must be able to balance your mind on the point of a needle: to maintain the sharpest and most delicate focus imaginable, without getting distracted for even a fraction of a second. There have been great Wundersmiths – talented, fully trained, adult Wundersmiths – who never managed it in their lifetime.’

‘Professor Onstald managed it,’ Morrigan pointed out. ‘And he wasn’t even a Wundersmith.’

‘Hemingway Onstald was, I grant you, a very interesting case. He was an exceedingly peculiar man with exceedingly peculiar talents, even if his mastery of the art was incomplete.’ He turned to face the window again, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Regardless, Tempus is not for beginners—’

‘I’m hardly a beginner.’

‘—and certainly not for one as impatient as you are. Indeed, the very worst time to begin learning Tempus is when you are most impatient to learn it. It would be like chopping off both hands before learning to play the piano.’

Thinking fast, Morrigan tried to negotiate. ‘Teach me Tempus and you can remove the Hush.’

‘You appear to have forgotten we already made this deal,’ he said, looking genuinely amused by the feeble attempt. ‘You’ve had your last one more week. I’ve already removed the Hush. For good.’

Morrigan felt her stomach drop.

‘I’ll ask again, and this time I’d prefer to hear the truth,’ Squall continued. ‘Why the sudden rush?’

‘My aunt’s husband was murdered. Two nights ago. At their wedding. And I need to find out who the murderer is.’

‘Why?’

Morrigan made a face. ‘Because he was my aunt’s husband! And because I was there when it happened. And because—’

‘You think they’re going to blame you.’

She paused, pressing her mouth into a stubborn line. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not the point.’

‘And how exactly do you think Tempus is going to help?’

‘If I can go back to the moment Dario Rinaldi was murdered—’

‘Ah,’ Squall murmured. ‘The Falling Star.’

‘—then I can see who did it, and we can catch the murderer. What do you mean, “Ah, the falling star”?’

He shook himself from his thoughts. ‘Doesn’t matter. As for making a ghostly hour, you can put that out of your head. It won’t work.’

Morrigan groaned. ‘At least let me TRY before you say I can’t do it!’

‘It’s not that,’ he said with a dismissive wave. ‘Maybe you’ll be a Tempus prodigy, who knows. Regardless, it’s pointless to create a ghostly hour from an event that fresh. Recent history is too volatile, too fluid.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning time needs to settle before it can be plucked and bottled. Older events have had time to crystallise, even to fossilise. Newer events are soft and malleable. They can be bruised. Altered. Reaching into the very recent past can affect it in unpredictable ways.’

‘You’re saying … Wait.’ Fresh possibilities sprung up in Morrigan’s mind, bursting like tiny fireworks. ‘You’re saying the more recently something happened, the easier it is to change it?’

‘Y-e-s,’ he said slowly, suspicious of the new zeal in her voice. ‘And no. Notice I said unpredictable ways.’

‘But Tempus can let you alter the past?’

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in tired frustration. ‘Stop. I know where this is going, and no, you cannot go back in time and stop a murder. You are wilfully misinterpreting my words. You’re also demonstrating my point: you are far from ready to learn Tempus. It’s not just the most difficult art to learn, it’s also the most dangerous to wield. The last person I’d entrust it to is an over-eager thirteen-year-old with stupid ideas about preventing a murder and no understanding of the consequences.’

‘But if it’s possible then surely—’

‘IT. IS. NOT. POSSIBLE.’ He raised his voice above hers. ‘I do not wish to discuss Tempus any further. I have a far more interesting plan for this evening.’

With a snap and flutter of wings, Squall was gone. In his place, a small brown sparrow flew up and up and up to the full height of the ceiling, swooping and diving before finally landing on a wooden beam.

The sparrow became a cat, sleek and soft of foot, gracefully balancing along the length of the beam … then a tiny white mouse, scurrying down the wall and across the toe of Morrigan’s boot.

The transitions between Squall’s unnimal Masquerades were so smooth, Morrigan barely registered them. A handsome red fox became a mangy three-legged dog. A fat little gecko. An enormous rat. A butterfly. A great, hulking bear, rising onto its hind legs with such a convincing roar she felt it reverberate through her feet.

And finally, Ezra Squall himself was back in the room, as cool and calm as if he hadn’t changed in the first place.

Morrigan shrugged, trying not to betray how impressed she was. ‘No need to show off.’

A quick grin flashed across Squall’s face before he tucked it away behind his usual calm containment. ‘We will make a new deal, Miss Crow. Once you’ve acquired three more Wundrous Arts … Once you’ve taken three more pilgrimages to the Divinities and received their respective seals to prove your acquisition … Then we will begin Tempus.’

She thought about it for a moment, watching him with a guarded expression, and then clarified, ‘Any three Wundrous Arts?’

‘Any three.’

‘All right,’ Morrigan said with a determined nod. She hummed and wiggled her fingers lightly, feeling Wunder thread between them. ‘Masquerade. Let’s go.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Theatrics

Existing in the world as Ezra Squall’s secret apprentice without the comfortable, hazy oblivion of the Hush felt even worse than Morrigan had imagined. She was crushed by the weight of the secret; it needled and gnawed at her. After an agitated morning and several imaginary conversations with Jupiter that devolved one after the other into imaginary shouting matches, Morrigan couldn’t even bring herself to knock on his study door and find out if he was home yet.

Instead, she’d decided to start with what she hoped would be the easier task: telling Hawthorne and Cadence.

She was mistaken.

‘I wish you’d stop crying, Hawthorne, you’re making a dreadful fuss. Cadence, make him stop, will you?’

‘Wish I could.’ Cadence cast a disdainful look in Hawthorne’s direction. ‘He’s not that easy to mesmerise these days, unfortunately – none of our lot are. I think we’ve been spending too much time together.’

Too nervous to wait until lunchtime, Morrigan had skipped her first lesson of the day and dragged a reluctant Cadence out of her free period, insisting they accompany Hawthorne to his stable cleaning duties down on Sub-Five.

She’d always imagined the dragon stables in the Extremities Department as a bigger version of the horse stables at Crow Manor: filled with loose hay and the stench of unnimal dung. The reality, however, was a surprising combination of mountain hot spring, luxury hotel and treasure-filled cave of wonders.

Hawthorne had snuck Morrigan and Cadence into the cavernous ‘stable’ of Volcano in the Sky, where they were hit by a wall of tropical heat from a rockpool in the corner intermittently spouting great bursts of steam. The walls sparkled with veins of opal and quartz, and huge platforms cut into the stone at varying heights were piled high with jewel-coloured velvet cushions and bracketed with burning torches. Volcano slumbered peacefully on the uppermost platform, her shiny silver-white body curled around an enormous crackling bonfire. The girls’ moment of quiet wonder at the place had been short-lived, however, since Morrigan couldn’t help blurting out her secret almost the second they were alone.

It was a cathartic rush of relief to tell her friends the truth, but it didn’t take long to wonder if unburdening herself hadn’t been the best idea after all. Hawthorne had been pacing ever since, whimpering occasionally and tugging his curls nearly straight, while they waited for him to work through his big feelings.

‘Anyway,’ Cadence continued, suddenly turning her scorn on Morrigan, ‘even if I could make him stop, why should I? He might be an idiot, but he’s right to be upset. Because, actually, you’re the idiot on this occasion.’

‘Morrigan, this is dangerous!’ Hawthorne wailed, his voice bouncing off the walls. ‘Ezra Squall is the most dangerous person in the whole realm, this is—’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Morrigan hissed.

‘—completely mad!’ he finished in a dramatic stage whisper. ‘You can’t seriously trust him?’

‘I don’t need to trust him.’ She slid to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest, resting her back against a section of warm, dry rock. ‘I only need to learn the Wundrous Arts from him.’

‘What’ve you been doing on Sub-Nine all year long, then?’ asked Cadence. ‘In those ghostly hours. I thought you were learning from the other Wundersmiths.’

‘Dead Wundersmiths.’ Morrigan almost winced at her own bluntness; those dead Wundersmiths were real people, after all, and she’d grown rather fond of them. But she needed to be blunt. She needed Cadence and Hawthorne to see her certainty, and to trust it. ‘Old, dead Wundersmiths who can’t answer my questions or move at the right pace for me. Most of the lessons are too easy or much too hard. Hawthorne, imagine if you had to learn everything you know about dragonriding by watching a hundred-year-old movie about someone else learning dragonriding, and you could never be in the arena with Nan ever again! It wouldn’t be the same, would it? The ghostly hours are helpful, but they’re not the same as having a living teacher, one who’s right there in the room with me, who can—’

‘What do you mean he’s right there in the room—’

‘Figure of speech, Hawthorne,’ she said hurriedly, as his face turned grey. ‘He’s still in the Wintersea Republic and locked out of the Free State! But that distance doesn’t matter. It’s just so much easier learning from someone who can see me and hear me and talk to me.’

‘Even if that someone is the evillest man who ever lived?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Even if it’s him.’

She didn’t say the other stuff she was thinking. That of all her teachers, Squall had surprised her by turning out to be the best.

And it wasn’t just because he was alive. It was the way he taught.

Squall moved quickly, but always made sure she kept up. He taught her as if their time was running out. As if they were coming last in some race Morrigan hadn’t known she was running and had miles to make up. She did have miles to make up. She was thirteen, turning fourteen in a matter of months, and she’d only just made her first pilgrimage to a Divinity (something Squall achieved by age eight, as he loved to remind her).

‘But what if he doesn’t really want to teach you the Wundrous Arts?’ Hawthorne persisted. He’d given up his den-tidying duties and was sprawled across a gigantic plush cushion, one forearm thrown across his face. ‘What if he just wants to murder you? Wipe out the Wundersmith competition?’

Fortunately, Morrigan had rehearsed for this line of questioning. ‘He can’t murder me through the Gossamer. When we signed the contract, it built a bridge between us – between Nevermoor and the Republic. But it only works if we meet halfway. It can’t be forced by either side.’

She was once again leaving out key information to spare poor Hawthorne’s nerves. What she wanted to say was, If Squall wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. She’d thought about this a lot. He could have paid someone in Nevermoor. For that matter the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow could probably manage it, but Squall seemed to have appointed them as her personal taxi service rather than her assassins.

‘A bridge?’ said Hawthorne. ‘But what if he finds a way across it into Nevermoor? What if—’

‘It’s not a real, physical bridge,’ she explained again, trying not to get frustrated. ‘It’s a connection between his powers and mine, and it only works in the Gossamer.’

‘I just don’t understand why you’ve taken weeks to tell us,’ Hawthorne went on, lifting his forearm to glare at her. ‘We’re your best friends!’

‘I told you, I couldn’t say anything, it was the Hush!’ They were going around in circles now. She’d explained the Hush three times already. ‘I’m really sorry. And I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’

This was another slightly uncomfortable half-truth, and Morrigan knew it. Squall had put the Hush on her … but he’d kept it there at her request, after all.

‘When will you tell Jupiter?’ asked Cadence.

Morrigan shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. She felt suddenly warm and prickly all over, and it had little to do with the steam from the hot spring. In truth, she couldn’t help feeling resentful at the thought of Jupiter’s inevitable reaction. It wasn’t as if he’d never kept a big, important, life-altering secret from her.

Cadence gave an impatient sigh. ‘Well, we should plan what you’re going to say. Write down a few lines. Practise.’

Morrigan exhaled, flooded with relief at Cadence’s casual offer of help.

Hawthorne stopped pacing and looked up, lightning-struck. ‘I’ll do it! I’ll write the script.’

‘It’s not a script,’ Cadence grumbled. ‘This isn’t a play. I just meant—’

‘A PLAY! Brilliant idea. Written by me, directed by Cadence and starring Morrigan!’

Cadence’s face slightly perked up at the phrase ‘directed by Cadence’, while Morrigan’s dropped entirely.

‘I’m listening,’ said Cadence.

‘I’m not,’ said Morrigan.

‘Costumes by me, obviously,’ Hawthorne gabbled on. ‘Since I’m the best at fashion – no offence.’

Cadence cocked her head to the side. ‘Offence taken.’

‘Music by Arch!’ he shouted, ignoring her. ‘Thaddea can construct the sets. We’ll begin rehearsals tomorrow …’

The bell rang, but Hawthorne was in full flow now and the girls had to endure his breathless planning all the way from the stables to the Sub-Five railpod bank.

Morrigan knew her friend was only grasping for something to control in a situation that felt wild and scary. But as she listened to an elaborate description of the costume he envisioned for her (‘… a ball gown, but with black feathery wings! Like a crow, get it?’), she almost wished he’d go back to fretting.

‘Important question, Morrigan, and hear me out,’ he said, wide-eyed and solemn, as they boarded a railpod. ‘Do you think you could learn how to twirl a baton? Just for a bit of wow factor.’

Cadence pulled the levers for Sub-Three and turned to Morrigan. ‘I would once again like to propose kicking him out of our friendship group.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

With Fondest Love and Fervent Hope

‘Cadence said to start with these,’ Anah sighed later that week, as she struggled to carry a massive pile of murder mystery paperbacks. ‘She says I need to build up some fortitude if I’m going to help the investigation.’

Morrigan relieved her of half the stack while they waited together at the railpod bank in the Proudfoot House entrance hall. It was lunchtime on Thursday, and they were on their way to meet the rest of Unit 919, at Cadence’s request (or perhaps more accurately, on Detective Blackburn’s orders).

‘Anah, I might be wrong but … this doesn’t seem like your sort of thing,’ she said, examining the sinister cover of Inspector Gravely and the Night in Horror House. ‘You know you don’t have to read all these, right? Cadence isn’t your Scholar Mistress.’

‘Oh, no! I want to read them!’ Anah squeaked unconvincingly. ‘I like mysteries, and I want to help. I just … Well, I wish she’d given me a few more Teashop Triplets. I prefer my crime on the cosier side,’ she finished in an embarrassed whisper.

‘There’s no shame in liking things on the cosy side, Anah,’ Morrigan said, as they reached the front of the railpod queue. A memory of Dario Rinaldi lying on the floor of the golden dragon boat entered her head unbidden, and she shook it out.

‘Oi, wait up!’

Returning from her senior citizens self-defence class, a pink-cheeked Thaddea ran in from the cold to join them, and the three girls boarded a pod together. Anah pulled the levers for Sub-Four, where Cadence had booked a classroom in a quiet corner of the Humanities Department.

‘Are your patrons coming to this Civic Tasks thing tomorrow?’ asked Thaddea.

Holliday had managed to reschedule their follow-up session to Friday’s last period, to the vexation of almost everyone.

‘Not mine,’ said Anah. ‘Sumati’s on a desert combat exercise for the Sky Force.’

‘Jupiter’s still off-realm,’ said Morrigan.

In a normal week, she might have been disappointed by this. But between her lingering anger at Jupiter and her guilt about the apprenticeship, at this point his absence felt more like a stay of execution than an inconvenience. Since Tuesday, she’d tried several times to take Cadence’s advice and write down what she wanted to say … but her attempts had been pathetically half-hearted.

Jupiter, I need to talk to you about

Jupiter. I have something important to tell you, but I need you to listen to the whole thing and wait until I’m finished before you say anything or

Jupiter, I need to tell you something but please don’t say anything or make any facial expressions, and also please don’t think any very strong thoughts about it until I’m finished because they will show on your face and it will be very

Jupiter can you please turn your face off

Line after line crossed out. Page after page crumpled up or burned to ashes in her hand with a frustrated puff of Inferno. Every time Morrigan put pen to paper, she imagined Jupiter’s face filled with disappointment, worry or anger, and her mind went blank as snow.

‘Hope Sid makes it,’ Thaddea said, gripping a ceiling loop as the pod took a sharp turn. ‘He promised he’d ask Holliday to reassign me. Look at this, will you?’ She rolled up her grey shirtsleeve to reveal what looked like an armful of cat scratches. ‘Loose-Cannon Lewis was lying in wait this morning. The woman’s a menace! Maybe Holliday will let me volunteer as a bookfighter at the Gobleian Library instead. I’d love to squash some more book bugs,’ she finished with a dreamy, wistful expression.

The pod pulled up on Sub-Four, and the three girls piled out.

‘Why don’t you talk to Miss Cheery, then?’ Morrigan suggested. ‘I bet she could ask Roshni—’

‘Pardon me,’ a timid voice interrupted. ‘Miss Crow, may I speak with you?’

Morrigan turned to see a girl she recognised from Unit 920 loitering nervously nearby.

‘Meet you in there,’ she told her friends, with a nod towards a classroom down the hall.

‘Don’t be late,’ Thaddea warned, rolling her eyes, ‘or Miss Blackburn will give us all detention.’

The younger scholar watched Anah and Thaddea go, then took a small white envelope from her pocket, handing it to Morrigan with solemn importance. ‘Lady Margot asked me to give you this.’

‘Lady Margot?’ Morrigan said, surprised. ‘How – sorry, I don’t know your …’

‘Lucinda Hallewell,’ the girl introduced herself, then added shyly, ‘of the Grand Old House of Hallewell.’

‘Ah.’ Morrigan glanced at the envelope. ‘Well, um. Thanks.’

Lucinda smiled and turned to go, then hesitated. ‘I’ll wait for you at Proudfoot Station after school tomorrow, in case you’d like me to deliver a response to your aunt.’

Morrigan waited until she’d left, then ripped open the envelope in a rush. It contained a letter typed on thick white parchment, embossed with the initials M.G.D. in slender, looping letters at the top.

My dearest Morrigan,

Please forgive me for corresponding through Miss Hallewell. I hope it isn’t too ill-mannered, but I am so desperate to reach you I am afraid I’ve thrown all propriety out the window. I sent several messages via Ms Wu in the Wundrous Society Public Liaison Office this week, but when I didn’t hear anything in return I began to worry.

That was odd, Morrigan thought. Holliday had been so insistent that she attend Modestine’s wedding and get to know the Darlings, and now she couldn’t even be bothered to pass on a note from them?

If you did receive my previous correspondence, I apologise most sincerely for what must seem like pestering. I do understand if you don’t feel ready to return to the Silver District just yet, especially after the unsettling events of last weekend.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. ‘Unsettling events’ was an interesting way to refer to a murder. Silver District politeness really was something else.

But, dear, I wish more than anything that you might come to us this Saturday. Our beloved Dario has been laid quietly to rest in the chapel where he and Modestine married, per the wishes of his mother and father. But it is my sister’s wish that we host a small, intimate and loving celebration of his life for all our friends and family, here at Darling House.

Morrigan, darling, it would bring us all such comfort to see you again. We must draw our loved ones close in times such as these. Do say you’ll come.

With fondest love and fervent hope,

Aunt Margot

Morrigan ambled down the corridor at a snail’s pace and had read the note three times over before she reached the classroom.

It would bring us all such comfort to see you again.

She swallowed. The prospect of returning to a Darling House in mourning, of seeing Aunt Modestine’s devastation up close, all while carrying the secret of what she’d witnessed at the boathouse … It made her limbs feel oddly heavy.

And yet.

Reading those last sentences brought a warm little tingle to her chest.

We must draw our loved ones close in times such as these. Do say you’ll come.

Aunt Margot meant her. Our loved ones, she’d written.

And she meant Morrigan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The One You’d Never Suspect

When she entered the room on Sub-Four, Morrigan gasped. The rest of Unit 919 were hovering by a large oval table, staring in mute astonishment at Cadence’s back as she wrote feverishly on the blackboard.

Morrigan didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. All four walls of the tiny classroom were plastered with the labour of Cadence’s new obsession: indecipherable handwritten notes on torn-out notebook paper, every newspaper clipping they’d already seen plus dozens more and – most impressively – a huge, hand-drawn map of the Silver District’s Greater Circle, with the Paramour Pleasure Gardens at the centre. She thought Cadence must have copied it directly from a library book or used the Living Map as a reference, because the details were spot on.

The blackboard was a chaotic jumble of notes, names and questions such as DUSTY COAT MAN/NO RSVP and WEAPON??? and, bizarrely, DOLPHINS – IS THIS ANYTHING? ASK A DOLPHINWUN.

Morrigan frowned, wondering when Detective Blackburn had last eaten or slept. How had she managed all this in three days?

Dropping the chalk and dusting off her hands, Cadence finally noticed their arrival. ‘Oh good, you’re all here. Let’s get started.’

‘Wow,’ Hawthorne said as he slipped into a chair between Morrigan and Lam. ‘This is, um. Wow.’

‘Been busy, have you, Cadence?’ There was the hint of a laugh in Mahir’s question, but under her sharp gaze he ducked his head and hastily took a seat.

Cadence shifted her weight from foot to foot, vibrating with determined energy, and cleared her throat.

‘What do we know about the death of Dario Eugenio Rinaldi?’

With this dramatic opening, they all sat up a little straighter. Arch took out a pen and paper, ready to take notes.

‘Our victim was killed by stabbing on the tenth Saturday of Autumn of Three, approximately ten hours after marrying Modestine Evelyn Darling. The murder happened somewhere between here’ – Cadence pointed at the northern boathouse on the map of the Paramour Pleasure Gardens – ‘and here’ – her finger trailed along the canal from the boathouse, passing the Okwara, Devereaux, Choi, Beauregard and Fairchild Bridges, before stopping at Darling Bridge in the south-west – ‘between approximately ten minutes to and ten minutes after midnight. The body was found in the Rinaldi family’s golden dragon boat floating on the canal. We don’t yet know the murder weapon – or even whether it’s been found – but we can assume it was a dagger, knife, sword, knitting needle, skewer, hat pin or some other sharp object.’

Cadence began to pace, hands clasped behind her back. Unit 919 might have been watching a tennis match in slow-motion, the way their eyes stayed glued to her.

‘Those are the facts,’ she continued in an impressively sombre tone. ‘And now we venture into speculation. To solve this case, there are two important questions we must answer. The first is, who murdered Dario Rinaldi? The second—’

‘It still might actually have been the wedding planner, you know,’ Morrigan reminded her.

‘I know. Shush. We’ll come back to that. The second question might help us answer the first, which makes it just as important.’ She picked up the chalk and wrote on a clean patch of blackboard:

MYSTERY DRAGONRIDER?

‘If it wasn’t Dario Rinaldi – and it clearly wasn’t, as he was quite dead at the time – then who was the imposter riding Alights on the Water Like a Seabird in his place? Did they – or someone they know – kill Dario so they could take his saddle in the next summer tournament? Or maybe it was just a poorly timed practical joke that had nothing to do with the murder? Even so, they could have seen or heard something suspicious, something important. We must find out the mystery rider’s identity.’ She looked around owlishly at each of them, before landing on Hawthorne. ‘How much of the Winter Trials are you planning to watch?’

He grinned. ‘All of it! My Uncle Angus gave me a season ticket for my birthday.’

‘Perfect. I’m assigning this part of the investigation to you, then. You said it yourself: a dragonrider skilled enough to write that message in the sky must be competing in the Winter Trials. Think you can figure out who it was?’

‘Yeah!’ Hawthorne enthused. ‘Can I wear a disguise?’

‘Must you?’

‘Maybe just a cool hat?’

‘Fine.’

‘And a magnifying glass?’

‘What for?’

‘Dunno,’ he shrugged happily. ‘Clues. Ooh, can I have a plucky sidekick?’ Arch stuck his hand in the air and Hawthorne’s eyes lit up. ‘Perfect! You’re hired.’

‘Oh … er, actually, I was just going to ask, um …’ Arch shifted anxiously in his seat, glancing at Cadence. ‘Isn’t this all a bit … dangerous? What if the mystery dragonrider was the murderer and they see Hawthorne investigating and realise what he’s up to and—’

‘Point taken.’ Cadence sighed. ‘Hawthorne, I know it’s not your usual style, but try to be subtle, yeah? There’s no need for disguises, magnifying glasses or plucky sidekicks.’

‘How does it work, finding a new rider?’ asked Mahir. ‘Can anyone have a go?’

‘Nah, no way.’ Hawthorne shook his head vehemently. ‘Not for a dragon like Alights. She’s too valuable and much too temperamental. It could be risky to upset her with a bunch of new riders all at once. Nan reckons they’ll keep her stabled for a month or two while they make a shortlist of the best competitors, then let them try their luck in the last few weeks. The Rinaldis only need to register her rider by the final event: whoever takes her saddle on the last day of the Winter Trials will be her official partner in next summer’s tournament.’

‘Risky to leave it that late, though, isn’t it?’ Mahir pointed out. ‘Aren’t the best riders and dragons usually paired up by about halfway through the trials?’

‘I think it’ll be different this year. My guess is that some of the very best riders will put off signing any new contracts until they’ve had their chance with Alights.’ Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Anyway, the Rinaldis don’t really have a choice. Dragons go into mourning when their riders die, just like humans, and you’ve got to leave them alone to grieve, ’cos they’re dangerous when they’re unhappy. The usual rule is that all dragons must fly at least every second Sunday of the Winter Trials to stay on the leaderboard, but Nan says the FSDA have given the Rinaldis special permission—’

‘FSDA?’ Cadence interrupted, holding up a finger.

‘Free State Dragonsport Association,’ he said, and she wrote it on the blackboard. ‘They said the Rinaldis can keep Alights stabled for up to eight weeks without penalty, and they’ll keep her ranked according to average past performance. Which means she’ll stay number one for the first two-thirds of the trials, without even flying. Heaps of people are angry about that, because it’s like giving the Rinaldis a free pass, but nobody’ll say anything.’

‘Because it would be insensitive?’ asked Arch. ‘After Dario’s death?’

Hawthorne snorted. ‘No, because they don’t have the guts. The Rinaldis are the richest and most powerful stable in dragonsport right now, and nobody wants to get on their bad side. People might have loved Dario, but his brother is famous for being a big jerk with a bad temper.’ Morrigan and Cadence shared a thoughtful look, but let Hawthorne carry on. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. They might be getting a free pass, but if they don’t find the right rider for Alights then the Rinaldis can kiss the summer tournament trophy goodbye.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Francis, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. ‘Isn’t the summer tournament a separate competition?’

‘Yeah, but the rider-and-dragon team that tops the leaderboard this winter will have a huge advantage over their competitors next summer.’

‘How?’

‘Psychologically, for starters.’ Hawthorne leaned back to look up at the ceiling as he warmed to the topic. ‘But financially, too. The higher up the leaderboard a rider is, the more endorsement deals they’ll be offered. That means sponsorship money, better kit and better training opportunities … but, more importantly, a higher profile, which gives them the ability to negotiate a bigger cut of the prize money from their stable. And for the dragon owners, it means a bigger stake in ticket sales and betting proceeds from the Trollosseum and the FSDA.’

‘So … a higher spot on the leaderboard in the Winter Trials, equals more prestige for the stable and the rider, which equals more money and better chances in the summer tournament,’ Cadence summed up.

‘Lots more money,’ Hawthorne confirmed.

He looked quite chuffed, Morrigan noticed, at how they were all listening intently and asking so many questions. She smiled, realising they’d probably never let him go on about the politics of dragonsport for this long before and that, actually, the topic was more interesting and complex than she’d assumed.

‘So … if someone else really wanted to ride Alights on the Water in the summer tournament and get all that money and prestige for themselves …’ Lam began thoughtfully.

‘They might murder her rider just for the opportunity,’ Cadence finished, nodding. ‘But why do it at the wedding, in front of hundreds of people? And then ride Alights? It’s all very risky.’

Nobody could answer that.

Cadence frowned, staring at the blackboard for a long moment, then clapped her hands quite suddenly. ‘Back to question one. Who killed Dario? We need to establish who our suspects are. That’ll be tricky, because Morrigan thinks there were about two hundred guests at the wedding, not to mention staff. I think we can all agree that’s an enormous pool of suspects and we need to narrow it down as quickly as possible.’

‘It could have been a gatecrasher,’ Thaddea pointed out, but Morrigan shook her head and explained about the waterfall gate.

‘Everyone inside the Greater Circle that night was there by invitation,’ she said, ‘or because they live there.’

‘So how do we narrow it down?’ asked Arch.

‘A copy of the guest list would be ideal,’ said Cadence. ‘Morrigan, you’ll get hold of that.’

Morrigan’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I will?’

‘Yeah, just have a snoop around when you return to Darling House,’ she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Morrigan grimaced, closing her hand around the note in her pocket. ‘But in the meantime, we do have a place to start. I’ve been going over your account of everything you saw at the wedding, and I think there are some obvious candidates.’ She tossed her piece of chalk into the air and caught it with a flourish. ‘We’ll start with the wedding planner.’

By the end of their lunch hour, Unit 919 had a sizeable suspect list.

SUSPECT

MOTIVE

OPPORTUNITY

Crispin Stirling, the wedding planner

Furious at Dario and Modestine for ruining his reputation with their Gigi Grand ‘prank’. Angry at Margot for threatening to ruin his reputation and business.

Left the wedding early. Could have gone to seek out Dario.

Lord and/or Lady Devereaux (Noelle’s mum and dad)

Furious at Dario, Modestine and the Darlings because of Gigi Grand ‘prank’. Quote: ‘Someone is going to pay.’

Left the wedding early. Could have gone to seek out Dario.

Georgette Devereaux AKA Gigi Grand

Jealousy. She and Dario were having an affair and she was tired of waiting for him to leave Modestine.

Left Dario at the boathouse but could have circled back after Morrigan left.

Cosimo ‘Ogden Town Dario’ Rinaldi

Jealous of his more talented, rich and popular brother?

NOTE: Famous for being ‘a big jerk with a bad temper’.

?

Modestine Darling

Revenge. Could she have found out about Dario and Gigi somehow?

?

Laurent St James

Hates Morrigan. Enough to murder a member of her family?

NOTE: One of the worst people in the whole world, wouldn’t put anything past him.

Left the wedding early. Could have gone to seek out Dario.

‘The Vulture’

Unclear. Didn’t RSVP but came anyway even though he obviously wasn’t welcome and doesn’t normally attend events. Must have decided to come at the last minute. Why?

?

Morrigan had felt rather put out when they’d added Aunt Modestine to the list. It was possible, she supposed, that someone might murder their unfaithful husband in revenge, but she couldn’t imagine sweet, silly Aunt Modestine doing anything of the sort. Even so, Cadence insisted that until they established alibis, every suspect would remain on the list.

‘Wait, we’ve forgotten one important suspect!’ cried Anah. ‘The One You’d Never Suspect.’

Cadence squinted at her. ‘The one … Sorry, what?’

‘You know. Like in The Teashop Triplets at the Museum, the art thief turned out to be the little girl on a school trip. And in Freddy Barnes and the Murder at Mooley Manor, the killer was the family’s Jack Russell terrier all along.’

‘Mooley Manor?’ said Cadence, making a face. ‘Of all the terrible Freddy Barnes mysteries, that one is famously the worst.’

‘It’s just an example of when the culprit turns out to be … you know. The One You’d Never Suspect.’

‘How do we name someone as The One We’d Never Suspect, when by their very definition we’d never suspect them?’ Mahir asked.

The question made Anah lose a bit of steam. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we write down everyone at the wedding who’d probably definitely never do murder, like … you know. Babies and grannies and things like that. The photographer. The vicar!’

‘Babies … ?’ Cadence whispered incredulously. Thaddea shoved her face into a bundled-up jumper, shaking with laughter.

But Morrigan was looking at Anah with interest. ‘Why wouldn’t you suspect the photographer or the vicar?’

Anah laughed. ‘Well, it’s obviously not the vicar! And you already told us the photographer was taking photos all night long which means they must have been there to take photos of the cake-cutting, which is when you and Cadence said Dario was probably killed.’

‘Why is it obviously not the vicar?’ asked Mahir.

Anah looked aghast. ‘Because they’re a vicar!’

Cadence started counting on her fingers. ‘The Cursed Belfry, Murder in the Chapel, Murder in the Vicarage, Murder in the House Next Door to the Vicarage, Murder in the SCHOOL Next Door to the Vicarage … all books in which the vicar is the killer. Actually, I think it was the vicar’s husband in that last one, but my point stands.’

‘Those are book vicars, Cadence,’ Anah said exasperatedly. ‘Obviously a book vicar would do murder, book vicars do murder all the time! Real vicars don’t do that sort of thing. They’re not allowed.’

Mahir, Cadence and Hawthorne all opened their mouths at once (presumably to remind Anah that nobody was actually allowed to ‘do murder’), but Morrigan waved her hands in the air, shutting down the silly argument before it could take off.

‘The vicar wasn’t even at the reception,’ she said. ‘Anah, go back – what did you say about the photographer and the cake?’

‘Well, I admit I’ve only been to one wedding – Sister Brigitta took me as her guest when her cousin got married, it was lovely. The cake was really special, but after they cut into it they picked up big chunks and smooshed them into each other’s faces and took lots of photos! Apparently it’s tradition,’ she finished, looking mildly perplexed.

‘I can’t imagine Aunt Modestine agreeing to have cake smooshed in her face, tradition or not,’ said Morrigan. ‘But you’ve made me realise, Anah – of course there’ll be photos around the time of the cake-cutting, even if they were waiting for Dario to show up! The cameras were everywhere and they didn’t stop clicking all night long. If we can get hold of those photos—’

‘We can see who isn’t in them and narrow down our suspect list to whoever’s missing!’ Cadence shouted, jumping up at once. ‘Morrigan, you’re a genius!’

Morrigan grinned. ‘It was Anah who mentioned the photographer. But thanks.’

The bell rang and they all began to gather their things, buzzing with excitement. Everyone pitched in to take down the newspaper clippings and roll up the map, and as they left the classroom together, Morrigan leaned in to ask Cadence the question that had been bothering her since she’d walked in.

‘Ask a dolphinwun what, exactly?’

Cadence sighed. ‘I honestly don’t remember.’

‘I think you need a nap.’

‘Yeah.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Return and Retreat

Morrigan spent most of Friday outside in the Whinging Woods, several hundred years in the past. There were only two blocks on her timetable today. The first, a very long ghostly hour in which Audley Williams – a Wundersmith of apparently saint-like patience – tried to teach two obnoxious, distractible children how to reach through the root system of one tree to send a message to another tree several kilometres away.

The lesson went frustratingly slowly, but was absorbing enough that Morrigan almost forgot to dread her second and last class of the day: Unit 919’s rescheduled Civic Tasks follow-up.

She’d been carrying Aunt Margot’s letter around with her since yesterday, unable to make up her mind about it. As she approached the classroom on Sub-Three, she closed a protective hand around it inside her pocket, steeling herself to confront Holliday about her missing messages. That thought evaporated, however, the moment she walked in and saw the publicist at the front of the room, head together in murmured congress with an unexpected attendee.

Morrigan’s heart jumped into her throat. He looked up, seeming to sense her arrival.

‘Mog!’

Jupiter rushed across the room as if to hug her, but she was so statue-frozen that by the time he reached the doorway he seemed to think better of it, and they simply stood awkwardly and looked at each other. He wore a navy suit she’d never seen before, with a plain white shirt underneath, untucked and wrinkled. She couldn’t remember him ever wearing anything so … normal. He looked like a tired banker.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

Jupiter’s face betrayed only a microsecond of hurt feelings before he rearranged it; just long enough for Morrigan to feel a stab of guilt, which she pushed aside.

He held up a wrinkled copy of her timetable. ‘It says “patron attendance welcome”.’

‘But not required,’ she muttered, then instantly felt cross with herself. Ambushed by his sudden appearance, the weird complexity of Morrigan’s feelings seemed too big to fit inside her head. It was strange to be so furious at him, and so worried he was going to be furious with her, and so furious at the gall of him being furious, even in her own imagination. And underneath it all was, somehow, an undeniable hum of pleasure to see him again, a happiness that couldn’t help itself. ‘That’s not what I meant, though. When did you get back on-realm?’

‘Only an hour ago. I had to see Jack first, then I came straight here.’

That explained why he looked so rough, Morrigan thought. It was clear he hadn’t stopped to have a shower, or a nap, or change his clothes. His beard was scraggly, and there were black circles under his eyes and … was she imagining it, or did he have a few more grey hairs than when she last saw him?

‘Long week,’ he said, noticing her expression. He tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. ‘Holliday told me what happened at your aunt’s wedding. I’m so sorry, Mog. It must have been terrifying. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ she said automatically.

Morrigan shifted the satchel slung across her shoulder, feeling uncomfortable. People kept asking her if she was all right, how she was holding up … as if Dario’s murder was a thing that had happened to her, instead of near her. Of course his death was awful, but after all, she’d only met him that day. It was Aunt Modestine and his family that people should be worried about.

But Jupiter nodded, brow furrowed, and his gaze seemed to flit here and there in the space around her. She wondered what he was seeing. Did he already know about Squall? Surely he would say something if he did. How much could he figure out just by looking at her? She held her breath, as if that might somehow keep her secret inside too.

‘Perhaps we should—’ Jupiter gestured to the door behind her, a second before Carlos came bursting through it.

‘Ah, finally,’ said Holliday as he joined her at the front. She clapped her hands briskly and addressed the room. ‘Everyone sit, please. We’ll need to keep this short I’m afraid, I have a press call for WitchCon in half an hour and they’ve threatened to hex me if I’m late again, so no interrupting.’

‘Let’s go out for dinner,’ Jupiter said to Morrigan quietly. ‘We can take the Brolly Rail to that dumpling shop you like on Mermaid Lane. Sound good?’

Morrigan hesitated, then nodded. Cadence wanted to brief her after school on the best strategies for snooping around a stately home, but that would have to wait. She’d tell Jupiter about the apprenticeship over dumplings. It was decided. (Nobody could truly be angry with a bowl full of delicious dumpling soup in front of them, surely?)

She and Jupiter took the two seats between Hawthorne and Lam.

‘Have you seen Cadence?’ Lam murmured into Morrigan’s ear. ‘We were supposed to meet outside her Code-making and Code-breaking class, but she never showed up.’

Morrigan shook her head and was about to explain she’d spent most of her day in the distant past, when Holliday spoke again.

‘Okay, first up: Morrigan Crow. We’re pulling you back from the Darling situation,’ she began, sparing Morrigan only the briefest glance. ‘I think we all agree the best course of action is to steer clear of the Silver District for now, yes?’

‘Absolutely,’ Jupiter affirmed. Morrigan threw him an irritated look, feeling her jaw clench. This had the distinct whiff of a sneak attack.

‘We’re working on a new task for you, so hold tight and we’ll discuss some options next week, okay?’ She returned to her notes without waiting for a response. ‘Ah! Francis Fitzwilliam, I’ve had a brilliant idea for you. Have you by any chance heard of—’

‘Wait,’ said Morrigan, heart thumping. ‘What does that mean, you’re pulling me back from the Darling situation? Why?’

Holliday looked surprised by the sharpness in her voice. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘No?’

‘There’s been a murder.’

‘And?’

‘It isn’t safe, Mog,’ said Jupiter, at the same time Holliday said, ‘Murder isn’t great for PR. The whole idea of getting you in with the Darlings was to de-fang the Concerned Citizens’ smear campaign against you, not to give them an opportunity to associate you with a murder. The Silver District project has given us some momentum in shaping your public-facing narrative. Now’s the time to move swiftly forward and extricate you from—’

‘What are you talking about?’ Morrigan demanded. ‘Silver District project? It’s not a project, or a situation, or a public-facing narrative. They’re my family! I can’t disappear from their lives when we’ve just found each other! You’re not extricating me from anything.’

‘I’m afraid we are.’

‘Holliday, I thought we agreed I’d handle this conversation,’ Jupiter said in a quiet, weary voice.

But she didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Carlos, show her the thing.’

Carlos dutifully crossed to where Morrigan sat, opening a copy of the Morning Post and folding it over to show her an article on page two. He tapped the headline.

‘WEDDING PLANNER WALTZES AWAY WITHOUT CHARGE,’ Morrigan read aloud, taking the newspaper from him.

‘I’ll save you the trouble of reading the whole thing: Crispy Whatshisname is off the hook,’ Holliday said. ‘Turns out he left the wedding early and was already at Ogden Town Station when the murder happened. The woman who sold him a train ticket came forward to corroborate his story. Now, go ahead and skip to the end.’

Morrigan’s eyes drifted to the last paragraph, and Lam leaned in to read over her shoulder.

Police investigations continue with the cooperation of the Rinaldi and Darling families, and other key figures in the Silver District. A wedding attendee who spoke to the Morning Post anonymously said the event drew many high-profile guests, including several dragonsport legends, popular jazz singer Gigi Grand and notorious Wundrous Society member Morrigan Crow, recently revealed to be a Wundersmith.

‘You think they mentioned you by accident?’ Holliday asked, leaning forward to look at her pointedly. ‘Because I don’t.’

Morrigan felt sick. Had the Darlings had the same thought about Morrigan? Were they asking themselves right now whether she had killed Dario? She couldn’t bear the thought of that, but if anyone thought to ask where Morrigan had been just before the flight of the golden dragon … well, she and the murderer had one thing in common. They’d both missed the cake-cutting. Morrigan’s only alibi was a conversation she wished she’d never overheard. A conversation Gigi Grand would no doubt deny ever having.

‘The Darlings aren’t going anywhere, Morrigan,’ Holliday went on, a little more kindly. ‘You can reconnect with them once the police investigation is over. For now, let’s give them some space to sort out their problems. Okay?’

Morrigan opened her mouth to answer, but found she didn’t know what to say.

‘Right, Unit 919, let’s crack on. I really don’t want to be magicked into a newt today.’ Holliday turned again to Francis. ‘Have you by any chance heard of a very exclusive underground supper club called Slumgullion’s?’

Morrigan spent the rest of the session quietly seething, and then she spent the awkward railpod trip to ground level quietly seething and she seethed quietly all the way out of Proudfoot House and down the marble steps until she and Jupiter reached the open air of the fireblossom-lined driveway, where her quiet seething became very loud indeed.

‘Holliday can’t stop me from seeing my family,’ she snapped, whipping round to face Jupiter. ‘And neither can you.’

‘I don’t intend to,’ he said, raising his hands in immediate surrender. ‘I want you to have a relationship with the Darlings, I honestly— Don’t look at me like that, I do. I just—’

‘You just lied to me for three years to prevent it from happening.’

‘I just want you to be safe, above all else,’ he finished. ‘And I’m sorry, I really am, but that might mean staying away from the Silver District for a little while. Holliday’s right – the Darlings aren’t going anywhere. But, as of this moment, there is most likely someone still inside the Silver District who murdered Dario Rinaldi. It could be any one of them.’

‘Any one of who?’ she scoffed. ‘The Silverborn, or the Darlings?’

Without waiting for an answer, Morrigan stomped onwards, brolly swinging furiously at her side.

‘I have no idea who did it, and I’m not sure I care very much,’ Jupiter admitted, jogging to catch up with her. ‘All I care about is keeping you safe! But I promise, Mog, as soon as the killer has been caught—’

‘Well, as it happens, I’m going to catch the killer myself.’

Morrigan blinked. She hadn’t meant to say that at all.

‘What are you talking about?’ His expression had melted into horror.

‘I just meant … I think I could help … you know. Not catch them, exactly.’ She shrugged, trying to walk it back. ‘Just give some information. I was at the wedding, I met a lot of people, heard a lot of weird conversations … I’m sure the police will want to question everyone who was there, won’t they?’

Jupiter’s mouth was a grim straight line. It was clear he didn’t believe her suddenly breezy tone. ‘It would be a very bad idea for you to go poking around this thing. You’re not the Stink, Morrigan.’

She scowled. ‘I know I’m not the Stink, Jupiter. I’m just saying I was there, and … and maybe I could be helpful—’

‘What in all the Seven Silly Pockets are you talking about?’ he moaned, turning to pace a few frustrated steps, running a hand through his hair again and over his face. ‘You have no business being a part of this at all! Morrigan – you are a child.’

‘Jupiter – I am a teenager.’

He stopped short at that, chin drawn down to his chest in some mixture of shock and indignation, mouth open like an unhappy goldfish.

‘W-well!’ he blustered, shaking his head with vigour. ‘Well, I utterly reject that notion!’

Morrigan rolled her eyes. ‘I’m thirteen years old. I’ll be fourteen in a few months. It’s not a notion, it’s reality. You can’t reject reality.’

‘Once again you vastly underestimate my skillset!’

They stood for a moment in prickly, irritable silence. Morrigan was suddenly itching to escape this conversation.

‘We shouldn’t argue when we’re hungry,’ Jupiter said, trying to smile. ‘Let’s get those dumplings and then … and then how about we do something fun? It’s zombie paintball night at the Trollosseum!’

‘I can’t.’ She shook her head resolutely, gripping her oilskin umbrella. ‘Sorry. I forgot I promised Cadence I’d help her with something after school. She’ll be wondering where I am.’

‘Oh.’ Unable to hide his disappointment, he sighed a full, shoulder-slumping sigh. ‘Mog, listen. I’m sorry. I’ve done this all wrong, I’m just … I’m so tired. Can we start again? I didn’t mean to be so—’

‘Cadence will be waiting.’ She marched up the burning drive without looking back.

Morrigan stormed straight into Proudfoot Station’s end-of-day crush of junior and senior scholars, all hurrying to catch their Hometrains at once. She didn’t see Cadence until they collided.

‘Where have you been?’ both girls demanded at once.

‘Jupiter’s back,’ Morrigan said darkly, just as Cadence declared, ‘I found the photographer!’

‘What?’ they spluttered in unison.

‘You first,’ Morrigan told her.

They found a quiet-ish corner of the busy station so Cadence could recount her afternoon of skipping school and taking the Brolly Rail to a photography studio in Betelgeuse.

‘How’d you find them?’

‘You know that photo of Dario and Modestine all the newspapers are using, the one of them leaving the chapel with confetti all around?’ Cadence said quietly, her eyes shining. ‘Most of the articles didn’t credit the photographer, but the Sentinel listed a surname in the caption: Novak. So I looked up a bunch of photography studios in Nevermoor and made a list of their contact information and then I set a potted tree in the entrance hall on fire—’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘—hoping Dearborn would go on the warpath about it, which she did – so predictable – and then I snuck into her and Murgatroyd’s office and made heaps of calls and then finally I reached a studio called Cathryn Novak Photography, and then …’

The story of how Cadence had waltzed out of school and across the city to mesmerise her way into a professional studio and interrogate an award-winning photographer went on for some time. She was clearly quite proud of her investigative skills, and Morrigan had to admit she was impressed.

‘So did you get the photos?’ she finally interrupted, unable to take the suspense any longer.

‘Oh. Right.’ Cadence blinked and did a little head shake, as if she’d forgotten the point of her story. ‘She doesn’t have them anymore.’

Morrigan drooped. ‘What, none of them?’

‘Not even the negatives.’

‘Oh.’ She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

‘But guess who does.’ Cadence’s face broke into a sly grin. ‘Lady Margot Darling. She bought double prints of every single photo they took, which was nearly four thousand, plus the negatives. Apparently Lady Margot didn’t want any of them to end up in the papers and “fuel the fires of scandal”.’ Cadence raised both her eyebrows.

Morrigan felt herself bristle defensively at this news. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’

‘Does it?’

‘It was her sister’s wedding. Who do you think was paying the photographer to be there in the first place? I imagine the whole wedding was funded by the Darlings. They’re the Greater House, after all.’

‘Hmm. Well, we’ve got to see those photos. Think you can wrangle an invite back to Darling House?’ The look in Cadence’s eye was at once wily and hopeful. ‘And … maybe a plus one?’

Morrigan thought of her letter from Aunt Margot, and of Holliday’s warning, and of Jupiter’s worried face. Truthfully, the idea of attending Dario’s memorial still made her nauseous, but now …

‘You were right about the wedding planner,’ she said miserably, and told Cadence about the newspaper article detailing Crispin Stirling’s release, and her name being mentioned.

‘I knew it!’ Cadence grinned, unable to hide her satisfaction at being proven right, but then quickly turned serious again. ‘Holliday’s right about your name being in that article, though. It’s not good news.’

‘I know.’

The two girls stood in silence for a moment. Then Morrigan took a galvanising breath and, without a word of explanation, turned to sprint across the platform to Hometrain 920.

‘Lucinda!’ she yelled, arriving just as Lucinda Hallewell disappeared inside her Hometrain and the door swung shut.

With a screaming whistle and an eruption of white steam, the train began to chug slowly along the platform. Morrigan groaned in frustration, but moments later, a little hand wrenched open one of the train windows and Lucinda’s face appeared.

‘Yes?’

‘Tell my aunt I’m coming tomorrow!’

Morrigan ran alongside the train as it gathered speed, dodging groups of scholars and shouting through cupped hands. She wasn’t entirely sure how the next part of her message would be received, but something in her felt bold and insistent. If Aunt Margot could throw all propriety out the window, then so could she.

‘And I’m bringing a friend!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Shooting Stario

‘Got your notebook?’

‘Check.’

‘Pen?’

‘Check.’

‘Write down everything. Our memories aren’t as reliable as we think.’

‘Got it.’

‘But be subtle. Don’t go whipping out your pen every two minutes.’

‘This is such good advice,’ said Morrigan. ‘Should I be writing it down?’

If Cadence noticed her sarcasm, she didn’t acknowledge it.

The two girls followed a path through pristine landscaped gardens towards the splendid façade of Darling House, stark white against a pale blue sky. Morrigan shifted an enormous bunch of flowers from one arm to the other. When Cadence had told her gran where they were going that day, she’d insisted on making two bouquets from the snapdragons, lavender and larkspurs that grew in her small garden, ‘For the boy’s poor mother and wife.’

Cadence smoothed her smart black dress for the umpteenth time. She seemed keyed-up and ready, Morrigan thought, rather than nervous. ‘I’ll disappear first chance I get and search for the wedding photos. I can mesmerise my way out of trouble if anyone catches me, but it’ll be better if I don’t have to, so find a way to distract your aunts and grandmother while I sneak around.’

‘Fine. But wouldn’t it be easier if I did the snooping?’ she suggested, lowering her voice as they ascended the front steps. ‘I can cover myself in shadow, so nobody sees me.’

‘It’s not about them seeing you, it’s about them missing you. Your absence will be too conspicuous, whereas nobody will remember I was there in the first place.’ Cadence waited as an elderly couple passed by with a genial nod to Morrigan, which both girls returned politely. ‘One more thing: don’t go drawing anyone’s attention to me.’

‘Don’t you want to meet my family?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t need you pointing out my presence every five minutes like you always do, okay?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Cadence, lowering her voice as they crossed the threshold into Darling House, ‘because you think it hurts my widdle feewings when people forget I’m there. Which it doesn’t, by the way.’

Morrigan’s lip curled. ‘I do not—’

‘Yes, you do, and it’s stupid. But I appreciate it. But it’s very dumb of you. But nice. But stop it. Is that your aunt?’

Elegant and understated in a black tailored dress, Lady Margot descended a sweeping staircase into the entrance hall just as the girls were handing over their coats to a member of the household staff. She kissed Morrigan twice on each cheek, thanking her repeatedly for being with them on such a difficult day.

‘And my dear girl, of course you can bring a friend home to see us! In fact, I insist upon it. We so wish to meet all your friends,’ she said in her quiet, smooth voice, putting an arm gently around Morrigan’s shoulders as she steered her down a wide hallway lined with gilt-framed landscapes. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay with us tonight, and your friend could come for tea tomorrow? How does that sound? We’ll add their name to the waterfall scroll right away.’

‘Oh, um …’ Morrigan glanced back at Cadence, who was trailing close behind and looking amused. ‘Actually she’s … she’s right here. This is Cadence Blackburn, one of my best friends.’

Morrigan had forgotten all about the Greater Circle’s stringent security measures when she’d impulsively decided to bring Cadence with her. Luckily, some quick thinking and a bit of mesmerism had gotten them into Hounslow’s swan boat without incident, and when they approached the waterfall gate Morrigan had thrown her reach at it with much more confidence this time, easily lifting the curtain of water.

‘Oh! Oh my.’ Aunt Margot gave a little yelp of surprise when she noticed Cadence, but swiftly recovered her poise. ‘Well of course she is. My sincere apologies, Miss Blackburn!’ She blinked, momentarily confused. ‘How exactly did you—’

‘I’m honoured to meet you, Lady Margot. Though I wish it were under happier circumstances.’ Cadence dropped into an effortless curtsy, and Morrigan bit her lip to hide a smile.

Despite her confusion, Aunt Margot was charmed by Cadence’s manners and welcomed her to Darling House … then turned to continue down the hall and promptly forgot she existed.

Just before they reached the familiar mosaic-tiled door, Morrigan felt a nudge in her back – a subtle reminder from Detective Blackburn.

‘Oh! Aunt Margot,’ she said, in a rehearsed tone of respectful curiosity. ‘I read in the newspaper that the police have arrested the wedding planner. Is that true? It must be such a relief to know that the killer is caught, and justice will be done.’

She looked back at Cadence again, who nodded in approval. The girls had agreed to pretend they didn’t know about Mr Stirling’s release, just to see Aunt Margot’s reaction – which Cadence was confident would reveal whether the woman was, in her words, ‘a bit suss’.

‘Unfortunately,’ Aunt Margot said quietly, her expression darkening, ‘justice has certainly not been done. I’m afraid the police have, inexplicably, dropped the charges against that terrible man.’

‘Oh! Then they don’t think he did it after all?’

‘No. But I believe they are dangerously mistaken.’ She clutched a string of pearls around her neck with one hand and the door handle with the other, knuckles white. ‘I’ve seen for myself what a vicious, vengeful man Mr Stirling is. But I suppose he managed to bribe someone to provide an alibi, and now we must all live with the fact that Dario’s murderer remains free.’

‘I see.’ Morrigan nodded slowly, twisting the white ribbon on her bouquet. ‘And you … definitely think it was him?’

‘Who else would it have been?’ was the sharp, narrow-eyed retort. Morrigan must have flinched, because Aunt Margot reached for her hand almost instantly, reverting to warm, honeyed tones. ‘Oh darling, forgive me, this week has truly taken its toll.’ She pressed her lips together and shook her head, smiling thinly. ‘Come now, let’s not speak of such dreadful things. Mr Stirling will never return to the Silver District, I promise … We are very safe here. Nobody can enter unless invited and – er. I’m sorry. Who are you?’ she finished, looking up in surprise at Cadence.

‘Shall we go in?’ Morrigan gently directed her aunt through the mosaic door, glancing back to see Cadence mouth the words, Bit suss.

It was a relief to see the grand Receiving Room restored to its original state of perfection. (She made a mental note to find and thank the Wunsoc clean-up crew, whoever they may be.)

‘Oh dear. I’m afraid I’m being pulled in all directions today, there’s so much to see to,’ said Aunt Margot, nodding and holding up one finger to Mr Hounslow, who was trying urgently to get her attention from across the room. ‘And naturally my highest priority must be poor Modestine. But Miriam will take excellent care of you.’

‘And … how is Lady Darling?’ Morrigan asked hesitantly, feeling a familiar nervous flip in her abdomen. ‘Is she feeling better?’

Aunt Margot’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry to say that Mama is not at all well. All this upset has done her fragile constitution no favours. She was ever so eager to see you again, darling, and so very disappointed to have missed you at the wedding. But our family physician said she absolutely must stay in bed today, and I quite – yes, I’m coming, Hounslow, one moment.’ She gave a flustered sigh. ‘It never stops. Dear, would you excuse me for—’

‘Of course,’ Morrigan said quickly, waving her away. The sooner Aunt Margot left her and Cadence to their own devices, the sooner their investigation could begin.

Surveying the vast, sunlit room, Morrigan felt she hadn’t fully appreciated the capacity of the place on her first visit. So much for Modestine’s ‘small and intimate’ celebration; it seemed every family in the district must be there. Hundreds of black-clad mourners filled the space with a low buzz, like a hive of sombre bees.

‘Popular guy, wasn’t he,’ Cadence said under her breath.

‘Apparently.’

‘Lots of famous faces.’

Morrigan’s head swivelled. ‘Who?’

‘Dragonriders, mostly. Hawthorne’s going to spew when I tell him who was here.’ She nodded discreetly towards a man built like a plough horse, broad and towering with a great bushy moustache. ‘That’s Reg Grubb; he’s a member of the Farnham Flankers, a synchronised soaring team from Saint Fiera. And there’s Didi Gundry talking to Qasim Abdullahi over by the orange tree.’ Morrigan glanced over to see two athletes dressed in formal black riding leathers, conversing in rapid sign language. ‘Two retired legends, both rumoured to be reconsidering their retirement now Alights on the Water is up for grabs. Quincy Frost with the curly blonde hair behind them – she’s new on the circuit, quite young but has some serious momentum from a slew of regional wins this year. The bloke eating scones with his mouth open is Hector Gillies. Don’t you recognise any of them? Some of these people must have been at the wedding.’

Morrigan tried to study the dragonriders’ faces without staring too hard. ‘Not sure … but my table was at the back, and there were lots of people.’ She thought about it for a moment, then murmured, ‘When we get the photos, you and Hawthorne should—’

‘Already memorising a list of riders to look for,’ Cadence confirmed. ‘We can’t rule out sabotage as a motive. Some of this lot have reputations for being cut-throat.’

‘When did you become such a dragonsport expert?’

‘About four days ago. It’s called research.’

Morrigan had no response to that. Once again, the depths of Cadence’s brain – and her time management skills – were both terrifying and inspiring.

Stretching along one side of the room was what could only be described as a Dario Rinaldi shrine. Hundreds of framed photographs told the story of his life in chronological order; from a smiley, dimple-cheeked baby held by doting parents, to a gangly boy with a cheeky grin and then a brooding, athletic teenager in red-and-gold dragonriding kit … all the way to the handsome groom with his radiant bride, beaming up at the camera from the golden dragon boat, surrounded by floating lanterns. Morrigan felt a chill on her neck.

Cadence frowned, pointing at the photo. ‘Is that the boat he was—’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yikes. Isn’t that a bit …’

‘Eerie?’ suggested Morrigan. She was looking at the deliriously joyful newlyweds sailing on a river of light, but could only see the lifeless, glassy-eyed groom floating from beneath the shadowy bridge.

‘I was gonna say tasteless, but yeah. Eerie.’

At the end of the photographic journey through Dario’s life, the red-and-gold uniform he wore in the photos was framed and mounted, still stained with sweat patches and singed black on one corner. Across the back the words SHOOTING STARIO were embroidered in glittering gold thread.

‘That’s the nickname his fans gave him,’ Cadence explained, ‘because he and his dragon rose so quickly through the tournament ranks. Dario the Shooting Stario.’

Morrigan frowned as something snagged in her memory. What was the weird thing Squall had said in their last lesson when she’d mentioned Dario? The Falling Star. It was strange to think of Ezra Squall being a dragonsport fan. (Though not much of a fan, she supposed, as he didn’t even get Dario’s nickname right.)

She looked around casually, trying to spot the other suspects on their list so she could point them out to Cadence. She couldn’t see Gigi Grand’s parents, or – thankfully – Laurent St James.

‘There’s the brother,’ she whispered, nudging Cadence.

Cosimo ‘Ogden Town Dario’ Rinaldi stood dutifully behind his parents and younger sister near the centre of the room. He looked just as sombre as he had at the wedding, but at least this time his mood matched the event, Morrigan thought.

Vincenzo, the Rinaldi patriarch, was loud and expressive in his grief. Surrounded by friends and well-wishers, he held court with stories about his beloved eldest son, by turns weeping and laughing, but always talking, always gesticulating wildly and wiping his eyes with a soggy white handkerchief.

His wife, on the other hand, might have been a garden statue. Olivia Rinaldi’s drawn, grey face was turned to the far side of the room.

Beside her, looking tearstained and miserable, was Dario and Cosimo’s eleven-year-old sister Vesta. She sat in a gleaming black metal chair with eight spindly legs that reminded Morrigan of Jupiter’s arachnipod. Instead of a two-storey high mechanical spider-shaped vehicle, though, Vesta’s version was a neat travelling chair for one, and instead of a huge flight deck full of levers and buttons and screens, it had a small panel of mechanical controls at the end of each armrest. Vesta kept glancing anxiously at her mother every few seconds, but Olivia could only stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, her dull gaze fixed somewhere beyond the grounds and canal. She was barely there. She was a shell.

Morrigan watched as Cosimo placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder, and she shrugged it away. A flash of emotion crossed Cosimo’s face but was gone in an instant.

Was that hurt, Morrigan wondered. Or anger?

She remembered Jupiter’s expression as she walked away from him yesterday and felt a queasy, unsettled feeling in her stomach.

‘Should I have told Jupiter where I was going?’

Cadence sighed. She’d already heard this lament several times since Morrigan had knocked on her station door that morning. ‘You did tell him. You left a note.’

‘Yeah, but it said I was going to your place.’

‘You did go to my place.’

‘For about ten minutes, before we took the Wunderground—’

‘Look,’ said Cadence. ‘Was it lying by omission? Yes. But was it actual, outright, bold-faced lying? Also sort of yes. But is it likely to have serious consequences? Possibly. But will those consequences include violent death, grave injury or a prison sentence? Probably not.’ She shrugged. ‘I think we’re in a moral grey zone with this one, and if you’re going to investigate a murder, you need to be comfortable with moral grey zones. Lying to authority figures is part of the detective’s toolkit. Comes with the territory.’ She clocked the scepticism on Morrigan’s face and rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re here now, anyway. Might as well make the most of it. You can start by having a chat with Auntie Widow … once that crowd’s thinned out.’

Cadence nodded towards the other side of the room, where a second swarm had gathered around Modestine, who sat by the window. Rays of sunlight through the glass lit her sad face just so, making her yellow curls glow around her head like a halo. It was almost like she’d been placed in precisely that spot for the prettiest effect.

‘What am I supposed to say to her?’ whispered Morrigan, grasping Cadence’s arm in sudden panic.

‘Start with “sorry for your loss”, then casually bring the conversation round to murder.’ Cadence whirled Morrigan around and shoved her towards the centre of the room. ‘Good luck!’

It took some time to wind through the crowd. With one eye on Aunt Modestine, Morrigan navigated an ever-shifting discord of noisy crosstalk and quiet tête-à-têtes, slinking as close as she dared, trying to hone her eavesdropping skills (not polite, she realised, but perhaps another of those ‘moral grey zones’ detectives had to get used to).

‘You heard Lord and Lady Devereaux refused the Darlings’ invitation today?’ was one tantalising tidbit she picked up from a group of gossipy old men. ‘Bad blood there, old sport, very bad blood …’

Feeling relieved to know she wouldn’t be running into Noelle today, Morrigan sidled up behind the Rinaldis and pretended to be interested in a large potted rosebush.

‘There you are, dear heart.’ A pair of hands landed on her shoulders, and she looked up to see Aunt Miriam manoeuvring her away. ‘You must come and meet our beloved neighbours, the El-Hashems. Have you ever ridden a pony? They have ever so many.’

Morrigan spent the next half-hour being paraded from guest to guest. If it wasn’t a perfectly ridiculous thing to think about someone else’s memorial service, she might almost have believed she was the guest of honour. And even while the investigation suffered for it, she couldn’t help feeling pleased – and a little relieved – by Aunt Miriam’s obvious eagerness to show her off. She was acting like … like a proud aunt, Morrigan realised. (And not at all like she’d seen ‘notorious Wundersmith Morrigan Crow’ mentioned in any newspaper articles about Dario recently, which was a relief.)

Meanwhile, the only evidence of Cadence’s presence in Darling House was the paper-wrapped bouquet now sitting in Olivia Rinaldi’s lap. She must have already slipped away to hunt down the photographs.

With Cadence’s instructions in mind, Morrigan finally managed to spirit herself away from the Receiving Room at one point in the afternoon, taking refuge in a small library down the hall. Sitting cross-legged in a darkened corner, she whipped out her notebook to scrawl a few observations while she could still remember them.

Lord & Lady Dev refused invite – angry or guilty?

Vulture – late + badly dressed (again). Everyone surprised he came (again). Not v popular. Dislike or fear?

Why was he

Morrigan paused midsentence. She felt uneasy writing these last words.

The Vulture’s late arrival had been greeted by an undercurrent of whispers. If Morrigan wasn’t straining to listen to all the conversations around her at the time, she might not have caught the subtle swell of hostility – because, oddly, the whisperers all beamed warm, welcoming smiles at the Vulture, even as they slated him from a distance.

‘There he is again! Like seeing a Yeti outside its cave, no?’

‘Seems to be showing rather a special interest in the Darlings …’

‘Good grief, what is he wearing? The blatant disrespect!’

If the Vulture had been inappropriately dressed for the wedding, it was nothing to his memorial attire. He looked like he’d rolled out of bed and thrown on whatever dirty, wrinkled outfit he’d been wearing the day before – pale blue jeans ripped at the knees and a faded candy-pink band T-shirt, slightly moth-eaten on the collar and emblazoned with the words THE WUNTU FREEFAWS.

Seeing the Vulture in daylight and without his wide-brimmed hat, Morrigan was surprised to find he was quite a bit older than she’d thought. He had a shaggy mane of stark white hair and pale blue eyes sunk in deep purple sockets, and without his bulky overcoat Morrigan could see he was so thin a gentle shove might snap him in two. Overall, he gave the unsettling impression, not of a vulture, but a skeleton with poor posture.

It was during this uncharitable thought that Morrigan’s gaze had accidentally locked with the Vulture’s from across the room. He grew suddenly still, a cucumber sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide and staring for several uncomfortable seconds. The back of Morrigan’s neck prickled and she gasped as she noticed the blood that dripped from his nostril, over his lips and all the way down his chin. The man was so busy staring at her, he hadn’t even realised his nose was bleeding. She reflexively held a hand to her own nose. It seemed to jolt the Vulture back to self-awareness, and he mirrored her movement, catching the drip-drip-drip mid-stream and wiping it casually on his shirt.

The grotesque strangeness of the moment had disturbed Morrigan so much she’d instantly excused herself, slipping from the crowded Receiving Room and down the hall to the library where she now sat cross-legged in the corner.

Frowning, she finished writing her sentence.

Why was he staring at me?

Suddenly the door flew open and a figure in a sweeping black dress stormed into the room. Aunt Modestine slammed the door behind her and began to pace, muttering under her breath. She took a book from the shelf and threw it across the room, then another, then another. Morrigan tucked her notebook into her pocket and shrank instinctively against the wall. The fourth book landed with a SMACK right next to her head, and she yelped.

‘Oh!’ Modestine’s hands flew to her mouth when she spotted Morrigan’s ashen face. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so – I didn’t mean to – oh no!’

Her face crumpled and suddenly she was wracked with full-body sobs. She stood slumped in the middle of the room, wailing like an overtired toddler.

Morrigan scrambled to her feet, gathering the now slightly worse-for-wear bouquet she’d abandoned on the floor, thrust it at her aunt and blurted out, ‘Sorryforyourloss.’

Modestine stopped crying. She looked uncomprehendingly at Morrigan, then at the flowers, before breaking into a small, watery smile.

‘You came,’ she said with a sniffle, accepting the bouquet.

Morrigan tried frantically to find the right thing to say.

‘Aunt Modestine, you must be so—’ She pressed her lips together. You must be so what? Sad? Obviously. ‘I’m sorry for your …’ She trailed off awkwardly. She’d already said that one. ‘What a lovely memorial. I’m sure Dario would have, um … liked it.’

If someone had offered Morrigan a chance to be swallowed up by the Guiltghast at that moment, she would gladly have taken it. Dario would have liked his own funeral?! Had she ever said anything so stupid in her whole life?

‘That’s sweet of you, but I’m afraid he would have despised it.’ Modestine glanced towards the library door, scowling. ‘I told Margot I wanted to celebrate his life, not stand around watching people eat sandwiches and gossip and be miserable. I wanted everyone to wear red and gold – his riding colours, you know – not this awful black nonsense. I wanted there to be music, and dancing! Dario loved to dance. Margot said that was a ridiculous idea, but she didn’t know him at all. He was my best friend! Shouldn’t this be about what he would have wanted?’ Tears spilled freely down her pale cheeks.

‘Of course,’ Morrigan agreed, uncertain what else to say.

Modestine dropped into a velvet-upholstered chair, still hugging the bouquet. ‘Margot only cares about the way things look, never the way they really are. Never the way they feel. This isn’t for Dario or me at all, it’s just to show off and do the proper thing in the proper way. All she thinks about these days is the stupid Silver Assembly, even Tobias says so.’ The words Silver Assembly pinged something in Morrigan’s memory. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but Modestine was on a roll now, words pouring fast and loose through her tears. ‘And Mama is so unwell! And … and that awful Mr Stirling is going to get away with murder and – and – oh, Morrigan, I don’t know what to do.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just so worried about Georgie!’

The barrage of twists in Modestine’s monologue had been hard to follow, but the landing really took Morrigan by surprise. ‘Sorry … Georgie?’

‘You know. Georgette.’ Her eyes went to the closed door again. ‘Gigi Grand. You saw her at the wedding, remember?’

Morrigan’s heartbeat quickened. Gigi. Dario. The golden dragon boat …

Now she remembered where she’d heard that phrase! Dario said it to Gigi, on the night of the wedding. As soon as spring arrives and the Silver Assembly is done … we won’t have to hide anymore.

A tiny frown creased the top of Modestine’s perfect pink nose. ‘Morrigan, Georgie’s gone missing! She left the wedding before the band finished playing and … well, that’s not entirely unusual. She has an artist’s temperament, you know, they run hot-and-cold. But I don’t think she knows about Dario! She couldn’t possibly, or she’d be here with us. She’s our dearest friend. Sunny tried asking Lord and Lady Devereaux if they’d heard from her since the wedding, but they were ever so rude to him.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That they don’t know where she is, and they don’t care, and she isn’t their daughter anymore. Dreadful, hateful, horrid people! It’s no wonder Georgie ran away.’ Modestine wore an expression of savage loathing that was almost absurd on her doll-like face. When she spoke again, it was in a low, vicious growl that took Morrigan by surprise. ‘I hate Lord and Lady Devereaux. I hate them with a horrible hate, and I can’t wait for the Silver Assembly. The sooner we’re rid of that vile, wretched family, the better—’

‘What is the Silver Assembly?’ Morrigan jumped in, determined not to miss her chance this time.

Modestine looked vaguely surprised by the question. ‘Oh! Of course, I forget you’re not …’ She bit her lip, thinking for a moment, then sighed. ‘Well, it’s a sort of meeting, but a frightfully big and important one. They only happen once in every Age, always in the first spring of Basking, and every house in the district – Greater and Lesser – has to send someone to represent their family. I’ve never had to attend one, thank goodness, because they sound ever so dull. They go on for days, mostly talking about council taxes and boring things like that. But the most important part is when the attendees all vote on whether the twelve Greater Houses have done enough good for the district since the last Assembly and ought to stay as Greater Houses, or if they should decline to become Lesser … and if one of them does decline, then a Lesser House advances to replace them and everybody has to vote on that … and of course it almost never happens because it’s mostly old people at the meetings, you know, and old people are ever so frightened of change, aren’t they?’ Modestine finally paused her double-speed explanation to draw a breath, while Morrigan wondered how in the world she would remember all of this to write it down. ‘And of course the last Silver Assembly was nearly a disaster and we mustn’t talk about it, but this Silver Assembly is going to be a very rude awakening for a certain horrible house … and GOOD RIDDANCE, if you ask me, because if anybody deserves to decline from the Greater Circle, it’s the nasty old Dev—’

An ice-cold voice cut her off, swift as a guillotine blade.

‘ENOUGH.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Some Splendid Bit of Magic

The statuesque figure of Aunt Margot stood framed in the library doorway. For a long, tense moment the two sisters glared at each other, locked in a battle of wills Morrigan felt keenly but didn’t understand.

After what seemed an age, the youngest Darling lowered her gaze and Margot, softening in victory, held out a small plate of canapés as a peace offering.

‘You must eat something, dearest. Hunger makes us all say silly things.’

Modestine pouted. ‘I’m not hungry. Gigi is missing and nobody cares! Why won’t you listen—’

‘Modestine.’ Margot spoke patiently, but in a distinct tone of warning. ‘If that dreadful girl is missing, it’s because she has slunk back to her den of iniquity in shame.’ Morrigan looked up in surprise at the words dreadful girl, wondering for a moment if Aunt Margot knew the truth about Gigi and Dario. But then she went on. ‘Need I remind you, that heinous stunt the pair of you pulled at the wedding so gravely offended Lord and Lady Devereaux, they haven’t even come to pay their respects to your late husband. You might wish to reflect on that.’ Modestine turned away, shamefaced. Margot sighed and reached out to smooth her golden hair affectionately. ‘Really, little sister. Sitting out here sulking over Georgette Devereaux, on today of all days. Whatever must our niece think of you?’

Morrigan felt the beam of Aunt Margot’s attention fall on her, suddenly aware she was trespassing in this room. ‘Oh! I should … I was just—’ She gestured vaguely to the door, feeling her face turn red.

But Aunt Margot smiled. ‘It’s quite all right, dear. I always need a moment to myself at events like this, too, and the library is a perfect place for peace and quiet. You were so clever to find it on your own.’ She looked at her sister. ‘But you, Modestine—’

The library door flew open for a third time, and a man barrelled into the room.

‘I’m so sorry, Dessie, I couldn’t get—’ Sunny Ghoshal froze, blinking from Modestine to Margot to Morrigan and back. He straightened up, clearing his throat. ‘I couldn’t, uh. Couldn’t remember what you said you wanted … Lady Modestine. Was it wine or tea?’

‘I believe a cup of tea would do my sister the world of good,’ Aunt Margot said decisively, taking Modestine by the hand and pulling her to her feet. ‘Your timing is perfect, Mr Ghoshal, thank the Manyhands. Lady Modestine was just about to return to the Receiving Room. Will you kindly accompany her?’

Without waiting for a response, Aunt Margot bustled them out into the hallway and shut the door. She turned to face Morrigan.

‘My dear? I wonder if you might do something for me,’ she said in a confiding tone, clasping her hands as if in prayer. ‘Do you remember the day we first met, when you came to us in the Receiving Room?’

Morrigan instantly felt hot with shame. She’d been waiting for this. ‘Yes. I’m so sorry about what happened, Aunt Margot. I didn’t mean to do it, and I promise I’ll never do anything like it again. I’m not dangerous, honestly—’

‘Dangerous?’ Aunt Margot interrupted. She rushed forward to grasp Morrigan’s shoulders gently. ‘Oh, dearest, no! I don’t think you’re dangerous.’

Morrigan swallowed. ‘You don’t.’

‘Of course not,’ she said with warm, frank sincerity. ‘I think you’re extraordinary. We all do! Especially Modestine. And … well, I only wondered whether you might consider cheering her up with a little … display?’

‘A display … ?’

Aunt Margot hurried on. ‘Nothing too onerous, of course! Just some … splendid bit of magic! Something gentle and pretty. Something elegant, to soothe poor Modestine’s fractured nerves and distract us all from our misery?’

Morrigan stared at her for several seconds, certain she couldn’t be hearing correctly. ‘You want me to use the Wundrous Arts.’

‘Oh!’ Her aunt’s sudden look of wide-eyed surprise was so like her mother’s portrait in the Hall of Dead Crows, it made Morrigan’s throat constrict. ‘Oh dear. Was that awfully presumptuous of me? I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to offend—’

‘No, no, it’s just … you …’ She paused, searching for the right words while Holliday’s warning echoed in her head. No. Wundersmith. Stuff. ‘You don’t mind that I’m a Wundersmith?’

The smile Aunt Margot gave her was dazzling.

‘Oh, my darling girl. I don’t mind at all.’

Relaxing her eyes against the bright glow of Wunder surrounding her, Morrigan threw her reach beyond her body. It wove unseen between the guests, two rivers of gold skimming swiftly along the Gossamer, scouring the indoor garden for ingredients to weave some splendid bit of magic.

Something gentle and pretty.

Something elegant.

She repeated the words in her mind as she coaxed threads of a deep crimson colour and soft velvety texture from the most perfect red rose she could see.

The other monstrous golden-white hand reached out to stroke the marshmallow-soft head of the Darlings’ cat, Winslow, who was warming himself in a sunbeam. She borrowed threads of ivory, soft grey and lilac from the play of light and shadow on his fur.

The hum of chatter had ceased entirely now, the hive of sombre bees having turned their full attention to Morrigan, at Aunt Margot’s request.

She’d never done anything like this before, performing for such an audience. Aunt Margot had even had her stand on the edge of a marble fountain, so everyone was looking up at her. It was like she was under a spotlight … but, for once, not in a bad way. She didn’t feel self-conscious. If anything, their close, quiet attention spurred her on, helping her focus. She wanted so badly to impress the Darlings. To be extraordinary.

Morrigan finally knew what Brilliance Amadeo meant when she talked about Wundersmiths being artists, and Weaving being the purest expression of a Wundersmith’s creativity and imagination. She wasn’t looking at things the way she normally would; now she saw a palette to paint from, a vast menu of values and hues.

As her creation took shape in the air above her, little gasps of recognition sounded throughout the room. It was a dragon in Dario’s colours, red and gold, dancing smoothly through the air like a painting come to life, shining warm and bright as the sun.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Aunt Margot, clutching her husband’s arm tight. ‘Tobias, look. It’s magnificent!’

Morrigan quietly agreed. She had never made anything so lovely. It curled and looped around itself like an enormous shining ribbon. An explosion of colour and light, with tiny fragments of sunshine bouncing off its edges.

Morrigan could almost hear Squall’s voice in her head as she worked, as if this was one of their lessons and he was standing beside her, making small corrections to her form.

Your grasp is too tight, you’re wasting energy. Let Wunder take the reins.

She’d been plotting the dragon’s trajectory through the air, Morrigan realised, forcing it to move in a pleasing pattern as it soared above the guests. It made her body tense up, as if she was physically holding the thing and using her strength to swing it around the room … but of course she was doing no such thing.

Wunder knows your intention, you need to trust it. Give it room to surprise you. Collaborate, don’t control.

That was one of Squall’s favourite critiques. Collaborate, don’t control. Morrigan let herself relax a little, loosening the grip of her Wundrous reach and letting her own hands move more softly. The process instantly felt more intuitive; her intention and Wunder’s expression of it perfectly, gloriously aligned. The dragon responded as if she’d opened its cage, its dance becoming wilder and more fluid, its shape elongating as it dived to the floor and laced around the ankles of the guests, who squealed with shock and then delight.

With her creation gaining its own momentum and the guests all looking up, Morrigan took the opportunity to scan the crowd for Cadence. She couldn’t see her friend anywhere … but she did notice that, in fact, not everyone was watching the dragon.

Detective Crow would later write the following observations in her notebook:

Tobias was frowning at Cosimo.

Sunny was watching Aunt Modestine.

Aunt Margot was glaring at Sunny.

The Vulture was staring at me.

‘Fifteen bedrooms, three libraries, five sitting rooms, a music room, a ballroom, an indoor tennis court, three dining rooms, twenty-three rooms of unidentifiable purpose and a nursery. And no. Wedding. Photographs.’

Cadence shook her head in frustration at her mission failure, but Morrigan’s eyes bulged in awe. ‘You searched all of Darling House? In one afternoon?’

‘Are you joking? That’s not the whole house! Not even close.’ Cadence pushed open the door to her Wunsoc wardrobe, leading the way from the Blackburns’ home through to Station 919. Morrigan felt the familiar faint pop in her ears as they stepped onto the platform. ‘I should have worked faster.’

‘Still, that’s a lot of rooms to search on your own in one afternoon.’

‘It was easier than you’d think,’ Cadence admitted (though she looked slightly consoled by the praise). ‘The rooms were mostly empty. Not just of people but of things. It was all a bit … minimalist.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Which is weird, isn’t it? For people who have pet swans. And a butler. And a house the size of a palace. Anyway, you need to get yourself invited back so you can finish the search. Reckon you were charming enough?’

Morrigan made a face. ‘They already invited me back.’

She described to Cadence the moment it happened – right after her splendid bit of magic – and felt a pleasurable tingle at the memory. Her Wundrous dragon had taken its final tumble through the air and floated down, down, down, folding in on itself like silk and landing softly on Aunt Modestine’s shoulders. A shimmering red-and-gold cape, to cover the black mourning dress she so hated.

Morrigan had expected perhaps a polite smattering of applause from the guests. She was met instead with a roar of approval. Lady Margot closed a protective arm around her and steered her away to a quiet corner to rest. With tears in her eyes, she’d thanked Morrigan for bringing them all such exquisite joy, before confiding that her greatest wish was that she might one day see Darling House as her home.

‘I want you to feel that you can come and go as you please, with no invitation necessary. Because it is your home, dearest, truly. And when I look at you …’ She’d paused, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘You’ll think I’m silly, but … I swear I can hear Meredith’s voice speaking to me. Asking me to fold you into our arms. To bring you home.’

Even if Morrigan had known what to say to that, she couldn’t have spoken past the lump in her throat.

She finished telling Cadence about her conversation with Aunt Margot as they stood outside Morrigan’s black door, trying to sound cool and unaffected by this life-altering moment.

‘You have to go back tomorrow. TOMORROW!’ Cadence exploded. ‘Morrigan, you have an open invitation and we NEED those photos. If we can see who wasn’t at the cake-cutting, we might have our murderer!’ She ripped a page from her notebook. ‘Here, I’ve drawn you a rough map.’

‘Very rough,’ Morrigan agreed, squinting to decipher the maze of wonky rectangles.

‘Skip any room marked with an X; I’ve already searched those. Give me your observations and I’ll update our suspect list so we can debrief the others on Monday.’

‘Don’t you want to come with me?’ asked Morrigan as she dutifully handed over three pages torn from her own notebook.

‘Can’t, I’m going to the Winter Trials. It’s not that I don’t trust Hawthorne’s investigative skills, but …’ Cadence trailed off, a noncommittal shrug and two raised eyebrows finishing the sentence for her. She reached for her green door, then paused. ‘When do you want to tell Jupiter about Squall?’

‘Never.’ Morrigan shrugged miserably. ‘Or three weeks ago. Take your pick.’

‘How about now?’ Cadence fixed her with a penetrating look. ‘Maybe it’ll help you focus on solving the murder. You’re never not worrying about it. I can tell.’

Even in her annoyance, Morrigan could see the sense in this. Yesterday’s argument may have temporarily kiboshed her plan to tell Jupiter about the apprenticeship, but once the heat and adrenaline of her anger had faded, what was she left with? A secret the size of a boulder, still sitting on her chest. Suffocating her.

‘Yeah.’ She sighed like a deflating balloon. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘I’m definitely right.’ Cadence cracked open her green door. ‘Shall I come with you?’

It was a tempting offer, but Morrigan reluctantly shook her head.

‘Thanks. But I think I should do it on my own.’

‘Fair play.’ Cadence gave a thin smile. ‘Hawthorne won’t be happy, though. He’s nearly finished designing the costumes.’

Morrigan shivered as she entered her Wunsoc wardobe and crossed the threshold into her darkened bedroom. The fire she’d left roaring in the hearth that morning had almost burned down to embers.

Maybe it isn’t even fair to tell Jupiter about Squall just yet, she thought. He only just got back, and he looked so tired. Wouldn’t it be more considerate to wait a few days? Maybe even a week?

This slippery slope of maybes was a dangerously tempting one. Morrigan was about to tumble down it headfirst when she realised, with a soft gasp, that she wasn’t alone in Room 85.

A lone figure sat hunched in the octopus armchair, encircled by black leather tentacles, his face half hidden in shadows. Staring at the glowing coals, he spoke in a voice like the distant and ominous rumble of thunder.

‘Busy day?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Deucalion Decides

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Morrigan clutched a hand to her chest, just about expiring on the spot. ‘Jupiter, you scared me! What are you doing here?’

His eyes didn’t shift from the hearth. ‘Waiting for you.’

‘Right,’ she said carefully. ‘Cadence and I were—’

‘You were at Cadence’s place?’ Jupiter lifted a piece of paper, held lightly between two fingers. ‘Like your note said?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘So you didn’t return to the Silver District to attend Dario Rinaldi’s memorial, against the advice of the Public Distraction Department and my express wishes?’ His voice was eerily calm.

Morrigan felt an uncomfortable spike of guilt. She hoped she hadn’t got her friend into trouble.

‘It’s not Cadence’s fault,’ she mumbled. ‘It was my idea for us to go.’

‘Cadence went with you?’ Jupiter twitched with annoyance. ‘Wonderful. I’ll have to speak to her family too.’

Morrigan blinked. ‘Who told you I went to—’

‘What were you thinking?’ he snarled, standing up so abruptly the octopus armchair flinched and drew its tentacles in close. ‘This isn’t a game, Morrigan. A man has been murdered. His killer is still free. It’s bad enough being heedless of your own safety, but did you consider for one moment that you were putting Cadence at risk too? Or were you too busy playing detective to care?’

‘We weren’t— I wasn’t—’ Morrigan’s eyes prickled with tears at the unfair accusation. She blinked them away, feeling utterly wrong-footed. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. ‘I’m not playing detective. We weren’t in any danger—’

‘Have you forgotten what Holliday said?’ He steamrolled over her objections, casting a long-legged shadow as he paced feverishly before the fire. ‘That article mentioned you by name. You know the Concerned Citizens are looking for any opportunity—’

‘I thought the Concerned Citizens were numpties?’ she interrupted. ‘That’s what you told me on Hallowmas, remember? Big, embarrassing numpties who need to get a life. And I don’t care what Holliday says! If I want to go to the Silver District, she’s the last person I’d ask for an opinion.’

‘What about my opinion, Mog? Do you care about that?’

Morrigan gritted her teeth. There was no adequate response to this because, truthfully, she didn’t want his opinion either. Not about this.

‘I blame myself. I’ve been giving you far too much freedom,’ Jupiter continued. ‘But I’m afraid that ends now. Your implicit permission to leave the Deucalion is hereby revoked.’

It was like he was reading from a script. The brisk formality was so absurd on him, so unfamiliar, Morrigan choked out a laugh. ‘W-what?’

‘The only places you may go outside of this hotel are your Hometrain and the grounds of Wunsoc. I shall inform you when these circumstances change.’

‘But tomorrow I’m—’ She faltered, weighing up the cost of another lie against her promise to find the wedding photos. ‘I’m … going to the Winter Trials. With Cadence and Hawthorne.’

‘Deucalion. Hometrain. Wunsoc.’ Jupiter counted them off on his fingers. ‘Everywhere else is off-limits until further notice. That includes the Winter Trials.’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘Isn’t it?’ The hurt and anger in his eyes were searing. ‘I trusted you, Mog, and you repaid my trust by lying to me. That doesn’t come without consequences.’

‘You lied to ME!’ Morrigan countered angrily, shaking her head in disbelief at his hypocrisy. Something in her stomach felt coiled and tense, like a cornered snake ready to strike. ‘And you can’t just make up stupid rules for no reason. I’m not a prisoner!’

‘No, you’re a child.’

‘TEENAGER.’

‘Teenagers are still children, Mog, and children don’t get to wander off on their own as they please – especially when there is a murderer at large. Children don’t get to make their own rules; the adults who care about them are supposed to do that, even if it makes them wildly unpopular.’ He lowered his head, hands on hips, and took a deep breath. ‘So that’s what I’m doing. Being an adult. Feel free to dislike it; I certainly do.’

Morrigan’s heart thumped so hard she felt it might burst out of her chest. The injustice of it! She’d come home ready to tell him the truth about her apprenticeship – a harder, more dangerous truth than the comparably trivial matter of going to Dario’s memorial – and instead she’d been blindsided by this … this stranger. This unfair, upside-down version of Jupiter North she’d never met before and didn’t care to know.

Her hands curled around the fabric of her black dress, and the dying embers in the hearth reignited, crackling into life. She tasted ash at the back of her throat.

‘Aunt Margot told me to treat Darling House as my home. She said I can come and go as I please.’ Morrigan’s voice was barely audible, but Jupiter froze halfway to the door. She saw a muscle tighten in his neck.

‘We can discuss it once the police have concluded their investigation, and the murderer has been found,’ he said without looking at her. ‘Perhaps you can visit after Christmas—’

‘I want to go back tomorrow.’ Caution to the wind, then. Cards on the table.

He turned back to her, grey-faced and stony. ‘No, Mog.’

‘Jupiter—’

‘Deucalion. Hometrain. Wunsoc.’

‘Jupiter, I’m not—’

‘DEUCALION. HOMETRAIN. WUNSOC.’ He raised his voice above hers. ‘Have I made myself sufficiently clear?’

‘JUPITER. I am not asking to DISCUSS anything. I am TELLING you that I’m going back to Darling House.’ Morrigan was momentarily shocked at her own daring. She hadn’t planned to say any of that, let alone shout it at him. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt her resolve harden, clenching inside her chest like a fist. The cornered snake bared its fangs. ‘Have I made myself sufficiently clear? You don’t get to tell me not to see my own family! You don’t get to keep them from me. Not anymore.’

Something seemed to drain out of Jupiter then, and he dropped back into the armchair. The shadows under his eyes deepened in the orange glow from the hearth.

‘I’m not trying to keep anyone from you. Truly.’ He swallowed. When he spoke again his voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear him over the fire. ‘I don’t think the Silver District is a safe place for you. And I don’t just mean because of the murder.’

Morrigan felt her hackles rise. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘It’s …’ Jupiter fell silent once more, his mouth opening and closing on repeat as he struggled to find words. ‘Your mother famously ran away from that place, Mog. I for one trust that she did it for a good reason.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I just think we ought to consider what she would have wanted for you, that’s all. Try to … try to honour her wishes—’

‘My mother also joined the Wintersea Party,’ Morrigan pointed out, her anger simmering dangerously close to the surface. ‘And married Corvus Crow. So, actually, I can’t say I’m as impressed by her judgement as you are. Did you know her?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘You never met her? Not even when she lived in Nevermoor?’

He raised his head to look her in the eye. ‘I never met her.’

‘Then you don’t know what her wishes were any more than I do!’ Morrigan shouted. ‘Don’t you dare pretend you kept the Darlings a secret from me out of some imaginary loyalty to a woman you never even met! You’re rewriting everything just to excuse what you’ve done and make yourself look better!’

‘Mog, please, that’s not—’

‘I trusted you, Jupiter,’ she spat his own words back at him, ‘and you repaid my trust by lying to me. That doesn’t come without consequences.’

The flames in the hearth grew higher and brighter, crackling like cellophane and casting Jupiter’s face – at once mournful and fierce – into stark relief.

‘Mog.’

‘Your implicit permission to have a say in anything I do is hereby revoked.’

The octopus armchair rose on its eight enormous tentacles and tipped Jupiter unceremoniously onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet as the octopus began to slither across the wooden floorboards, corralling him towards the door, which swung open on its own. He braced himself against the doorframe.

‘Mog, that’s enough—’

‘Until further notice, it’s none of your business where I go or who I see.’

‘MOG!’

‘MORRIGAN.’ Her voice was the snap of a waterwhip. Jupiter flinched. ‘My name is Morrigan. My mother named me Morrigan Odelle Crow, not Mog. You ought to honour that wish, don’t you think?’

Silence stretched to fill the space between them. Jupiter’s jaw tautened while Morrigan glared back at him, her black eyes cool and unblinking.

‘Morrigan,’ he said finally. ‘I would never knowingly hurt you. You must realise that? Anything I’ve kept from you has been because—’

‘Because you had to?’ She was tired of it all, tired of hearing how everything was for her own good. When did she get to decide what her own good was? ‘You had no choice but to LIE TO ME about my OWN FAMILY being in Nevermoor, is that right?’

Jupiter’s face had turned a colour Morrigan had never seen it before – a splotchy, purplish pink – and at first she thought he was angry. Then she realised it wasn’t anger at all, it was shame. He was ashamed of himself.

Good. She didn’t care. He should be ashamed.

A huge leather tentacle wrapped itself tight around Jupiter’s chest, lifted him up and hurled him into the hallway where he landed with a thud on the plush carpet. The door slammed shut and locked itself, barely one second before Morrigan burst into silent, furious tears. She heard Jupiter scramble to his feet and try the door handle.

‘Morrigan. Open the d—’

BANG.

She jumped backwards as a second door made of heavy steel slammed down between them, silencing Jupiter’s demand. A small brown suitcase slid out from beneath the bed. The dresser drawers all flew open at once, haphazardly hurling clothes into the case before it snapped shut and zoomed into her hand. Her oilskin brolly jumped off the skeleton hat rack and into her other hand. Before she even knew she’d made up her mind, Morrigan had marched to the wardrobe door – lungs heaving, heart pounding – and pressed her W imprint to the glowing circular seal.

She was halfway through the wardrobe when she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a leather tentacle pointing urgently at the bed, where Emmett was slumped against her pillow. Without hesitating, she threw her Wundrous reach back into the room, summoning the precious rabbit straight into her arms and hugging him tight as they entered Station 919 together.

As trains rumbled in distant tunnels, Morrigan wiped her nose with her sleeve, nursing the small, miserable, melancholy comfort of knowing that the Deucalion, at least, was on her side.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Inside the Silver Bubble

When Morrigan woke the next morning, Emmett tucked comfortably under one arm, it took a full thirty seconds and several long blinks to remember she wasn’t in the Hotel Deucalion.

The night’s events came back in a series of flashes: the terrible fight with Jupiter, an anxious railpod journey and a boat trip with an exhausted-looking Hounslow, during which Morrigan had apologised repeatedly for bothering him after such a busy day.

By the time Morrigan had found herself standing before Darling House again, she was certain she’d made a terrible mistake. She’d been about to turn around, to beg Hounslow to take her back to the station, when the front door was flung open and her aunts surrounded her in a crush of hugs and sweet floral perfume and joyful exclamations at seeing her again so soon.

Morrigan needn’t have worried: the aunts didn’t seem to think her return needed any explanation. They led her to a sumptuous drawing room and fussed over her with supper and hot chocolate and a spot by the fire. It had all felt so welcoming and easy, like being … home.

Sitting up in her comfortable bed, she peered around the room, seeing it properly for the first time in the diffused morning light.

‘Sale at the doily shop?’ she murmured to Emmett.

The curtains were lace. The lampshades were lace. Quilts and cushions and canopy bed hangings – lace, lace and more lace, all in shades of peach, pink and white. Anything that wasn’t made of lace was made of velvet or silk, and anything that wasn’t velvet or silk was fine porcelain or delicate blown glass.

A frankly improbable number of ballerina paintings pirouetted across the walls, and every table and surface was covered with little figurines of floppy-eared bunnies. It felt like the sort of bedroom a princess would have, Morrigan thought. Perhaps it was her cousin Marigold’s room.

As she contemplated getting out of bed to look for her suitcase, there was a knock on the door and a whirlwind of blonde curls burst into the room.

‘Good morning!’ trilled Aunt Modestine, her mood apparently much improved. ‘Up you get, sleepyhead, there’s ever so much to do!’

‘Modestine, one usually waits for a response after knocking,’ said Aunt Margot, following her sister into the bedroom with a long-suffering sigh. She wheeled an overflowing clothes rack behind her, with Aunt Miriam pushing the other end.

Aunt Margot flung open the doors of an enormous oak wardrobe and began transferring clothes from the racks. ‘Forgive the intrusion and the early start, but I’m afraid my sister is correct – there is so much to do today.’

Morrigan jumped out of bed at once. ‘Of course! Sorry. I’ll just get dressed. Um, has anyone seen my—’

‘We’ve had Hounslow put your charming little suitcase in storage, dear,’ said Aunt Miriam distractedly, holding up an emerald-green tea dress against Morrigan with a thoughtful look. ‘Margot, are we sure about this one?’

‘Quite sure. Everything is made to the latest fashions, and Abigail assured me they’d suit her colouring,’ said Aunt Margot. Noting Morrigan’s confusion, she explained, ‘I asked our dear friend Mrs Blumenthal to secretly size you up yesterday – she owns Bloom Couturiers on the Splendid Canal, and has a marvellous eye for measurements. I sent off an order yesterday and her tailors worked through the night, bless them. The whole collection arrived this morning. What do you think?’

Morrigan’s eyes widened. ‘Those are all for me?’

How long did they think she was staying?

‘Of course! Aren’t they splendid?’ Aunt Modestine squealed. She placed the final hanger in the wardrobe, which now held a rainbow of outfits for every conceivable occasion, in an astonishing array of fabrics and styles.

Morrigan leafed through silk pyjamas and dressing gowns, tennis whites and riding jackets and jodhpurs, jewel-coloured cashmere pullovers and tailored tweed trousers and smart peacoats and more dresses than she could count.

‘Splendid,’ she agreed, with what she hoped was a convincingly grateful smile. ‘This is so generous of you, really, but I don’t need—’

‘Nonsense, darling, of course you do,’ said Aunt Margot matter-of-factly. She handed Morrigan a deep blue dress with a lace collar and ushered her behind a folding screen to change. ‘This will do very well for a morning stroll. Do call out if you need help, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ Morrigan lied, trying to one-handedly fasten a row of fiddly pearl buttons from her wrists to her elbows.

‘What do you think of the bedroom? It’s yours.’ Modestine’s eager voice came from the other side of the screen.

Morrigan froze. Her bedroom?

‘Oh! Um.’ She wracked her brain for something positive to say. ‘I’ve … never seen anything like it.’

‘I knew you’d love it!’ Modestine gushed. ‘Nobody’s been allowed to stay in it before – Mama always insisted we keep it just so. Exactly as she liked it.’

‘Lady Darling must … really love ballet,’ Morrigan said mildly, emerging from behind the screen. ‘And bunnies.’

The three women clapped with delight at the sight of her. Margot and Miriam immediately set to work fixing the clumsily buttoned sleeves.

Aunt Modestine giggled. ‘Not as Mamaaa liked it, silly! As Merry liked it.’

‘Merry?’ Morrigan blinked. ‘You mean this was—’

‘Your mother’s bedroom.’ Aunt Margot smoothed and straightened the long skirt, speaking in a gentle murmur. ‘My sisters were determined you must have it, and I agreed that if anyone may sleep here, it’s …’ She trailed off with a troubled glance at Morrigan’s face. ‘Oh. But perhaps we ought to have asked you first?’

Your mother’s bedroom. Those three improbable words seemed to bounce off the high ceilings. Morrigan felt she was looking at the room with new eyes, and found herself feeling slightly more generous towards the lace-factory-explosion aesthetic. This was, apparently, exactly as her mother liked it.

She reached out to touch the tiny glass nose of a sleeping baby rabbit, feeling her chin quiver slightly. Why hadn’t she realised? Of course her mother loved rabbits. Emmett, after all, had once been Meredith’s.

‘Was it terribly thoughtless of us, darling?’ asked Aunt Margot, frowning. ‘Is it too much? Too soon? Just say the word and we’ll move you to another bedroom at once.’

Morrigan caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and was momentarily stunned by how grown-up and elegant she looked in the dress.

She shook her head, smiling. ‘I’d like to stay here, please.’

If someone had asked Morrigan what her plan was when she’d returned to Darling House after her fight with Jupiter, it certainly wouldn’t have been to spend the next fortnight skiving off school and never leaving the Silver District. And yet that’s exactly what happened.

She couldn’t even have said how it happened. The Silver District bubble simply closed around her, and the normal delineations of time blurred to nothing. The Grand Old Houses didn’t seem to do anything of great importance, or with any particular urgency – their lives were all pleasure and leisure and ease.

Languid days passed by in a dreamy, sunlit haze of boat rides and shopping trips and croquet on the lawn and visits to the theatre. A morning promenade in the Pleasure Gardens rolled seamlessly into a sumptuous afternoon tea in the Mahapatras’ suntrap courtyard, into endless rounds of charades in the Carringtons’ games salon, into a six-course supper in the Babatundes’ formal dining room, into an evening chapel service, into a midnight regatta on the canal or impromptu singalong on somebody-or-other’s candlelit rooftop. Every day brought new surprises; the Silverborn never seemed to live the same twenty-four hours twice.

Surprisingly, Morrigan found she didn’t even hate wearing the parade of fancy clothes that went along with her new busy schedule; it felt a little like playing dress-up or wearing a disguise, and it seemed to please her aunts to see her fit in with them. Every morning, a dozen or so outfits were chosen for her and hung from the ornate iron clothing rack, with a beautifully handwritten note to explain what each ensemble was for, the order she should wear them in, and the precise times she would need to change. She never saw who was responsible for this – the staff of Darling House were so discreet they were just about invisible – but it must have taken a whole team of people to prepare the revolving wardrobes for Morrigan and her aunts every day.

For a family in mourning, the Darlings were still integral to the Silver District social landscape, and none of the other families seemed to find their constant presence odd at such a time. Quite the opposite – Modestine’s stoic attendance of every party, picnic and performance was commended by all, from the sympathetic girls who flocked to her in tearooms, to the old men who murmured in a grandfatherly way about the bravery of ‘that poor Darling girl’.

Morrigan had worried, at first, that she might find herself constantly running into Laurent St James, or Louis and Lottie, or Noelle Devereaux. But the Silver District was a bigger and busier place than she’d realised, and the aunts never stayed anywhere long enough to grow bored, or to have people grow bored of them.

There was one moment when she unavoidably crossed paths with Noelle and her mother, during a walk in the Paramour Pleasure Gardens. Morrigan almost expected Modestine to say something vicious, or Lady Devereaux to snarl the way she had at the wedding. But they surprised her by simply exchanging polite pleasantries before each going their own way. Noelle didn’t even glance in Morrigan’s direction.

As for Louis and Lottie’s horrid father, she supposed Laurent’s nasty political ambitions must be keeping him busy, because she only saw him once, sneering at her from a distance in the Babatundes’ ballroom. Instead of going out of his way to antagonise Morrigan, however, he flushed bright red when she spotted him and turned tail, fleeing the party. If she hadn’t been so stunned, she might have been tempted to shout something at Laurent as he fled, and see how he liked being heckled in public.

Morrigan often found herself the centre of attention in the Silver District, but it felt different here. She couldn’t imagine anyone inside the Silver Gates marching with placards or shouting angry slogans or doing anything to disturb the dreamlike serenity of their water-bound borough. Nobody whispered about her or even cast fearful glances her way. Morrigan could almost have pretended nobody here knew about her being a Wundersmith, except, of course, it wasn’t that at all – not after her dragon-weaving at Dario’s memorial. It was better than that. They all knew … and they were delighted by it.

Whenever guests called at Darling House, the aunts would beg Morrigan to share ‘some splendid bit of magic’, and everyone would erupt in applause and praise for even the most trivial display. Word of these ‘performances’ quickly spread, and soon she was fielding requests for her most popular hits. People went mad for her tiny tornadoes in teacups, and rainbows that bounced around a room.

Prompted by an idea from Aunt Modestine, she perfected a technique of weaving posies and corsages from the colours and patterns of her aunts’ gowns. These unique adornments swiftly became a Silver District fashion, and folks began forming queues wherever Morrigan appeared. The accessories only lasted an hour or two before fading into the Gossamer, but somehow their impermanence only made them more popular.

On the other hand, there were applications of the Wundrous Arts Morrigan instinctively kept under her hat. Her shadow puppet show at the Okwaras’ winter ball was a hit, for example, but she didn’t think anyone needed to know she could also conceal herself with shadows. People were thrilled when she made miniature fireworks from a candle flame in the O’Donohues’ drawing room, but she’d stopped short of showing them she could also breathe fire. And while everyone adored it when she pulled ribbons of sparkling turquoise water from the canals and wove them through the rustling silvergum trees, she refrained from making a waterwhip or mini-tsunami. The idea was to delight people, after all, not to frighten them.

This consistent, repetitive use of the Wundrous Arts was much more practice than Morrigan was used to. Her Weaving, especially, was improving at a rate of knots, and she thought Squall would be pleasantly surprised next time he saw her. That made her feel slightly better about all the school she was missing … and about the fact that since coming to the Silver District, she’d twice ignored the summons of the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow.

She hadn’t really meant to. But between her constant Weaving and a full calendar of social engagements, at the end of each day Morrigan was exhausted down to her bones. On her sixth night in Darling House, a whirlwind of smoke had appeared at the foot of her bed, just as her head hit the pillow.

‘Go away,’ she mumbled. The wolf stayed where it was, red eyes glowering at her from the darkness, but Morrigan burrowed deeper into the bedclothes and was asleep within moments.

The second time it happened, a shadowy hunter on horseback had galloped right up to her in the giant hedge maze in the Paramour Pleasure Gardens, extending a hand in invitation.

‘I can’t go now,’ Morrigan whispered, but the hunter stared back at her, unmoved. ‘My aunts will think I’ve disappeared!’

‘Morrigan, dear, is that you?’ As if to prove her point, Aunt Miriam’s voice came from somewhere nearby, accompanied by Aunt Winifred’s raucous laughter. ‘Help us, won’t you, we’re ever so lost!’

‘Get out of here. Shoo!’ she hissed at the hunter, and then ran in the opposite direction, calling, ‘I’m here, Aunt Miriam!’

Of course, Morrigan’s conscience did sometimes prick her about how she’d left things with Jupiter, and all the school she was missing. But that was nothing compared to the guilt she felt over her failure to find the wedding photos for Cadence.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. The problem was, her days were so heavily scheduled it was almost impossible to sneak away on her own to search the house. She’d managed to cross a few more rooms off of Cadence’s map, but there were only so many times she could claim to have got lost on her way to the bathroom.

And, strangely, the mystery of Dario’s death had seemed much more pressing outside the Silver District than in it. Morrigan knew skipping her lessons with Squall wouldn’t get her any closer to acquiring her next three seals, per the deal they’d made. But the urgency she’d felt to learn Tempus had dulled somewhere along the line of busy, pleasant days that blurred from one into the next.

Morrigan had imagined the Grand Old Houses would be consumed by the question of who the murderer was. But it had become quite clear to her that, as far as they were concerned, the wedding planner was unquestionably the culprit, even if the Stink had dropped the charges against him. Popular opinion seemed to be that the question of Crispin Stirling’s guilt was a silly dispute between the Nevermoor City Police Force (AKA the Stink) and the Silver District Watch (informally known as the Silk, after the distinctive white silk gloves they wore on patrol, pristine against their silver-buttoned, plum-coloured coats).

When Morrigan asked about it one morning over breakfast, Uncle Tobias reassured her that the Silver District was the safest place in the city, and Stirling would soon be brought to justice.

‘The Nevermoor City Police will see reason. They just don’t like being told what to do, that’s all.’ He reached for a steaming silver pot to refill his coffee cup, politely waving away a servant who rushed to help. ‘They resent the Silk for not allowing them inside the gates to conduct their own investigation.’

‘Sunny says we ought to let them in,’ Modestine said quietly. ‘He says the Silk are only good for patrolling summer fetes, and something this serious is beyond their … investigative prowess,’ she finished, digging the words out of her memory.

Morrigan glanced instinctively at Aunt Margot, noticing the way her mouth tightened at the mention of Sunny Ghoshal. Morrigan found it curious how closely and attentively Dario’s best man had stuck to Modestine’s side since the memorial. Always hovering nearby at social gatherings, fetching her drinks and stepping in when the ever-present well-wishers overwhelmed the young widow. (She made a mental note to mention this to Cadence.)

‘But I’m afraid the law is the law, little sister,’ said Aunt Winifred, ‘and tradition is tradition. The Silver District has always conducted its own policing. If we allow the brownsuits inside for this, they’ll think they can stick their beaks in every time somebody litters in the park or argues over a card game.’

‘The fact of the matter is,’ murmured Uncle Tobias, from behind his newspaper, ‘the Silk have investigated and given their findings, and legally—’

‘I dislike this talk of murderers and police investigations over breakfast,’ Aunt Margot interrupted her husband, with a pointed glance at Aunt Modestine, who had gone pale and quiet. Everyone mumbled their apologies, and turned the conversation to that afternoon’s golf tournament.

That was the only time Morrigan heard the Darlings – or anyone else in the district – discuss the mystery of Dario’s death. It soon began to slip from her mind too, and as the days passed by she found herself unravelling another mystery altogether. Her detective’s notebook was filling up, not, as Cadence had hoped, with clues and observations about the murder, but with something far more compelling.

FACTS ABOUT MEREDITH DARLING

Favourite food: rice pudding.

She loved ballet but only ever took one class. The teacher told her she had bad turnout, awkward hands and horrible posture, so she never went back.

Watching the Nevermoor Ballet always made her cry (from happiness?).

She liked unnimals of all kinds, but rabbits were her favourite.

When she was five, she went through a phase of jumping in the big fountain in the Paramour Pleasure Gardens whenever her nanny’s back was turned.

She begged Lord and Lady Darling for a snow-white pony and finally got one for her tenth birthday, only to refuse to learn how to ride. She just wanted to braid his hair.

Her best friends at school were Ari, Kitty and Maybelle, and the four of them were inseparable.

Her favourite sister was Miriam (all the aunts agree on this except Modestine, who insists she was her real favourite).

She hated broccoli but loved peas.

She had very long, thick, beautiful hair, until her seventeenth birthday, when she hacked it all off just below her ears. Lady Darling cried, but Aunt Margot thought it looked ‘rather chic’.

Morrigan filled pages and pages with fragments of Meredith’s childhood, a patchwork portrait cobbled together from her sisters’ collective memories. Each tiny detail, each silly anecdote they shared was a precious treasure. Slowly, slowly, Meredith Darling was becoming three-dimensional – a living, breathing person, not just a painting in the Hall of Dead Crows. What Morrigan longed for now was to speak to Lady Darling, to find out even more about her mother from the woman who raised her. But she hadn’t seen her grandmother since the wedding ceremony.

When Morrigan inquired about Lady Darling’s health and when she might speak with her again, Aunt Margot gave a small, troubled sigh.

‘Oh sweet girl, we don’t want to worry you. But I’m afraid Mama is quite ill.’ She exchanged a solemn look with her sisters. ‘She hasn’t been entirely … herself for some time. Having these funny turns and tempers. That was why we asked to change the location of our first meeting with you. Lady Darling doesn’t like to leave the Greater Circle these days, you see,’ she explained. ‘She could never have travelled to Proudfoot House.’

Aunt Miriam smiled sadly. ‘But ever since the wedding, she’s been …’ Miriam trailed off, glancing uncertainly at Margot and Modestine. ‘Much worse.’

Uncle Tobias stepped in, gently taking Aunt Margot’s hand. ‘Morrigan, we think the shock of Dario’s death affected your grandmother quite badly. Her headaches, dizzy spells and confusion are near constant now. Doctor Marks, the family physician, has given strict orders for round-the-clock bedrest.’

‘Tobias is Mama’s best nurse,’ Aunt Modestine said with a sniffle and a fond smile at her brother-in-law. ‘He’s the favourite.’

‘Only since I learned how to make her tea the way she likes it,’ he demurred, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Aunt Margot smiled at Morrigan, her eyes red-rimmed and overbright. ‘There will be more good days for Mama. I’m sure of it. And when the next one arrives, I just know the first thing she’ll do is ask for you.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Outside Creeps In

Winter of Three

Almost two weeks had passed in a dreamy, silver blur before the bubble popped very suddenly over breakfast one Saturday morning, with the arrival of a letter.

Morrigan Crow, you jumped-up little truant.

You can tell your rich aunt I don’t care how many silver-embossed, perfume-soaked notes she sends to excuse your inexcusable absences. This is the Wundrous Society, not an after-school shift at your local takeaway. You don’t get to skive off for two weeks just because someone was murdered. Get a grip.

Don’t even think about missing a third week. If you’re not back at school on Monday morning, I shall come to the Silver District and fetch you myself. And who knows who I’ll be by the time I get there.

Rook Rosenfeld

Scholar Mistress for the School of Wundrous Arts (In case you’d forgotten)

Morrigan gripped the letter in one hand and a butter knife in the other, a piece of cold toast lying forgotten on her plate. She had a sudden, horrible vision of Rook turning up at Darling House and transforming into Murgatroyd … or worse, Dearborn. She could feel the curious glances of her aunts and uncle around the table, even amid the noisy distraction of what she’d come to think of as ‘the Cousin Parade’.

Every morning during breakfast, the Darlings’ six collective children (ranging from baby Thomas to seven-year-old Marigold, who ruled the cousin army with her tiny iron fist) were brought to the dining room by a team of stalwart nannies. Their parents (and Aunt Modestine) would exclaim over them with great admiration, bestowing hugs and asking about their plans for the day, praising their charming manners and listening with genuine bright-eyed interest to a cacophony of stories and complaints and songs and interesting facts. This tornado of activity typically ended the moment a toddler became slightly rowdy, at which point the nannies would immediately usher the children away. The grown-ups would wave them off with a great show of reluctance, wishing them the most wonderful day, my angels, and the clamour would be silenced by the closing of the dining-room door. They would then return to their tea and toast and adult conversations and were unlikely to see the children again until the evening, during aperitifs, when they were trotted out for the pre-bedtime round.

Would this have been Morrigan’s childhood, she wondered uneasily, if she’d grown up at Darling House? Seeing her mother twice a day, to be hugged and kissed and adored for five minutes and then sent on her way? Five minutes, twice a day, every day for thirteen years … Morrigan couldn’t quite do the maths in her head, but she knew it was approximately one bajillion more minutes than she’d actually had with her mother.

‘Why does Morrigan get to stay?’ little Marigold whined, as a woman in a starched uniform steered her to the door.

‘One day you’ll be grown up like cousin Morrigan, and you’ll stay too,’ said Aunt Margot, bestowing one last kiss on her daughter’s golden head.

‘And have a wonderful day, my angel,’ added Uncle Tobias as he disappeared behind the newspaper, already returning to his half-finished crossword.

‘Is something the matter, Morrigan?’ asked Aunt Winifred, with a subtle glance at the letter still clutched in her hand.

‘Oh, um. My Scholar Mistress, Rook, has written to me.’ Morrigan blinked, still dazed from the realisation she’d been at Darling House almost two weeks. ‘She wants me back at school on Monday. And I suppose … I ought to get back to the Deucalion, too.’

Aunt Modestine gasped, dropping her teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Oh no! You mustn’t go so soon. The festive season is about to begin!’

‘All the decorations will go up next week,’ said Aunt Miriam. ‘You must see them, Morrigan.’

Aunt Margot gave her sisters a reproving look. ‘Really, girls. If Morrigan wishes to return to her patron’s hotel, that is entirely her decision.’ She paused, fiddling with the pearls around her neck, and added a little wistfully, ‘But it would be so lovely to have you home for the holidays, dear. To be with your family.’

‘This was Merry’s favourite time of year!’ said Aunt Modestine excitedly. ‘She loved seeing all the boats glittering with fairy lights on the canals—’

‘And the living statues in the park,’ added Aunt Miriam.

‘The holiday season officially starts tomorrow,’ Aunt Margot went on, ‘with the launch of the floating tribute—’

‘What’s a floating tribute?’ asked Morrigan.

‘—but of course that’s only the beginning! There are so many traditions we want to share with you.’

The aunts got carried away on a swelling tide of festive cheer, naming at least a dozen upcoming events that Morrigan simply must attend. Before she knew it, she’d agreed to spend the holidays at Darling House, and the whole table erupted with cheers.

Ignoring the kernel of guilt in her stomach and pushing all thoughts of the Hotel Deucalion at Christmas time from her mind, Morrigan looked down at her letter. Rook’s glowering face popped into her head.

‘But I really do have to go back to school.’

Sunday was unseasonably warm, for the first day of winter. Sunlight sparkled on the Splendid Canal, where hundreds had gathered for the launch of the festive season. The crowd was a sea of purple, in a hundred different shades. Until that morning, Morrigan would have expected everyone to be decked in red and green, to show their support of either Saint Nicholas or the Yule Queen. But it turned out the ‘festive season’ her aunts were so excited about encompassed more than a dozen different winter celebrations, since the aristocrats, as Uncle Tobias joked, ‘never met a holiday they wouldn’t throw a party for’. And while Christmas certainly made the list, it wasn’t number one by any stretch; that spot was reserved for an Ages-old, Silver-District-only tradition, which they were very passionate about.

‘Today we usher in a season of thanksgiving for the beauty, bounty and blessings bestowed upon us through the Ages,’ the amplified voice of Lord Hallewell boomed over the water. A cheerful, elderly man bedecked in lavender finery, he stood in the central portico of the largest bridge on the Splendid Canal, curiously named the Bridge of Weavers. Behind him were the heads of the other Greater Houses, including Aunt Margot, standing in for her mother. ‘A season of paying tribute to our most ancient and divine patron, and holding fast to the traditions that have guided us since the founding of our noble district. The Season of the Manyhands!’

Morrigan’s ears rang as cheers exploded on both sides of the Splendid Canal.

‘With today’s launching of the Manyhands tribute, festivities may officially begin. For three weeks, the glorious seasonal sculpture will float on our waterways for all to enjoy, before being carried into the Paramour Pleasure Gardens for the Night of the Good Feasting.

‘Now, before we begin our canal-side stroll to the launch site, my fellow Silver Council members and I,’ Lord Hallewell continued soberly, gesturing to the figures behind him, ‘wish to acknowledge the enduring generosity of the Rinaldi family, who have kindly sponsored this year’s spectacular tribute. Even in a time of immense personal difficulty, our friends and neighbours, the Rinaldis, never fail to astound us with their unmatched munificence for the public good. Bravo, Rinaldi House!’

More applause as Vincenzo and Olivia Rinaldi, along with their daughter Vesta, their son Cosimo, and Cosimo’s wife and baby, joined the Silver Council on the Bridge of Weavers. Morrigan couldn’t help noticing one of the council members didn’t raise her hands to clap. Lady Devereaux remained statue-still, though her nose wrinkled slightly, as if she’d caught a whiff of something horrid.

Bit suss, thought Morrigan.

‘And now,’ boomed Lord Hallewell, ‘let the march begin!’

A brass band struck up a jaunty tune and the crowd surged forward along the broad canal-side paths. The Darlings were buzzing with holiday cheer and the slightly manic energy of a group of unpractised parents who had (perhaps unwisely) given their nannies the day off as a launch-of-season treat.

‘All right children, hold tight to your grown-up’s hand!’ called Aunt Miriam, doing her umpteenth headcount of the day.

The cohesion of the group disintegrated almost immediately and Morrigan quickly fell behind, but she wasn’t worried. The atmosphere was joyful, and the winter sun was warm on her face, and it felt wonderful to know that, even now, Nevermoor could still surprise her with something brand new and utterly confusing like … whatever this Manyhands business was. She didn’t notice the man strolling next to her until a family of five walked right through his body.

‘Blessings of the Manyhands upon you and your house,’ Squall greeted her coolly. ‘Charming to see you in such good health. I’d begun to wonder if you were lying comatose somewhere, or had perhaps tumbled into a ravine and trapped your leg beneath a boulder, and thus had no choice but to decline two consecutive invitations. I was under the impression you wanted to learn the Wundrous Arts; was I mistaken?’ he asked in a pensive, mildly amused tone.

‘No, I just—’

‘I can’t unmake our agreement, Miss Crow. It’s fixed in the Gossamer. The existence of your apprenticeship is unalterable.’

‘I realise that.’

‘But I can’t compel you to participate in it, either.’

‘Wait, what?’ Morrigan turned off the noisy Splendid Canal, forcing a path through the jostling crowd to a cool, shadowy side street. ‘You said the apprenticeship is unalterable—’

‘Its existence is a fact, yes,’ Squall agreed, strolling casually after her. ‘Much like the existence of my membership to the Ylvastad Public Library is a fact. I have a laminated card with my name on it. Doesn’t mean I have to use it.’

She blinked, taken aback. ‘You’re saying I could just … pretend the apprenticeship doesn’t exist? And nothing bad would happen?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that. But if you’d like to take your chances on the parasitic swarm of Wunder that will build around you while you remain a sitting duck, stagnant in your ability to control and command it … well. That’s your prerogative.’ He raised his eyebrows and mimed an explosion.

‘Of course I don’t want that,’ Morrigan muttered. ‘But there’s stuff happening all the time around here, and my aunts are always nearby. It’s hard to sneak off for unscheduled lessons at the drop of a hat.’

‘Oh, I do apologise. Shall I liaise with your social secretary? Perhaps we can find a spot between lawn bowls and hat shopping on Thursday?’ Squall made an irritated, careless gesture across the narrow waterway, like throwing bread to the ducks. The Gossamer bridge appeared and he began to cross, stopping halfway to glare back at her. ‘Do you require a handwritten invitation?’

She was about to snap that no, she didn’t, but a bit of notice might be nice, when—

‘Morrigan! HEY! Over here!’

Morrigan squinted into the sunlight and spotted a determined-looking Louis and Lottie St James, fighting their way through the fast-moving river of people towards her. She felt her stomach clench.

Taking three seconds to weigh up her options, Morrigan gave a frustrated groan and stepped onto the glowing Gossamer.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A Signal Through the Noise

‘Nocturne? Really?’ Morrigan kicked listlessly at a bit of crumbled brick on the road. They’d alighted in a grubby industrial area in Swordsworth, one of Nevermoor’s outer boroughs. ‘What about Weaving? I’ve done heaps of Weaving lately, I reckon I could make the pilgrimage now.’

‘Has the seal begun to show?’ asked Squall.

‘Oh.’ She examined her fingertips, remembering how her Inferno imprint had appeared before she visited its Divinity, the Kindling in the Hearth. The tiny flame still flickered brightly on the end of her left middle finger – tattoo-like, but not a tattoo. ‘No.’

‘Then no, you’re not ready. I wouldn’t recommend trying for Weaving next, anyway.’

‘What about Masquerade, then?’ Morrigan had enjoyed their lesson inside the Skyfaced Clock. She hadn’t quite managed to transform into a mouse, but it was only her first try, and she thought she’d made some very respectable whiskers.

‘I’ve decided to set Masquerade aside for now,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t play to your natural strengths. Nocturne will be easier for you to acquire – the Nightingale in the Nest is far less capricious than most of the other Divinities. Certainly less traumatising than some.’

‘The Nightingale in the Nest,’ Morrigan repeated to herself. ‘Cute.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

Squall stepped off the street and walked through a huge set of locked iron gates, leaving Morrigan to squeeze through a gap beneath the rusty chain that bound them. The place looked like an old mill or factory compound. Dilapidated brick towers loomed above a series of long, squat buildings beside a particularly murky stretch of the River Juro.

‘You take me to the nicest places.’ Morrigan scrunched her nose.

He stared at her with a flicker of irritation. ‘You recall the night you destroyed the Hollowpox? On the Deucalion rooftop, I told you to imagine a map of Nevermoor that showed the density of Wundrous energy as a concentration of light specks. Yes?’

She nodded. ‘You said places like Wunsoc and the Deucalion would be the brightest, because of how much Wunder they churn through.’

‘Mmm. Well, imagine the opposite of those places. The darkest spots on the map would be neighbourhoods like this one. Although there is Wunder almost everywhere in Nevermoor, it’s drawn much more powerfully to the places where Wundersmiths built structures to attract and harness it … and I’m afraid poor old Swordsworth was always overlooked when it came to investment in the public good. Which makes it an ideal place for today’s summoning lesson. You’ll soon understand why.’

He directed her through an archway, past huge bottle-shaped chimneys and a terrace of workers’ cottages in disrepair.

‘I can already summon Wunder, though,’ Morrigan reminded him. ‘I summon it constantly.’

Squall tutted impatiently. ‘Yes, but summoning Wunder is only one application of the art of Nocturne. The Wundersmith who fails to fully investigate it, fails to learn a powerful truth.’

‘Which is?’

‘That by summoning Wunder itself, you can summon anything that is Wundrous in nature … or in theory, anything that contains even a speck of Wunder. Which, in Nevermoor, includes most things and most people.’

‘You’re saying I could use Nocturne to summon people? Like—’ She clicked her fingers, and the sound bounced off the empty buildings. ‘Instantly?’

Squall paused, seeming to have an argument with himself. ‘It certainly is possible, if you become a good enough Wundersmith. But as always, there are caveats and parameters. The distance between you and the person you wish to summon. Your target’s density of Wunder. Their strength of will, their resistance or cooperation, your own skill and energy … and probably half a dozen other variables.’

‘What about something bigger?’ Morrigan asked, her interest piqued. ‘Like … Cascade Towers is fully Wundrous. Are you saying I could summon a skyscraper made of waterfalls right here?’

‘That would be a ridiculously ill-advised application of the art, and no intelligent Wundersmith would attempt it … though I suppose in theory it’s possible.’ He tilted his head from side to side. ‘However, unless your instructions are extremely granular in their specificity, Wunder will generally read your intention, and take the path of least resistance to execute it. Wunder is intelligent enough to know the easiest way to achieve that is to move you, not the building.’

‘Huh.’ A cavalcade of new possibilities tumbled into Morrigan’s head. ‘Can we try it now?’

‘Certainly. Then I’ll drop you off the Black Cliffs into the Harrow Strait for your first ever scuba diving lesson.’ Noticing her blank expression, he clarified, ‘That would be overambitious. We’ll begin on a smaller scale. Here we are.’

They’d reached the centre of the compound, where five buildings converged on a sloping cobbled square scattered with bits of broken ceramic tiles.

He instructed Morrigan to gather five hand-sized pieces of tile, weave a few threads of Wunder tightly around each of them, and toss one onto each of the surrounding rooftops. (It took her eight throws to hit all five targets, but she’d never claimed to be good at sports.)

‘Summoning Wunder itself is easy,’ said Squall, ‘but summoning a specific object – which is to say, summoning the specific collection of Wunder attached to an object, and hoping the object trots along with the Wunder when it’s summoned – is more difficult. You must listen to your senses and home in on the smallest of signals. Now, close your eyes and slow your breathing.’

They passed the next hour in what felt like meditation, only more frustrating.

To summon one of her tile pieces, Morrigan had to call the Wunder she’d woven around them back to her. It sounded simple. Yet it was the single most exasperating task she’d ever attempted.

Not because Wunder wouldn’t listen to her – it was the opposite. Wunder was the proverbial dog with its ears perked up, ready to rush to her at the first note of Morningtide’s Child. But the trouble was, Wunder was everywhere, not just wrapped around the tiles. So it was like being surrounded by a pack of overenthusiastic beagles every time she opened her mouth. She couldn’t control it. Couldn’t make it be quiet.

If the tiles were closer and in sight, she could have thrown her invisible reach out and taken them. But summoning something at a distance, something she couldn’t see, meant feeling her way blindfolded through layers of ambient noise and static and fizzing energy. Grasping for one tiny spark in a sky full of fireworks.

As Squall predicted, she quickly understood why this lesson would have been impossible in a place like Wunsoc or the Deucalion. If Swordsworth’s very low density of Wunder was already this fireworks-noisy, anywhere Wunder was abundant would have been marching-band-jackhammer-volcanic-eruption-screaming-toddler-noisy.

On approximately the one squillionth try, when Morrigan’s energy and enthusiasm were dangerously close to depletion, a familiar shard of terracotta finally found its way into her hand. She felt the Wunder she’d threaded around it singing at their reunion and literally jumped for joy, before collapsing to the ground, exhausted.

Squall didn’t join in the celebration, but he did at least refrain from reminding her that the task was to summon five pieces of tile, not one.

‘I think that will do for today,’ was all he said.

Morrigan asked Squall to send her back somewhere closer to Sapphire Square, where the march was set to end with the launching of the tribute.

‘Bet I missed the whole thing anyway,’ she grumbled. ‘Happy Season of the Manyhands to me.’

Squall stopped her before she could step onto the Gossamer bridge. ‘Tell me, what do you know about the Manyhands?’

‘Not much,’ she admitted. ‘Aunt Margot said in the olden days, when her great-grandmother was a little girl, the tribute would come to life and dance with them at the end-of-season feast, and … I don’t know. It left them gifts and stuff.’ She shrugged. ‘I assume it’s all made up.’

Then again, she supposed she might think Saint Nicholas and the Yule Queen’s Battle of Christmas Eve was made up too, if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.

‘Much of it is,’ Squall agreed. ‘The Manyhands themself is certainly real. I’ve met them. You will too, one day, when you make your Weaving pilgrimage.’

Morrigan had been itching for this conversation to end so she could cross the bridge, but that caught her attention. ‘The Manyhands is a Wundrous Divinity?’

‘One of the more terrifying ones, yes. Although you wouldn’t know it from the tribute’s flattering depiction.’

‘I haven’t seen it yet.’

‘Nor have I,’ he said. ‘But it’s the same every year: a sanitised, flower-strewn, beauty-pageant version of a profound, unfathomable ancient horror. A horror whose true likeness could never be recreated by a feeble human artist. Not even a Wundersmith – although Nakamura took a more respectable stab at it. The Guiltghast at least came slightly closer to reality.’

‘Hang on. Whoa. You’re saying the Guiltghast is …’ Morrigan rubbed her face, trying to keep her fuzzy brain on track. ‘Wait, what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying the Guiltghast was one of many Wundrous Acts that was created in tribute to a Divinity, and fashioned – somewhat – in their image. The Divinity in question being the Manyhands at the Loom: divine patron not of the Silver District, but of the Wundrous Art of Weaving. Supposedly Hani Nakamura took her first pilgrimage to the Loom and was so enamoured of the Manyhands she pledged her lifelong devotion. Never sought another seal.’

‘I thought the whole point was to collect them all,’ said Morrigan, looking thoughtfully at the tattoo-like imprint of a small, dancing flame on her finger. She was very fond of her Inferno seal, but there were nine Wundrous Arts altogether, and she still wanted the others.

Squall’s eyes flicked briefly upwards. ‘You make them sound like commemorative teaspoons. But yes, I suppose the whole point, for most Wundersmiths, was to acquire as broad an arsenal of skills as possible in a single lifetime. For Hani Nakamura, though – and others like her – committing their life to one Divinity was a spiritual choice.

‘Whereas for the Silver District, it was a political one. Hundreds of years ago, most people in Nevermoor paid tribute to one, or some, or all of the Wundrous Divinities. The Silver District’s founding families chose the Manyhands as one of four patron deities they paid tribute to throughout the seasons: the Manyhands in winter, the Nightingale in spring, the Sisters in summer and the Kindling in autumn. Of course it’s wildly unfashionable in the Free State to acknowledge the Divinities these days – their existence having been obscured along with Wundersmith history – but the Silver District is so belligerently insular, they never really let go of their old traditions.’

Morrigan glanced again at the Gossamer bridge, keenly aware that it was almost sunset. She’d surely missed the launch of the tribute, but perhaps she could still get back before her aunts declared her a missing person.

‘Not that I don’t enjoy a history lesson,’ she said, ‘but are you telling me this for a particular reason, or … ?’

‘I’m telling you this,’ Squall continued in a level voice, ‘so you understand that this warped idea they have – this image of the Manyhands as a divine mascot, a personal deity in service only to the Silverborn – is both false and grotesque. The Divinities couldn’t care less about the Silver District; they don’t care about any of us. The real patron this pretentious little festival was made to honour was, in truth, the Wundrous Society itself. The old Wundrous Society, who took a lot of money from the Silver Council in return for certain favours.’

Morrigan frowned. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as the creation and maintenance of valuable infrastructure, making their district one of the most densely Wundrous, beautiful and best-functioning neighbourhoods in the city, with Kokoro’s waterfall gate and Antares’s self-cleaning canal filtration system and Jemmity’s lintel chain and so on. The anti-Swordsworth, in a way.’

Morrigan was quiet for a moment, trying to process what he was telling her. Decima Kokoro made the waterfall gate – she felt like she ought to have known that.

Did the Darlings know how much of their district was made by Wundersmiths? For reasons she couldn’t quite discern and didn’t want to think too hard about, that idea made her feel uneasy.

‘Do you think … people in the Silver District know all this?’ she asked him. ‘Probably not, right? I mean, the Wundrous Society did a pretty thorough job of wiping out Wundersmith history everywhere else in Nevermoor.’

‘I think the clever ones do – the ones in charge. Not that you’ll ever hear them admit to such an origin story. Much more polite to credit their beauty, bounty and blessings to some folksy, mythological tale about generous gods with a soft spot for the aristocracy, than the paid-for pet Wundersmiths who were once at their beck and call. But I imagine, deep down, they must long for those good old days.’

He raised one eyebrow, casting her a sidelong look.

‘Oh dear. Have I spoiled the magic of the season?’

With the magic of the season … not spoiled, perhaps, but certainly smudged, Morrigan slipped back into the crowd. The Manyhands tribute was already too far down the Splendid Canal for her to spot, but as it would float around the district for several weeks, she knew she’d see it eventually.

The rest of Sunday evening was a quiet one by Darling standards – supper at a waterfront restaurant with the Mahapatras and the Lowdermilks, followed by parlour games with the Carringtons and the Fortescues, and a midnight stroll home through the Pleasure Gardens. By the time she finally got to bed, Morrigan felt like she’d power-lifted a train carriage and run four marathons … and yet she found herself lying wide awake at two o’clock, feeling anxiety set in.

It had suddenly hit her: she was going back to school in the morning. Back to the real world. That came with a whole set of real-world worries, the most pressing one being that Cadence would expect her to have found the wedding photos.

Sitting up in bed, Morrigan leaned over and reached underneath the mattress, feeling around for where she’d hidden Cadence’s map after the last time she’d crossed a room off – a huge, empty parlour on the third floor, with dark patches on the walls where paintings used to be, and no furniture. That must have been … a week ago? Guilt gnawed at her. How had she so thoroughly put the murder from her mind all this time, when one of the people on their suspect list was inside this house?

And, more importantly, what was she going to tell Detective Blackburn tomorrow? Sorry I didn’t do the one thing I said I was coming back here for! I was too busy with all the croquet and tea parties. She’d love that.

‘Where is it?’ Morrigan muttered, just about dislocating her shoulder as she twisted to reach further under the mattress, feeling for the little piece of paper. She finally had to climb out to kneel on the floor beside the bed. A new worry crept in: had someone found the map? One of the maids, perhaps, when they’d changed her bed linen? Would they have handed it over to the aunts as evidence of Morrigan’s espionage?

Before her imagination could spiral out of control, finally her fingers found the edge of the paper. Flooded with relief, she yanked it out a little too enthusiastically and tumbled backwards, grabbing the wooden bedpost to steady herself.

Morrigan instantly felt the sharp needle-like pain of a splinter embedding itself deep in her palm. She winced as she pulled out a tiny shard of wood and, wiping a drop of blood on her nightshirt, tried to see where it had come from.

There was something carved into the back of the polished oak bedpost. Morrigan nudged the heavy bed a tiny bit further away from the wall, throwing all her weight against it. Contorting herself at an awkward angle, she breathed a tiny flame into her cupped hand for light. There were four words carved vertically in deep, angry slashes:

I

H

A

T

E

L

A

D

Y

H

O

R

R

I

B

L

E

‘I hate Lady Horrible,’ Morrigan whispered, extinguishing the tiny flame with her breath.

Her mind raced. Had her mother carved those words? Or somebody else? And who was Lady Horrible – her grandmother, perhaps? Was this some clue as to why Meredith had run away?

Not for the first time since coming to Darling House, Morrigan was overwhelmed with a longing to speak to her mother, to ask the questions only Meredith Darling could answer. She reached out gingerly to touch the words on the bedpost, letter by letter. They felt like her mother was reaching out to her through time and space. A tiny spark in a sky full of fireworks.

It was perhaps the least opportune moment to hear a strange sound coming from the hallway outside her room.

THUMP.

Morrigan froze, peering into the darkness. The door creaked open, and her heart caught in her throat as a silhouette emerged in the gloom.

THUMP.

‘OW!’ came a cry, as the silhouette stumbled fully into the bedroom, and then, ‘Watch it, Louis, you klutz! These shoes are De Flimsé.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Lintel-Hopping

‘Lottie?’ Morrigan whispered. The door clicked shut, somebody flipped a switch, and the room was flooded with light. ‘Louis! How did you get in here?’

‘Up you get!’ said Lottie. ‘We’re going lintel-hopping.’

‘Put this on, it’s cold outside.’ Louis tossed a coat to Morrigan from across the room, wincing when it hit her in the face. ‘Sorry.’

She snatched it away, scowling. ‘You’re going lentil-what?’

‘We,’ Lottie repeated, with a circular gesture that included Morrigan, ‘are going lintel-hopping. Aren’t you lucky?’

Morrigan scrambled to her feet, squinting at them as her eyes adjusted to the light. ‘Did you break in?’

‘No!’ said Lottie, giggling. ‘Although, yes, technically.’

‘If I scream right now, the whole house will wake up.’

Lottie blinked at her. ‘Well … don’t.’

‘Morrigan, listen,’ Louis said in an urgent whisper. ‘We’ve been trying to talk to you ever since the wedding. We know you’ve been avoiding us.’

‘And we know why,’ added Lottie.

‘Everything hit the fan after the wedding,’ Louis went on. ‘We went straight home after … you know, after what happened … and we told our parents about Dario—’

‘—and then we told them again, because Father was still half asleep and Mummy never listens the first time,’ said Lottie, rolling her eyes.

‘—and they were shocked, obviously. And since we had their full attention for once, Lottie decided to tell them every single detail of our night … including a rave review of the fascinating new friend we’d made—’

‘He means you,’ Lottie clarified unnecessarily.

‘—and suddenly out of nowhere, our father had a conniption! He got angry and weird and warned us to stay away from you, but refused to explain why.’

‘So, obviously we ignored him,’ said Lottie, ‘and tried to talk to you every chance we got.’

‘But you kept disappearing whenever we came near you, and Father still wouldn’t tell us anything, so we had no choice but to do our own finding out.’ He took a big breath. ‘And we did. We found out … a lot of things.’

‘Louis read the newspapers,’ Lottie told her, wide-eyed, as if announcing her brother had performed open-heart surgery on a child in need.

‘We didn’t know about any of that Concerned Citizens stuff,’ said Louis, with a look of disgust. ‘You have to believe us, Morrigan.’

‘Do I?’ asked Morrigan, unimpressed. ‘I have to believe you had no idea your dad’s been trying to make life miserable for every Wunimal in Nevermoor? And that he spreads lies about me and wants to get me kicked out of the Free State?’

‘Well … no, I don’t suppose you have to,’ Louis conceded. ‘But—’

‘We know how ridiculous it sounds,’ Lottie interrupted her brother. ‘But Father doesn’t tell us anything! We knew that politics was a little hobby of his, but I promise we didn’t know about the Concerned Citizens, or about the Hollowpox protests, or any of it. Not until after the wedding.’

‘Once we’d done all our investigating, of course we confronted Father,’ Louis said fiercely. ‘We told him – unequivocally, point blank, in no uncertain terms – that he must stop all this Concerned Citizens nonsense, and leave the Wunimals alone, and take back everything he ever said about you, and write a heartfelt apology.’

Morrigan stared at them. ‘And?’

The twins looked at each other and sighed, flopping in defeated unison onto a chaise longue near the foot of the bed.

‘And … when he’d finally stopped laughing,’ Louis muttered, scowling at the memory, ‘he told us his political activities were none of our business. And that we were to stop reading newspapers and asking questions. And that if we ever try to befriend you or speak with you or go anywhere near you again, Lottie will be sent to Mrs Milford’s Corrective School for Rebellious and Wayward Daughters of the Nobility—’

‘—and Louis will go to Brigham Boys College for the Encouragement of Energetic But Malleable Future Leaders.’ Lottie grasped her brother’s hand for just a moment, looking genuinely distressed. ‘In the Fifth Pocket.’

‘Oh.’ Morrigan frowned. ‘So, you …’

‘Immediately doubled our efforts to speak to you, obviously.’ Louis put out his hands, palms up. ‘Morrigan. We can’t help who our father is. But we’ve been desperately trying to see you so we can tell you how sorry we are, and that we don’t agree with any of his stupid Concerned Citizens nonsense. Please don’t think we’re like them.’

‘No, you mustn’t!’ Lottie beseeched her. ‘We’ve never been concerned about anything in our whole lives. Honest.’

Morrigan looked from one to the other, trying to keep her face impassive while her feelings untangled.

Louis was right about one thing, she thought. They couldn’t help who their father was. Nobody knew that better than Morrigan Crow.

‘Right,’ she said, reaching for a pair of boots. ‘What’s this lintel-hopping thing?’

Not like she was going to get any sleep now, anyway.

There was a moment after Morrigan’s first hop – just a scant handful of seconds – when she was certain Louis and Lottie St James had murdered her.

A moment when she was weightless, suspended in a great black field of nothing, unable to see or hear or smell, quite certain she’d just fallen for a heinously clever trick by the scheming children of her enemy.

Then it was over, and she was stumbling through a doorway into a moonlit conservatory full of towering tropical plants, and the schemers in question were waiting for her with welcoming grins.

‘Thought you might be dead for a second, didn’t you?’ said Lottie.

‘A bit.’

Louis nodded sagely. ‘We all did, the first time. Should have warned you, sorry.’

‘Where are we?’ Morrigan turned on the spot and was surprised to find only glass behind her. ‘Wait, what happened to—’

‘We’re in Carrington House,’ said Louis. ‘And the doorway’s gone, I’m afraid. Can’t go back the way we came; lintel-hopping is a one-way trip. Follow me!’

They tiptoed down hallways lined with portraits of various Lords and Ladies Carrington from history, up four sweeping staircases, through lavishly decorated chambers and finally into a narrow attic room that contained a door with no handle.

Above the door – on what Louis and Lottie called the lintel – was a small cast-iron sculpture of a hand.

‘Do you want to go first this time?’ Louis asked her.

Morrigan did not want to go first, but she also didn’t want to admit that she didn’t want to go first, so she gritted her teeth and went first.

Using her grip on the cast-iron hand to lever herself through the doorframe, Morrigan swung into the void with much more confidence than she felt, and let go. Seven suspended seconds of stomach-churning doubt later, she landed inside what appeared to be a large wooden boat shelter. Half a dozen glossy green boats with the carved heads and curling tails of chameleons bobbed in the water. The air smelled of salt and varnished wood. She was soon joined by Lottie, then Louis.

‘Where are we now?’ she asked.

Louis took a slightly battered map of the Silver District from his back pocket, unfolding it on top of an overturned kayak to show her.

‘Rakoto House,’ he said, pointing to a spot on the map. ‘And once we sneak into Lalaina Rakoto’s third walk-in closet on the second floor of the main house, we’ll take the out-lintel all the way over’ – he tapped one of the little islands opposite the Paramour Pleasure Gardens, in the Greater Circle – ‘here. Straight to the McAlisters’ in-lintel, which is in their wine cellar.’ He turned to grin at Morrigan. ‘Shall we?’

They spent the next half-hour hopping from lintel to lintel, sneaking through people’s houses while they slept. It was simultaneously the creepiest, most illegal thing Morrigan had ever done in her life, and the most fun she’d had in the Silver District so far. The twins’ cheerful company somehow made serial breaking-and-entering seem more like a silly, harmless adventure than a crime.

Mostly they were like thieves in the night, hardly daring to breathe let alone speak. But in some houses – such as the Playfairs’, who were wintering in the Highlands with their full household staff – they could move and talk freely, and Morrigan could ask the questions bubbling in her brain.

‘How many houses have you broken into?’

‘About half the Silver District, we think,’ Louis said. ‘And we’re always adding more to the map. But it’s not really breaking in. All we’re doing is opening a door.’

‘And each house is just a link in the chain,’ explained Lottie. ‘A stepping stone to where we’re actually going.’

‘Which is … ?’

The twins shared a bright-eyed grin and said, in unison, ‘Outside.’

Morrigan tried not to look unimpressed. ‘You can’t go outside at home?’

‘No, we mean outside outside,’ said Louis with a superior chuckle. ‘As in, outside the Silver Gates. Outside in Nevermoor.’

‘But you’re not locked in, surely?’ asked Morrigan.

Lottie made a thoughtful humming sound. ‘Not technically, no. Obviously there are trips to the Trollosseum and the opera and so on … with supervision.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And Louis goes to school outside the district, at least. But I’m at Dev Ladies’ on the Splendid Canal, so if I couldn’t go lintel-hopping I’d never get outside the gates without an adult chaperone – not until I come of age, and who knows when that will be! Mother and Father are refusing to announce our debut birthday.’

Morrigan frowned. ‘Debut birthday?’

‘Yes, it’s a whole thing,’ sighed Louis. ‘When your family decides you’re mature enough to have a say in household things, and go about town on your own, and vote in the Silver Assembly, so they throw you a big party and add your name to the family plaque.’

Morrigan didn’t need to ask what he meant by ‘family plaque’. Every front door of every house in the Silver District had a shiny plaque with a list of every adult who lived there and who bore the family name. The Darling House plaque had six: Lady Mallory Darling, Lady Margot Darling, Lady Miriam Darling, Lady Modestine Darling, Lady Winifred Darling and Mr Tobias Darling. Morrigan had visited enough homes in the district by now to know that you could tell a family’s power and influence by the size of the plaque on their door. The Mahapatras had twenty-six names on theirs, and the Babatundes well over thirty, and it was no coincidence that their parties were the most well-attended, their friendship the most sought-after and their heads of house the most revered in the district.

‘Most people debut on their sixteenth birthday, but not always. Zara’s younger than us by a whole year and she’s debuting next summer, on her fifteenth … as she’s constantly reminding me,’ Lottie muttered, scowling. ‘The way Father’s been carrying on lately, we’ll probably be waiting until our seventeenth.’

Louis gave a wry smile. ‘If we get arrested again, we’ll be waiting until we’re a hundred.’

‘Again?’ Morrigan’s eyes widened. ‘How many times have you been arrested?’

‘Three or four,’ Louis admitted. ‘There are houses we try to avoid these days. Lady Fortescue has practically supernatural hearing and she loves an excuse to call the Silk.’

‘I think Louis gets us arrested on purpose sometimes, because he doesn’t want to debut,’ said Lottie. ‘He’s afraid of growing up.’

‘That’s not true!’ Louis protested, looking slightly sheepish. ‘And I’m not afraid. I just don’t want to lose the lintel chain. The thing is, Morrigan, once you’ve had your debut, the chain thinks you’re an adult and it won’t let you go lintel-hopping anymore. The doors won’t open for you, and after a while you can’t see them, and soon you can’t even remember them. Our cousin Penny Choi took us lintel-hopping for the first time when we were twelve, on Hallowmas. She debuted a month later, and by Christmas she’d forgotten everything.’

Louis looked positively morose at the thought, but Morrigan suddenly tingled with excitement. She was remembering something Squall had said in their lesson that day. Kokoro’s waterfall gate … Jemmity’s lintel chain. The twins were talking about a Wundrous Act, and they didn’t even realise it.

‘Yes, but Penny didn’t need the lintel chain after her debut birthday,’ said Lottie, oozing exasperation. ‘That’s the whole point – now she can leave the district whenever she wants! Think about all that lovely freedom. Don’t you want to go to concerts and things without sneaking around?’

‘I could take or leave the concerts,’ Louis admitted. ‘The sneaking around’s the bit I like.’

Morrigan lost count, but they must have crept through a dozen houses before finally leaving the Silver District via a lintel hidden in the back of a walk-in freezer at Ceresoli’s, a fancy restaurant on the Splendid Canal. They were met on the other side with a rush of cool night air and a cacophony of squawking, chirping sounds inside the Nevermoor Zoo penguin exhibit.

Morrigan had never seen real penguins before. She could have sat and watched them waddling across the ice in their little tuxedoes all night, but the twins had other plans.

Two lintels later they reached their ultimate destination: a grubby, disused pub, complete with faded dartboard, sticky carpets, a dusty bar that reeked of stale beer, and a three-legged pool table with one corner propped up on crates. Homemade bunting strung across the bar read: TOP SECRET HEADQUARTERS OF THE LINTEL-HOPPERS CLUB.

‘Our new home!’ announced Louis. ‘Just found it a few weeks ago. Isn’t it perfect?’

‘Perfect,’ agreed Morrigan, although that wasn’t quite the adjective she’d have chosen. Underwhelming, maybe. Smelly, certainly.

‘The chain’s always growing and changing – adding new lintels like this one, taking some away,’ Louis explained. ‘So we have to keep updating the map. Sometimes a house falls off the chain completely – usually because some grown-up unknowingly moves a heavy piece of furniture in front of it or something. If there’s nobody of lintel-hopping age in the house to move it back and clear the way, or we can’t sneak in and do it ourselves, the closed lintel eventually disappears and another one grows somewhere else in the house.’

‘How long does that take?’ asked Morrigan.

‘A few weeks, or months. Sometimes longer. We’ve been waiting for Beauregard House to rejoin the chain for almost two years now, and the detours to get around it are really annoying,’ said Louis, looking disgruntled. ‘That’s the house the Vulture bought … which is why people call him the Vulture.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s a big swooping bird of prey, isn’t he? Circling the aristocracy, waiting to pick off the stragglers.’ Louis hunched his shoulders and flapped his arms menacingly, then ruined the effect by giggling. ‘That’s what everyone thinks, anyway. They’re all terrified of him because he’s not even from the Silver District but he somehow bought his way into the Greater Circle when the Beauregards got into … financial trouble.’ He mouthed the last two words as if they were too embarrassing – or too dangerous – to speak aloud. ‘Our cousin Penny says there’s no legal way for the Silver Council to get rid of him.’

‘So, now one of the twelve most powerful houses in the district belongs to some guy who doesn’t even know how to dress for the opera, and the old people simply can’t bear it,’ added Lottie, grinning with delight.

‘We think the lintel chain doesn’t like him much, either,’ said Louis. ‘Or maybe it just doesn’t like how empty Beauregard House is now.’

The pub seemed less of a headquarters and more of a thoroughfare. While the twins were showing her around, several other Silverborn teenagers trickled in and out, arriving via the in-lintel and leaving through a front door half hanging off its hinges. They acknowledged Louis and Lottie – and even Morrigan – with nods and waves, but everyone seemed occupied with their own evening plans.

‘Don’t your friends mind that you’ve shown me the top secret headquarters?’

Louis shrugged. ‘Every kid from the Silver District has to learn about lintel-hopping! It’s tradition.’

‘I’m not technically from the Silver District.’

‘That’s what Barty said, so we took a vote,’ said Lottie. ‘And it was unanimous! Everyone agrees you’ll make an excellent lintel-hopper. Except Barty.’ The busted pub door was flung open at that moment, banging loudly against the wall, and an excited teenage boy ran inside. ‘Speak of the idiot. Hello, Barty! Where’ve you come from, somewhere boring?’

But Barty was pointing frantically out the door and struggling to catch his breath. ‘We saw – Tolu and me – we saw it, the thing under – IT’S BACK! COME ON, HURRY!’

Then he pelted outside again, and Morrigan, Louis and Lottie had no choice but to follow.

A familiar sour, salty smell hit Morrigan’s nostrils, and she heard the faint rhythmic lapping of water. There was no light except the moon, illuminating a row of broken-down old boats moored to a pier with fraying ropes and rusty chains, and a boardwalk lined with empty shops and broken streetlamps. Some shadowy corner of Morrigan’s memory lit up.

‘Your headquarters is in Eldritch Moorings?’ she said, but nobody heard her over Barty and Tolu’s excited shouting.

‘THERE!’ Tolu pointed to a spot in the water right next to a fishing boat with its paint peeling off. ‘It was right there! We just saw a flash of it, like last time, but it was definitely a giant squid. I’m telling you, man, I saw a tentacle! It was HUGE.’

‘Sure it wasn’t your huge imagination?’ suggested Louis, sounding amused.

‘It’s not a squid, Tolu, you prat!’ said Barty. ‘It’s a giant carp. I should know, my uncle caught one in Loch Logan two summers ago. Let’s see if any of these boats still have fishing gear! Hundred kred says I can reel it in.’

‘Hundred kred says one of them drowns,’ murmured Lottie, as the two boys clambered onto the half-rotten deck of a boat. She held out a hand for her brother to shake. ‘My money’s on Barty.’

Louis tutted. ‘I’m not betting on someone’s death, Lot.’

‘Just a little drown. Not to death. Fifty kred?’

‘Fine.’ He shook her hand. ‘Morrigan, you in?’

But Morrigan was distracted, connecting a lot of dots very quickly. A memory once occluded by the Hush now resurfaced: a group of costumed teenagers stumbling through an old pub door, giggling and squealing at the water’s edge. She’d been arguing with Squall at the time. She turned to face Louis. ‘That was you in the silver jacket! You and Lottie and the others were here, on Hallowmas night. You came through that door and said … you said, Eldritch! Put it on the map.’

‘I TOLD YOU!’ Louis sang to Lottie, punching the air triumphantly. His sister puffed out her cheeks in a sigh. ‘I knew it was you, Morrigan. Lottie didn’t believe me at the wedding, when I said I recognised you.’

Morrigan blinked. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I was going to say something, but then you didn’t say anything, so I figured you’d forgotten because … you know,’ he finished awkwardly.

‘What?’

It was hard to see in the moonlight, but Morrigan thought he was blushing. ‘Well … you’re in the Wundrous Society, aren’t you! You probably go on a million different middle-of-the-night adventures every week and I didn’t want to look like a dork by making it a big deal …’

‘You are making it a big deal,’ Lottie pointed out, ‘and you do look like a dork.’

The grin Louis gave her was extremely smug. ‘Yes, but I’m a dork who was right, which is— BARTHOLOMEW, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

Tolu was doubled over with laughter watching Barty shimmy his way up the wooden mast, while the old fishing boat rocked ominously. Louis, Lottie and Morrigan ran across the boardwalk towards them.

‘Dare me to jump in?’ Barty leaned back, legs hugging the mast but holding it with only one hand.

‘NO!’ said Louis and Morrigan, as Tolu cried, ‘YES!’ through peals of laughter.

‘That would be a VERY BAD IDEA, Barty! You both need to get off that boat and back onto the boardwalk, RIGHT NOW,’ Morrigan shouted. Barty scowled and rolled his eyes at her, then went back to climbing the mast. ‘Listen to me! That thing in the water isn’t a squid OR a carp. It’s much more dangerous—’

‘JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!’ Tolu began chanting. Barty was almost at the top of the mast.

Morrigan winced and turned to Lottie and Louis. ‘You’ve got to make them stop. If he falls in—’

She was interrupted by the monstrous body of the Guiltghast breaking the surface of the water, a great kinetic force, rising high into the air like a breaching whale. The moonlight reflected in its glistening flesh and enormous eyes, and the tendrils were thrown back in a mesmerising movement like a mermaid throwing back its hair.

It was beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

The jellyfish-like body was even bigger than Morrigan had imagined – easily the size of two boats. As it arced downwards it seemed to stretch its tentacles even further, thwacking the hull of the boat as it landed with a gargantuan SPLASH that rocked the entire harbour.

The vessel keeled sharply on its side. Morrigan heard a bone-chilling cry as Barty was thrown from the mast and plummeted to the water, limbs flailing. Tolu held on to the base of the mast with all his strength, staring at Barty in helpless horror.

Morrigan acted without thinking, throwing her reach across the harbour like a fisherman throwing a net. Wunder responded instantaneously, reading her intention with a speed and precision that surprised even her.

Every rope tied to the harbour and every bundled-up old net on every crumbling boat deck was thrown into the air and snapped to attention with an almighty CRACK. They unravelled and rethreaded mid-flight, weaving together tightly with strands of golden-white Wunder. Morrigan flung the net from one side of the boardwalk to the other with her reach. It pulled taut across the harbour with another loud SNAP, just in time to cushion Barty’s fall, barely half a metre above the rolling black waves.

Barty let out another panicked scream as a bulbous, glassy eye emerged from the water beneath him, bigger than his body. Staring up through the gaps in the net, the Guiltghast gave one long, slow blink as its tentacles snaked up towards Barty, reaching through the net for the prey that had landed so obligingly on its doorstep.

Morrigan had never seen anybody crawl so fast.

‘Help him!’ she ordered Louis and Lottie. ‘Quick, I can’t hold this much longer.’

When Barty reached the edge of the net, the twins hauled him onto the boardwalk, then ran to help Tolu from the boat. Morrigan’s strength gave out and the net completely unravelled, fraying and disintegrating into dust. The golden-white threads of Wunder that had been strengthening and reinforcing it lifted gently into the air, a trillion tiny specks of light visible only to Morrigan, and then floated down again, into the water.

She peered over the edge of the boardwalk and watched the glowing Wunder sinking deep beneath the waves, illuminating the Guiltghast in all its glory. Its tendrils filled almost the entire harbour, trailing behind it like a forest of seaweed.

The strands of residual Wunder from Morrigan’s net swirled and swam around it, wrapping its translucent body with golden warmth. The Guiltghast turned over and over in gentle circles, like a cat getting comfortable in a sunlit garden bed. Perhaps it wasn’t just the commotion on the boat that brought it above the surface, Morrigan thought. Perhaps it had felt the presence of Wunder – of her – and was hoping Hani Nakamura was nearby.

Even so, the way it had smashed into the side of that fishing boat, the way it had reached for Barty, felt purposeful. Predatory. It was hungry.

Heart pounding, Morrigan held her breath as she watched the Guiltghast dive all the way down to the bottom of the harbour again, feeling a curious mix of sympathy and horror. With one last doleful blink of its eyes it settled back into slumber, and only then did she let the air leave her lungs.

Turning back to the four shellshocked teenagers, Morrigan glared at Barty, who visibly flinched.

‘Like I said. DO NOT DISTURB.’

The St James twins recovered swiftly from the terror of what they’d witnessed, and spent the journey home enacting a blow-by-blow account of what was, in Lottie’s words, ‘One of the most genuinely, brilliantly thrilling things I’ve EVER seen.’ Morrigan knew too much about the Guiltghast – and was frankly too exhausted – to share in their excitement. It was a relief when they parted ways inside Darling House, the twins creeping back to the out-lintel to make their way home, and Morrigan slipping away towards her bedroom.

The house was still, and the sky just beginning to lighten to inky blue through the windows. Morrigan hadn’t seen this part of the house before, and it occurred to her that this would be a perfect time to cross off a few more of the rooms on Cadence’s map … although she should also probably try and get some sleep before school. She hadn’t even figured out how to get to school from here yet. It wasn’t as if a Wunsoc brass railpod would be magically waiting for her at the station.

Morrigan was so busy working through these problems in her head, she almost didn’t notice the pale wash of lamplight spilling from a room at the end of a hall.

Should she have ignored it and hurried back to bed? Almost certainly. But, as so often happened these days, curiosity and instinct won out over common sense. Morrigan sent her reach ahead and grasped for the darkest shadow she could see, threw it over herself and crept towards the open door.

It was a room she’d crossed off Cadence’s map over a week ago. A narrow, spartan study featuring half-filled bookshelves, a desk with empty drawers and a small lamp, an old typewriter gathering dust and a locked cupboard. Morrigan had wondered at the time if she ought to try picking the lock. Cadence probably would have. But the room was so obviously disused it hardly seemed worth it, and her aunts had been calling her downstairs, and – most crucially – she didn’t have a clue how to pick a lock, with or without the assistance of Wunder. Now she wished she’d made more of an effort.

The room was an unrecognisable mess. Its shelves were emptied of books, all of which were strewn about the floor, some with pages ripped out. It looked like somebody else had searched the room and done a much more thorough (and messier) job than Morrigan.

The wooden desk still held the small lamp – the source of the room’s light – and the old typewriter. But now it was also scattered with photographs. Hundreds of them in full vibrant colour, stacked in haphazard piles and spilling onto the surrounding floor. Morrigan couldn’t see them properly from the doorway, but she couldn’t get any closer to look, either.

Because there was a ghost standing beside the desk.

That’s what she thought at first: the ghost of an old woman, skeletally thin and dressed in a long white nightgown, her silver hair falling in long tangles. Skin grey, eyes sunken and hollow. Mumbling tremulously, Lady Darling sifted haphazardly through the photos, shoving whole piles onto the floor without care.

Morrigan felt her heartbeat quicken. Were she and her grandmother looking for the same thing? And if they were, was it for the same reason … or did Lady Darling have something to hide?

Transfixed, Morrigan crept further into the room, keeping to the shadows. It was hard to believe this wisp of a person was the same proud, sophisticated woman she’d met in the Receiving Room only a month ago.

She’d been hovering in the dark for several minutes, deciding whether to say something, when a tired voice came from the doorway.

‘Oh, not this again.’ Morrigan froze beneath her shadowcloak as Aunt Margot padded past her into the room, pale and puffy-eyed, wrapped in a silk dressing gown. ‘Mother. You should be sleeping.’

Lady Darling didn’t seem to hear her. She was muttering to herself – an agitated stream of babble Morrigan didn’t understand.

Aunt Margot stopped short when she saw the chaos all over the desk and floor. She let out an irritated huff and opened her mouth to say something, then pressed her lips tight together as if thinking better of it. Taking her mother’s arm, she guided her away from the desk, sidestepping a cascade of photos. ‘What a dreadful mess. Come along, I’ll make you some tea. Then back to bed.’

Lady Darling peered up at her eldest daughter, seeming to notice her presence for the first time.

‘Tobias,’ she said in a low, insistent voice, yanking her arm away.

‘Yes, yes.’ Aunt Margot sighed in a bored way, but Morrigan thought she saw a flash of hurt cross her face. She gripped her mother’s arm more firmly this time and steered her towards the door. ‘I know you’d prefer Tobias, but he’s asleep. Lucky him.’

Morrigan held her breath, statue-still, as the two women passed her only centimetres away, waiting until their footsteps had disappeared before rushing over to the desk.

She snatched up photos at random, examining them closely. The bride and groom leaving the chapel in a shower of rose petals. The flotilla of dragon and swan boats on the canal. Gigi Grand and the Gutterborn Five in full swing. The sky alight with fireworks, and those words burning in the air: I LOVE YOU A MILLION DRAGONS.

‘Jackpot,’ she whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Spectre Specifics

By the time Morrigan had been chauffeured by swan boat to Ogden Town Station, then taken the Wunderground to Old Town on her own (changing lines twice), then frozen on the Brolly Rail up to Wunsoc in the North Quarter, then hunted down Miss Cheery for her new timetable, THEN gone to the Commissariat for a clean uniform … she’d already missed her first lesson and was fifteen minutes late for the second.

Luckily, the first was a looping ghostly hour she could revisit at lunchtime, and the second was a Spectre Specifics lecture with Conall O’Leary, who waved her in without fuss or comment. Unit 919 possessed no such restraint, jumping up to give a sarcastic standing ovation as she hurried to join them.

‘Well, LOOK who’s here, lads!’ Thaddea heckled, her voice rebounding in the near-empty lecture theatre. ‘The wayward, wandering Wundersmith returns.’

‘Is it her?’ Mahir gasped dramatically. ‘The Morrigan Crow?’

‘I’d forgotten what she looked like!’ said Lam.

‘I thought she was a MYTH!’ boomed Hawthorne.

‘Rehearsed all this, did you? Well done.’ Morrigan rolled her eyes good-naturedly, flushing pink with embarrassment. At least nobody seemed annoyed with her.

‘I thought we were going to have to stage a rescue mission,’ said Cadence, before leaning over to whisper, ‘Did you get the photos?’

‘The negatives are in my bag,’ Morrigan whispered back. She’d been relieved to find a thick envelope of film strips beneath the pile of printed photographs, knowing they’d be easier to smuggle out of Darling House. Hopefully their absence would go unnoticed until she could return them.

Cadence gave a small, satisfied nod. ‘Good job, Detective.’

‘Miss Crow, Miss Blackburn,’ said Conall, clearing his throat loudly. ‘This lesson will be our most important so far. I’ll be needing your full attention.’

The girls mumbled their apologies.

‘Certain, er, recent events, have created something of a quandary for the Society, and the Elders have decided it’s necessary to bring all hands on deck to help resolve it.’ From the disapproving set of his jaw, it was clear to Morrigan that Conall didn’t agree with the Elders. ‘Next Wednesday, you and the other junior scholars – excluding Unit 920, of course – will join the rest of us in the Gathering Place to discuss a proposed solution to this problem and reach a democratic agreement. I’ve been instructed to brief you in preparation for making an informed vote.’

Conall looked around the unit, his bright gaze landing on each of them in turn. They straightened in their seats.

‘So, let’s jump in. You’re already familiar with these nasty beggars, of course.’

He pointed a clicker upwards, and a familiar grotesque image of the Unresting was projected into the darkness above his head. Morrigan looked away instinctively. She felt Unit 919 collectively wince.

‘Now. The thing about the Unresting is, strictly speaking they shouldn’t be our problem, being a natural rather than Wundrous phenomenon,’ he continued. ‘You may wonder, then, why we trouble ourselves to gather them up every year on Hallowmas? There are so many messes in Nevermoor we are responsible for, after all, it would seem an imprudent allocation of resources to clean up those we aren’t.’ He held up a finger. ‘Unless doing so would directly benefit one of the Society’s actual missions, in which case it’s sensible to kill two birds with one stone.’

Something pinged in Morrigan’s memory, and she suddenly knew exactly what Conall was going to say. She’d already heard it from Squall, and so much had happened since Hallowmas, it had completely fallen out of her head for a while. But now, of course, the Guiltghast was fresh in her mind again.

‘You already know that once a year on Hallowmas we sweep the Unresting from the seams of Nevermoor and relocate them to a quiet part of Eldritch. But I didn’t tell you what happens after that.’ He paused to take a deep, reluctant breath. ‘The reason we gather the Unresting in the Black Parade, children, is to use them as food. They’re the chum we throw in the water to satisfy a great big shark, so to speak. And this … is our metaphorical shark.’

He clicked through to the next image and Unit 919 fell silent, trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

‘Pretty cute shark,’ Francis said finally, frowning in confusion.

‘Looks more like a jellyfish,’ Cadence observed.

‘A jellyfish with puppy-dog eyes,’ agreed Anah.

Thaddea snorted. ‘Look’t the wee face on it!’

Morrigan felt they weren’t really getting a sense of the terrifying size of the thing, but she could sort of understand what they meant. Now she was seeing it from the safety of a well-lit lecture theatre, instead of the spooky depths of Eldritch Moorings, there was something vaguely sweet about the Guiltghast. Its big eyes looked sort of sad, but the lower curve of its enormous, blobby, jelly-mould body made it seem like it was smiling with chubby cheeks. She could almost forget the sight of it thrashing against the side of a fishing boat and trying to kill Barty. (Almost.)

‘Meet the Guiltghast,’ said Conall. ‘Of all the monsters and terrors and problems we in the Wundrous Society face on a regular basis, I have to tell you … the Guiltghast frightens me more than almost any of them.’

‘Why, sir? Do you have a jelly phobia?’ asked Mahir, and the rest of the unit erupted into giggles. Only Morrigan stayed quiet, watching their teacher closely.

This was interesting, she thought. Conall was a clairvoyant medium, though he no longer used his knack for speaking to the dead. The rumour was that something bad happened to him once when he was contacting the beyond, and he’d simply refused to do it ever again. When she’d heard that story, Morrigan had found it hard to believe anything could scare such a stalwart, sturdy man. But now, as he spoke about the Guiltghast, she could see real fear in his eyes.

‘The Guiltghast was created by a Wundersmith, a couple of hundred years ago,’ Conall went on, ignoring Mahir’s cheeky question. Morrigan was grateful for his matter-of-fact tone when he said this, and that he didn’t so much as glance in her direction. ‘We’re not quite sure what its original purpose was, or frankly if it ever had much of a purpose. But put simply, it likes to skulk around Nevermoor and eat people’s guilt.’

The unit fell silent again at this, staring at the huge three-dimensional image floating above them. Morrigan had to bite her tongue. If Conall didn’t know what the Guiltghast was made for – to extract confessions from criminals – that probably meant its origins didn’t feature anywhere in The Book of Ghostly Hours, the source of almost all the Sub-Nine Academic Group’s knowledge of Wundersmiths and their creations … which would make it highly suspicious if Morrigan revealed what she knew.

‘I’m not talking about small guilt, like you might feel if you nicked a sweetie or told a fib. I mean the kind of guilt that permanently marks someone who’s committed a festering, bedevilling, stain-on-your-soul kind of crime. That is what the Guiltghast has an appetite for.’

‘Like murder?’ asked Cadence.

‘That would do it.’

Hawthorne wriggled in his seat. ‘How exactly—’

‘I won’t go into the nauseating details, Mr Swift,’ Conall said grimly, ‘but suffice to say it’s an excruciating process for the victim.’

‘Why guilt?’ asked Francis, looking intrigued.

Conall’s mouth turned down. ‘Sure I don’t know. Why did my Great Uncle Alan eat fried lamb’s brains on toast? Why do some folks wear socks with sandals? Personal taste is a strange thing.’

‘What happens to its victims afterwards?’ asked Mahir.

‘Some die instantly from the shock of it. Some keep their lives but lose their minds. But if they manage to survive unscathed? Well, aren’t they the lucky ones! They can move on feeling quite splendid. Their guilt has been taken away; they’ll never feel it again.’

Mahir cleared his throat. ‘So, er. Once their guilt is eaten, these people don’t remember what they did?’

‘Oh no, Mr Ibrahim, it’s much worse than that,’ said Conall. ‘Their memory remains intact. But they have no feeling whatsoever about their crimes. No guilt. No shame. Which makes them some of the most dangerous people in the world. That’s why this creature is so frightening. It’s not the Guiltghast itself that most worries me. It’s the monsters it leaves behind.’

Morrigan frowned. Squall hadn’t mentioned this disturbing aspect of the Guiltghast problem. She supposed the idea of a monster creating more monsters probably wouldn’t bother him much.

‘And that,’ Conall went on, ‘is why we take advantage of Hallowmas to tempt the Guiltghast out of hiding, offering up a feast it cannot possibly resist: the Unresting. We give it so much guilt to gorge on that it slips into a peaceful hibernation until the following year, when we present it with its next meal. No need for it to hunt living prey. It’s a win-win situation.’

‘Not for the Unresting,’ Arch pointed out.

‘I’m afraid we disagree there, Mr Tate,’ said Conall, tapping his cane smartly on the dais. ‘It certainly is a win for the Unresting, who get to end their eternal torment. Guilt is all that’s left of them in death, remember? Once the Guiltghast consumes that, they cease existing. Believe me, if you were Unresting, you’d prefer it that way.’

Morrigan could almost hear Squall’s voice in her head … miserable, desperate imprints of miserable, desperate energy. Do them a favour and put them out of that misery.

‘All of which brings me to our aforementioned quandary,’ Conall continued. ‘This past Hallowmas was the second year running we’ve failed to gather the Unresting and feed the Guiltghast. Foiled one year by our troubles with the Ghastly Market, and the next by a group of placard-carrying wastrels with an inflated sense of self-importance.’ Once again, to Morrigan’s relief, he didn’t even glance in her direction. ‘We have monitoring devices in place to remotely track the Guiltghast’s vitals and any significant activity, and, as of right now, the creature is still in hibernation. But our most recent readings suggest it won’t stay that way much longer. It’s hungry, and it’s dangerous, and it’s up to the Wundrous Society to fix those two problems.’

‘How?’ asked Morrigan, remembering the immense size and power of the Guiltghast as it breached the water, the way it had smashed against the boat so hard that the vessel had almost been submerged. She was glad to know they were monitoring things, but she couldn’t help thinking of Squall’s dire warning.

Believe me, the Wundrous Society is not up to the task of containing a hungry, fully conscious Guiltghast.

‘That’s precisely what we’ll be debating in the Gathering Place next week, Miss Crow,’ Conall said, as a distant bell rang to signal the end of class. ‘Brace yourselves. It’s going to be a doozy.’

The second they were dismissed for morning break, Cadence took the envelope full of negatives from Morrigan and fled without a word, clutching it to her chest like treasure. Morrigan waved off Hawthorne and the others with a promise to meet them in the dining hall, and hung back to tell Conall what she’d seen the night before, just to clear her conscience.

She was careful to frame the story in a way that suggested she just happened to be in the vicinity, and of course hadn’t known what the strange creature was until he’d shown them the Guiltghast in class. Conall seemed to accept her account (or at least was polite enough to pretend), and assured her that it lined up with what they already knew from the activity readings on their remote monitors.

‘I’ll have the Beastly Division send someone to take a look in person, but it’s likely the residual Wunder soothed it back to sleep somewhat. You might even have bought us a smidgeon more time,’ he said with an approving nod. ‘But you and your friends stay well clear of Eldritch Moorings from now on, understand? It’s too dangerous, even for a Wundersmith. Off you go, now.’

Morrigan was halfway up the aisle when an idea occurred to her. A possibly wonderful, potentially ludicrous idea. She returned to the dais, hovering nervously while Conall gathered his things.

‘Something else on your mind, Morrigan?’

She hesitated. Conall O’Leary had a way of looking at you as if he was seeing through you. It was both warm and slightly frightening at the same time.

‘I was just wondering,’ she began, then paused, looking down at her feet and regretting her question before she’d even asked it. She could sense Conall’s impatience for her to spit it out. But he waited quietly. ‘I was thinking about … about your knack.’ She looked up when he didn’t answer. ‘You can speak to the dead, can’t you?’

‘I can,’ he said simply. ‘But I don’t do that anymore.’

‘Oh … right. Of course.’ Morrigan nodded, feeling foolish.

‘Is this about that dragonrider who was killed?’ Conall asked. ‘I heard he had something to do with your family.’

‘Dragonrider?’ Morrigan was startled to realise the possibility of talking to Dario hadn’t even crossed her mind. Perhaps it should have. ‘No, it’s not about him.’

Conall stared at her for a moment. ‘Lost someone else, did you?’

‘Sort of …’ she said slowly. ‘Not exactly. Can’t technically lose someone you never had.’ Conall stayed quiet until finally she added, ‘My mother died when I was a baby.’

The old man nodded and made a faint little noise of sympathy in his throat. ‘Now, that is a shame. That’s a terrible shame. And what was it that took her?’

‘Um. Me, I think. Or, I don’t know … I used to believe that. It’s what my father told me.’ Morrigan made her tone nonchalant, her words blunt. Don’t feel sorry for me. ‘He said she died the day I was born, because I was cursed.’

‘Did he, now?’ Conall’s voice was soft. They stood in silence for a moment. ‘Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but sure your father sounds like an eejit.’

A surprised little laugh bubbled up out of Morrigan’s mouth. ‘No, I don’t mind. He is … an eejit.’

‘We’re agreed then.’ Conall nodded, his eyes twinkling. ‘Now, I’ll tell you why I no longer speak to the dead. I lost someone, too – like everyone does eventually.’ He took out his gold pocket watch and opened it, holding it out for her to see. Opposite the clock face was a faded photograph of two young men in smart suits. One of them was unmistakably Conall, with his piercing eyes and kind face. The other Morrigan didn’t recognise. He had a handsome, roguish grin, and dark curls that fell across his forehead.

‘When my husband died,’ Conall continued, ‘I tried for years to contact him on the other side. He never answered me, the cheeky beggar, not even once. Every time I tried to reach out and couldn’t find him, it was like he’d died all over again. Heartbreak after heartbreak. Like being knocked down by waves on a beach. It took me a long time to accept that what I was trying to do was futile …’ He paused, pressing his lips together as tears sprang to his blue eyes. He cleared his throat and smiled, and when he spoke again his voice was a little hoarse. ‘Because we’d already had such a lovely life together. Daniel had already done so much with his time here, and left so much good in the world, there was nothing more for him to do. Nothing left unsaid between us. No reason for him to be still there, stuck in some miserable void with all the other half-gones and their unfinished business. Selfish of me to hope for it, really.’

He went quiet, staring at the photograph. Morrigan hastily wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her white shirt. The moment passed, then Conall inhaled sharply and snapped the watch shut, tucking it back into his pocket.

‘So that was it for Conall the clairvoyant, I’m afraid. If I’m never to hear my Danny’s voice again, I’ll not be listening to what any other dead folks have to say, either. I live fully in this world now. Just trying my best to make it count, until I meet him in the next.’

Morrigan reached out instinctively to give Conall’s wrist a gentle squeeze. He looked up in surprise, then smiled warmly and covered her hand with his own.

‘I was lucky. I got to love a marvellous person for a long time, and I’m so very sorry you didn’t have that same chance with your mother. She’d have been lucky to know you, too.’ He fixed his eyes on hers, bright and earnest. ‘But don’t make an old man’s mistakes, Morrigan. Don’t go looking for misery where there ought to be peace. If she’s resting, you let her rest.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Seven Suspects

Since returning to Wunsoc, Morrigan had resumed taking Hometrain 919 with the rest of her unit, but instead of the glossy black door to her bedroom in the Hotel Deucalion, she now travelled through Mahir’s red door with him.

Mahir lived in Southey-Upon-Juro, only two Wunderground stops away from Ogden Town, in a house full of noise and happiness and chattering family. His parents never let Morrigan leave without several entreaties to share some breakfast or stay for dinner, and his younger siblings had endless questions about Wunsoc. Morrigan loved the detour, but it easily added an extra thirty minutes onto her school day, and as her evenings were still packed with Silver District social engagements, it was only adding to her exhaustion.

On Wednesday morning, after falling asleep on Hometrain for the third day in a row, she lingered at Proudfoot House Station when the others set off for the Whinging Woods.

‘Please don’t be late today,’ Miss Cheery said as she gathered up tea mugs. ‘You know I’ll hear it from Rook.’

‘I won’t,’ Morrigan said quickly. ‘I just need to ask you something.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Would it be possible to move my station door?’

Miss Cheery stared at her questioningly.

‘It’s just that I’m living at Darling House … for a little while. And it’s quite a long trip from the Silver District to Wunsoc, so I thought—’

‘Oh, Morrigan,’ said the conductor, her voice warm with sympathy. She clapped a hand to her forehead, scrunching up her nose. ‘Right. Um … I know things are a bit tense at home right now. Jupiter mentioned—’

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. ‘What did Jupiter mention?’

‘Oh, nothing really, just … never mind.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, I’m sure I can sort something out. I’ll speak to the Liminal Transport Department today. I mean … if you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You’ll want it moved back to the Deucalion at some point, of course?’ asked Miss Cheery gently.

‘Yeah,’ Morrigan agreed, wishing she felt as certain as she sounded. ‘Of course.’

Cadence had managed to mesmerise a senior scholar with the necessary skills to develop their stolen envelope of negatives into many boxes of photographs. The challenge then was to painstakingly sift through the hundreds of pictures, examining every face in every frame. It took her and Morrigan a full week of lunchtimes and stolen moments between classes, with some help from Hawthorne (who pointed out the guests he recognised as dragonriders, all of whom were present and accounted for) and from Anah, but they finally nailed down their suspect list. On the last Tuesday before the Christmas holidays, Cadence summoned Unit 919 for a briefing.

‘The good news is we’ve been able to cross four names off our original list: Crispin Stirling has a solid alibi, and now so do Modestine Darling and Cosimo Rinaldi – the photos prove they were present for the scheduled cake-cutting window. They both looked annoyed, but that was probably because Dario hadn’t shown up. Laurent St James is also cleared; he was at home.’

‘Shame,’ said Hawthorne. ‘I was hoping to send Mr Megaphone to prison.’

‘Are we sure it wasn’t him?’ asked Mahir. ‘He feels quite murdery.’

‘He does feel murdery,’ Morrigan agreed. ‘But he has an alibi.’

She recounted what Louis and Lottie had told her on the night they took her lintel-hopping, about waking their parents up straight after the wedding to tell them about Dario.

‘They could be lying to cover for him,’ suggested Arch. ‘He is their dad.’

‘They don’t have any reason to think he’s a suspect,’ said Morrigan. ‘Everyone in the Silver District still thinks the wedding planner did it.’

‘Our motive for Scumbag St James was pretty weak, to be fair,’ added Cadence. ‘If he just wanted to make life difficult for Morrigan, he’s already doing that. He didn’t need to murder some guy she just met.’ Leaning over the oval table, she unrolled a large piece of paper with the updated suspect list and weighted each corner with pencil cases and books. ‘Now, the less good news is we’ve added four new suspects, bringing our total back up to seven.’

Unit 919 gathered around to read the list.

SUSPECT

MOTIVE

OPPORTUNITY

ALIBI

The Rival House: Lord and/or Lady Devereaux (Noelle’s mum and dad)

Furious at Dario, Modestine and the Darlings because of Gigi Grand ‘prank’. Quote: ‘Someone is going to pay.’

Left the wedding early. Might have gone to seek out Dario.

?

The Missing Mistress: Georgette Devereaux AKA Gigi Grand

Jealousy. She and Dario were having an affair and she was tired of waiting for him to leave Modestine.

Missing since the night of the wedding, according to Modestine. Did she flee because she’s the murderer, or has something bad happened to her?

Left Dario at the boathouse but could have circled back after Morrigan left.

Not photographed at cake-cutting. Didn’t return to wedding after conversation with Dario at boathouse.

?

The Vulture: (Real name unknown)

Unclear. Didn’t RSVP but came anyway even though he obviously wasn’t welcome and doesn’t normally attend events. Wasn’t even dressed for a wedding so must have decided to come at the last minute. Why?

Update: Continues to show up to parties and events since the wedding. Is WEIRD.

Not photographed at cake-cutting.

?

The Ice Queen: Margot Darling

Unclear.

Not photographed at cake-cutting.

?

The Humble Tradesman: Tobias Darling

Unclear.

Not photographed at cake-cutting.

?

The Faithful Best Man: Sunny Ghoshal

Seems very devoted to Modestine. Is it out of duty to his deceased best friend, or does he have feelings for the bride? Could he have killed Dario to get him out of the way?

Only partially present for cake-cutting – seen at the beginning but quickly disappears from the photographs.

?

The Poorly Grandmother: Lady Mallory Darling

Unclear.

Not photographed at cake-cutting, but had gone home hours earlier feeling unwell.

?

‘If this Sunny Ghoshal chap was there at the start of the cake-cutting, doesn’t that rule him out?’ asked Arch, wandering over to the wall where Cadence had taped up her hand-drawn map of the Paramour Pleasure Gardens. He pointed from the Glade to Darling Bridge, where Dario’s body was first seen floating down the canal in the dragon boat. ‘We don’t know exactly where he was killed, but unless Mr Ghoshal has super speed, it doesn’t seem like he’d have made it in time.’

‘I agree it’s a long shot,’ admitted Cadence. ‘But Morrigan says he’s always hanging around Modestine Darling like a lovesick puppy—’

‘I didn’t say lovesick puppy.’

‘—and the Inspector Gravely books say the four strongest motives for murder are love, jealousy, greed and revenge. If Sunny’s secretly in love with Modestine and wanted her for himself, that’s love and jealousy: tick and tick.’

‘If Laurent St James’s motive is too weak to make him a suspect, then why are Aunt Margot and Uncle Tobias on the list?’ Morrigan objected. It was an argument she and Cadence had been having all week. ‘We don’t even have motives for them.’

‘Yet,’ was Cadence’s ominous response.

‘What if one of them discovered Dario and Gigi’s affair?’ suggested Arch. ‘They might have—’

‘Killed him in revenge for hurting Modestine!’ Cadence shouted, uncapping her pen to fill in the empty ‘motive’ boxes. ‘Obviously. Why didn’t we think of that?’

‘Sorry,’ Arch murmured to Morrigan, who was scowling at him.

‘And what about Lady Darling?’ she pressed. ‘I’d love to know how you think my grandmother’s capable of murdering a fully grown athlete. If you’d seen her the other night – honestly, she looks like a gentle breeze would give her bruises!’

‘Then it should be easy to cross her off the list.’ Cadence eyed her shrewdly. ‘I know you’re growing fond of the Darlings, Morrigan, and you want to think the best of them. But if we’re going to find the truth, we’ve got to stay objective. Don’t go making it personal.’

Morrigan gave a short, incredulous bark of laughter. ‘There are three of my family members on this list, Cadence! It is personal! And don’t even get me started on all these stupid nicknames.’

The nicknames were mostly Anah’s contribution. She’d switched from grisly detective novels to the romantic, scandal-heavy Silverborn Saga, at Cadence’s suggestion. It had become clear Anah didn’t have the constitution for crime, but she was determined to contribute to the investigation, and so Cadence had assigned her the task of reading Gigi Grand, in case it told them something important about Georgette Devereaux. Anah devoured the novel overnight, quickly became obsessed and was now powering through the whole series.

‘At least Poorly Grandmother is somewhat accurate. But Humble Tradesman, Anah? Really?’ Morrigan asked, cringing at Tobias’s assigned moniker.

Anah practically swooned. ‘Oh! Terrance Deerling is one of my favourite characters. He’s so romantic and strong. Always chopping and hauling wood, just to keep his beloved Marguerite warm …’

Morrigan laughed at the thought of slender, bespectacled Uncle Tobias chopping wood in his extensive collection of three-piece suits. ‘Anah, you do know those books aren’t real, right? They’re just gossipy stories pulled from the tabloids and fluffed up with a bunch of fantasy rubbish.’

Anah’s face fell slightly.

Cadence thumped the table to bring the conversation back on track. ‘Anah, what have you learned from Gigi Grand?’

It was a subject Anah was all too happy to discuss. It turned out she wasn’t just reading the books, she’d also joined one of the book clubs Cadence had mentioned – the ‘Silver Sleuths’ – and was researching the real Georgette Devereaux with their help.

‘And I thought the book was named after the band – you know, Gigi Grand and the Gutterborn Five – but she took Gigi Grand as her stage name after the book was published! The Sleuths say she was thumbing her nose at the author and her parents and everyone in the Silver District who shunned her. Isn’t that clever? And in the book, Gigi runs away to play her music in a place called “Scandalia”, where all the vagrants and vagabonds and starving artists live in flea-bitten hovels and do all sorts of shocking things, and the Sleuths told me that’s a real place, right here in Nevermoor! Only it’s not called Scandalia, it’s called—’

‘Bohemia,’ said Morrigan, as something else sprang to mind. ‘Dario talked to Gigi about coming to Bohemia with her next year, after the Silver Assembly. That must be where she lives.’

Cadence perked up. ‘Do you think you can get an address? Would your aunt know? Or Noelle, maybe?’

The thought of upsetting Aunt Modestine again by asking her about Gigi was almost as unappealing as having any conversation whatsoever with Noelle Devereaux, but even so, Morrigan reluctantly agreed to try.

‘Excellent,’ said Cadence, noting it down. ‘Your turn, Hawthorne. Tell us about the Winter Trials. Are we any closer to finding our mystery dragonrider?’

Hawthorne jumped up to stand at the front of the room, quite unnecessarily, and cleared his throat before launching into his report.

‘Alights still hasn’t flown.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. ‘But rumour has it the Rinaldis have done private tryouts with just about every high-calibre rider in the Seven Pockets. It’s all very hush-hush, all very Cosimo Rinaldi.’

Cadence frowned. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning he’s known for being precious about his family’s dragons. With Dario gone, I’m not sure he’ll think anyone else is good enough for Alights.’

‘But we know someone else is good enough,’ Morrigan reminded him. ‘The mystery dragonrider! So where are they?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘No one knows. But if they don’t appear soon then Cosimo will just have to go with the next best rider, ’cos Alights has to get back into the Trollosseum when the Winter Trials start again after Christmas, otherwise she’s disqualified. That’ll mean no tournament for her next summer, either, and the Rinaldis would never risk that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Francis. ‘It’s only one year, they should give her a break.’

‘Not a chance,’ Hawthorne chuckled grimly. ‘Nan says if Alights doesn’t fly next summer, all her sponsors will be demanding their money back – and we’re talking millions. Not to mention the betting companies, who’d probably end up suing the Rinaldis.’

Cadence looked up from the notes she was scribbling. ‘Why?’

‘Because heaps of people would have bet on Alights topping the leaderboard, yeah? She was basically a sure thing before opening flights, when betting closed. But right now, it looks like she’ll never manage it. Which means the bookies are about to make a ton of money on those bets … but only if she stays in the competition. If she’s disqualified, all bets on her are null and void – she didn’t win OR lose, so they’ll have to give a whole bunch of people their money back.’

‘Sounds like there’s a lot of pressure on the Rinaldis to find a rider,’ said Cadence, tapping her pen against her chin thoughtfully. ‘I thought you said every dragonrider and their dog would be lining up for the job.’

‘They are! You should hear the list of names they’ve rejected. Cosimo’s a control freak, but he’s running out of time – someone has to be in that saddle on the first Sunday after the holidays, and I’ll be there to see who it is.’

‘Good work, Detective Swift,’ said Cadence, and Hawthorne beamed with pride. The bell rang at that moment to signal the end of lunch, and as Unit 919 rushed to pack their things Cadence called out last-minute instructions. ‘Right, everyone else, see that last column in our table of suspects: ALIBI? Our job now is to fill in that column. We establish an alibi for every suspect until we’re down to one, and BAM. We have our murderer.’

‘And by “we” you mean me, yes?’ asked Morrigan. ‘Since I’m the only one with access to the Silver District and you’re about to go away for Christmas. Here, you might as well give me that.’

She took the suspect list from Cadence and tucked it safely into her bag with a sigh. It was a good thing school was about to be over for two weeks. She had her work cut out for her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Genius of Lambeth Amara

On the last Wednesday of the term, the Gathering Place was packed with junior scholars, senior scholars and adult society members in huge numbers, many of whom had come in from the other Six Pockets of the Free State especially for this. Morrigan had never seen the vast room so full.

‘I believe everyone has been brought up to speed regarding the Guiltghast, yes?’ There was a murmur of assent. Elder Quinn nodded, and gestured to the eight people lined up behind her on the dais. ‘The special task force you see behind me has been meeting since Hallowmas, trying to agree on a way forward. They are led by Gavin Squires of the Beastly Division, Apsara Patel of the Wunsoc Ethics Committee and Conall O’Leary of the Wundrous Supernatural League. Also joining us are representatives from external agencies including the Alliance of Nevermoor Covens, the Royal Sorcery Council and the Supernatural Civic Services Department. I hand you over now to Mr O’Leary, who will explain today’s agenda.’

Leaning on his cane, Conall rose from his chair and got straight to the point.

‘After several weeks of exhaustive and … spirited discussion,’ he began, to tense, humourless chuckles from the task force, ‘my colleagues and I have reached a stalemate regarding the fate of the Guiltghast and are left with three equally unappealing options. We’ve prepared cases for and against all three, and will lay them out for you to understand, interrogate, discuss and ultimately vote on.’

Hawthorne, sitting on Morrigan’s right, put his rolled-up jumper on her shoulder to use as a pillow. ‘Wake me up when something interesting happens.’

On her other side, Lam’s hand went into the air.

‘Are you okay?’ Morrigan whispered in surprise. Lam rarely spoke up in a normal class, let alone a full C&D gathering.

‘Shh,’ said Lam. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Option one,’ Conall went on, ‘we once again postpone the feeding of the Guiltghast to next Hallowmas, when we’ll have another shot at rounding up the Unresting. This option is obviously—’

‘Stupid,’ muttered Gavin Squires. Apsara from the ethics committee elbowed him sharply in the ribs, but Conall ignored the interruption.

‘—rife with challenges and question marks,’ he continued, ‘the most pressing being that it would involve round-the-clock efforts to keep the Guiltghast in an artificial stasis for the next ten months. Our sorcery and witchery departments have insufficient resources to sustain that sort of enchantment for one month straight, let alone ten, and would require complex and costly assistance from external agencies.

‘Option two. We take immediate steps to feed the Guiltghast before it wakes up, by seeking out an alternative food source. Potentially – and here’s where it gets controversial – a living food source, such as guilt siphoned from serious criminals serving life sentences in Dredmalis Dungeon, possibly through a voluntary program with deals for extra privileges and so on. Of course, that would—’

‘—be a disgusting breach of human rights and leave a permanent stain on our history,’ interjected Apsara Patel.

‘—have some very iffy ethical ramifications, yes,’ Conall went on, with a nod of concession to his heckler. ‘It would also serve to make a dangerous portion of the Nevermoor population potentially even more dangerous, even if they are already locked up.’

He cleared his throat, looking sombre.

‘And the third option … is to kill the Guiltghast.’

The room fell silent, which made Morrigan’s involuntary gasp sound much louder than it should have.

‘Needless to say, the unprovoked destruction of a living being is not a decision to be made lightly, or indeed by a minority – hence our decision to gather all of you here. The Beastly Division believes this is the only logical long-term solution—’

‘The Guiltghast is a monstrosity that provides no value whatsoever,’ announced Gavin, grasping the opportunity to jump in. ‘It’s time to stop delaying the inevitable and terminate it. That thing has never been anything but a burden to the Society and a danger to Nevermoorians.’

This was met by a scattering of applause.

‘That’s not true,’ Morrigan muttered angrily. ‘Hani Nakamura made the Guiltghast to help people.’

Hawthorne’s head popped up. He opened one eye to squint at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘You’re not only talking about killing a sentient creature, Mr Squires,’ Conall said, with a slight tremor of anger in his voice, ‘but also destroying a piece of Wundrous Society history! Have we not moved on from the knee-jerk annihilation of every Wundrous Act in Nevermoor? Operations like the Black Parade are a sign of our maturity, our humanity. They’re proof that we’re not the same Society we were a hundred years ago. Yes, it is a burden to protect Nevermoor from the Guiltghast. But it is our burden, and we must continue to bear it, not just take the easy and unscrupulous way out!’

This was met by applause (including from Morrigan, who clapped until her hands hurt).

‘Unscrupulous, am I?’ snapped Gavin. ‘Easy to throw out insults from your lofty position as Ghost-Observer-in-Chief, Conall. But in the Beastly Division we’ve got to protect people in the real world. And sometimes that means getting our hands dirty.’

The argument went back and forth, and Morrigan kept seeing the Guiltghast in her mind: that enormous eye beneath the water, those long floating tendrils.

It didn’t ask to be created. It just wanted to have enough to eat, for goodness’ sake, and then to be left in peace to sleep. Didn’t everyone deserve that, as a bare minimum?

The moment Morrigan made the decision to get up and say so, a small but surprisingly firm hand gripped her shoulder and kept her in her seat. She looked up in surprise.

‘Lam, what are you—’

‘Shh. I’ve got this.’

Lam, who’d had her other hand up all this time, just waiting for someone to notice, was now standing. She cleared her throat loudly.

Conall, Gavin and the rest of the task force were still arguing, so Morrigan sent a tiny firework whistling into the air above her friend’s head. It exploded with a satisfying BANG, and the argument stopped.

‘Miss … Amara,’ said Conall, blinking at the shower of sparks surrounding Lam, who still had her hand raised. ‘Do you have something to add?’

‘Yes,’ said Lam, with newfound confidence. ‘The clocksmiths say Basking is coming.’

The whole room waited for Lam to continue, but that was apparently all she wanted to say. She took her seat again.

There were a few quiet giggles, and Gavin Squires gave a confused thumbs-up. ‘Very helpful, cheers. Listen everyone—’

Conall O’Leary held up a hand to silence him.

‘Basking?’ He looked thunderstruck. ‘Miss Amara, that’s … brilliant. I’m embarrassed I didn’t think of it myself.’

Dotted around the room, there were one or two little gasps of understanding.

‘Think of what?’ asked Gavin.

But Conall was staring into space, tapping out an agitated rhythm with his cane. ‘It’s risky … and it would still mean a wait. But it’s much sooner than next Hallowmas. I’m sure we could make it to Spring’s Eve.’

‘If the clocksmiths are right,’ said a woman from the Supernatural Civic Services Department sitting behind him.

‘Always a gamble with chronology forecasts, Pauline,’ Conall agreed. ‘We’d have to have a firm Plan B in place.’

‘Would you care to share what Plan A might entail, Mr O’Leary?’ said Elder Quinn, raising her voice.

‘Er – yes. Apologies, Elder Quinn.’ Conall faced the room again. ‘You are all aware of the peculiar vibrational pull between the living and the dead during Hallowmas that makes it possible for us to engage with the Unresting the way we do. What most folks don’t know, however, is that when the Skyfaced Clocks change, there’s a similar period of—’ He glanced over at Lam. ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to explain it to the gathering, Miss Amara, since it was your idea?’

Lam looked as if she would very much not like to explain it to the gathering. Nonetheless, she rose again and addressed them with all the poise of a princess at court.

‘My grandmother has a special sleeping draught brewed for her once a year, on Hallowmas. She’s sensitive to the presence of the dead – we both are. But on Hallowmas it’s especially bad for her, from sunset until sunrise, unless she’s asleep. The only other time she takes the draught is on nights when the Skyfaced Clocks are forecast to change. It doesn’t last as long as Hallowmas, only a few minutes before midnight and a few minutes after, but it’s much more sort of … um.’ She looked to Conall. ‘I don’t know how to describe it, Mr O’Leary.’

‘I’d call it a brief period of madness,’ he said, grim-faced. ‘As a clairvoyant, on any normal day if I wanted to reach out to the dead I would knock on their door and ask to be let in. On Hallowmas, when the rift between the living and the dead grows thin, I don’t need to knock; the door’s wide open for me to walk through.

‘When the phases of the Age turn, however … just for those few minutes either side of midnight, it’s a very different story. I’m not knocking on a door or walking through it; the dead are at the door with a battering ram and a squadron of bagpipers, demanding attention. I don’t know why, something about the disturbance of volatile energy during the shift.’ He turned to Lam. ‘You don’t take a sleeping draught, like your grandmother?’

Lam shrugged. ‘I think it’s exciting.’

‘What’s the idea, exactly?’ asked Gavin. ‘We somehow cram the entire Black Parade into a few minutes either side of midnight?’

‘We wouldn’t need to, Mr Squires,’ said Conall. ‘For those few minutes, the Unresting will be on the other end of the proverbial battering ram. We won’t need to wind through Nevermoor for hours, seeking every stray we can find. The strays will be looking for us. If we can gather enough people with some level of psychic sensitivity to be in Eldritch Moorings when the clocks are set to change … the Unresting will come, and the Guiltghast will have a feast to sate its hunger and send it back to sleep.’

‘As long as it stays in Eldritch Moorings and doesn’t wake up before Spring’s Eve—’

‘I daresay between the Beastly Division and the Wundrous Supernatural League – and with an affordable amount of assistance from our friends in the Royal Sorcery Council and the Alliance of Nevermoor Covens – we can have a guard stationed there round the clock to ensure it doesn’t,’ said Conall.

Gavin stood for a long moment with his hands on his hips, chewing the side of his mouth thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded. ‘Let’s workshop a plan.’

The two men shook on it, then shook hands with Apsara Patel and the others on the task force, and the Gathering Place broke into slightly stunned applause. Flooded with relief, Morrigan hugged Lam so tight she thought she heard a squeak.

‘Question,’ said Elder Quinn, stepping up to address the task force. ‘How many weeks have you been having these meetings? Shouting and arguing over the ethics of whether and when and how to murder the Guiltghast?’

‘Five weeks, Elder Quinn,’ mumbled Gavin Squires. ‘Give or take.’

‘Interesting.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Twenty-two minutes, we’ve been here. How old are you, Miss Amara?’

‘I’ll be fourteen next month, ma’am.’

‘Twenty-two minutes it took this fourteen-next-month-year-old to come up with an elegant solution to a problem you’ve all been yapping about for five weeks, give or take.’ Elder Quinn gave them a beatific smile. ‘Just something to mull over.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Merriment, Mystery and Mutually Assured Destruction

Christmas in the Silver District had none of the jolly, joyous build-up Morrigan had come to expect from Nevermoor’s silliest season. No snowball fights (too undignified), no ice skating (the canals never froze) and – most disappointingly of all – no visit to Courage Square to watch the famous Battle of Christmas Eve. The Darlings had attended yet another elegant supper that night, and although Morrigan begged to go with her friends to the battle instead, the aunts were horrified by that idea. They seemed to think she’d never make it out of the Courage Square rabble alive.

Lying awake in bed and wondering idly if Saint Nicholas would know where to find her this year, Morrigan was seized by a sudden, unbearable yearning for festive cheer … and the realisation that what she craved was now only a short walk away, via Station 919. (Rather than moving her station door from the Hotel Deucalion to Darling House, the Liminal Transport Department had added a new door and kept the old one. Standard procedure for scholars with divorced parents, apparently.)

Morrigan was unprepared for how thrilled Room 85 would be to see her.

When she came through the wardrobe, for a moment it was like seeing her bedroom when she’d first arrived in Nevermoor: just a normal room with a single bed, a wooden chair and a window. But in a flash her fireplace reappeared, roaring to life and lighting up the whole room. The octopus armchair popped gleefully back into existence, trembling on the tip of its tentacles with excitement, while the plain little bed did a series of rapid-fire changes – a four-poster, a hammock, a racing car, a swimming pool, back to a four-poster. The walls grew creeping green ivy, then added bookshelves and stocked them with boxes of Morrigan’s favourite sugary cereals. She heard the bathtub taps start running and soon steam was billowing from the ensuite, the mingled scents of lavender and vanilla storming her nostrils.

‘Oh – sorry,’ Morrigan said, feeling a stab of guilt. ‘I’m not … I can’t stay.’

The taps stopped, and the fire began to dim.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I just came to … um. Visit, I guess.’

The vines all drooped and browned in unison.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she repeated, ineffectually. The octopus armchair reached out one tentative tentacle, and Morrigan gave it an affectionate squeeze. She wanted to say, I’ll be back soon. I won’t be gone for long. But she couldn’t.

Cloaking herself in shadow, Morrigan made her way to the lobby. The Deucalion seemed empty, except for a few staff in pink-and-gold uniforms left to hold down the fort. At this hour, everyone else would be on their way back from Courage Square after the Battle of Christmas Eve, and soon the place would be heaving.

She shouldn’t be here. But it wouldn’t hurt to have one quick look at the hotel decorations, would it? Just to see how bonkers Frank, the Deucalion’s party planner, had gone this year.

‘One quick look,’ she told herself firmly.

She reached the top of the spiral staircase and peered into the lobby, with its familiar checkerboard marble floor, gold-and-glass elevator and – her favourite thing of all – the enormous iridescent blackbird chandelier. Sometimes at Christmas it would spontaneously change into a golden sleigh, or a silver angel, or a polar bear wearing a beanie. But as fun as these seasonal transformations were, Morrigan was unspeakably glad to see the familiar vast, dark wings moving slowly up and down on their perpetual flight.

As for the rest of the decorations … well. They were a bit disappointing.

Frank had finally got his wish – this year’s theme appeared to be dark glamour. All black and gold and dripping red. The usual garlands of tinsel and greenery were replaced with swathes of wine-coloured satin and midnight-black velvet. The banister glittered with glass icicles, and instead of the fairy lights Jupiter loved, hundreds of white taper candles dripped pools of wax over every surface. There wasn’t a sprig of holly or shiny bauble to be seen.

It was elegant, for sure. Sophisticated. But she couldn’t help wondering if Jupiter had approved any of this.

It occurred to her that he might be off-realm for Christmas, and that made her heart sink a little, though she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as if she’d come here to see him.

I just wanted to see the decorations, she reminded herself. That’s all.

A sudden clip-clopping of hooves from the forecourt heralded the arrival of carriages. Morrigan smiled at the sound of their resident soprano, Dame Chanda, leading a motley choir in a rousing canon of the Yuletide Hymn.

‘We sing to thee, sweet greenery

And wish for snow-white scenery

We ask for peace and Yuletide cheer

And blessings on those we hold dear!’

The lobby doors flew open and a crowd bustled in with a gust of cold air, filling the cavernous space with their loud, joyful singing.

‘Glad Yule to all and tidings fair

To fox and fish and bird and bear

To mouse and moose and hawk and hare

Glad Yule to all and blessings rare!’

From her vantage point at the top of the stairs, Morrigan spotted Frank in his red-lined cape and Jack in his weird green broccoli hat, and Charlie dusting snowflakes off Martha’s coat. Kedgeree herded the guests towards staff offering trays of gingerbread and pouring cups of masala chai (the warming, spicy scent made Morrigan’s mouth water, even at this distance). Dame Chanda was at the door, bidding goodnight to a small flock of fairy wrens and a family of raccoons that had followed the sound of her voice. Fenestra was impossible to miss, of course, with her fluffy tail and grey tufty ears towering above the crowd.

But no Jupiter. That confirmed it for Morrigan. Surely he wouldn’t have missed the battle unless he was off-realm.

‘At winter’s end, our forest friends

Will wake from slumber and attend

The warming of the realm in spring

And all will gladly dance and sing!’

Watching Jack reach up and playfully tug one of Fen’s ears before dodging out of her reach, Morrigan felt an aching, jealous homesickness unfurl in the pit of her stomach. She had a sudden urge to throw off her shadows, join in the singing and stay.

But she couldn’t. The certainty of it hit her like a wrecking ball.

Before she spoke to anyone else at the Deucalion, she had to speak to Jupiter. She had to tell him the truth about her apprenticeship with Squall, even if he’d kept the truth about the Darlings from her. Even if she was still furious with him. Even if it meant he never looked at her the same way again. Even if it meant she was never welcome back at the Deucalion (the thought made her homesickness roll into nausea).

Before she could change her mind, Morrigan turned and ran to Jupiter’s study. If she left without doing something, without taking some small step towards mending what was broken, then she might never come back here at all.

The decision made itself. She would write him a note.

The decision unmade itself. She would not write him a note.

‘ENOUGH of the martyr act and the pitiful excuses! I am sick to DEATH of covering for you. I’m sick of lying for you!’

Morrigan halted as she reached Jupiter’s study door. It was open the tiniest crack, and the sharp, angry voice spilling into the hall was unmistakably her patron’s.

So, he was home … but he didn’t attend the Battle of Christmas Eve. A fact so topsy-turvy, Morrigan felt she’d walked into an ankle-dangling Tricksy Lane and been upended.

‘Yes, you’ve mentioned that,’ said a second voice – bored, bitter, distinctly male. It was muffled under the roar of the fire but sounded vaguely familiar, Morrigan thought.

‘Is this funny to you? Do I look like I’m laughing?’

Jupiter had an edge to his voice that she’d rarely heard. It gave her an instant, visceral memory of their last conversation. The harsh words they’d exchanged. The fury and disappointment in his face.

‘Not remotely funny, dear brother.’

Morrigan’s breath caught in her throat.

Dear brother. Was this … could this be Jack’s father?

She sent her reach beyond her in several directions at once, dimming the hallway gas lamps while simultaneously grasping for darker, thicker shadows to wrap around herself like gauze. Heart pounding, she pressed against the wall and crept closer to the crack of light coming from the study.

‘You’ll recall I never asked you to cover for me, nor to make my excuses,’ the low, muffled voice went on. ‘You took that role upon yourself, as always. Bold of you to call me the martyr.’

‘You could turn this around. It’s not too late.’ Jupiter again.

‘As if my presence would make a difference.’

‘You have no idea what kind of difference it would make, because you’ve never cared enough to SHOW UP.’ Morrigan flinched at the sound of a fist thumping on a wall.

‘Oh, enough. Enough. You don’t want me to show up to anything, because you don’t want anyone to show up … or to show you up. This arrangement is perfect for you! Admit it, Jove. You get to be the hero, like always – the responsible one—’

‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Jupiter snapped.

‘—the noble one, stepping in to fix everyone else’s mistakes,’ the other man finished acidly. Morrigan frowned. Did she know that voice? She inched closer, wondering if she could chance a peek through the crack in the door. ‘’Cos you’re perfect, aren’t you? Captain Jupiter Amantius North, the golden boy. Always everybody’s favourite. Well, guess what? You can’t fix my mistakes, mate. They’re far too many and far too heinous.’

Jupiter made a sound of disgust. ‘Oh, spare me. Do something better with what’s left of your life! Make up for your mistakes! I could think of one place to start.’

‘You sound just like …’ The words trailed off into a resentful chuckle.

There was a momentary silence, heavy with expectation, before Jupiter said, ‘You couldn’t even be bothered coming to the funeral.’

The man didn’t respond. The silence stretched, until finally it was broken by the unmistakable sound of tissues being pulled from a box, and the box thumping onto the desk.

‘Here,’ Jupiter said, with quiet contempt. ‘Wipe your face, Bertie, for goodness’ sake.’

Morrigan held her breath. Was the other man crying? Whose funeral were they talking about?

‘I didn’t come here to suffer the same boring lecture I’ve heard a thousand times,’ the other man muttered. ‘You wanted information, I gave you information. Exchange complete. Even stevens.’

‘Far from even—’

‘Regardless, don’t expect me to go spying for you anymore. You’re going to get me run out of town.’

Jupiter snorted humourlessly. ‘Would you care?’

The man’s response was muffled by sudden movement in the study – feet shuffling, chairs scraping – the sounds of a meeting ended. Shrouded in darkness, Morrigan slipped away seconds before the door opened. She tucked herself into a far corner of the hallway just as the two men stepped out.

‘I’ll see you to the lobby,’ Jupiter was saying. Morrigan tried to catch a glimpse of the mystery guest, but she’d done too good a job of dimming the lights and Jupiter’s tall, broad figure was blocking her view.

‘I don’t require an escort,’ the stranger’s voice bounced back down the corridor as the pair moved away.

‘You will if Fenestra sees you. She’s not your biggest fan, either.’

All the way back to her bedroom, Morrigan debated whether to knock on Jack’s door before she left … only to be so distracted when she reached the fourth floor that she turned the corner and slammed into him. The shock of it made her fading shadowcloak disappear altogether, and she watched Jack’s eyes widen as he registered her sudden appearance.

‘You’re back.’

Morrigan was surprised to hear the relief in his voice. He squinted as if against a bright light, then moved his eye patch back into place from his forehead. ‘Have you and Uncle Jove—’

‘Shush,’ she hissed, yanking him into Room 85 and closing the door quietly. Her bedroom was now awash with warm light from dozens of lamps. The fire crackled merrily, and books and board games were piled on a table beside the octopus armchair. Morrigan felt her heart squeeze.

‘I’m not staying,’ she told both Jack and the room. The hearth dimmed again in disappointment.

‘Ugh. Just go talk to him, will you?’ Jack groaned. ‘Such a pair of idiots.’

‘I was going to, but he was busy talking to someone else—’

‘Whoever it was, I’m sure he’s not too busy to see the prodigal Wundersmith—’

‘JACK!’ she shouted. ‘Listen to me. I think he was talking to your dad.’

Jack’s mouth fell open. He stared at her blankly.

‘Are you sure?’ He shifted his eye patch again, examining her face, looking for the truth. ‘How do you know? What did he say? What did he look like? How old—’

‘I didn’t see him,’ Morrigan said in a rush. Jack made an involuntary movement, almost lurching for the door. The sudden hungry, hopeful look in his eyes alarmed her. ‘I was outside the study. They were arguing, and he called Jupiter dear brother, so I thought …’ The words fell away as she saw Jack’s face change.

‘Not my dad,’ he said glumly, all urgency evaporating. ‘I don’t know who that was, but my dad wouldn’t call him that. Uncle Jove is my mum’s brother.’

‘Your mum.’ It wasn’t so much a question or a comment, but a hope that he might elaborate.

‘Her sort-of-brother.’ Jack shrugged. ‘In that stupid Wundrous Society way. They’re in the same unit.’

The air stilled. Morrigan had never asked Jack how he’d come to live with Jupiter. She’d wanted to. She’d wondered. But when they first met, each despised the other on sight, and it took six months to declare a ceasefire. Afterwards, as they found the rhythm of their peculiar, occasionally adversarial friendship, whenever their conversations meandered in the direction of his past, or his family, Jack would bat the conversation effortlessly in another direction. Morrigan could take a hint. She didn’t want him asking about her parents, after all.

For a moment Jack was quiet. Then he said in a halting way, as if getting something over with, ‘Rosamund and Arjun Korrapati. Rosie and Arj. Mum’s an explorer for the League, like Jove. Dad’s an interrealm diplomat.’

Morrigan stayed silent, worried he might stop if she made the slightest noise.

‘Occasionally they’d be assigned a mission off-realm together, and I’d stay with Uncle Jove for a few days. He’d take me to the zoo or out on errands. Sometimes we’d stay in to have tea parties and rooftop bonfires. I loved those visits.’

Morrigan sat on the end of the bed, hugging a cushion to her stomach, while Jack sank into the octopus armchair. It drew its tentacles comfortably around him.

‘One time, Mum and Dad were going to an outer realm and had to leave me for two whole weeks,’ he continued, stretching his legs in front of him as the words poured out. ‘I was seven. Uncle Jove planned this mad itinerary. Science museum, aquarium, water-skiing on the Juro. I was so excited. Mum gave me a diary to write down all our adventures, so I could read it to her and Dad when they got home. I wrote pages and pages every night; I wanted them to know everything.’ He paused, squeezing the broccoli hat with both hands. ‘On the last day, Uncle Jove and I made this big welcome home banner and waited outside the Deucalion for ages. But they didn’t come. And the next day they didn’t come, and the day after that they didn’t come, and the day after that.’ He scrunched up his face. ‘That was eight years ago. I’m still waiting.’

Morrigan cleared her throat. It felt like her next question was trapped there. ‘What do you think … happened to them?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re not here, that’s all I know. That’s all anybody knows.’

‘Didn’t Jupiter ever go looking—’

‘Of course he looked for them!’ Jack said scornfully. ‘My mum and dad? His sister? Of course he did. He assembled an interrealm search party, kept it funded and staffed for three years, but the League of Explorers wouldn’t keep it going any longer. Not officially. He’s still searching, obviously, or he’d have quit the League years ago.’

Morrigan’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Uncle Jove hates realm-hopping. He never tells anyone, but it makes him nauseous. Fen accidentally let that slip to me once, years ago, and she made me promise never to say anything. He stays so he can keep searching for my parents.’ Jack glanced at her with a rueful smile. ‘That’s why he volunteers for so many missions that shouldn’t even involve him.’

Ah.

Morrigan bit hard on her lip, frowning. She thought about all the times she’d resented him being off-realm, away from the hotel, away from her, as if she was the only important thing. How many of those missions had really been about finding Jack’s parents? All of them, she supposed, indirectly.

And it wasn’t only Jack’s parents he was searching for, was it? Rosamund was Jupiter’s sister. How would Morrigan feel, she wondered, if one of Unit 919 went missing? How long would she keep searching for Cadence or Hawthorne – or Anah, or Francis, or any of them – after the rest of the world gave up?

However long it took, she realised, feeling her chest constrict. I’d keep looking forever.

‘That morning, in Jupiter’s study,’ she said slowly, ‘when you said he had an urgent assignment. Was it about your parents?’

Jack nodded. ‘He got a tip-off from someone in the Ministry for Interrealm Diplomacy. Possible sighting on Brian Jr.’

‘Brian Jr?’

‘One of the middle realms. They’re unlikely to be on a middle realm, mind you, but MID intelligence is usually good, so he had to act quickly. That’s why he rushed me home from school. Jove doesn’t tell me about every lead – most of them don’t go anywhere – but he always says if there’s any proper hope to be had, I should have some too. I think he really believed there was a chance this time.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Same as always.’

Morrigan inhaled deeply. ‘Jack, I’m really—’

‘I’m sorry,’ he rushed to say. ‘I know you don’t think you’re the centre of the universe, I was just—’

‘No, I’m sorry. I was angry about—’

‘Your mum’s family, I know. Fen told me. I would’ve been angry, too.’

‘I didn’t realise you were – I mean I didn’t think—’

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘We were both stuck in our own heads.’

They fell silent, a weight of sadness settling in the room with them. Morrigan thought of her own mother, and those fresh feelings of loss that had been stirred during her time in Darling House. She’d never even known Meredith Darling, yet she missed her.

Jack knew what it was to have a mum and dad who loved and wanted him. And now he’d lived more than half his life without them.

‘I’m so sorry about your parents, Jack.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

Jack stared into the fire, lowering his voice. ‘When I turn seventeen, I’m going to join the League of Explorers and find them myself. Jove doesn’t want me to. He says it’s too dangerous. But the League are desperate for me to enlist.’

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a Witness. We’re rarer than dragon scales, and we make interrealm exploration about ten thousand times safer. Why do you think they’re so desperate to keep Uncle Jove? His mission success rate is unbeaten.’ He scowled, angrily picking bits of lint off the sleeve of his jumper. He seemed furious at the League, even as he talked about joining them. ‘They come to Graysmark every semester, you know, and ask to meet with me. They think they’re being clever, circumventing Uncle Jove, getting to me through my school. Jove would explode if he knew.’

‘Why haven’t you told him?’

He smiled a disconcertingly vicious smile. ‘Because I want them to keep coming on their little fishing expeditions. I always decline to speak to them, but I’m letting them see my resolution waver, and in the spring term I’ll finally, reluctantly agree. Then my plan begins.’

‘What plan?’ Morrigan asked, nervous to hear his answer.

‘I’m playing the long game. Laying the groundwork for a negotiation. If they want me to enlist, I’m going to be the first person in history to become a ranked officer at eighteen, after my year of academy training. As a lieutenant, I won’t have to wait four years to travel to outer realms like the other academy chumps.’ His eyes locked on Morrigan’s, blazing with reflected firelight. ‘And on my very first outer realm mission, I’ll abandon ship, set out on my own, and find my parents.’

Morrigan felt breathless. It was entirely possible she’d spent the last three years living with an evil genius and had only just realised it.

‘That’s quite a plan, Jack,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds dangerous.’

‘It is dangerous.’

‘And if you told Jupiter—’

‘He’d try to stop me.’

‘And what makes you think I won’t tell—’

‘Because one day you’ll have your own dangerous plans, and you’ll want me to keep them secret. And I will, Morrigan. You can count on me.’ He held out his right hand. ‘Can I count on you?’

She felt like she was being asked to spit in Jupiter’s face.

But Jack was her friend. More than that … he was the closest thing to a big brother she’d ever had. He trusted her. And if he wanted to get his parents back, she wouldn’t be the one to stop him.

‘You can count on me, Jack.’ She went to shake his hand, then stuck out her little finger instead. ‘Pinkie promise.’

As they solemnly hooked pinkies, some of the tension left Jack’s face. His fingers slackened as he let go but, seized by an irrepressible impulse, Morrigan gripped tighter, holding him in place.

‘Jack.’

‘Yes?’

‘I signed an apprenticeship contract with Ezra Squall on Hallowmas. I’ve been having secret Wundrous Arts lessons with him ever since. I haven’t told Jupiter yet. I don’t know when I will.’

Jack stared at Morrigan for an excruciating nineteen seconds (she counted), frozen, looking like his brain had short-circuited.

Finally, withdrawing from her vice-like grip, he began a slow clap. ‘Oh, well played, Morrigan. Brilliant.’

She scowled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, you’ve got me there, haven’t you?’ He leaned back in the armchair, rubbing his eyes and sounding genuinely, if reluctantly, tickled. ‘Because I really want to tell Uncle Jove what you just said. I mean I really, really, really, really, really want to go right now, this second, and tell him the absolutely bonkers, stupid, LUDICROUS thing you’ve just told me.’

She gasped. ‘Jack! You said—’

‘I know!’ His laugh bordered on hysterical. ‘I know I did! I made a solemn vow – a pinkie stupid promise – AND I told you my biggest, most secret secret, the one thing I can never tell Uncle Jove. So now I’ve got to keep what I don’t mind telling you is the WORST and DUMBEST and possibly MOST DANGEROUS secret of all time, instead of fobbing it off on to Uncle Jove so he can worry himself sick about it! I’ll have to do his worrying for him, all because I’ve just sleepwalked into MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION with the biggest idiot I have EVER met.’

‘JACK!’

‘Sorry – second biggest idiot, obviously, after me.’

By the end of this tirade, Jack could barely breathe for laughing. Morrigan knew she should be offended, but his laughter was contagious, and soon she was wheezing along with him.

‘Maybe … I shouldn’t’ve … told you,’ she admitted a few minutes later, still struggling to catch her breath. ‘Sorry.’

‘Course you should’ve told me, you numpty.’ Jack threw the broccoli hat at her half-heartedly. ‘You should have told me two months ago, but no time like the present. Spill.’

So, she spilled. She told him how Squall had helped her destroy the Hollowpox and bring the Wunimals back from the void. She told him about the Hush, and what had happened in the Receiving Room at Darling House, how she’d used Tempus without meaning to. She detailed all she’d learned in her lessons so far, even leaping up to give demonstrations at Jack’s request, and beaming when he made no effort to hide how impressed he was.

And when she finished, Morrigan felt lighter. Maybe because telling Jack was the closest thing to telling Jupiter, without actually telling Jupiter.

‘Wait here,’ Jack told her, and he ran to his bedroom, returning moments later with a small but artfully wrapped gift. He insisted she open it on the spot, waving away her embarrassment over not having anything for him.

‘Oh!’ Morrigan’s eyes widened when she saw the three small sheets of supple, silvery-black paper inside. ‘Jack, really? Can you spare them?’

It might have looked like a disappointing present to anyone else, but Morrigan knew how precious they were. ‘Blackpapers’, as Jack called them, were a tool of the so-called Black Mail – a communication method he and his friends used to pass secret messages at boarding school. They were bonded to Jack himself, so if Morrigan wrote on one, said his full name – John Arjuna Korrapati – three times, and then burned it to ashes, the note would appear in Jack’s hand, whole and undamaged, wherever he was. (Pretty impressive, she thought, considering it was invented by some kid called Tommy who just wanted to cheat on a test.)

‘That’s my semester’s allocation – Tommy’s less generous since he nearly got expelled. But you need them more.’ Jack folded his arms with the grimly determined air of someone who was about to deliver a lecture and couldn’t think of anything he’d enjoy less. ‘Listen—’

‘Yes, I’m sticking with the apprenticeship,’ she cut him off.

‘Obviously you’re sticking with the stupid apprenticeship, since it’s finally turning you into a proper Wundersmith. I can see that even with my eye patch on.’ He sighed. ‘I was going to say … are you coming back, or have you permanently abandoned us for your rich relatives?’

‘I haven’t abandoned anyone, I’m just …’ She trailed off, throwing her hands up. ‘Look, I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what I’m doing now or what I’m doing next or if I should stay with the Darlings … or whether I should’ve gone there at all! But they’re my mother’s family, Jack. They’re my family. I have to give them a chance.’

‘I get it, believe me.’ He sighed again, glancing at the blackpapers. ‘Look, just … keep those on you, yeah? And when you need to use one, use one. Even if it’s not an emergency.’

Morrigan snorted. ‘What, like … Dear Jack, fancy a chat?’

‘Yeah. Like that.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Or like … Hi Jack. I’m off for a Wundrous Arts lesson with the incorporeal projection of a notorious murderer. I’ll be at X location, and expect to be finished by X o’clock, when I will send another message to confirm I’m still alive, which is the least I can do since I burdened you with the knowledge of this terrible, stupid thing I’m doing because I’m such a big dumb idiot.’

‘You’ve given me three blackpapers, Jack, not three hundred.’

‘Cut them up,’ he said. ‘Paraphrase. Write small.’

Morrigan nodded and, tucking the precious gift safely into her pocket, headed for the wardrobe door. But as she pressed her W imprint to the circular seal, she suddenly saw that little seven-year-old boy again. Standing outside the Deucalion, clutching his Welcome Home banner. Looking hopefully up and down the street as the minutes and hours ticked on. Trudging back inside with Jupiter, sad and frightened and worried.

Turning back, Morrigan closed the distance between them in three long strides, threw her arms around Jack and squeezed tight.

‘Jolly Christmas, you big dumb idiot.’

For their first ever hug, she thought it felt less weird than it might have. After a moment of shock, Jack even hugged her back. A bit.

‘Glad tidings of Yule,’ he replied, laughing quietly. ‘You absolute loose cannon.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Rinaldi Box

‘It is a BEE-YOOTIFUL day here at the Trollosseum and we’re looking at a stadium packed to the gills with dragonsport fans. Give us a cheer, folks! What a thrill to be here for the first day back at the Winter Trials after a well-deserved break for these talented athletes. I’ve got a spring in my step today, Eddie, and I bet you can guess why.’

‘I daresay I can, Tofty! I’m bouncing right along with you for the much-anticipated return of our favourite Southwark Valley Luminescent, Alights on the Water Like a Seabird. Of course, even in her absence, Alights has loomed large all season long.’

‘That’s right, Eddie. Right now, she’s still sitting comfortably at the top of the leaderboard in accordance with Free State Dragonriding Association rules, which state that a dragon in mourning may be granted a short grace period and their ranking frozen according to their average lifetime scores. Some have questioned whether eight weeks is a slightly generous interpretation of the rule—’

‘But we won’t dwell on that controversial topic, Tofty, ha-ha! To say there’s a lot of expectation surrounding this dragon’s triumphant return to the arena would be an understatement.’

‘Understatement of the century, Eddie! But the question on everyone’s lips is, who will be stepping up to take Dario Rinaldi’s saddle and ride Alights on the Water to her almost assured victory?’

‘The Rinaldi Stables have been very tight-lipped about their selection process. And while of course nothing’s final until a partnership is officially registered, we can now confirm the conditionally appointed rider is … the phenomenal Didi Gundry!’

‘What a turn-up for the books! A name we haven’t heard announced in this stadium for a few years now, but judging by that roar of approval from the crowd, Eddie, it’s certainly a name folks are happy to hear again!’

‘Tofty, if anything was going to tempt Gundry the Great out of retirement after winning every trophy, ribbon and cup it’s possible to win, the chance to ride a dragon like Alights on the Water would surely do the trick. The Rinaldi Stables have played an absolute blinder with this partnership. Dario the Shooting Stario would be proud.’

‘He certainly would, Eddie! If only he were here to see it.’

‘I think this might be the greatest day of my life.’ Hawthorne’s voice was slightly muffled by the floor-to-ceiling glass he’d pressed his nose against, looking out over the packed Trollosseum below. ‘I’m about to watch THE Gundry the Great, flying THE Alights on the Water Like a Seabird … and I have THE best view in the house. I can officially die happy.’

‘You do know somebody has to clean that window after you’ve drooled all over it?’ asked Cadence. Hawthorne hastily wiped the glass with his sleeve.

The Rinaldis had invited the Darlings to watch Alights on the Water’s first event of the Winter Trials from their private box at the top of the stadium, and Morrigan was permitted to bring her friends along.

The Rinaldi box was a large, bright, luxuriously appointed room at the top of the stadium, filled mostly with industry people in suits drinking champagne and occasionally booming with laughter at their own jokes. There were a few sweaty athletes in riding leathers with their coaches, plus the Darling and Rinaldi families, Sunny Ghoshal and his parents, and several wait staff in bowties coming in and out to serve drinks and replenish an extravagant buffet table. Most people milled about the room chatting, but Morrigan, Hawthorne and Cadence had claimed three empty seats right at the front viewing panel.

Hawthorne had been positively giddy with excitement from the moment they’d arrived, acting as Morrigan and Cadence’s dragonsport tour guide and pointing out all the important riders, owners, coaches and sponsors in the room. Now the flying had begun, however, he zoomed in with laser-focus on the arena and the girls knew they’d lost him for the rest of the afternoon.

Naturally, they fell to discussing murder.

‘We were at Vikram Ghoshal’s ninetieth birthday party last week,’ Morrigan whispered to Cadence, watching Sunny re-enter the box and make a beeline for the empty seat between Vesta Rinaldi and Aunt Modestine. (He’d only left Modestine’s side because Vincenzo Rinaldi had insisted on giving him and Tobias a back-of-house tour of the Trollosseum.) ‘Sunny gave a big speech about his grandfather, and it made me remember something from the wedding. When I was sitting in the gazebo, after I left the boathouse, there was an announcement over the loudspeaker in the Glade, telling everyone where to go for the midnight surprise. And it was Sunny’s voice!’

Cadence looked confused. ‘So?’

‘So that’s why he left the cake-cutting halfway through. The cake was in the ice sculpture gallery – remember the frozen swans and dragons in the background? – which means he had to go to the Pavilion in the middle of the Glade, where the microphone was set up. He didn’t have time to leave the Glade, kill Dario, launch his body in the boat and then run back to make an announcement. He can’t be the murderer!’

Morrigan felt quite proud of herself for having figured that out, and she would have liked a moment of stunned appreciation from her friends. But Hawthorne was fixated on a Skylie Isle Blueblood currently soaring above the stands, and Cadence gave a wistful sigh, looking almost disappointed.

‘Shame, he had such a good motive. What about your aunt and uncle, have you questioned them yet?’

‘No,’ Morrigan admitted feebly, feeling her face colour. ‘I don’t know how! It’s so awkward, asking people to prove where they were when someone was killed.’

Cadence made a strangled, exasperated sound. ‘Yes, it is quite awkward investigating a murder. Almost as awkward as potentially living with a murderer.’ She shook her head, then suddenly snapped to attention as she spotted something over Morrigan’s shoulder. ‘Right. Here’s your chance. The Humble Tradesman has landed.’

‘What—? Oh.’ Morrigan turned to see Uncle Tobias return from his tour and head for the buffet, where he began filling a plate. ‘Why don’t you ask him? You’re better at this stuff than I am.’

‘You’re never going to get better if you don’t try,’ Cadence insisted.

‘He looks busy, I should wait until – okay fine, ow.’

Cadence had grabbed Morrigan’s elbow and was suddenly marching her over to the table. She nudged her forward, hovering a few feet away.

‘H-hello … er, Uncle Tobias,’ Morrigan said, trying to sound like a normal person who wasn’t there to interrogate him about a murder. She picked up a plate. ‘The food looks nice, doesn’t it?’

‘Very nice! Much fancier than my usual stadium fare,’ he said, slathering some greyish, unidentifiable gloop on a cracker. ‘I’m more of a meat-pie-and-a-pint man myself.’

‘Right.’ Morrigan gave a nervous chuckle and glanced over at Cadence, who widened her eyes and mouthed the word cake. ‘I’m a cake woman. Cake lady. Cake, er, girl.’ (Cadence sighed and covered her eyes.) ‘I mean … I just really like cake, do you … like cake?’

Tobias laughed. ‘You’ve seen me make a fool of myself at afternoon tea, Morrigan. I think you know the answer to that.’ He reached furtively across the table and took two buttercream-swirled cupcakes with sprinkles, dropping one onto her plate with a wink, and turned to go. Morrigan felt a pinch on her arm and suppressed the urge to yelp.

‘The wedding cake was nice, wasn’t it?’ she blurted out, feeling ridiculous.

‘Sorry?’

‘The wedding cake,’ Morrigan pushed valiantly onwards, ignoring the wrinkle of polite confusion between Tobias’s eyes. ‘At Modestine’s wedding. Remember when they … when the cake was cut? And we all … ate the cake? What was the, um, flavour? I can’t remember …’

‘Oh!’ Tobias sounded flummoxed. His expression turned thoughtful, as though Morrigan’s bizarre attempt at conversation was worth careful, considered attention. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I had any. How did I miss that? Must have been when I popped out.’

‘Popped out?’

‘Mmm, to check on Lady Darling. Your poor aunt was in a tizz trying to round everyone up to cut that cake. It was meant to be the wretched wedding planner’s job, but of course he’d abandoned his post by then – and I suppose now we all know why. Anyway, she’d been fretting about her mother feeling poorly all night, so I volunteered for son-in-law duties. No wedding cake for me!’ He gave a good-natured shrug and then, glancing back at the plate of cupcakes, he reached for another. ‘I suppose that justifies a second one of these, doesn’t it?’

As he wandered off to find a seat, Morrigan felt a sympathetic pat on her shoulder, and heard Cadence murmur in her ear.

‘Congratulations, that was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever witnessed.’

But there was more vicarious humiliation to be had that day, when Alights on the Water finally took to the sky.

‘Yikes, lost a bit of momentum on that spin … but she’s back on track with a Haversham Long Portal, nicely done. Picking up speed rapidly now, ascending above the stands … We know Gundry favours a steep-dive/low-glide combo, Eddie. Her surprising mutation of the Fort Lamentation Quick-Drop and the O’Sullivan Whirling Slide, of course, won her the cup back in Summer of Two and – OOOOH, THAT LOOKED PAINFUL!’

Morrigan, Cadence and Hawthorne winced in unison as Alights flipped onto her back and Gundry lost her seat in midair. One hand was firmly wrapped in the leather reins, so she didn’t plummet to the ground, at least. But it meant a hard, bouncing jolt that looked like it might have dislocated her shoulder.

The dragon turned over again immediately, and Gundry landed back on the saddle, trying to adjust her position using only her left arm, while cradling the right awkwardly at her side. Morrigan fully expected her to land the dragon and call it a day, but Gundry grimaced through the pain and went seamlessly into her next move.

‘Now THAT is what I call grit, Eddie!’

‘Impressive stuff there from the champ, but losing her seat will mean dropping a few points, Tofty.’

‘We’re seeing her drop right now, Eddie! Gundry is angling dangerously low to the stands, not what we’ve come to expect from— Are they going to— PULL UP, PULL UP!’

There was a loud THUD followed by an awful scratching, scrambling sound as Alights on the Water seemed to misjudge the height of the Trollosseum roof, smashing into it with her back talons and almost sliding down into the tiered seating below. Spectators underneath them screamed and ducked, some trying to climb over the seats in front to get out of the way.

But Gundry and Alights managed to correct course at the last second, the dragon’s vast golden wings flapping like great sails as they climbed higher into the air and regained their balance to soar in a wide circle above the arena.

‘Gundry’s bombing this,’ said Hawthorne. ‘How is it even possible to bomb so badly on a dragon like Alights on the Water?’

‘Looks to me like it’s the dragon who’s bombing it,’ said Cadence.

Morrigan thought she had a point. The dragon was dipping badly and shaking her head occasionally, like a dog just out of a bath. None of that seemed like the rider’s fault.

There was a sudden loud groan of disappointment from everyone in the Rinaldi box as Alights on the Water clipped the edge of the judges’ stand with her wing. Gundry was jolted in her saddle and cried out, clutching her right shoulder.

‘Oh! She’s in pain, the poor thing!’ said Aunt Margot. ‘Cosimo, shouldn’t the referees end the flight?’

‘Doesn’t work like that,’ Cosimo grunted. He stood close to the glass, tapping his leg nervously, his gaze never leaving Gundry and Alights. ‘It’s up to the rider. And the dragon.’

‘She really ought to land and call it a day, old boy,’ Tobias said in a tone of mild disapproval, putting a comforting arm around his wife. ‘Dropping a few places on the leaderboard surely isn’t as important as—’

‘WHAT IS GOING ON HERE, EDDIE?!’

There were screams from the stadium as Alights began losing height fast, spinning towards the stands. Didi Gundry stood on her saddle and launched herself at the dragon’s massive head, screaming in pain as she landed, but snaking one hand around the thick scaly neck and under the enormous jaw.

‘NO!’ shouted Cosimo and Vincenzo Rinaldi in unison. Morrigan heard a sharp intake of breath from Hawthorne.

‘Gundry’s forcing the fire mechanism,’ he quietly explained to her and Cadence, watching the scene through his fingers.

‘But they’re so close to the stands, what if it burns—’

‘She’s trying to trigger Alights, to wake her up – look, her eyes are half closed, she’s blacking out!’

The audience ducked as a great plume of fire erupted from the dragon’s mouth, and the golden eyes shot open. Alights automatically beat her vast leathery wings once, twice, three times – enough for Gundry to steer her up and away from the stands, seconds before she would have crushed dozens of people – before tilting helplessly back towards the middle of the arena and coming in for the roughest landing Morrigan had ever seen.

The rider tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over, but staggered to her feet almost instantly. Face contorted in pain, she ran straight back to the dragon, holding up her left hand in a calming, appeasing motion. But Alights didn’t need calming; she sat on her haunches, swaying gently, looking confused and exhausted.

‘What a bizarre turn of events, Eddie, and a heartbreaking return to competition for a dragon who is obviously still very deep in mourning—’

A cry of dismay rose up from the crowd outside, while inside the Rinaldi box there were bellows of rage from Cosimo and Vincenzo, and a heartrending sob from Vesta, thumping her small fists on the glass. Morrigan watched in horror as half a dozen grey-uniformed figures ran into the centre of the Trollosseum, surrounded Alights on the Water, raised heavy black weapons onto their shoulders and took aim.

‘COSIMO, MAKE THEM STOP!’ shouted Vesta, as her older brother ran from the room, knocking over a table full of champagne glasses with a great CRASH.

But it was too late; six enormous darts were shot into the dragon’s thick hide, and five seconds later she’d hit the ground with a sound like a felled oak tree. Vincenzo and Vesta fled the room, following Cosimo.

‘Did they kill her?’ Morrigan asked in a whisper, feeling as if she might be sick.

But Hawthorne shook his head, swallowing. ‘She’s just sedated … but that was a dangerous amount of sedative for a dragon her size. Idiots!’

Gundry seemed to agree. She stormed across the arena and, despite her injured arm, began signing furiously to the confounded shooters and referees, while her equally furious coach interpreted. Moments later Cosimo joined them, red-faced and shouting.

‘Wish we’d brought Mahir,’ said Cadence.

‘I don’t need Mahir to know what she’s telling them,’ Hawthorne said through gritted teeth. ‘Because I’d be telling them the same thing: that they’re a bunch of dangerous, know-nothing morons. What are they playing at, sedating Alights when she was already under control? They’d landed, for goodness’ sake!’

‘Why did they do it?’ asked Morrigan.

Hawthorne scowled. ‘FSDA regulations. Any dragon who displays aggression towards spectators must be made to land immediately, and if they ignite with intent they’re tranquilised. But she wasn’t being aggressive! And she didn’t ignite with intent – Gundry triggered ignition. She had no choice! The FSDA refs are a bunch of—’

Fortunately, his questionable language was drowned out, as a bullhorn sounded to signal the judging. All eyes in the Trollosseum turned towards the leaderboard.

The mood inside the Rinaldi box was already tense, but any speck of hope was snuffed out like a candle as Alights on the Water dropped from first place, to second, to third, and downdowndowndowndown before dropping off the board altogether.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Good Feasting

If the Glade was a romantic, glittering fairyland for Modestine and Dario’s wedding, for the Feast of the Manyhands it was its dark counterpart. The wisteria that had cocooned the trellised tunnel entrances was gone, replaced with deep green winter foliage and twisting black vines. Torches and braziers, and even a couple of bonfires, provided light and heat. There were roving fire-eaters and incense-twirlers and musicians, and the whole Glade was filled with a steady, primal drumbeat.

Looming above it all was the great floral tribute to the Manyhands. Morrigan had caught glimpses of it from a distance over the past weeks as it wound through the Silver District canals, but seeing it up close, she felt slightly perplexed. It looked a bit like a jellyfish, and a bit like a hot-air balloon without a basket, she thought – an enormous, floating black dome with a round, benevolent face, smiling down upon the Glade. A device directly underneath shot flames upwards intermittently to keep it suspended in the air, while long ropes twined with fairy lights and flowers and vines fanned out from its base, secured with iron pegs in the ground so it didn’t float away. Aunt Miriam said they were meant to represent the weaving arms of the Manyhands.

The face was made of flowers, all in shades of purple – freesias, heliotropes, irises, hydrangeas. It smiled beatifically with hyacinth lips, and its lavender-lashed eyes were closed, as if it was sleeping. It was beautiful and elegant, and Morrigan was confident it bore only the most tenuous resemblance to the real Manyhands … unlike the Guiltghast. (Hani Nakamura, after all, had actually seen the Manyhands with her own eyes before creating her monstrous tribute.)

Twelve long tables were set up at one end of the Glade – one for each of the Greater Houses – and at the other end were dozens more round tables for the Lesser Houses. They all held black and purple taper candles in silver holders, and platters overflowing with all the season’s traditional foods.

The feast was unlike anything Morrigan had experienced in the Silver District so far. All dishes were brought out at once, with seemingly no thought to logic or order: oysters on ice and whole suckling pigs and barrels of cherries and dragonfruit and pomegranates and great wheels of oozing soft cheese and Black Forest cakes and chewy gelatinous chicken feet and crab claws and enormous octopus tentacles stabbed with huge metal forks and thrust into the braziers to be cooked tableside. There was a carousing, communal – almost bacchanalian – atmosphere, nothing like the dainty teas and formal twelve-course suppers they usually favoured.

The real surprise, however, was learning that the Silverborn traditionally ate the feast with their hands, taking little care not to spoil their fancy clothes.

‘It’s meant to honour the Manyhands themself,’ Uncle Tobias explained quietly, noticing her look of surprise when he tore a whole roasted quail apart with his fingers. ‘And to represent industry and agility, and the noble art of working with one’s hands to make beautiful and functional things for the world to enjoy.’

‘Oh,’ said Morrigan, frowning. ‘Okay.’

The sentiment felt odd to her, coming from a group of people who seemed embarrassed by the very idea of having a job. The only acceptable occupations for the Silverborn seemed to be owning dragons, riding dragons and playing at politics – and even those, they called hobbies. None of them actually made anything. They hadn’t even made the feast themselves; they were only eating it!

Morrigan didn’t voice these observations aloud, but Uncle Tobias who, after all, hadn’t grown up in the district either, seemed to guess what she was thinking.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said with a knowing chuckle. ‘When the Grand Old Houses can’t abide working for money. I had to hand the running of my family business over to my incompetent younger brothers before I was permitted to marry your aunt. I had to stop making beautiful and functional things, for the sake of love.’ He smiled down the table at Aunt Margot, his eyes warm with adoration as she threw back her head and laughed at something Aunt Miriam was saying. ‘Of course, I’d do it again a hundred times. Though I admit I do miss feeling … industrious,’ he finished in a conspiratorial whisper, widening his eyes as if he’d said a bad word. Morrigan laughed.

On her other side was Vesta Rinaldi, Dario’s little sister. The Rinaldis had been invited to sit at the Darlings’ table even though they were a Lesser House, which raised a few eyebrows and drew outright hostile glares from the Devereaux table. But the aunts were adamant that the Rinaldis were their family now, and it was important for people to see that.

Aunt Margot was probably hoping Vesta might come out of her shell with someone close to her own age. So far the younger girl had ignored all Morrigan’s attempts at small talk, which was fine by her as it meant she could listen in on the conversations happening around them. With the Rinaldis present, talk inevitably turned to the Winter Trials.

‘Nearly at the pointy end, aren’t we?’ said Uncle Tobias. ‘Only a few weeks until closing flights.’

‘I don’t know much about dragonriding, but I rather thought you’d have confirmed a new rider by now, Cosimo,’ said Aunt Winifred, picking up a charred tentacle with grease-covered fingers. ‘How many people have trialled with Alights?’

Cosimo dabbed his mouth with a napkin, looking uncomfortable. ‘There’s been a lot of interest, of course, but these things can’t be—’

‘Thirty-eight!’ boomed Vincenzo, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Thirty-eight perfectly able, experienced riders, and this one wants to keep looking.’ He jerked his head towards his son.

‘It’s a delicate process,’ Cosimo said quietly. ‘Alights on the Water is grieving, Papa, just like the rest of us. You saw what happened on her first flight. She’s climbing back up the ranks slowly but surely, and her performances have been solid since then. But if we pair her with the wrong rider, she’ll plummet again. We have to be careful—’

‘Bah! She’s a reptile, not a person. You’re being too particular as usual. If you don’t register her rider’s name soon, she won’t rank at all!’ Vincenzo spat, his face reddening. ‘And what then? Goodbye, summer tournament! Goodbye, Rinaldi legacy! Cosimo, it’s time to admit we’ll never find another rider like your brother. Choose the next best option, my son – there are plenty begging for the job. Maybe we take a hit on the Winter Trials ranking, but we’ll train them up for the summer tournament and be back where we started! I have faith in our coaches.’

Cosimo took a swig of wine and said nothing, but Morrigan saw the muscles in his jaw working furiously.

‘What about whoever it was riding Alights at the wedding?’ asked Aunt Winifred, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and leaving a trail of reddish sauce. ‘Or are they already paired up with another dragon?’

The table fell silent for a moment, and the two Rinaldi men exchanged a glowering look. Aunt Winifred froze, seeming to realise she’d put her foot in it.

‘I believe that rider’s identity is unknown,’ Uncle Tobias murmured in her ear. ‘It was supposed to be Dario flying her that night.’

Aunt Winifred’s eyes widened slightly, as she realised the implication. ‘Oh. Of course. Does that mean … Do you think they had something to do with Dario’s … ?’

More silence.

‘What about that Frost girl?’ Tobias finally suggested, breaking the tension. ‘Quincy. She’s new to the circuit, but perhaps it’s time for the Rinaldi Stables to give some burgeoning young talent a chance.’

Morrigan thought she heard a quiet scoff beside her. She turned to look at Vesta, who was tearing her bread into pieces.

Vincenzo thumped the table again in agreement. ‘Time to register a name, Cosimo. Any name! Frost, Gundry, Abdullahi—’

‘Swift?’ Morrigan suggested, seizing the opportunity. If they were looking for burgeoning young talent, surely they couldn’t do any better than Hawthorne.

The Rinaldis, Uncle Tobias and Aunt Winifred all turned to her, looking confused.

‘Hawthorne Swift,’ she clarified. ‘You might have seen him? He was one of the seven exhibition riders on the opening day of the Winter Trials, flying on a dragon called Burns With the Fire of a Thousand Wood-Burning Stoves.’

‘We didn’t see the opening flights,’ said Cosimo.

Morrigan cringed inwardly. Of course the Rinaldis hadn’t seen the opening flights. Dario had been murdered only hours before.

‘Hawthorne’s the best dragonrider I’ve ever seen,’ she forged on, trying to cover the awkward moment. ‘Nan says he’s going to be a champion when he enters the tournament.’

‘Your nan’s a dragonriding expert, is she?’ Cosimo asked dubiously.

‘Not my nan. Nan Dawson, his patron in the Wundrous Society.’

‘Nancy Dawson is his patron?’ asked Vincenzo, glancing at his son with slightly raised eyebrows. ‘Five-time Free State Champion, Nancy Dawson?’

‘Yes, she’s been coaching him for years.’

Uncle Tobias sat up with interest. ‘I do remember him! Pulled off a triple Tremaine Tornado into a Boxwood Special, yes? Impressive stuff for a thirteen-year-old.’

‘Thirteen?’ said Vesta incredulously. Morrigan almost jumped out of her chair in surprise; it was the first thing the Rinaldi girl had said all night. ‘That’s much too young! Isn’t it, Cosimo? Shouldn’t a dragon as valuable as Alights only be flown by someone with experience?’

‘Hush, my princess. You let your brother and me worry about these things,’ said Vincenzo, with an indulgent chuckle. Vesta scowled and went back to shredding bread rolls.

The seating arrangements loosened throughout the evening as people moved around the Glade to visit friends. Aunt Modestine was the first to disappear, making a beeline for the Ghoshal table. Aunt Margot seemed annoyed at this and looked as if she wanted to go after her sister and bring her back, but the empty seat was soon taken by her friend Lady Prisha of Mahapatra House.

‘Good Feasting, noble neighbours.’ Lady Prisha beamed and clinked glasses with everyone she could reach. Leaning close to Aunt Margot, she said in a loud whisper, ‘Have you seen the rabble on the Beauregard – pardon me, the Smithereens table? Who are all those people? They look like they’ve come straight from one of his factory floors.’

Aunt Margot followed Lady Prisha’s gaze to the Vulture’s long table, her expression tightening in disapproval. ‘I suppose he thinks it will provoke us to rudeness, but I’m afraid all I feel is pity. The man clearly has no friends or family.’

Morrigan was trying to pretend she wasn’t listening in on their conversation, but she couldn’t help glancing over there herself. The Vulture sat at one end of the long table with his feet propped up next to a platter of oysters on ice, casually throwing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth. For once, he hadn’t come alone: his table was filled with a motley assortment of guests, many of whom were indeed wearing bottle-green boilersuits with Smithereens & Co. embroidered on the back in large, gold letters. They all seemed to be having a splendid time, singing raucous songs and toasting each other, passing platters around and laughing uproariously.

All except the Vulture himself, who looked bored. His attention flitted around the Glade, never landing for long. Morrigan didn’t realise she was staring at him until his wandering attention landed on her, where it stopped for ten disconcerting seconds before sliding away again. She pulled up the collar of her coat, feeling a sudden chill on the back of her neck, and sank down low in her seat.

Why was he always so creepy?

‘… almost a certainty that Basking will arrive in the spring, and you know what that means.’

The mention of ‘Basking’ pricked Morrigan’s ears, bringing her attention back to her own table.

‘The Silver Assembly is almost upon us, Margot, and for what it’s worth,’ Lady Prisha continued in a low voice, ‘if the Rinaldis were to be nominated for advancement, I don’t believe anyone in my family would oppose it. The Mahapatras are traditionalists, but even we agree the Greater Circle could do with some new blood. The right sort of blood, I mean,’ she added, with another scathing glance at the Vulture.

‘I quite agree that if any family deserves to advance, it’s the Rinaldis, who after all are such generous benefactors to the district and have suffered so tremendously with the loss of Dario,’ murmured Aunt Margot, adding in a carefully diplomatic tone, ‘Of course … that would mean one of our noble neighbours must decline. I’m sure I can’t think of any Greater House deserving of that.’

‘I’m sure I can,’ said Lady Prisha, smirking as she made eye contact with Lady Devereaux two tables over and raised a glass in greeting. Lady Devereaux tried to smile back, but it looked more like she was trying not to be sick.

Morrigan couldn’t help noticing the stark difference between their tables. With all the Darlings, their children, the nanny brigade, plus Morrigan and the Rinaldis, they’d had to bring in extra chairs to fit everyone. By comparison, the Devereaux table was practically empty, with only Lord and Lady Devereaux, an elderly woman Morrigan assumed was Noelle’s grandmother, and Noelle herself. None of them looked happy to be there.

‘I know your noble family is much too dignified for revenge, Margot,’ Lady Prisha whispered, ‘but really, after what Devereaux House tried to pull at the last Silver Assembly … Wouldn’t it be the most delicious karma?’

Morrigan kept her gaze firmly on her plate in front of her, pretending to be absorbed in a crab leg. But she was burning with curiosity, straining to hear and remember every word.

‘Well. I daren’t comment on that.’ Aunt Margot cleared her throat. Morrigan could hear the smile in her voice. ‘But it’s a great comfort to know we would have the support of your noble family at the next Silver Assembly … should it happen to come to a vote again.’

‘You would indeed,’ agreed Lady Prisha.

Morrigan had spotted Louis and Lottie from a distance during dinner earlier, but with the threat of reform school looming, they couldn’t risk talking to her with their parents around. Once the last remnants of the feast had been taken away, however, the twins descended on the Darling table, beckoning Morrigan towards a grassy makeshift dance floor where the band was playing a thrumming, celebratory song.

‘Mother and Father have gone home,’ Louis explained.

‘Our little sister Clotilde ate too many cherries and vomited all over Father’s shoes!’ Lottie shouted gleefully over the music.

‘Bravo, Clotilde!’ Morrigan shouted back, and the twins roared with laughter.

The heat from the torches warmed her face and the drumbeat pulsed through her feet, and after a while Morrigan was sweaty, red-faced and in need of refreshment. She left the twins bellowing along to a traditional folk song everyone seemed to know and went to queue at the punch table behind Vesta.

Morrigan was trying to think of a way to strike up conversation with the youngest and quietest Rinaldi, when the Vulture wandered past with some of his guests. Angry muttering rumbled all along the refreshments queue – Morrigan heard words like uncouth and audacious and ruining the whole district – but Vesta beamed, waving at him.

‘Good Feasting, Mr Smithereens,’ she called out. Morrigan blinked in surprise at this familiarity, and was even more shocked when the Vulture acknowledged Vesta in return, casually tipping his wide-brimmed hat as he passed by.

‘He’s not so bad,’ said the younger girl, correctly interpreting Morrigan’s look of confusion. ‘Most people are frightened of him, but he’s really very kind. He made my chair for me.’

‘He made it?’ She looked at Vesta’s chair properly for the first time, taking in the complexity and beauty of its design.

‘Well, his company did. Smithereens & Co. They make all sorts of things. Travelling chairs and flying spy cameras and unbreakable glass. Booby traps for bank vaults and prosthetic limbs and mechanical dog butlers that follow your real dog around and clean up after them. That’s how he made his fortune. Dario told me about it. He was always fascinated with things like that.’

Morrigan’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Did Dario … know Mr Smithereens very well?’

She tried to keep her voice casual, as though she hadn’t just discovered a potential connection between the murder victim and their most mysterious suspect.

‘I don’t think anybody knows him very well.’ Vesta shrugged. ‘A few years ago – not long after Mr Smithereens bought the Beauregard House – we saw him one morning during a promenade, and he stopped my parents to ask about my chair. I used to have one on wheels, you know. A genuine Royal Lightwing antique, with a golden frame and diamond-encrusted spokes and mother-of-pearl inlay and pink velvet upholstery.’ Vesta sighed dreamily. ‘Very beautiful, but not very practical. Mr Smithereens said he’d noticed it was difficult for me to travel on the canals with it, and he said it was a stupid design because gold isn’t strong and velvet isn’t weather-proof. He kept ranting and raving about all the things he thought it should be able to do – very silly things, you know, like climbing up walls and opening doors and tripping people over. He offered to draw up some designs, but my parents said no thank you, of course. Mama thought he was being rude, and Papa said he couldn’t be trusted. But Dario and I thought it was an excellent proposal, so he went to talk to Mr Smithereens about it and share some of his own ideas. And the very next week, Spiderlily was delivered to our house.’

‘Spiderlily?’ asked Morrigan.

‘That’s what I named her.’ She patted the gleaming chair with affection, and Spiderlily flexed her eight jointed legs, bouncing Vesta gently in response. ‘We can go anywhere together, step in and out of any boat, climb walls and … all sorts of things.’ Vesta paused for a moment and sighed. ‘I don’t have her trip people over, obviously, but it’s nice to have the option. It was very kind of him, don’t you think?’

‘Very kind,’ Morrigan agreed bemusedly, glancing over to see the Vulture leaving the Glade with his guests.

‘And he refused to take any payment for it,’ Vesta added, answering Morrigan’s next question before she could ask it. ‘He wouldn’t even accept Dario’s invitation to supper. Strange man.’

‘Very strange,’ she agreed again.

Minutes later, three glasses of fruit punch in hand and trying to commit all she’d learned that night to memory to tell Cadence, Morrigan made her way back to the dance floor. Lottie and Louis were bouncing madly with some of the other lintel-hoppers, waving her over.

As she neared one of the exits, however, a hand grabbed her wrist and wrenched her from the warmth and light of the Glade into the cool, dark gardens beyond. The three glasses tumbled to the ground, splashing her dress with bright red punch.

‘Ow. Let go of me!’ cried Morrigan, momentarily too shocked to do anything except protest as she was dragged along at speed by her assailant, who wore a hooded purple cloak and had a surprisingly strong grip.

Before she knew it, the slight figure had pulled her underneath a willow tree, cocooning them both within its weeping fairy-lit branches. Morrigan reached up and pulled back the hood to reveal a familiar face, pale and furious, framed by thick glossy curls.

She stumbled backwards in surprise. Her attacker yanked her closer and spoke in a savage whisper.

‘Are you planning to take everything from me?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Blessings of the Manyhands

‘WHAT?’ Dumbfounded, Morrigan twisted her arm out of Noelle Devereaux’s pincer-grip. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about!’ the other girl hissed. ‘You already took my place in the Wundrous Society—’

‘I did NOT!’

‘—you’re taking all the attention in the entire district, and now this?’ She paused to heave in a breath, eyes blazing and chin dimpled. ‘Are you really going to take Louis from me too?’

‘Louis? Noelle, what are you talking about? Louis and Lottie are my friends, that’s all.’

‘He used to be my friend. And then that group of idiots got their claws into Lottie, and Lottie dragged him along to whatever their stupid club is that they think I don’t hear them whispering about. They all think they’re so cool and they’re just – they’re just … You can have them, I don’t care about the rest of them, but … leave Louis alone!’

Morrigan was utterly bewildered.

‘Noelle, are you saying …’ She lowered her voice, trying not to sound amused. ‘Do you have a crush on Louis? Because I can promise you, I don’t. You don’t have to worry about—’

‘A crush?’ Noelle practically spat at her. ‘Crushes are for children. I’ve known Louis my whole life and I loved him from the day we MET and I’m going to—’ She paused, briefly flustered, her cheeks turning pinker by the second, then rushed on. ‘I’m going to marry him one day and our families are going to join together and we’re going to build a LEGACY.’

‘Okay? Fine by me.’ Morrigan recoiled, wiping a speck of projectile saliva from her cheek. ‘Aren’t you like … fourteen, though?’

‘And you wouldn’t even know what a legacy is because you’re a gutter rat with no proper breeding and you don’t know anything!’ Noelle’s eyes were wild and red-rimmed, her hands trembling. She looked an absolute nervous wreck, and if Morrigan’s arm didn’t still bear her angry nail marks, she could almost feel sorry for the idiot. ‘You might have the rest of the district fooled, Morrigan Crow, with all your teacup tornadoes and magic shadow puppets and your – your showing off. But I see what you truly are. A MENACE to society! And one day everyone else will see how dangerous—’

‘Morrigan! Is that you?’ Lottie’s exasperated voice rang out, seconds before her face appeared – bright-eyed and sweaty and slightly mud-spattered – through the curtain of sparkling willow branches. ‘There you are! Come back to the Glade, it’s nearly – oh.’ She stopped short, noticing Noelle. ‘Hello.’

Noelle hastily wiped her eyes and plastered on a slightly panicked smile. ‘Good Feasting, Lottie! How nice to see you. Blessings of the Manyhands upon you and your house.’ She was clearly trying to project Calm, Sophisticated Aristocrat, but landed somewhere around Elegant-Yet-Nervous Chihuahua.

‘Blessings of the Manyhands, Noelle.’ Lottie looked around the little clearing, her forehead knotted in confusion. ‘Isn’t this cosy? A Darling and a Devereaux, how … unlikely.’

‘Not actually a Darling,’ Morrigan reminded her.

‘You two seem well acquainted,’ Lottie pressed, raising her eyebrows in gentle expectation.

Noelle’s smile faltered. ‘Not very well. We briefly met a few years ago. During … a school event.’

Morrigan only just managed to refrain from scoffing. A school event? That was a funny way to describe it.

‘A school event,’ Lottie repeated. ‘How fun! I do love a school dance.’

The older girl looked from one to the other, waiting to have her assumptions corrected or confirmed. It was devilishly clever, Morrigan thought, the way she was interrogating them without asking a single question.

‘Not … not a dance, no,’ Noelle responded carefully. She swallowed, seeming to brace herself. ‘I met Morrigan during the Wundrous Society entrance trials.’

Lottie showed almost no sign of surprise at the news that Noelle had entered the Wunsoc trials … only the tiniest, most infinitesimal widening of her eyes. Even so, Morrigan could tell this information was brand new and potentially scandalous.

Why? she wondered. Where was the shame in having tried to get into the Society? Noelle might have failed but, after all, there were hundreds of candidates vying for only nine places. And she’d finished tenth on the leaderboard! She’d barely missed out.

Although Morrigan could see how, to the Silverborn, the idea of competing against hundreds of other children, of putting in all that effort only to suffer the humiliation of falling at the last hurdle, would seem … distasteful. No wonder Noelle had been so fiercely determined to win a place in the Society. And no wonder she’d kept it a secret when she failed.

‘You were a candidate for the Wundrous Society!’ said Lottie. ‘Noelle, that’s so thrilling.’

Noelle’s cheeks turned the barest pink, and she said without any hesitation, ‘Yes, but I decided to drop out before the end of the trials.’

‘Oh?’ Lottie smiled benignly and glanced at Morrigan, who couldn’t hide her shock at this blatant lie. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of facial neutrality the way the Silverborn had, with all their years of practice.

‘It was my mother, you see,’ Noelle went on. ‘She desperately wanted me to attend Dev Ladies’. Family legacy, you know – my great-aunt was the founder. I simply couldn’t bear to break Mother’s heart.’

‘That was kind of you,’ Lottie said softly. ‘I daresay poor Lady Devereaux can’t take any more heartbreak.’

Noelle’s face flushed fully red at this veiled reference to her sister’s disgrace and her eyes narrowed furiously, but Lottie’s attention had already shifted.

‘Come along, Morrigan, or the dancing will be over!’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Morrigan. ‘I just need a moment with Noelle.’

Lottie was clearly suspicious, but either her society manners kicked in or she really didn’t want to miss any more dancing, because she left them to it and hurried back to the Glade.

The second she was out of sight, Noelle rounded on Morrigan fiercely, ready to finish her diatribe, but Morrigan was prepared this time. Extending her Wundrous reach, she swirled the hanging willow branches around Noelle, wrapping her up like a mummy until she was cocooned past her mouth, muffling her shouts of protest.

‘Shush,’ snapped Morrigan. ‘I have something important to talk to you about. I’m going to unwrap you but only if you swear to shut up and listen, okay? Nod if you agree.’

Noelle breathed furiously through her nose for several seconds, glaring daggers, before finally giving a reluctant nod. Morrigan un-wove the spindly tree branches from around her and jumped in straight away before the screeching could begin again.

‘Where’s your sister?’

Noelle flinched. ‘My sister? Why would you … How should I know?!’

‘Did you see her again on the night of the wedding?’ Morrigan persisted. ‘After you and your parents went home? Have you seen her or heard from her since? Do you know her address in Bohemia?’

‘If I knew, why would I tell you? How dare you interrogate me!’

‘Please, Noelle, this is important.’ Taking a deep breath, Morrigan decided to lay her cards on the table. This might be the only chance she had to find out once and for all if Gigi Grand had an alibi. ‘I overheard something on the night of the wedding, something I wish I hadn’t. I was at the boathouse, and I heard your sister talking to Dario Rinaldi. It would have been about ten minutes before he was killed.’

‘So what? They were friends.’

‘Do friends profess their love for each other after one of them has just got married?’

Noelle looked flustered by this, but quickly recovered. ‘Friends say they love each other all the time! Maybe not your friends, because they probably all secretly hate you, but normal people—’

‘Do friends make plans to run away together after one of them has just got married?’

Morrigan told Noelle about the argument, the way Gigi had ended things with Dario and then disappeared, and about Aunt Modestine being unable to find her.

Noelle’s face was drained of colour. ‘Why would anyone believe you?’ she whispered tremulously. ‘You’re just trying to make trouble for Devereaux House, like the rest of your horrible family.’

‘If I was trying to make trouble for you, I could have told my aunts about Gigi and Dario,’ reasoned Morrigan. ‘Or the police. But I haven’t, have I? I’ve come to you, instead, because I know you care about your sister. If she really is missing, Noelle, I think there are only three possible reasons why. Either she murdered Dario—’

‘Gigi is not a murderer!’

‘—or she witnessed something she shouldn’t have, and she’s gone into hiding, which means she might have important information that could help find the murderer. Or else …’

Morrigan trailed off, not really wanting to say the last reason.

‘Or else what?’ Noelle’s voice rose in panic.

‘Maybe whoever killed Dario …’ Morrigan swallowed. She couldn’t say it. How do you tactfully tell someone you think their sister might have been murdered? ‘I don’t know. Are you sure you haven’t seen her?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Noelle snapped. Once again, her eyes had filled with tears. ‘I’m not allowed to see her, or speak to her, or write to her! I hadn’t seen her in three years, until the night of the wedding—’

Noelle stopped abruptly and gasped, her eyes wide as she looked over Morrigan’s shoulder, into the gardens further beyond the Glade.

‘Him,’ she said in a frightened whisper.

‘Who?’ Morrigan spun around to peer into the darkness but couldn’t see anyone.

‘Did you know the Vulture was watching us? You’re conspiring with him, aren’t you? He’s plotting against us, just like the Darlings!’

‘The Vulture?’ Again, Morrigan’s eyes darted all around, but she couldn’t see anything. She felt her heartbeat quicken. ‘Where did you see him?’

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t plant him there as a spy!’

‘Oh, because I knew you were going to lunge out of the shadows like a demon and drag me from the Glade to this exact spot, did I?’ Morrigan retorted. ‘Pull your neck in, you great numpty. I don’t even know him.’

‘I don’t believe ANYTHING you say!’ Noelle gave a bitter, wild-eyed, slightly hysterical laugh. ‘I hated you from the day I met you at that garden party, and now I know why. Of course you would turn out to be a Darling!’

‘I’m NOT a Darling.’

‘Your family has been plotting revenge against mine for years, and now the Vulture is circling Devereaux House just like he circled Beauregard House – everybody knows it. You’re in cahoots to take us down at the next Silver Assembly, aren’t you? Mother says the Darlings are trying to force a vote, to get us kicked out of the Greater Circle!’

‘Wh-what? No, I—’ Morrigan spluttered, but she thought instantly of Aunt Margot and Lady Prisha’s conversation at dinner, and the moment of uncertainty must have shown on her face.

‘I knew it! Bringing Gigi to the wedding to remind everyone of our disgrace? Putting the Rinaldis front and centre at every Greater Circle event, showing off all their dragonriding money? Investigating my father’s sapphire mines? Buying up all our—’ She cut herself off, looking like she thought she’d said too much.

‘Noelle.’ Morrigan tried to summon some patience. ‘I don’t … revenge for what?”

‘And now you’re trying to accuse my sister of murder!’

‘I’m not—’

‘Well, you of all people should know, every Silver District family has skeletons in their closet.’ Shaking with fury, Noelle took a small rectangular package wrapped in brown paper from within her cloak and thrust it into Morrigan’s hands. ‘A gift, from me to you.’

Before Morrigan could recover from this final shock, Noelle turned and stalked away, throwing the customary words back over her shoulder.

‘Blessings of the Manyhands upon you and your horrible house.’

Morrigan hesitated before tearing open the package, but only for about three seconds.

It was a book. A small, pastel blue paperback, well-read but still in good condition, with a shiny foil banner across the top reading: A Tale from the Silverborn Saga.

The face in the cover illustration was familiar: pale and heart-shaped, framed by straw-coloured hair. But here the big brown eyes were narrowed, the cupid’s-bow smile twisted into a mean scowl. Instead of pink or peach, the figure wore all black, casting a furtive look behind her as she guided a swan-shaped boat through the Silver Gates beneath the light of a full moon.

Morrigan held her breath as she read the title that curled across the bottom of the illustration in big, silver embossed letters.

Madeleine Malcontent

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Malcontent, Misanthrope, Menace

A scandal beyond all scandals.

The tale of a highborn traitor.

In a Silverborn family swarming with spoiled but celebrated sisters, wayward child Madeleine Malcontent fears she must make a name for herself, lest she get swallowed in the hive and forgotten.

But how? She will never be as coolly cunning as her eldest sister, the notorious ice queen Marguerite. Not as clever as Marianne, nor as loveable as Marceline. Seething in the shadows, is she destined to forever be known as Madeleine Mediocre, Madeleine Middling or worse – Madeleine Unmemorable?

Upon graduating from her prestigious finishing school with no distinguishing honours to speak of, the resentful Miss Malcontent makes a radical choice that will not only smear her family’s good name and ruin her own reputation forever …

It may ultimately cost her life.

Morrigan zoomed through the blurb on the back of the book, whispering the words aloud until the last sentence got stuck in her throat.

She flipped to the front cover, feeling her blood boil. Who was this author, this Hillary D’Boer, and what did she know about Meredith Darling? How was it fair – how was it legal! – to draw Morrigan’s mother as this awful caricature, this resentful and wayward ‘Madeleine Malcontent’, when she wasn’t even alive to defend herself?

Had Meredith really seethed in the shadows of her sisters? Had she run away to the Wintersea Republic just to avoid being unmemorable?

No, Morrigan decided. Noelle obviously wanted her to read this stupid book and believe every word. To get upset, and feel ashamed of her mother’s past. But D’Boer was just a petty gossip who traded in cheap tabloid stories, she knew that.

Still. Morrigan was so hungry to learn anything about her mother, even if it came from dubious origins, that she also knew she’d devour it cover to cover. Part of her wanted to run back to Darling House there and then, to hide under the blankets and read all night.

But she refused to give Noelle the satisfaction. She would march back to the Glade with her head high, spend the rest of the night dancing with Louis and Lottie, and make sure Nasty Noelle Devereaux saw how much she had NOT ruined her night.

Wrapping the torn paper around the book again as best she could, she flung the willow branches aside with a flick of her Wundrous reach and stormed out, only to run headfirst into Aunt Margot.

‘There you are, Morrigan darling!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you all right, dear? You look upset.’

‘I’m … uh, fine.’ She tried to transform her furious grimace into a smile, without much success. ‘I just needed some fresh air.’

‘Oh! Someone’s given you a gift.’ Aunt Margot’s eyes were fixed on the badly rewrapped paperback. ‘How lovely. May I see it?’

‘Oh no, it’s nothing—’

But before Morrigan could stop her, Aunt Margot plucked Madeleine Malcontent from her hands, letting the torn brown paper fall to the ground. Her face went unnervingly still.

‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded, all the warmth in her voice instantly evaporating.

‘I found it.’ The instinctive lie was out of Morrigan’s mouth before she’d even thought about it, but Aunt Margot didn’t buy it for a second.

‘That Devereaux girl was underneath the tree with you,’ she said sharply. ‘Noelle gave it to you, didn’t she?’

Morrigan frowned. Had her aunt been waiting outside the willow to pounce the moment she emerged? Was she listening to their conversation?

Aunt Margot didn’t wait for an answer. ‘These books are poison, Morrigan, filled with poisonous words written by a poisonous pen, and this – this Madeleine Malcontent,’ she spat out the words like bad medicine, ‘is the worst of them all. Why would you wish to dishonour our family by reading this?’

‘I wasn’t … I’m not trying to dishonour … and I haven’t read it! Well, just the blurb, but I didn’t—’

‘You will never read this vile, wicked, libellous filth! Do you understand?’ Aunt Margot hissed. Shaking with anger, eyes blazing, she tore the paperback into two pieces, right down the centre of the spine. ‘I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

Morrigan nodded, feeling as if she’d been slapped.

Then, as suddenly as Aunt Margot’s temper had erupted, it cooled.

‘Very well then,’ she said, lowering her voice and smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her dress. Morrigan thought she saw a flicker of regret or embarrassment in her eyes. ‘We’ll say no more—’

‘You FOUND her!’ came an elated shout from Aunt Miriam, and suddenly they were surrounded by Darlings. Morrigan felt a wrench as she saw Aunt Margot tuck the two halves of the book hastily into a pocket of her dress.

‘Hurry, hurry!’ giggled a giddy Aunt Modestine, grabbing her eldest sister’s hand and pulling her back towards the Glade. Winifred and Miriam each looped an arm through Morrigan’s, buzzing with excitement. ‘The grand finale’s about to begin!’

‘No, Modestine, I think I ought to go home,’ Aunt Margot protested. ‘Someone needs to check on Mama.’

‘Oh, go and dance with your sisters, darling,’ said Uncle Tobias. ‘I’ll take care of Mama.’

He leaned down to kiss her, but Aunt Margot turned away, a flash of residual anger crossing her face. Without another word she let Modestine lead her away, leaving Tobias looking hurt and confused.

Morrigan glared at Aunt Margot as she followed her into the Glade, already plotting a way to steal Madeleine Malcontent back – she didn’t care if it was ripped down the middle, she would read that book.

‘Morningtide’s child is merry and mild …’

She felt the hum of Wunder in her fingertips. If she was careful, if she let her reach snake slowly out beyond her while Aunt Margot was dancing, she might just be able to—

A faint groan escaped Morrigan and she stopped abruptly, watching in dismay as her aunt dumped the book unceremoniously into one of the bonfires as she passed. Its pages curled to black, and in seconds they were gone.

CHAPTER FORTY

A Flare in the Dark

Face up to a starlit sky, Morrigan watched her oilskin umbrella dance lightly on the wind. She’d summoned it all the way to Queen’s Heath in Highwall from the Silver District, where she’d left it sitting on her bedroom windowsill. It floated slowly, gently downwards before coming in for a smooth landing, its silver filigree handle slipping perfectly into the palm of her hand.

It was the furthest distance she’d ever summoned across – four boroughs in all – and she wanted this moment to feel triumphant. She’d been practising every day to hone her focus, and it was nice to see that hard work paying off. But before Morrigan even turned to look at her teacher, she knew exactly what he’d say.

‘You’re distracted. Again.’

‘I am not,’ she lied, snapping her brolly closed.

‘Then why did it take that thing eight minutes of lollygagging to arrive? If you ever reach proficiency, the summoning of small items should be instantaneous – rather than travelling to you, they should simply appear. But even when coaxing an object across a physical distance, it must take the most efficient route, not show up when it feels like it.’

Annoyingly, Morrigan knew he was right. Of course she was distracted. More than two weeks had passed since the Feast of the Manyhands, and she’d been preoccupied the entire time with thoughts of Meredith Darling and Madeleine Malcontent.

She was still furious with Aunt Margot, who’d done such a convincing job of pretending everything was normal between them, it was as if she’d forgotten what happened. She’d even started talking about plans for Morrigan’s upcoming birthday, and the possibility of throwing a ball in her honour.

But Morrigan couldn’t forget. Every time she looked at her aunt, all she saw was the pages of Madeleine Malcontent curling and blackening in the bonfire, crumbling to ashes.

She wanted that book.

Morrigan had asked Anah and Cadence about it, but neither of them had ever seen a copy. Anah said there were some books in the series that had gone out of print and were almost impossible to find. She’d promised to ask the Silver Sleuths about Madeleine Malcontent at their next book club, but hadn’t come up with anything yet.

‘It’s that ridiculous murder business, isn’t it?’ Squall demanded.

Morrigan blinked, once again surprised to find she’d half forgotten the thing she was supposed to be obsessing over. She knew Cadence could sense her waning interest in the investigation and was starting to get annoyed with her. She wanted Morrigan to try talking to Noelle Devereaux again, but no one had seen any of the Devereaux family since the night of the feast. They’d declined all invitations and stopped receiving guests altogether – such an extraordinary rudeness by Silverborn standards that it was all anybody could talk about.

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘Good. Then let’s move on to—’

‘It’s about my mother.’

The whole story burst out of her, as if it had been waiting for this opportunity. She told him all about Meredith and how little anyone seemed willing to talk about her, and about Noelle giving her the book only for Aunt Margot to destroy it.

‘You know about Meredith, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You told me about her that day in the Receiving Room. Tell me more.’

Squall shrugged. ‘I already told you everything I know, and you can’t believe what you read in novels or newspapers. What’s the point in patching together a false image of your mother based on rumours and lies and biased stories from third parties? You might as well construct your own idea of her and decide to believe that; it’s as likely to be true as anything else.’

‘I don’t want to just make something up and decide to believe it!’ Morrigan whacked her umbrella against the iron gates of Queen’s Heath in exasperation, and the sound rang out in the empty woodland. ‘I want the TRUTH. I want to know who Meredith Darling really was.’

Squall huffed an impatient sigh. ‘Then why don’t you hurry up and acquire your next three seals so you can begin learning Tempus? Maybe ten years from now you’ll have scraped together enough skill to make a ghostly hour. Then you can see her for yourself. Now, shall we return to the task at hand? I’d like to be finished before – what? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I can’t wait ten years.’

‘Then work harder. Maybe you’ll get there in five.’

‘I can’t wait five.’

‘Tough luck.’

He stared at her, frowning, for what felt like an eternity. Morrigan held her breath, mirroring his perfect stillness.

Finally Squall let out a frustrated, reverberating groan and threw his hands up.

‘FINE.’

The last golden remnants of the Gossamer bridge faded as they stepped into the pastel lace explosion of Morrigan’s bedroom. Squall looked slightly nauseated by the decor but refrained from commenting.

He removed a pair of black leather gloves, pocketed them, and held up his white palms. ‘Ready?’

Morrigan copied the gesture. Their fingertips met through the Gossamer, reigniting the connection between his power (raging, torrential) and hers (a gently buzzing swarm). The first time they’d performed this odd ritual, on the night they brought the Wunimals back, she’d been overwhelmed by the chaos of their powers meeting, like two oceans pouring into one. Someone seemed sure to drown, and it would undoubtedly be her.

It felt different this time. The chaos was still there, but the bridge they’d built across it was sturdier. Morrigan still felt the pull of the undertow, but she stood firm against it, sure in the knowledge that it wouldn’t drag her down.

With the line between their powers established, they parted, and Morrigan felt a calm, confident clarity descending. She was still herself, and Squall was still Squall, but when his power leaned on hers through the Gossamer it felt like a force field. Like she could do anything, create anything, be anything. It was a wonderful, dangerous feeling.

Squall wasted no time. Morrigan heard him hum a few meagre notes – the familiar ‘Little crowling, little crowling’ – and instantly the air around her felt electric with Wunder. He – they – kept gathering more and more, an extraordinary volume, until Morrigan was certain all the Wunder in the Silver District had been summoned to her bedroom. She didn’t dare let her eyes relax enough to see it in case she was blinded, but she felt the force of its full attention – like a billion trillion microscopic specks of light turning towards her, awaiting instruction.

‘Don’t get distracted by the mechanics, I’ll handle those,’ he said. ‘Yours is the more important task. Delving into history to create a ghostly hour from a random, unknown moment is much trickier than having a particular moment in mind. You must at least have something to grasp on to – preferably something you have a physical connection to. Those things will call out to you through the layers of time, like … a flare in the dark.’

‘A signal through the noise,’ said Morrigan.

‘Precisely. Watch for the right signal and be ready to grasp it.’

‘How will I know when I see it?’

‘Instinct.’

Two indistinguishable figures whizzed past her in a blur. A bright golden light appeared, just for a second, where the Gossamer bridge had been moments earlier.

She was already dizzy. Squall had begun the process unceremoniously, without her realising. Time rolled back, peeling away like the paper-thin bark of a silvergum tree, faster and faster. She hadn’t expected it to be so nauseating. It was a strange, almost wrong sensation, like they were violating some sacred law of the universe. She supposed they probably were.

Layered on top of that peculiar feeling, Morrigan felt the churn of Wunder and Squall’s mastery of Tempus working through her … but she couldn’t see how. It wasn’t like the last time they’d collaborated, when she heard herself speak unfamiliar languages, saw her hands move in impossible ways. Whatever the mechanics of this process, they were invisible to her, happening inside his head. Squall’s focus was balanced on the point of a needle, just as he’d once described: perfect and precise and still.

‘Quiet your mind,’ he said, sensing she was already distracted. ‘Listen to your instinct. If you miss your signal, this will all have been for nought.’

She refocused, pushing down the nausea. Moments fluttered gently in the air around her like so many butterfly wings, like a murmuration of starlings. Sunlight and moonlight took turns to cross the bedroom floor, countless days and countless nights. The icy breath of winter became a warm, rose-scented spring breeze, became a sultry and oppressive summer heat, became a crisp autumn chill, and a wintry frost again. The sound of howling winds turned to birdsong, turned to music from another room, turned to shouting and giggling and fireworks and whispered secrets and soft, tuneless humming. Over and over the seasons turned, one after the other, year layering on year. Ghostly figures moved through the room around them, disappearing, returning.

Morrigan tried not to blink. She had an idea of what her signal might look like, and was watching for a small, white body and a pair of floppy ears to wave at her through time. She was so certain, in fact, that Emmett would be her ‘flare in the dark’, that she almost missed the quiet ping in the back of her mind, the sound of a butter knife tapped on a glass, as a small, bright moment flickered past, brushing her cheek.

Her hand shot out instinctively and grasped it, closing like a cage around a butterfly. The blurry, swirling storm of time around her stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and she had to fight the urge not to vomit.

Breathing steadily through her nose, Morrigan opened her hand to see what she’d caught. It was a soft sphere, hazy sunset-orange in colour, and it vibrated gently, tickling her palm.

With Squall guiding her movements through the Gossamer, she lifted the moment delicately in both hands, stretching it gently until it resembled a long, thin splinter of pale amber light, suspended in the air. The entrance to a ghostly hour. She stared at it, heart pounding, suddenly terrified of what she might see in there.

‘Go on,’ Squall prompted her.

The Gossamer bridge shimmered into view once again, and as Squall disappeared across it Morrigan felt the connection between their powers collapsing and fading. The familiar cavernous loss of his monstrous, miraculous power washing away from her like the tide.

She stepped through the line of light. Time shuddered.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Lady Liar

Inside the ghostly hour, Morrigan found a room bathed in the full fiery glow of sunset, a jasmine-scented summer breeze that gently ruffled the curtains, and the bellowing voice of an utterly incensed teenage girl.

‘I am NOT coming downstairs, and I am NOT wearing that hideous dress!’

Meredith Darling was sitting on the bed. The same bed Morrigan had slept in all winter long.

Morrigan pressed a fist to her mouth, trying to keep in the hysterical laugh or scream or sob that suddenly wanted to escape. She rushed to close the distance between them, standing as close as she dared, scrutinising the furious face of young Meredith Darling as she shouted words Morrigan could barely take in.

‘I don’t CARE who’s coming to the stupid party, and I don’t CARE what they think of me. Tell them I’m sick. Tell them I died!’

Years of gazing at her mother’s portrait, of memorising every hair and freckle and line on her face, still hadn’t prepared her for the real thing. Morrigan wasn’t sure what it was exactly – maybe the stubborn angle of the chin, or the way the dark eyebrows drew together, or something around the mouth – but for the first time ever, she thought she could see herself in that face. Just a little.

Meredith looked perhaps two or three years older than Morrigan. She was taller than expected, and the blonde hair that had fallen past her shoulders in the portrait was short and blunt, cut just below her ears.

‘What a dreadful thing to say. Stop being so horrid.’ Morrigan’s head snapped to the sound of a voice she knew. An older girl with pale thin limbs and unmistakable poise stood by the wardrobe holding a peach-coloured dress in her arms – the same ruffled monstrosity Morrigan had ruined at the wedding. ‘Abigail Blumenthal will be delighted to see a Darling girl wearing her latest design, and Mother says the Blumenthals have fourteen names on their door, so we ought to keep them on side.’ Margot regarded her younger sister with a look of superior calm that Morrigan was now familiar with.

‘I don’t care if Abigail Blumenthal has a thousand names on her door. I’m not wearing her ugly dress and I’m not coming. You can’t force me!’

‘Of course I can, dear.’ Margot’s tone had barely changed at all, but Morrigan felt a dangerous shift in the air. ‘Give me one good reason why you don’t want to go.’

‘I can give you dozens, and they’re all downstairs stuffing their faces with crab cakes in our parlour.’ Meredith slid off the bed and began to pace, counting on her fingers. ‘One, Gerald York kicks his hunting dogs AND talks with his mouth full. Two, if I have to listen to Marjorie Fairchild find new and creative ways to call her daughters fat, I’m going to hold her head under the waterfall gate. Three, I cannot spend another night pretending to care about the twelve-step haircare routine of Conrad Carrington – the most conceited person in the realm – while he stares over my shoulder at his own reflection. Four—’

‘Meredith, Lord York is your godfather,’ said Margot, with the strained patience of a nursery teacher asking a toddler to put their shoes on. ‘Lady Fairchild is the biggest gossip in the district and could permanently tarnish your reputation during a single loose-lipped afternoon tea, should she wish to. And Lord Conrad will one day be the head of a very large, influential house with a great deal of voting power in the Silver Assembly, making him a valuable ally.’ She heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘Couldn’t you pretend to be polite to our neighbours for one night?’

Meredith collapsed onto the bed, groaning. ‘It’s not one night, it’s never one night. It’s EVERY NIGHT for the REST OF OUR LIVES. How can you bear it, Margot? You don’t like any of these people either, I know you don’t!’

‘Of course not, they’re positively heinous. But I’ve been planning this party for weeks and I won’t let you ruin it.’ Margot took a deep breath and forced a smile.

‘What happened to you?’ Meredith sat up suddenly, throwing her elder sister a look of pure contempt. ‘We used to sneak out of these stupid parties together, and now you’re hosting them. We used to make fun of all the boring debutantes turning into their parents the second they come of age. Now you’re one of them! The future Lady Darling, smarming up to all the people she secretly hates. It’s pathetic, Margot.’

‘How lucky you are to be so superior to the rest of us.’ Margot marched over to the bed and threw the dress down beside her sister. ‘You are a spoiled, selfish girl with no idea of how precarious our family’s position is, nor the work it takes to protect it. Get up this instant, Meredith, and stop behaving like a child.’

‘At least I’m not behaving like a snake! I can’t pretend to like people I despise, Margot. I’m not a liar like you.’

‘You have five seconds—’

‘Lady Liar, that’s what we should call you.’

‘I mean it, Meredith.’

‘Lady Fake. Lady SNAKE!’

Margot lashed out, her hand connecting with Meredith’s cheek in a sharp, resounding slap. Morrigan and her mother both gasped in unison, but Meredith recovered from the shock much faster. In a heartbeat, her hand shot out to return the blow with a fierce crack across Margot’s cold face.

The terrible moment lingered, the two sisters glaring at each other in thunderstruck silence. But when Margot spoke again, her voice was calm and measured.

‘I have guests to take care of. Tidy yourself up, put on that dress and be downstairs with a smile on your face in no more than ten minutes.’

‘I’ll cut it up into a million pieces and scatter it in the canal!’ Meredith promised darkly, blinking back furious tears.

‘You may do whatever you wish with it, after tonight. I’ll even hand you the scissors. But first you’ll wear it, and behave yourself, and be thankful for the privilege of being a pretty girl from a noble family wearing an expensive dress to a fancy party. Because if you don’t,’ Margot paused before delivering her trump card, ‘I’ll tell Mother and Father about those awful boys you’ve been sneaking around with.’

Meredith paled slightly. ‘What boys?’

‘That pompous law scholar and his ghoulish friend. Do you think I’m stupid?’ asked Margot, rolling her eyes. ‘Even if I hadn’t seen you and Kitty Beauregard slinking off with them to the Talon & Horn, I can read you like a book, Meredith.’

Her sister blinked but said nothing.

‘Stealing my makeup? This new monstrosity of a haircut? Do at least try to neaten it up, it looks disgusting.’

Meredith smoothed the jagged bob. ‘I don’t care what you think of my hair.’

‘And I don’t care what you think of this dress,’ continued Margot icily. ‘You will wear it, and you will charm our guests into believing that you are a lovely girl with lovely manners, not a wretched little ingrate who ought to have been abandoned to a puppy shelter on the day she was born.’ Margot flounced away with her nose in the air, turning back as she reached the door. ‘And that, dear sister, is that.’

‘LADY HORRIBLE!’ Meredith shouted at her, trying to throw the dress across the room and succeeding only in getting herself tangled.

Margot snorted. ‘Lady Horrible. I rather like that one.’

The second the door closed, Meredith leapt up and ran to the dresser, rummaging in the drawers until she found what she was looking for. She marched back to snatch up the loathed dress, holding a pair of scissors in one trembling hand and the ruffled hem of the skirt in the other for at least fifteen furious seconds, before her nerve failed her. She threw the scissors on the floor, shoved her face in the fabric and let out a long, muffled scream.

Morrigan knew what was coming next before it even happened. This was why this moment had called out to her through time, she realised now. Her flare in the dark. She’d thought the dress was the signal … and perhaps it was, but it was also the words her mother now sat on the floor carving feverishly into the bedpost with the scissors, suffusing the scars in the wood with all her childish frustration and fury.

I HATE LADY HORRIBLE

Squall had looped the ghostly hour, so the moment it ended it started again. Morrigan lost count of how many times she let it play, watching the scene unfold from every possible angle. She watched it so many times over the coming days that soon she’d memorised all the lines. She watched it in every spare moment, slipping eagerly through the sliver of light and into the past, hungry for one more minute with Meredith Darling. Angry, spoiled, frustrated, shouty, wonderful, real Meredith Darling.

She’d even snuck Cadence and Hawthorne through her station door to watch it with her one day after school. When the two sisters slapped each other, Cadence’s horror-struck reaction mirrored Morrigan’s own. But Hawthorne was unbothered.

‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Homer and Helena and I have had some absolute corkers. And Baby Dave once bit me so hard I had to have a tetanus shot.’

Morrigan found it harder to shrug off. Though the life-changing magic of being in the same room as her mother never seemed to grow old, it sat uncomfortably alongside a growing unease about Aunt Margot. If the veil around her aunt had begun to slip at the Feast of the Manyhands, it had been yanked off altogether by what she’d seen in the ghostly hour.

The teenage Margot might have had a point about her sister acting like a child (neither girl had acquitted herself particularly well in that argument, Morrigan thought). But Meredith was right when she’d called Margot Lady Liar.

It had taken Morrigan much too long to see it, she knew that now. Aunt Margot had lied to her about her mother. Twice. First, she’d said at the wedding that Meredith had loved the hideous peach dress. Second, she’d said that when Meredith had chopped off all her hair, Margot had thought it ‘rather chic’ – which was quite different to a ‘monstrosity’ that looked ‘disgusting’.

To anyone else these might have seemed like harmless fibs. But to Morrigan, for whom every scrap of information about her mother was rare and precious, this felt like an outrageous betrayal. When she tried to explain it to her best friends, she almost wanted them to say she was overreacting, that it wasn’t that big a deal. Unfortunately, they agreed with her completely.

‘Puts her higher up the suspect list too, doesn’t it?’ said Hawthorne. ‘If she can lie so easily about your mum, what else is she lying about?’

Morrigan had been creeping towards the same conclusion. It didn’t help that her aunt’s alibi was still a question mark. When she’d tried to ask Aunt Margot where she’d been during the cake-cutting, the conversation was swiftly shut down, supposedly because Modestine’s wedding was ‘much too upsetting to talk about’.

‘I thought our motive for her was weak,’ Cadence said thoughtfully, ‘but now we know what a vicious temper she has, I’m not so sure. If she found out Dario was betraying her sister, she might have snapped.’

‘It’s the Vulture’s motive that’s weak,’ said Hawthorne. ‘Showing up at parties and acting like a weirdo doesn’t make him a murderer. It just makes him a weirdo who likes parties.’

‘He also has a connection to Dario,’ Morrigan pointed out. ‘He helped him design Vesta’s chair, remember?’

‘Yeah … pretty nice of him,’ Hawthorne said pointedly.

‘We’ve got to knuckle down and focus,’ said Cadence. ‘Especially now we’re down to four suspects, since Lady Darling’s crossed off the list.’

Morrigan was quite proud of herself for that bit of investigative prowess. She’d managed to obtain an alibi for her grandmother and corroborate Uncle Tobias’s alibi by pretending she’d been sent to the kitchen to fetch tea for her grandmother. With a bit of subtle prompting, a chatty kitchen maid confirmed she’d seen Tobias on the night of the wedding, leaving Lady Darling’s room sometime near midnight.

It was proving much harder to nail down the whereabouts of their other suspects. Largely because Noelle and her parents – or the ‘Phantoms of the Greater Circle’, as Morrigan heard Lady Prisha slyly refer to them over tea at Mahapatra House – still hadn’t been seen at any social events since the Feast of the Manyhands. Not that Cadence was accepting that as an excuse.

‘What about the break-and-enter twins?’ she asked. ‘Couldn’t they take you lintel-jumping into Noelle’s bedroom or something?’

‘It’s lintel-hopping, and I don’t … um.’ Morrigan racked her brain for a reason why that would be a bad idea, apart from the obvious ‘Noelle would probably murder me on sight’. Annoyingly, though, it was a rather good idea. ‘Yeah. I guess it’s worth a try.’

At least if Louis and Lottie were there, Noelle might resist the urge to attack her with a blunt instrument. Maybe.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I Would Trade Ten Years

Morrigan overslept on Sunday morning. It was getting harder to drag herself out of bed lately, mostly due to her increasing dread of being in any room with Lady Horrible.

Darling House felt like a sort of limbo to her now. She couldn’t go back to the Hotel Deucalion while things with Jupiter were still … the way they were. And she felt more determined than ever to stay in the Silver District until she figured out who the murderer was. But all the same … she thought she could almost understand now why her mother ran away from this place. Sometimes the still, serene air in Darling House felt so stifling it was hard to breathe.

By the time Morrigan came downstairs to join the Darlings for breakfast, the dining table had been cleared of the usual platters of fruit, pastries, eggs and toast. It was covered instead with a dozen different flower arrangements, swatches of fabric, tiered stands of multi-coloured layer cakes and several large stacks of white envelopes and cardstock.

‘Winterberry punch and elderflower wine, I think, Hounslow,’ Aunt Margot dictated to the butler, who was diligently taking notes. ‘And be sure to finalise the supper menu by— Oh! Morrigan, there you are. Modestine, darling, bring her the cake samples.’

Aunt Modestine set down twelve different cake slices in front of her with a cheerful ‘Good morning, sleepyhead!’ and a kiss on the cheek. Still groggy, Morrigan stared at the plate, unable to comprehend why she was having cake for breakfast.

‘Try a little of each, dear, and tell Hounslow your favourite so Cook can make it,’ said Aunt Miriam from across the table, where she was intently examining two slightly different swatches of white silk. ‘I still say the eggshell, Margot.’

‘Noted. Morrigan, the invitations arrived from the printer this morning,’ said Aunt Margot. ‘Just in time! We really must get them out today. Will you take a look at them, darling?’

‘Invitations?’ she asked blearily, unable to stifle a yawn.

‘Yes, for your birthday ball! I do hope you like the colour scheme. Modestine’s been fretting that there isn’t enough pink.’ She held a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh! Before I forget, dear – if you’d like to have visitors to the house, do let us know in advance, won’t you? I’m afraid your friend caused quite a stir at the Silver Gates this morning.’

Morrigan looked up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘What friend?’

‘Your large … cat friend,’ said Aunt Margot.

‘Fenestra came? Why? Is everything okay, did she say—’

‘Everything’s fine – she said your patron sent her to check on you. The gatehouse sentry couldn’t let her through, of course, as she wasn’t on the visitor list. But darling, now she seems to think we’re holding you captive! Shall I write to your patron about it?’

‘Um, that’s okay, I’ll …’

Before Morrigan could process this news – never mind the fact that the party Aunt Margot had mentioned as a possibility barely a week ago was now such a reality that it had a colour scheme – Tobias had handed her a piece of white cardstock. There were watercolour roses in the corners, and the text was printed in shiny pale pink embossed letters.

The Grand Old House of Darling cordially invites you to the Debut Birthday Ball of Miss Morrigan Darling On Spring’s Eve, the Twelfth Sunday of Winter

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Aunt Margot effused. ‘It was awfully last-minute, but Tobias had his brothers print them for us.’

‘But my name isn’t Morrigan Darling,’ said Morrigan, with a touch more steel than she’d intended. ‘It’s Morrigan Crow.’

In the silence that followed that statement, she looked up from the invitation to see Miriam and Modestine casting nervous glances at their eldest sister.

Tobias cleared his throat. ‘It’s all right, Margot, we can get them reprinted.’

‘But they have to go out TODAY, Tobias,’ Aunt Margot snapped at him, before closing her eyes briefly. Morrigan could see her reining in her temper. She smiled thinly, then said in her usual warm, honeyed tones, ‘Her birthday is in a week, my love – and on Spring’s Eve, of all days. Everyone in the district will be planning their own celebrations for that night, if they haven’t already. Especially now the newspapers are saying the Skyfaced Clocks could change.’

A sarcastic apology for being born on the wrong day hovered on the tip of Morrigan’s tongue, but she managed to resist it by taking a large bite of coffee and walnut cake.

‘I’m sure I can arrange something today.’ Tobias reached over to take his wife’s hand, but she snatched it away at the last second and began gathering the invitations into neat stacks.

‘It’s your birthday party, dearest.’ Recovering her composure, Aunt Margot gave Morrigan what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘Of course we’ll have everything just as you like it.’

Morrigan knew she was probably supposed to have backed down, to say it was okay if they wanted to call her by the wrong name. Perhaps even to apologise for offending her aunt.

But instead, she put her fork down, unable to stomach eleven more bites of cake, and said to Hounslow, ‘Coffee and walnut, please.’

At lunchtime that Friday, Detective Blackburn held court in the dragonriding arena stands on Level Sub-Five of Proudfoot House, valiantly ignoring the screeches and roaring jets of flame from the ancient reptiles training with their riders less than fifty metres away.

To her frustration, it had been virtually impossible to get all of Unit 919 together for longer than ten consecutive minutes in the past fortnight. It was the time of year when classes and extracurriculars were ramping up, so lunchtimes were increasingly occupied with additional training sessions and frantic studying, and catch-up naps for the overscheduled and under-slept (which, at this point, was most of them).

‘Is anyone actually listening?’ Cadence asked at the end of her suspect rundown. When nobody immediately answered, she tore a piece of paper from her notebook, scrunched it into a ball and threw it at Thaddea, who awoke with a start. ‘Am I the only one who still cares about finding this murderer?’

‘Yes,’ grumbled Thaddea, settling her head back onto her hand and dropping off again instantly.

‘We’re listening, Cadence,’ sighed Morrigan, holding up the suspect list she’d been dutifully scribbling updates on.

‘You might be,’ Cadence snapped, ‘but Lam’s drooling in her sleep, Thaddea’s snoring, Mahir and Anah are both reading books they think I can’t see hidden behind their bags. Arch keeps getting distracted by Hawthorne’s practice session. Hawthorne promised if we held this meeting here he’d be able to take a break and join us, but I guess he lied. And Francis is busy eating … I don’t even know what. Fish food?’

‘Thirty-three different species of dried riverweed,’ said Francis, nibbling anxiously on a handful of delicate green flakes from one of many paper bags balanced in his lap. ‘I have to identify them all while blindfolded in my next lesson, sorry.’

Morrigan’s focus on the investigation had been reignited by her growing suspicion of Aunt Margot. But Unit 919’s interest was definitely on the decline, and she could understand why.

Cadence originally got them fired up about it because it seemed like Morrigan was in danger of being accused of the crime, but it was apparent by now that she was probably in the clear, since neither the Stink nor the Silk had asked to speak with her. Even the Concerned Citizens were leaving her alone; there’d been no more sly references to her in the newspapers, no choreographed ambushes led by a megaphone-wielding Laurent St James. When Morrigan had cautiously mentioned this to Louis and Lottie, they’d laughed and admitted he was probably too scared.

‘St James is a Lesser House,’ Louis reminded her. ‘Father’s not going to make trouble for a Darling, especially now you’re so popular with everyone in the district. He does have some sense of self-preservation.’

(The fact that none of Holliday Wu’s dire predictions had come true, despite Morrigan’s refusal to stay away from the Silver District, also meant that she was mostly left alone in their ongoing Civic Tasks sessions – a state of affairs she couldn’t have been happier with.)

Hawthorne was still faithfully attending the Winter Trials every Sunday, and reporting back on the progress of Alights on the Water (who continued to slowly climb back up the leaderboard) and her riders (who continued to change every week). But Morrigan knew he would have been there as an obsessive dragonriding fan anyway, mystery rider or no mystery rider. This Sunday was Spring’s Eve, the last day of the trials, and he was already showing signs of post-tournament malaise.

‘Sorry, Cadence,’ said Anah distractedly, without looking up from the book she was no longer bothering to conceal. ‘It’s research, though.’

Cadence scowled. ‘Reading Clarissa Cloistered for the fourth time isn’t research.’

Anah coloured slightly and put the book down, clearing her throat. ‘Third time.’

‘Any news from the Silver Sleuths?’ Morrigan asked.

Anah sighed. ‘Morrigan, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time to give up on Madeleine Malcontent. Nobody can find a copy.’

‘Even if they could, we’d probably have to sell our kidneys on the Ghastly Market to afford it,’ added Cadence. ‘Don’t know why anyone would pay a fortune for one of the nosedive books, even if it has gone out of print.’

‘Nosedive books?’ said Morrigan.

‘That’s what people call the latest few books in the series, because the quality’s taken such a nosedive,’ Anah explained. ‘Our club president, Mike, says they stopped being witty and gossipy and romantic, and started to feel sort of … mean. Some of the Sleuths are convinced the author died and someone else is writing the books now, because they feel so different.’

‘Wouldn’t they know if she’d died?’ asked Morrigan.

Anah shrugged. ‘Nobody knows who the real Hillary D’Boer is. She’s never done any interviews or bookshop signings, or even had her photo on a book jacket.’

‘She could be a he,’ mumbled Mahir, without looking up from his book of Dragontongue translations. ‘Like Dr Hillary Mortimer, Professor Emeritus of Dwarven Languages at Nevermoor University.’

‘Anyway, the Sleuths say I should pretend the nosedive books don’t exist,’ Anah went on, ‘and stick with the classic early titles, like Clarissa Cloistered. It’s so wonderful! Want to hear some of my favourite bits?’

Without waiting for an answer, Anah started flipping through the many pages annotated with colourful sticky notes. Cadence ignored her, taking the seat next to Morrigan so they could read over the updated suspect list together.

SUSPECT

MOTIVE

OPPORTUNITY

ALIBI

NOTES

The Rival House: Lord and/or Lady Devereaux (Noelle’s mum and dad)

Furious at Dario, Modestine and the Darlings because of Gigi Grand ‘prank’. Quote: ‘Someone is going to pay.’

Left the wedding early. Might have gone to seek out Dario.

?

Noelle said her mother thinks Darling House is ‘plotting revenge’ on their family.

The Missing Mistress: Georgette Devereaux AKA Gigi Grand

Jealousy. She and Dario were having an affair and she was tired of waiting for him to leave Modestine.

Left Dario at the boathouse but could have circled back after Morrigan left. Not photographed at cake-cutting. Didn’t return to wedding after conversation with Dario at boathouse.

?

Missing since the night of the wedding, according to Modestine. Did she flee because she’s the murderer, or has something bad happened to her?

The Vulture: Mr Smithereens

Unclear. Didn’t RSVP but came anyway even though he obviously wasn’t welcome and doesn’t normally attend events. Wasn’t even dressed for a wedding so must have decided to come at the last minute. Why?

Not photographed at cake-cutting

?

Continues to show up to parties and events since the wedding. Continues to be a weirdo.

Connection to Dario: built a travelling chair for his sister.

Noelle claims she saw him spying on her and Morrigan, and that he has it in for her family. Accused Morrigan of conspiring with him against Devereaux House.

The Ice Queen: Margot Darling

Could have discovered Dario was cheating on her sister and killed him for revenge?

Not photographed at cake-cutting. According to Tobias, she was ‘in a tizz’ trying to round people up for it.

?

Seems to be conspiring against Devereaux House. Something to do with the Silver Assembly.

Revealed an explosive temper when she saw the copy of Madeleine Malcontent that Noelle gave Morrigan, and in the ghostly hour when she fought with her sister and hit her.

‘This Silver Assembly thing is curious,’ said Cadence, tapping a pen thoughtfully against her chin. ‘Confusing, though. Even if the Darlings are plotting against Devereaux House, what’s that got to do with Dario?’

‘“… but I confess that I adore you, Lady Clarissa,” Lord Sebastian Saviour spoke in an impassioned whisper. “And I shan’t let your wicked Great Aunt Edith hide you away any longer!”’

‘If the Devereaux are voted out of the Greater Circle, the Rinaldis will be voted in,’ said Morrigan, doing her best to tune out Anah’s amateur theatrics. ‘At least that seems to be Aunt Margot’s plan.’

‘But if it’s Margot’s plan, why would the Devereaux kill Dario?’ asked Cadence. ‘Unless they were warning the Rinaldis off, or … making some kind of pre-emptive strike against them?’

‘“Oh Sebastian, my angel, my brave knight! Come with me to the chapel and let us be joined forever as husband and wife, as we always should have been …”’

‘If Dario’s murder was a warning, it doesn’t seem like the Rinaldis have taken it,’ said Morrigan. ‘Like Noelle said, they’re front and centre at every big event, and they’re always splashing money around. Aunt Miriam told me they just donated enough to the Silver Council to fully refurbish the chapel in the Paramour Pleasure Gardens. Doesn’t that seem like they’re keen to advance?’

Cadence hummed in agreement. ‘What about this revenge business? What did the Devereaux do to the Darlings?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Morrigan, shifting eagerly in her seat. ‘At the feast, Lady Prisha said it would be the most delicious karma to get Devereaux House voted out, after what they tried to pull at the last Silver Assembly. And when Aunt Modestine first told me about the Silver Assembly, she said the last one was nearly a disaster. What if it was the Devereaux who tried to get the Darlings voted out first?’

‘“Clarissa, darling Clarissa,” Lord Sebastian cried. “Were it possible, I would gladly trade ten years of my future to have shared just one week of your past!”’

‘It obviously didn’t work,’ mused Cadence. ‘But yeah, if Lady Margot’s been stewing on it since the last Basking—’

‘Wait, what?’ said Morrigan, snapping out of their conversation with the sudden force of a train crash. She sat up straight, turning to look at Anah and the hideous cover of Clarissa Cloistered. ‘Anah, say that last bit again.’

‘Isn’t it so romantic? I told you!’ said Anah, delighted someone was finally taking an interest. She struck a gallant pose, addressing the imaginary Lady Clarissa. ‘“I would gladly trade ten years of my future to have shared—”’

‘… just one week of your past,’ Morrigan finished in unison with her, as the bell rang to signal the end of lunch.

The rest of Morrigan’s afternoon held a ghostly hour lesson in the Gossamer-spun Garden on Sub-Nine. It was a fascinating workshop in camouflage and shadowmaking from the Wundersmith Horatio Vine, all about the importance of developing an artist’s eye for value and hue, and the various ways in which the Wundrous Arts of Weaving and Veil intersected.

At least, Morrigan assumed it would have been fascinating, if she’d been listening to a word of it. Instead, she spent the entire afternoon in a daze, ruminating on those twenty-one words (she counted them).

Were it possible, I would gladly trade ten years of my future to have shared just one week of your past.

‘You know that line from Anah’s book?’ she asked Cadence, the second she saw her and Hawthorne in the entrance hall after school. ‘The thing Lord Whatshisname says, about trading ten years of his future?’

‘To have shared one week of her past, yeah. Brace yourselves!’ said Cadence, leaning into the heavy front door. Morrigan and Hawthorne buttoned their coats all the way up before following her into a cold winter sleet that felt like tiny needles. They hurried down the front steps of Proudfoot House and across the frosty lawn until they reached the Whinging Woods where, puffing to catch her breath, Cadence carried on as if there’d been no interruption. ‘Stupid line … doesn’t make any sense. They’re about to have a future together and he wants to cut off ten years of it in exchange for one week that’s already been and gone? Dumb.’

‘Don’t you remember me reading that to you?’ asked Morrigan. ‘My grandmother wrote it in the note she sent to me.’

‘Cheesy!’ Hawthorne laughed, stopping when he saw Morrigan’s expression. ‘I mean … sweet.’

Cadence frowned. ‘Wow. Bit weird to quote a line from a romance novel the first time you meet your long-lost granddaughter, but okay Lady Darling.’

‘Well, I liked it,’ Morrigan admitted. ‘I thought it was quite … lovely.’ She paused, trying to swallow past the lump forming in her throat. ‘But I also thought she was speaking from the heart, not quoting from a book.’

‘A Silverborn Saga book, no less,’ added Hawthorne. ‘So, she does read them, the sly old fox! I bet everyone in the Silver District secretly does.’

‘Maybe it’s a coincidence,’ Cadence suggested, a little half-heartedly.

‘You think she wrote the exact same words, completely independently?’ Morrigan said, casting her a sceptical look. Cadence didn’t answer.

‘Sorry to say it, Morrigan, but I think your gran might be a plagiarist,’ said Hawthorne. ‘She better hope D’Boer really is dead, or she might get sued.’

‘You can’t sue someone for writing a line from a book in a personal letter, idiot,’ Cadence said irritably, and the two of them argued about it the rest of the way up the woodland path to Proudfoot House Station.

Morrigan trailed behind, deep in thought. She opened her satchel, pulling out the copy of Clarissa Cloistered Anah had reluctantly agreed to lend her for the weekend. She flipped to page two hundred and seven, and stared at the words she’d read at least a hundred times that afternoon already.

Were it possible, I would gladly trade ten years of my future to have shared just one week of your past.

She didn’t think the line was dumb. Whoever Hillary D’Boer was, they understood the aching, exquisitely homesick feeling of missing somebody you never knew. Of realising too late how much time you’d lost, when you hadn’t even been looking at the clock. Cadence might not have known that feeling, but Morrigan did, and D’Boer did, and Lady Darling did, too, even if she’d had to borrow someone else’s words to express it.

Just then, as they reached the bustling train station, Morrigan had a thought that physically stopped her in her tracks. Her focus narrowed to one absurd, insane idea: that perhaps her grandmother hadn’t borrowed someone else’s words at all.

That she was, in fact, the author of the Silverborn Saga herself.

Lady Darling had been getting rapidly sicker since the shock of Dario’s murder, but hadn’t Aunt Margot said she’d been slowly deteriorating for some time now? That could explain the ‘nosedive’ books.

Things started snapping into place in Morrigan’s head, and she felt her heartbeat quicken with each realisation.

The night she’d found the wedding photos, when she saw her grandmother in the little study … there was a typewriter on the desk! Why would a member of the Silver District aristocracy – who supposedly abhorred the idea of working – need a typewriter? And why would it be tucked away in a tiny, narrow office, in a distant corner of Darling House, unless she was using it for her secret job as a novelist?

It was so obvious, Morrigan could hardly believe she hadn’t seen it sooner. Who better to write about the intrigue and scandal of Silverborn society, than one of the Silverborn themselves?

Jolted from this world-shattering revelation by the sound of a steam whistle, she looked up to see Miss Cheery waving at her from Platform Two and started hurrying for the footbridge. She was halfway across, struggling to fit Clarissa Cloistered back into her satchel among the mess of pencils and books and loose notepaper, when she ran into somebody headfirst, scattering half the contents of her bag onto the ground.

‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see—’

The words died in Morrigan’s throat as she looked up to see a familiar pair of bright blue eyes, in a familiar wild ginger head.

‘Mog!’ Jupiter’s face lit up in surprise, before he remembered himself and shook his head. ‘Morrigan. Apologies. Hello! Sorry—’

‘It was my fault, I wasn’t looking.’

‘Not at all! I was daydreaming.’

The awkwardness of the moment was doubled somehow by their frantic scrambling to fetch all the bits of paper now strewn across the footbridge. Morrigan hurriedly shoved handfuls of them back into her bag without much care, while Jupiter stacked his neatly, making sure they were all smooth and facing the right way up. Morrigan had the impression he wanted to say something, but didn’t quite know what.

She wanted to say something, but didn’t quite know what.

The moment stretched excruciatingly, until finally Jupiter blurted out, ‘It’s your birthday on Sunday!’ at the exact moment Morrigan said, ‘You didn’t need to send Fen.’

A frown creased the spot between his eyes. ‘I— Sorry?’

‘On Sunday morning. She told the guard at the Silver Gates that you sent her to check up on me. There’s no need, I’m fine.’ Morrigan swallowed. She’d been trying to say something reassuring, but it was coming out belligerent instead. ‘I just mean … I know you’ve probably been worried, but I’m not in any—’

He held up a hand as if swearing an oath. ‘Morrigan, I didn’t send Fenestra. I would never ask her to do anything on a Sunday morning; do you think I want to find prawn heads in my suede loafers again? I think …’ He smiled, looking suddenly amused. ‘Honestly, I think perhaps Fen sent Fen to check on you.’

‘Oh.’ Morrigan felt awkward now for an entirely different reason. ‘Right.’

‘But of course I’m very happy to know you’re well,’ he added in a rush.

‘No, I didn’t mean to … of course it was Fen!’ Morrigan said with an embarrassed half-laugh, thinking how terribly convenient it would be if the ground opened like a dragon’s mouth and chomped her down in one bite. She held out her hand for the stack of papers he was still clutching. ‘I should go, Miss Cheery’s waiting.’

‘Really, Morrigan, I am relieved to hear it. But I don’t need to send anyone to the Silver District to check up on you, and there are few people in the world on whom I would spring a surprise Fenestra. I’m saving that for my worst enemies.’

Morrigan laughed again, genuinely this time. In that moment she wanted to extend an olive branch somehow, to say the magical combination of words that would crack open the closed door between them. But she was rummaging in every corner of her mind and coming up with nothing.

‘I know you’re safe and healthy and … happy, I think?’ Jupiter continued quietly. ‘I’m still your patron, after all. I receive the usual reports from Miss Cheery and Rook. Of course, I’m curious about …’ He trailed off, straightening up the stack of papers and holding them out to her. ‘But you told me to back off, and I’m respecting that. I promise I won’t— what’s this?’

His tone changed abruptly, like the arrival of an afternoon storm in summer. Morrigan saw now that the freshly updated suspect list was right on top of the pile, made glaringly obvious by the words SUSPECT, MOTIVE, OPPORTUNITY and ALIBI across the top.

His eyes ran down the page, bright with fear. Morrigan tried to grab for the list, but Jupiter’s reflexes were quicker, and he held it out of reach.

‘We talked about this,’ he said sharply. ‘Morrigan, tell me you are not investigating Dario Rinaldi’s murder. Tell me you are not so foolish—’

‘Hometrain’s leaving, I have to go.’

‘MORRIGAN CROW—’

His voice disappeared amid the clamour of chugging train engines and whistling steam and boisterous scholars excited for the weekend. Morrigan wove through the busy station, sprinting for the refuge of Hometrain 919.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Treasures

Try as she might, the ‘too much homework’ excuse didn’t get Morrigan out of the Darlings’ social rounds on Friday evening – dinner at the Mahapatras, a séance at the Yorks and a midnight chariot race alongside the Splendid Canal. When Saturday night rolled around, she was so determined to stay home she had to feign a headache, turning down endless offers from her aunts to stay and tend to her every need.

‘No, really,’ she said weakly, waving them off from her ‘sickbed’. ‘I’m sure I just need a good night’s sleep. It’s such a big day tomorrow … the closing of the Winter Trials and my birthday party … I want to be on my best form.’

This seemed to convince the aunts, who were already in a slight panic about running late for the opera, and ten minutes later Morrigan watched from her window as they sailed off for yet another glittering evening. She waited until the small fleet of swan boats had disappeared around the bend of the canal before running from her bedroom all the way to the distant corner of Darling House where she’d last seen her grandmother.

She was determined to find some sort of proof to support her theory. To her great disappointment, Cadence and Hawthorne had been less than convinced when she’d shared her brain-wave with them, and they’d tried to poke holes in it all the way home. Cadence said she could think of about a million reasons why a job-shy aristocrat might have a typewriter, and Hawthorne wanted to know why Lady Darling would write two books that made fun of her own daughters – especially when Meredith’s scandal had had such a devastating effect on the family.

That question stumped Morrigan too, so she dealt with it the same way she’d decided to deal with her troubling encounter with Jupiter: pushed it to one side. Problems for future Morrigan to think about.

Reaching the hallway with the little narrow study at the end of it, Morrigan pulled back into the shadows when she saw three figures emerge from the lamplit room. The butler and a young housemaid were guiding a disoriented, agitated Lady Darling out into the hall.

‘I didn’t know what to do, Mr Hounslow! She weren’t in her bedroom so I thought she might be here. I only wanted to collect her supper tray. I think she were worried I’d come to steal her treasures, but I never! You know I’m an honest person, Mr Hounslow.’

‘It’s all right, Hannah,’ said the butler. ‘Why don’t you go and fetch one of the other girls to help tidy up the mess in there? I can assist Lady Darling.’

‘Are you sure, sir? She’s ever so vexed!’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Tobias …’ Lady Darling croaked.

‘Mr Darling has gone out for the evening, ma’am,’ said Hounslow, gently taking her bony arm to lead her down the hallway. ‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon enough. In the meantime, why don’t you let me fix you a fresh supper tray? Come along now, that’s the way …’

When the sound of their footsteps had disappeared, Morrigan ran into the study to find that, once again, it was a mess. The photos and books had all been tidied away, but a silver tray had been knocked to the floor and there was smashed porcelain and splattered soup all over the place.

Other than that, the only thing out of place this time was an open cupboard right at the back of the long, narrow room. A little light shone from inside, and when Morrigan went to look, she found a black metal safe with its door wide open, and half its contents spilling out.

Morrigan glanced over her shoulder, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Hannah would be back any minute. There wasn’t time to be meticulous in her search, and if Lady Darling in her befuddled state had accidentally left the safe unlocked, Morrigan knew this might be the only chance she had to look inside.

She could see what Hannah had meant when she mentioned Lady Darling’s ‘treasures’. The safe was stuffed full of all sorts of things. She pushed aside velvet boxes filled with ruby and sapphire necklaces, pearl brooches, diamond rings and gold bracelets, and went straight for a small stack of promising-looking notebooks, leafing quickly through each one from beginning to end. Disappointingly, they seemed to be ledgers full of Darling House accounts and expenses written in indecipherable scrawl.

There were various official-looking legal documents Morrigan could make neither head nor tail of (but no publishing contracts), some old maps, and quite a few photographs of a young Lord and Lady Darling on their wedding day, as well as their four daughters as babies, toddlers and young girls, their names and ages all written on the backs. She found one of Meredith at age ten, wearing an identical scowl to Morrigan at age eleven in her portrait at Crow Manor. Feeling only the tiniest speck of guilt, she pocketed it.

There were various bits and pieces that could only be of a sentimental value. A tarnished silver compass. A strange little broken spear tip, gold-plated and caked with dirt or rust. An empty mother-of-pearl makeup compact. A thick stack of letters addressed to Lady Darling and tied with a velvet ribbon, a man’s watch with a worn leather strap, and a small, empty green bottle with a black-and-white label showing two crossed bones and the letters EM in an ornate typeface. Morrigan paused to stare at it for a moment, trying to figure out why it looked familiar, when she heard footsteps and murmuring voices from the hall.

She threw her reach into the darkest corner of the study and reeled in a shadow to cloak herself, hurrying to put everything back in the safe just the way she found it. Hesitating for just a moment, she reached back in to grab the bottle and slipped it into her pocket with the photo of her mother.

The tied-up letters flipped over as Morrigan tossed them into the safe, and on the back of an envelope she saw a flash of the sender’s name. It was a name so utterly out of context, it felt for a moment as if her brain was glitching.

She grabbed the whole stack without a second thought, just as the housemaids arrived to clean up the remains of Lady Darling’s supper. Holding her breath and keeping to the shadows, Morrigan crept past them unseen, ran all the way back to her bedroom, and opened the first letter with trembling hands.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Letters from Jupiter

From Captain Jupiter North

Hotel Deucalion

Humdinger Avenue

Wick

Nevermoor

To Lady Mallory Darling

The Grand Old House of Darling

Greater Circle

The Silver District

Ogden-on-Juro

Nevermoor

Seventh Saturday, Spring of Eight

Age of Southern Influence

Dear Lady Darling,

My name is Captain Jupiter North. I am the owner and proprietor of the Hotel Deucalion, a decorated officer in the League of Explorers, and a member of the Wundrous Society, Unit 895. I write to you with news you will find surprising and, I hope, uplifting.

But first, I wish to offer my condolences for the loss of your daughter. Though I never met Meredith myself, we had a mutual friend who held her in the highest esteem, and I was saddened to learn of her passing several years ago.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed at the words ‘we had a mutual friend’. Yet another thing he’d never bothered to tell her. She gripped the letter, fighting an urge to rip it up and throw it in the fireplace.

As part of my work with the League of Explorers, I am sometimes required to provide intelligence to the Free State Security Department regarding conditions in the Wintersea Republic. In the course of these duties, I recently met a woman who shares a common interest with you.

Having finagled an invitation to a soiree in the home of an ambitious young Wintersea Party politician, I was conducting an illicit search on the upper floors when I made a mistake, blowing my cover. The lady of the house caught me red-handed, spying in a house full of Wintersea Party members.

I was in the centre of the proverbial viper’s nest. Ornella Crow – the young politician’s mother – could have made one cry for help, and I’d have been arrested and likely never seen again.

As it happens, the woman did make a cry for help. For my help.

When she realised I was acting as an agent of the Free State, Madam Crow brought me to see a sleeping child named Morrigan – her granddaughter, born to her son and his late wife, Meredith, on the cusp of the new Age.

Morrigan felt her pulse quicken. She checked the date at the top of the letter again – Spring of Eight, Age of Southern Influence. Jupiter had first written to Lady Darling when she was seven years old.

Her grandmother had known about her for almost seven years.

The letter went on.

The date of Morrigan’s birth is unfortunately considered inauspicious in the Republic. But in truth, the only consequential thing about Morrigan being born on Eventide is that it was also the day your daughter passed away. I’m aware there has always been some mystery surrounding the circumstances of Meredith’s death; I am sorry to tell you she died during childbirth.

Though I know this news must bring fresh grief, I pray it also gives you a degree of closure. I also venture to hope that knowing she left behind a child – your granddaughter – may provide some prospect of future joy.

Your daughter lives on in little Morrigan. At Madam Crow’s behest, I have briefly observed the child in her lessons and at play. I’ve noted her kindness to other children and unnimals, her innate sense of fairness, her intelligence and imagination. Our mutual friend has spoken of Meredith’s own generous nature, her passion for justice and her intellect. It has been my privilege to witness these seeds of goodness – perhaps even greatness – growing in Morrigan.

‘Over-egging it, North,’ muttered Morrigan, sniffling. ‘Seeds of goodness. Honestly.’ A tear dropped onto the page and she hastily wiped it away, smudging her own name.

However, the parochial superstition surrounding Morrigan’s birthday has made her life difficult, and if she remains in the Republic I fear things will get worse. Madam Crow believes her granddaughter’s best chance of a future lies in Nevermoor, with her maternal family, and I agree.

We should meet as soon as possible to discuss a timeline for Morrigan’s passage to the Free State. My associates and I will do all we can to ensure the success of this operation, and to bring Meredith’s daughter home safely to you.

Discreetly and utterly at your service,

Captain Jupiter North

The next letter was dated almost four weeks later.

Eleventh Wednesday, Spring of Eight

Age of Southern Influence

Dear Lady Darling,

I find myself confused by your reply, and I fear the blame lies with me. No doubt I poorly explained things in my previous correspondence, or misunderstood some part of your own letter. I apologise, and pray you’ll be patient with me while I seek clarity.

It seemed, upon my first and second reading of your letter, that you were suggesting Morrigan couldn’t be related to you.

To begin with I can assure you, most happily, this is not the case – there is no doubt Morrigan Crow is the daughter of Meredith Darling, and your granddaughter.

Confusingly, however, your letter also seemed to hint that you knew of Morrigan’s existence. You mentioned her father’s first name, Corvus, which I don’t believe I disclosed. I find myself wondering how you came to know of a child from outside the Free State who you believe has nothing to do with you?

If I seem impertinent, I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m certain this is a misapprehension on my part, and no fault of yours.

I eagerly await your reply and look forward to a time when you can meet your granddaughter at long last. I know it will be a joyous day for you and your house.

And for Morrigan, it will be life-changing. I cannot emphasise enough what the care and love of a family could do for such a child, who in her seven years has known so little of either. We must act quickly to secure her future.

I am ready to meet with you at your earliest convenience.

Your servant,

Captain Jupiter North

There were dozens and dozens of letters. Morrigan made herself read every word, even while they stuck in her heart like needles. As she barrelled through years of correspondence from an increasingly frustrated – and decreasingly polite – Captain Jupiter North, part of her wished she could see Lady Darling’s responses. But perhaps it was better she didn’t.

First Tuesday, Spring of Nine

Age of Southern Influence

Dear Lady Darling,

Please tell me, what else do I need to do?

I have tried all year long to meet with you. I have written countless letters. I’ve come to the gates of the Silver District and been dragged away by the police. I’ve politely approached you at public events and been dragged away by the police. I’ve sailed a hot-air balloon into the Paramour Pleasure Gardens and been dragged away by the police. Short of sending a fleet of messenger penguins or singing telegram, I have tried every possible avenue to make my case to you. If we could only meet – at a time, date, and venue of your choosing – I know we’d come to a better understanding.

I deeply sympathise with the grief you must feel over the loss of your daughter. That is a pain I understand; I too have lost family members.

But I take solace in knowing and loving the family I have left. My nephew, Jack, is my greatest source of joy and comfort. Having him by my side even though I no longer have my sister – his mother – has saved my life.

Morrigan blinked back tears when she saw Jack’s name. She felt a sudden, bone-deep homesickness, for herself and for Jack.

I have no wish to harass you, but I don’t know what else to do. Morrigan’s life is in danger if she remains in the Wintersea Republic, but she has a safe and legitimate claim to Free State citizenship through you. We only need to get her here.

Most urgently and hopefully,

Captain Jupiter North

Winter of Nine, Summer of Ten, Winter of Ten, Autumn of Eleven … time went on, but the letters never stopped coming, even as they went obviously unanswered. As Morrigan’s eleventh birthday drew closer, Jupiter’s polite urgency turned to desperation, and then anger.

Lady Darling,

I know you are receiving my letters. I know you are reading every word. Must I remind you that a child’s life hangs in the balance?

I repeat my previous offer to find a home for Morrigan with another family, in another pocket of the Free State. You need have nothing to do with her. She need not be a reminder to you of her mother’s past misdeeds, or – how did you once put it? – a ‘blight on your family’s good name’. My associates and I will ensure that she is safe, happy and protected for the rest of her life. I only require your help in bringing her to the Free State legally, so that she needn’t spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder in fear.

With rapidly diminishing respect,

Captain Jupiter North

After Eventide – at which point Jupiter had obviously been forced to bring Morrigan to Nevermoor by not-so-legal means – his letters to Lady Darling became less desperate, and much less frequent. Jupiter seemed resigned to what had become a one-sided correspondence. He’d begun to use it as a sort of diary of Morrigan’s life in Nevermoor, a short monthly report about her studies and budding friendships and birthdays and Christmases and summer holidays. He never mentioned that she was a Wundersmith, but detailed her success in the four Wundrous Society trials, going on about her tenacity and courage and honesty and cleverness as if he was a one-man band, paid to march behind her in the street singing her praises.

Morrigan couldn’t help wondering why he’d bothered to keep writing. Something dark and sour churned inside her. Lady Darling had kept all these letters. Not just kept them, but kept them locked in a safe, tied up with a ribbon as if they were something precious. Why? How could they be precious, when nothing in them had moved her to save Morrigan’s life, or even to meet her until now? And why now?

After another year or so, Jupiter’s tone began to change again. The letters became shorter, more sporadic, and almost abrupt.

Second Monday, Spring of Two

Third Age of the Aristocrats

Lady Darling,

Morrigan is twelve. She continues to forge a bright and blazing path for herself in Nevermoor, and in the Wundrous Society, and in our hearts. She is dearly loved by all at the Hotel Deucalion, and by none more than me.

Yet still I greedily wish more for her. To know her own mother’s family, to meet her aunts and cousins – even now, after all these years of casual disregard – would be a gift to Morrigan.

With little hope or expectation, but with a great deal of weariness, I invite you once again to acknowledge your granddaughter’s existence. Please.

Regards

Jupiter North

Third Friday, Autumn of Two

Third Age of the Aristocrats

Lady Darling,

You would love her. You would like her. You are missing out.

It is not yet too late.

Regards,

J North

Thirteenth Monday, Winter of Two

Third Age of the Aristocrats

Lady Darling,

You may wish to know that your granddaughter will be spending her thirteenth birthday in hospital, having sustained a serious injury while on active duty for the Wundrous Society. She is healing well and will thankfully make a full recovery. (If you’d like to hear the details of the incident, it would be my great pleasure to discuss it with you in person. Any time, any day, any place.)

Morrigan’s fortitude and courage continue to astound me. I’ve never known terror such as I felt when I saw her in that hospital bed. She is braver by far than me.

J North

Second Friday, Spring of Three

Third Age of the Aristocrats

Mallory.

This will be the last time I write to you.

I don’t fear for Morrigan anymore. She will live a good and happy life. She will always be surrounded by people who love her, because she is extraordinarily easy to love. But you will never know that.

You don’t deserve her. You never did.

Forget I ever wrote to you.

JN

There was one more letter in the stack, but it wasn’t addressed to her grandmother.

From Captain Jupiter North

Hotel Deucalion

Humdinger Avenue

Wick

Nevermoor

To Lady Margot Darling

The Grand Old House of Darling

Greater Circle

The Silver District

Ogden-on-Juro

Nevermoor

Sixth Wednesday, Autumn of Three

Third Age of the Aristocrats

Lady Margot,

It’s clear to me that you are aware of my previous correspondence with Lady Darling. You’ve known about Morrigan for longer than you will admit. (How long, I can only guess. Weeks? Years? Perhaps you’ve known since my first letter. I wonder, to what degree you have aided your mother’s negligence and cruelty? I’d like to put the question to you in person so I might see the lies plainly on your face.)

But what you said in the Smoking Parlour yesterday was correct; I do have Morrigan’s ultimate happiness and well-being at heart. For this reason alone, I will allow you to continue your charade. For now.

I am, as ever, an optimistic fool. I want to believe that where your mother’s humanity failed, yours will not. I want to believe that this change of heart for Darling House is not a lie. I want to believe that allowing Morrigan to believe your family hasn’t known about her until now is the right thing, the kindest thing to do for her. That this deception will allow you to right the wrongs of the past and give your niece what she has always deserved: a family of her own blood. Her mother’s family, who should love her without reservation or expectation.

I want to believe all those things can be true, for Morrigan’s sake, and so I will not interfere.

But know this: I have eyes and ears in the Silver District. They will be watching and listening, and I will be ready to intervene the moment intervention is required. If you are unkind to her, if you mistreat her in any way, you may expect me.

I will come into your district, and into your home, and I will tear through your lives with a savagery you have never had cause to imagine. I will unravel every thread of your privileged existence, shatter every stone in its foundations. You will spend every minute of every day, until your dying day, weeping for what you can never get back.

Try it and find out.

Jupiter North

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The Battle of Beauregard House

A numb, staticky sensation had settled over Morrigan. It felt like she was wrapped in a cloud of pins and needles, and there was a faint buzzing in her ears.

It was all a lie. Everyone had lied to her. She’d been living in this house for months, believing that these people loved and wanted her just because she was her mother’s daughter, because she was family. That their discovery of her existence had been unexpected and joyful and new, that it had upended their lives just like it had upended hers.

There was a particular feeling she should be having, Morrigan thought, and she strongly suspected it was anger or sadness. Or humiliation. All three, probably. But those feelings only existed on the other side of that pins-and-needles cloud; all she felt was numb.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, on the floor at the foot of her bed, surrounded by unfolded letters and empty envelopes. Every time her thoughts tiptoed towards action, every time the little voice in her head whispered, Go find Cadence and Hawthorne or, Get out of this house right now or, The Deucalion is just on the other side of your station door, the buzzing in her ears got louder and more insistent and her limbs grew heavy.

Who knows how long she’d have stayed there, waiting to feel something, if there hadn’t been a soft knock on her door? And then a louder knock. And then her door flying open and the arrival of Louis and Lottie St James in a whirlwind of barely contained excitement. She hurriedly swept the letters underneath the bed.

‘Morrigan, we have two pieces of ELECTRIFYING news!’ Lottie announced. ‘Where were you during today’s matinee of The Maledictions in the open-air theatre? You missed the most THRILLING thing that has EVER happened in my LIFE.’

‘It’s not thrilling, Lottie.’ Louis frowned at his sister. ‘It’s actually quite dreadful.’

‘Yes, dreadfully thrilling,’ Lottie agreed emphatically. ‘Morrigan, guess who showed up at Devereaux House today demanding to be let in and banging down the door?’

‘They knocked quite politely,’ said Louis.

‘THE POLICE!’ finished Lottie.

‘The police …’ repeated Morrigan, who hadn’t processed a single word.

‘Not even our police – it was the Stink. Brownsuits, in the Silver District!’ Lottie paused for a gasping breath. ‘Our cousin Penny says the Silver Council had to have an emergency meeting this week, about granting them special permission to enter.’

‘The Council voted against it, but the police went to court and got a special warrant instead,’ Louis added. ‘Penny is a Choi, so her father was at the meeting. Your aunt would have been there, too. Didn’t she mention it?’

Morrigan shook her head dazedly.

‘It was so dramatic,’ Lottie practically swooned. ‘They roared through the waterfall gate in a horrid big motorboat, and they looped the Pleasure Gardens twice before they found the right house, and the engine was so loud the opera had to pause, so EVERYBODY saw them jump out of the boat and MARCH up to the house—’

‘Stop shouting, Lottie,’ hissed Louis.

‘—to arrest Lord and Lady Devereaux!’ Lottie finished in a stage whisper, before ruining it with a high-pitched, overexcited squeal.

‘They weren’t arrested,’ Louis explained to Morrigan, whacking his sister’s arm to make her stop. ‘They went voluntarily to the police station in Ogden Town for questioning.’

‘Same thing,’ said Lottie. ‘Everybody’s saying they’re being questioned about Dario’s murder! Someone called in an anonymous tip-off to the police, saying they’d witnessed Georgette Devereaux confessing her unrequited love for Dario Rinaldi at the boathouse, only TEN MINUTES before he was murdered!’ She took a deep breath, and Louis shoved a pillow in her face just in time to muffle her second squeal.

Morrigan felt her stomach drop. ‘What?’

‘They said she made him take her out on the canal in his boat during the wedding, getting him alone so that she could beg him to leave Modestine and run away with her to Bohemia,’ Lottie went on, shoving Louis and the pillow away, ‘but he refused and said she was mad for even thinking it and that he loved his wife more than life itself and would never leave her, and Gigi SLAPPED HIM and stormed off, swearing she’d have her revenge on him if it was the last thing she did—’

‘Gigi didn’t say any of those things,’ Morrigan murmured, but her words were lost beneath Lottie’s monologue.

This was all happening because of what she’d told Noelle at the feast. The fake tip-off about Gigi was so close to what Morrigan had actually witnessed at the wedding, somebody had obviously twisted it into this unrecognisable story and told the police. Since it seemed highly unlikely Noelle would make up a lie to frame her sister for murder, Morrigan could only think of one other possibility.

Aunt Margot had been waiting for her outside the willow branches. She acted like she’d only just arrived when Morrigan ran into her, but then … she said she’d heard her and Noelle talking. How much had she heard? Enough to frame Gigi for murder? And why? Just to get revenge on the Darlings’ rival house?

Or because she was covering her own tracks?

‘—and now they’re saying Gigi’s on the run and maybe her parents are covering up for her. Isn’t it shocking?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lottie barrelled onwards. ‘And – AND! Guess what else has happened? You tell her, Louis!’

‘Beauregard House is back on the lintel chain.’ Louis was better at containing his excitement than Lottie, but he still had to clench his fists at his sides, as if he was trying not to explode. ‘It just arrived tonight, out of nowhere! We hopped from Lalaina Rakoto’s walk-in wardrobe expecting to land in the McAlisters’ wine cellar as normal, but instead we came out in the garden shed of Beauregard House! All we have to do is break into the house and find the new out-lintel, and we’ll have stitched a WHOLE SECTION OF THE MAP back together, which means we can go almost anywhere!’

‘Right,’ said Morrigan, barely listening.

Lottie, meanwhile, was running around grabbing Morrigan’s coat and boots and socks and jumper and tossing them towards her one by one.

‘We’ve got to go now, though,’ Louis went on. ‘The Pleasure Gardens are quiet because it’s night two of the Splendid Canal Chariot Races, so nobody should be close enough to hear or see anything.

‘Right,’ Morrigan repated numbly.

‘I did think you’d be more excited,’ said Lottie, looking a little put out. ‘We’ll need to smash a window to break in and I said to Louis, if anybody would enjoy smashing a window as much as us, it’s Morrigan.’

‘Are you all right?’ Louis was looking at her curiously, his head tilted to one side. ‘You look a bit peaky. Is something wrong?’

Morrigan stared at the twins, and knew she had a choice. She could put on her coat and go along with them to commit a crime – an actual crime – that might get her and them in a lot of trouble.

Or she could take a deep breath, grit her teeth and show them the letters. She could tell them about her fight with Jupiter, and how her discovery of what he’d written to her grandmother had just changed everything, and how nothing looked the same to her as it did an hour ago. And perhaps talking it out with friends would unblock something inside her, would fix this horrible numbness, and maybe they could even help her figure out what to do next.

Morrigan took a deep breath and chose.

‘Lottie, I would absolutely love to smash a window.’

Twenty minutes later, Morrigan, Louis and Lottie creaked open the door of a tiny, musty-smelling garden shed and emerged in the unkempt grounds of Beauregard House. Its hulking façade towered above them in the moonlight, and there wasn’t a single light coming from within.

‘Nobody’s home,’ whispered Louis.

‘Nobody’s ever home,’ Lottie whispered back. ‘He doesn’t have a family or any staff. I don’t even think he stays here most of the time.’

‘Probably sleeps in his factory.’

‘Probably sleeps in a coffin.’

‘If nobody’s home, why are we whispering?’ whispered Morrigan.

‘Er, good point.’ Louis cleared his throat and spoke normally. ‘What we’re looking for is a ground-floor window or one that’s easy to climb up to – preferably one the Vulture won’t notice is broken for a while.’ He paused to pull his navy cashmere jumper over his head. ‘I say we rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to do the honours. The lucky winner can wrap their fist in my jumper to muffle any—’

He was interrupted by the sound of a fist-sized rock hitting the large bay window beside the front door with a disappointing THWACK and bouncing right off.

‘Huh,’ said Morrigan, already looking around for another stone to throw. ‘That’s not what I thought would happen.’

Louis and Lottie stared at her for a moment, open-mouthed, before scrambling to find rocks of their own and lob them one by one at the same window.

Same result.

THWACK. THWACK. The two rocks bounced off the glass.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, remembering a conversation she’d had at the Feast of the Manyhands.

‘Vesta Rinaldi told me the Vulture is an inventor,’ she told the twins. ‘She said his company makes travelling chairs and mechanical dog butlers and … I think she said he’s invented unbreakable glass.’

Louis pulled a thoughtful face, then nodded. ‘Challenge accepted.’

The three of them spent ten increasingly frustrating minutes lapping the house, picking up rocks and bricks and bits of wood and hand tools from the garden shed to hurl with all their strength at every window they could see. It was the same outcome every time. The glass was certainly unbreakable.

Lottie got bored first, and Louis reluctantly agreed it was time to admit defeat.

‘We ought to take you home before your aunts get back, Morrigan,’ he said with a disappointed sigh.

But Morrigan wasn’t finished.

She’d once had a ghostly hour lesson in the Wundrous Art of Ruination from the great Griselda Polaris, who’d built a glass conservatory only to destroy it by calmly and methodically unravelling it from the inside, breaking it down into smaller and smaller parts until it was nothing but a pile of fine white sand.

Anyone can throw a rock at a window, Polaris had told the class. But the art of Ruination is not about using external brute force.

The problem was, Morrigan didn’t want to be calm or methodical. She didn’t want to break down the structure of the glass again and again until it was transformed into something else.

She wanted to smash it with a rock. She wanted to use brute force. She wanted to break something.

That was a wonderfully clarifying thought, and for the first time since reading Jupiter’s letters, she felt something pierce the strange bubble of numbness around her. From that pinprick entry point a rush of emotion poured in like a river, and Morrigan quickly realised if she didn’t redirect it, she might drown in it.

She pulled out every trick she knew. Throwing her monstrous golden reach forcefully beyond her body, it multiplied in all directions at once – two arms, then four, then ten, then dozens. They picked up everything Morrigan could see and things she hadn’t even noticed – discarded rocks and tools and marble statues, a bird bath and a lawn chair and an outdoor umbrella – and launched them at every single window in Beauregard House, one after the other. THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK like the sound of gunfire. The twins ducked for cover beneath a wrought iron table, but soon that was sailing through the air towards a third-storey window and … THWACK! It rebounded and landed in the garden pond with an almighty splash.

That gave Morrigan another idea, and she pulled all the water from the pond to weave it into a waterwhip. It slipped into her hand, and she flicked it one by one against a row of windows, CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. The glass survived, but the whip dissolved into droplets.

The serene façade of Beauregard House looked down on this display of impotent fury in silence, mocking her. She let out a strangled scream.

‘Morrigan, let’s go.’ There was an urgency and seriousness in Lottie’s voice that she hadn’t heard before. ‘Come on, it’s time to give up.’

‘Just let me try one more thing.’

Morrigan closed her eyes and tried to still her mind. She felt the night breeze caress her face. And she felt her own anger writhe inside her like an eel. She reached out with one Wundrous arm to pluck the wind right from its path, and with another she reached deep inside her chest and rummaged around for that feeling of anger, poked it and stoked it and made it bigger, made it harder. She could feel the sadness now too, swimming alongside it; two fish in one stream. But she cast that feeling aside. Too weak.

Knitting three threads together – rage and Wunder and wind – she made a small tempest and sent it howling around and around Beauregard House looking for a window to shatter.

She’d never woven like this before. It was pure instinct. She felt the eagerness of the energy surrounding her, felt it weighing her actions and intentions and running with them, amplifying her creation. It felt like Wundersmith and Wunder were a partnership of equals, a perfect collaboration.

Until they weren’t. Until a moment when Morrigan felt the balance tip away from her and Wunder took the lead. The tempest seemed to wobble on its axis, its trajectory slipping out of her control. It became bigger and wilder, circling the entire house, wrapping it up like a mummy.

‘Can you hear that?’ said Lottie.

In the distance there was a high-pitched, almost musical wailing sound, like the keening of a wild animal. Sirens.

Louis swore under his breath. ‘Somebody must have called the Silk. Morrigan, stop it, this isn’t what we came here for. Lottie and I can’t get arrested again!’

‘I know,’ said Morrigan in a tight voice. All her mental and physical strength was focused on reining in the tempest. ‘Get out of here.’

‘What? No—’

‘Go! I’ll catch up.’ She sensed the momentum building dangerously, the powerful wind constricting the house like a snake, and felt a sudden prick of fear. She didn’t think she could pull it back. ‘I said get out of here.’

‘Don’t be stupid, we’re not leaving you here!’

‘Boarding school, Louis,’ Lottie reminded her brother desperately, tugging him towards Beauregard Bridge. The sirens were louder now, and purple lights were flashing from a small mooring at the back of the house.

‘RUN!’ Morrigan barked at the twins, and they finally listened, pelting through the front gardens and disappearing across the footbridge just as the tempest reached its pinnacle and the air was filled with the deafening sound of breaking glass.

Blood rushed in Morrigan’s ears. Wunder coursed in her veins. She stumbled back from the house, absorbing the terrifying thrill of seeing every single window in Beauregard House shatter as one, exploding outwards. Glass rained down in a trillion tiny shards, turning to the finest, whitest sand before they ever hit the ground.

Morrigan cooperated with the well-mannered officers of the Silk, to a point. She calmly gave her name and admitted that she had indeed been trying to break into Beauregard House and had indeed smashed every window in its façade … though she was deliberately fuzzy on the details, and they were either too frightened or too polite to probe. Morrigan’s only other encounter with law enforcement in Nevermoor had been the terrible Inspector Flintlock from the Stink, so she was surprised and relieved to find the Silk really were another breed altogether.

But when asked which of the Grand Old Houses she was from so her family could be contacted, she’d lied and said Playfair House. Since the Playfairs were wintering in the Highlands, she thought that should buy her enough time to figure out how to escape without asking the Darlings to bail her out.

However, Morrigan could only have been in the small, comfortably appointed holding cell for fifteen minutes before Sergeant Stokes came to release her.

‘Your uncle is here to collect you, Miss Crow. There won’t be any charges.’

‘My uncle?’

The sergeant blinked in polite surprise at her tone of dismay. ‘Unless you’d rather stay?’

She considered it, but ultimately scrambled to her feet and followed Sergeant Stokes down the hallway, puzzling over why Tobias would be there. How had the Darlings heard about her arrest so quickly? Had the twins told them? Morrigan was about to ask, when they reached the front desk and she laid eyes on her rescuer.

Curiosity turned to panic.

‘You!’ she cried, halting abruptly. ‘You’re not my uncle. He’s not my uncle,’ she repeated in a rush, shaking her head at the officer. ‘I don’t know this man.’

Sergeant Stokes stared at Morrigan with her mouth slightly open, eyes narrowing in confusion or suspicion. ‘Then … you were breaking into his house? Only he’s just got through telling me this was all a mistake, and you were only trying to visit, but he—’

‘—forgot to leave a key out for you,’ the Vulture finished for her in a slow, deliberate voice, with a meaningful look to Morrigan. She felt a chill. ‘Again. Silly old Uncle.’

‘Miss Crow, I can’t allow you to leave unless you’re accompanied by a family member or guardian,’ Sergeant Stokes continued, looking from the Vulture to Morrigan and back again, radiating uncertainty. ‘Sir, if you’re not actually related—’

‘She’s cross with me,’ the man interrupted smoothly. He gave a small, perfectly executed sigh of mild impatience and regret. ‘Quite right, too. It’s not the first time I’ve forgotten she was coming to visit. Morrigan, stop being silly now and tell this fine officer the truth … or she might keep you here all night,’ he finished, with the tiniest lift of an eyebrow.

Morrigan weighed her unappealing options. She could deny his story, bite the bullet and ask Sergeant Stokes to put a call through to Darling House after all.

Or, she could take the easier – but potentially more dangerous – way out. Agree to this perplexing offer of help, leave with the Vulture and make a run for it the moment they were clear of the watchhouse. She hummed a quiet note without thinking, gearing up for a fight if she had to give one, and felt the tingle of Wunder gathering in her fingertips.

‘Awfully sorry about your windows, Uncle,’ she said finally. She levelled her gaze at him, flat and unrepentant. ‘But perhaps you’ll remember the key next time.’

‘Apology accepted, niece.’ The Vulture spoke in a solemn voice, but Morrigan thought she saw the merest hint of a ghost of a shadow of a smile in his pale eyes.

There came a sound like a tiny scoff from the sergeant.

‘Teenagers,’ she said under her breath, then swiftly covered it up with a cough and slid two sheets of paper across the desk, reverting to a courteous smile. ‘Very well, then, sir. Please sign here to say you’ve declined to press charges, and here to confirm we have released Miss Crow into your care.’

The Vulture signed in the places she indicated, dropped the pen on the desk, and left without another word.

Morrigan glanced down at the forms before they were snatched away. Scrawled beside the words ‘Parent or Guardian’ was a name she hadn’t seen or heard or even thought of in a very, very long time.

Her heart paused for a beat inside her chest, like a bird about to take flight.

Bertram Crow

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Arachne and the Inventor

Morrigan’s mind was instantly thrown back to a dark, long, lonely room in her childhood home. The Hall of Dead Crows, with its walls covered in gilt-framed portraits of all her ancestors, was where she had last seen the small, pallid face of Bertram Crow: her father’s younger brother, who died of a fever when he was nine.

This man couldn’t possibly be that Bertram Crow. Not just because that Bertram Crow was supposedly dead, but because the Vulture, with his stark white hair and shadow-sunk eyes and papery skin, appeared to be much older than her father.

Was he, though? She’d assumed he was an old man when she first saw his face properly, at Dario’s memorial. But, on closer inspection, he didn’t look elderly so much as … unwell.

Morrigan pushed open the watchhouse doors to follow him outside, and ran straight into another familiar figure on their way in.

‘What are you doing here?’ she yelped in surprise.

There was a flash of genuine fear on Noelle Devereaux’s pale face as she looked up. She seemed to hesitate for a moment when she saw who she’d run into, then rearranged her features into a scowl.

‘Here to give another anonymous tip-off, are you?’

‘What? Noelle, that wasn’t me, I swear—’

‘Oh, just get out of my way,’ she snapped, aggressively shouldering past Morrigan into the watchhouse.

Why in the world was Noelle Devereaux visiting the Silk on her own, at this time of night? Was she looking for her parents, perhaps? Morrigan was tempted to stick her head inside and tell her they’d been taken to the Ogden Town police station, but she didn’t think it would be welcome and besides, the Vulture was already across the street, sauntering away from her.

By the time she’d caught up, he was entering a dark, narrow alley – exactly the sort of alley you’d be stupid to follow a murder suspect into, Morrigan thought, as she followed him into it.

‘You’re not my uncle,’ she called out uncertainly.

‘Oh yeah?’ He kept walking, eyes ahead. ‘Why’s that?’

‘My uncle’s dead.’

‘Only in the eyes of the law.’

‘And in the eyes of his family! My father thinks Bertram is dead.’

He gave a cold little laugh, glancing back over his shoulder as he turned into another, even narrower side street. ‘I’ll point out that Corvus also thinks you’re dead.’

Morrigan hesitated for barely a second before following him into the cobbled alley, keeping a few metres between them. She hummed a little and wiggled her fingers. They gave a reassuring tingle. ‘But my grandmother … Bertram’s own mother thinks—’

‘My mother thinks no such thing. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.’

‘Explain it to me then!’ Morrigan raised her voice, sounding bolder than she felt. The Vulture turned left at the end of the alley and disappeared. She hurried to catch up. ‘If you’re really Bertram Crow, explain to me how you’re alive, and why you’re here in—’

Morrigan pulled up short as she emerged in a small courtyard lit by a single streetlamp. In the middle was a familiar yet unexpected sight: a gigantic mechanical spider, its bulbous glass abdomen raised two storeys high on eight long, spindly legs.

‘—Nevermoor,’ she finished in a whisper.

The Vulture tapped one of the legs lightly, and all eight crouched low, metal joints grinding as they brought the belly of the spider closer to the ground. A hatch door opened in its side and a little staircase unfolded, tumbling outwards.

‘And why you have Octavia!’ she added in surprise.

He gave her an odd look. ‘This is Arachne – the original prototype. I designed Octavia later. Slightly different set of schematics.’

Morrigan had a flash of memory from when she’d first left Jackalfax aboard Jupiter’s arachnipod. He’d spoken about the mechanical spider with deep affection.

Beautiful, isn’t she? Her name’s Octavia. One of only two arachnipods ever built. I knew the inventor.

Of course the designer of Vesta’s chair and the inventor of the arachnipod were one and the same. It seemed so obvious now it was staring her in the face.

The Vulture stomped up the rickety staircase and disappeared into the arachnipod, and the hatch began its slow descent. Morrigan hesitated, then made a quick decision and ran up the stairs behind him, ducking under the door seconds before it closed.

The man removed his wide-brimmed hat, flung his dusty coat onto the floor and dropped into the battered leather driver’s seat, spinning to face her with a look of annoyed resignation. Morrigan didn’t take the passenger seat, and he didn’t offer it.

‘You know Jupiter North, don’t you?’ she jumped in before he could speak. ‘He bought your other arachnipod.’

He looked offended. ‘Bought it? Inherited, you mean. Octavia was never for sale. Even if she was, he couldn’t afford her.’

‘You do know him, then,’ she pressed, bringing him back to the point.

‘Course. He’s my brother.’ He said the word almost sarcastically, as if it tasted bad, and suddenly the pieces connected in Morrigan’s head with a satisfying clunk.

Not remotely funny, dear brother.

She knew she’d recognised that voice coming from Jupiter’s study on Christmas Eve! Jupiter had called him Bertie.

This revelation sent a storm of new questions whirling through her mind. There were so many dots to connect she didn’t know where to start. Bertram Crow. The Silver District. The Darlings. Her mother. Jupiter. She pinged from one thought to the next, until the inside of her brain felt like Cadence’s investigation wall – a jungle of pins and red string lines and names and faces – but messier. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to translate the mess into words.

The Vulture took pity on her. ‘Start from the beginning, shall we? You and I have something in common.’ He pulled out a pocket watch to check the time, then held it up to show her. It was well after midnight. ‘Happy birthday to us.’

‘You were born on Spring’s Eve?’

‘Not just any old Spring’s Eve. The big one.’

‘Eventide.’ She swallowed. ‘You’re saying that you were … like me. You were—’

‘Cursed,’ he confirmed, with a distasteful sniff. ‘Bingo.’

‘Does that mean – are you a Wundersmith?’ Wild possibilities began fluttering like butterflies in Morrigan’s stomach, but they disappeared with a dismissive shake of Bertram’s head.

‘Just an unlucky kid,’ he said, ‘born on the wrong day in the wrong place.’

‘Your inventions, though—’

‘Fine, an unlucky genius. But not a Wundersmith. Even so, I was removed from my dire situation, like you, by the person who would become my patron in the Wundrous Society. My mother arranged the whole thing. She told me what she’d planned – how this stranger would spirit me away one night, and she’d tell everyone a fever took me.’

So that was how her grandmother knew what she had to do to save Morrigan’s life. Ornella Crow had done it all before, for her own son.

‘She never told me the plan.’

‘No, well I don’t suppose she would, after how things went with me,’ said Bertram. ‘I think she wanted me to feel comforted knowing the curse wasn’t real and I’d live after all, but I made a terrible fuss. I didn’t want to go. Cried for days. Begged her to come with me, begged her to let me stay.’

‘Weren’t you relieved you weren’t going to die?’ Morrigan thought of the sinking dread she’d felt that day in Jackalfax, when the Skyfaced Clock had turned to the inky black of Eventide.

Bertram shook his head. ‘I was nine. I loved my mother more than anyone in the world. I think I felt I’d rather die than be in some strange new place without her.’ His expression clouded, but he shrugged. ‘Still here though, aren’t I? And it wasn’t so bad. When I turned eleven, I joined the Wundrous Society. Swapped one ambivalent older brother for eight new siblings.’ He paused, and his left eye gave a little twitch. ‘Including, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, your illustrious patron.’

‘He never told me about you,’ Morrigan muttered. She’d been feeling so much kindlier towards Jupiter, until just now. In her heart, she’d already forgiven him for not telling her about the Darlings. How could she not, after reading his letters? But now … had he really been keeping another family member from her all this time? She felt like someone had poured ice water over her.

‘I made him promise not to,’ said Bertram. ‘He didn’t have a choice. Sisters and brothers, loyal for life and all that.’

Morrigan felt rage bubble up inside her. ‘Why? All this time I’ve been right here in Nevermoor, and you’ve known about me. And we were both …’

‘Cursed children,’ he prompted with an impatient gesture as if to say, go on, hurry up and make your point.

‘… cursed children, yes, who faked our deaths and came to Nevermoor with some stranger and joined the Wundrous Society, and’ – the words came spluttering out so fast she almost choked on them – ‘and you’re my uncle, my actual uncle, related by blood … and you’ve not even bothered to introduce yourself ?’

Was there a limit, she wondered, on feeling hurt and sad and wronged by relatives who were determined to ignore her? The revelation about the Darlings was bad enough, but to learn that her not-dead uncle hadn’t wanted anything to do with her either? It was too much.

Her uncle’s face was impassive. ‘It’s nothing personal. I’m sure you’re a perfectly amiable child. But it would have been better if you’d never heard of me, and if you hadn’t got yourself arrested trying to destroy my house, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. However, here we are,’ he said, pulling a crumpled slip of paper out of his trouser pocket and holding it out to her, ‘and since you seem to think I could be a murderer as well as a weirdo, I might as well take the opportunity to clear my name.’

She snatched the paper from him. It was the list of suspects she’d dropped at Proudfoot House Station; the one Jupiter had taken from her.

‘Jove’s not happy about this amateur detective lark,’ he added, before nodding at the list. ‘Something you want to ask me?’

Morrigan stared at him. ‘Did you kill Dario Rinaldi?’

It wasn’t the way Cadence would have handled it. Detective Blackburn would have had a much cleverer, more finessed way of getting to the truth than coming right out and asking a suspect if he dunnit.

But she knew her father’s face quite well, all his little tells and tics. And now she was seeing Bertram up close, he was so very much like Corvus she could hardly believe she hadn’t noticed it before. They had the same cold blue irises, the same serious set of their jaw, the same left eye twitch when they were annoyed. If her uncle’s answer was a lie, she thought maybe – just maybe – she’d be able to tell.

He looked at her flatly. ‘No. Why would I kill Dario Rinaldi?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. You don’t seem to have a motive, but you did have the opportunity. You weren’t in any of the photographs of the cake-cutting, which is when the murder happened.’

‘Motive and opportunity, eh? You do mean business.’ One corner of his mouth curled upwards, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Well it weren’t me, guv’nor. On me honour as a gentleman, I didn’t do nuffink.’

Morrigan didn’t crack a smile. ‘Why were you at the wedding, when you’d never accepted any Silver District invitations before? And then the memorial? Why have you suddenly started showing up to every event attended by the Darlings, when you never—’ She cut herself off, blinking as more pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. She flushed, feeling stupid.

I have eyes and ears in the Silver District. That’s what Jupiter wrote in his letter to Aunt Margot. And on Christmas Eve, she’d heard Bertram telling him, Don’t expect me to go spying for you anymore.

‘You started accepting invitations when I came to the district,’ she guessed. ‘Because Jupiter asked you to.’

‘Correct. And for the record, I didn’t miss the cake-cutting because I was offing the groom. I missed it because you missed it. I followed you into the gardens. You went to the boathouse, tried to steal a swan boat, fell into the canal – hilarious – and then hid in the boat while the groom and the wedding singer had their secret rendezvous before sulking off to sit in the gazebo and play with fire, and then I followed you over to the bridge to watch the dragon flying.’ He sighed. ‘Couldn’t know all that if I was busy killing someone, could I? Satisfied?’

‘Not really,’ said Morrigan, feeling a little creeped out. ‘You were following me the whole time?’

‘Had to, didn’t I? Sisters and brothers, loyal for life. Jove got himself into a great frolicking panic from the day you met the Darlings, and I fell victim to his emotional blackmail. Promised I’d keep an eye on you.’ He gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Terrorising the Grand Old Houses has been an unexpected bonus.’

‘They call you the Vulture,’ Morrigan told him. ‘Did you know? They’re paranoid you’re waiting around to pounce on their estates if they ever get into financial trouble like the Beauregards.’

‘It’s only paranoia if it’s not true,’ Bertram said with a small, slow smile. He regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. ‘You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, Morrigan, but there are very few aristocratic families who aren’t in debt, and quite a few who are in it up to their necks. You’ve seen what they’re like. They throw fistfuls of money away on endless leisure and pleasure, yet they’re embarrassed about doing anything to earn money. They have big household staffs to pay and enormous old homes to heat and light and maintain. They’re living on the fortunes of generations past, but life keeps getting more expensive. The families who’ve refused to adapt to the modern world – which is almost all of them, bar the clever Rinaldis with their thriving dragonsport enterprise – find themselves going extinct. They sit like dragons on piles of gold that shrink a little more every year.

‘Then, someone like me arrives to speed their extinction along. Someone with a seething grudge and an axe to grind and a bank account bursting at the seams and all the free time in the world.

‘They’re right to be frightened of me. It’s extraordinary, the private information you can uncover if you’re sufficiently determined and willing to pay the right price. All a family’s hidden debts. All their unpayable bills and failing businesses and past misdeeds. Every crime they’ve ever swept under the carpet, every consequence they’ve bought their way out of.’ He laughed quietly. ‘Do you know how shockingly easy it is, Morrigan, to buy those things? How completely you can own a person, once you own all their debt, all their secrets, all their shame? I took those things from the Beauregards, then I took everything else they owned, including their precious place in the Silver District social hierarchy. And I’ll do it again. The Devereaux. The Darlings. All of them. Their time is coming.’

So Noelle wasn’t entirely paranoid after all, Morrigan thought. The Vulture really was circling Devereaux House. He was circling the whole Silver District.

Bertram smiled and his face filled with savage pleasure. ‘You know, I used to think happiness was for other people. But I can’t describe the joy, the sheer incandescent bliss of watching these powerful, privileged fools realise they’ve sleepwalked into annihilation.’

Morrigan grimaced. She’d always been vaguely unsettled by the Vulture, but now she felt repelled. It wasn’t that his assessment of the Silverborn was wrong, exactly. They were, for the most part, as he’d described – powerful and privileged and materialistic. But his vicious glee in destroying their lives was so … well, in truth, it wasn’t like a vulture at all. Vultures were scavengers, eating the carcasses of unnimals that were already dead. Trying to survive.

This didn’t look like survival at all. It looked like revenge.

‘What did the Beauregards do to you?’

‘Me? Nothing.’ The feral smile dropped from his face. ‘It’s about what they did to Meredith.’

‘You knew my mother.’ It wasn’t a question. Morrigan already knew it couldn’t be a coincidence that he was here in the Silver District, while Meredith had ended up in Crow Manor, married to his brother.

‘Barely. I knew a chap at university who was courting her best friend, Kitty Beauregard. A group of us students used to meet at the Talon & Horn pub every week, and Kitty and her friends started tagging along. They were younger than most of us and frankly quite annoying, but eventually they just became part of the set. And later, when Meredith got it into her head to run off and join the Wintersea Party … for some reason I was the person she told.’

He paused, seeming to get lost in memories for a moment, and Morrigan had to resist the urge to shake more words out of him.

‘I think she felt safe to confide in me,’ he continued, ‘since I was from the Republic myself, and had no connection to her family, and I wasn’t a gossip. But I’m afraid I disappointed her, because I told her it was a stupid idea. She wouldn’t be dissuaded.’

‘Why?’ Morrigan demanded. ‘Why would a girl from Nevermoor just decide to run away and join the Wintersea Party? I don’t understand.’ She could see why her mother felt suffocated and stifled in the Silver District. But Georgette Devereaux felt that way too, and she only ran as far as Bohemia! Committing treason seemed an extreme response to what, frankly, didn’t look to Morrigan like the world’s biggest problems.

‘She didn’t tell me why. And I didn’t ask, because …’ Bertram looked down at his hands. ‘I don’t think I believed her, really. It seemed like the mad fantasies of a spoiled rich girl. When she asked about my family in the Republic, I gave her my mother’s name and address and told her to go to Crow Manor if she ever found herself in trouble or fancied a Sunday roast … like it was all a joke. I wished her the best and forgot all about it.

‘I should have tried harder to talk her out of it. I should have gone to her family before it happened, given them a chance to put a stop to it. But I was a stupid, self-centred young idiot who didn’t take anything seriously. Didn’t even realise she was gone until months later, when I heard it from Kitty Beauregard.’ His expression twisted into loathing. ‘I was so ashamed that I hadn’t done anything to stop her. I made the mistake of telling Kitty all I knew, thinking she’d pass it on to Meredith’s family so they might use it to find her and bring her home. And instead, Kitty told her own family, who told everyone they could think of – starting with the newspapers. Suddenly Meredith Malcontent, the traitorous teenage aristocrat who’d run away to join the Wintersea Party, was front page news everywhere. Stories full of the most heinous, made-up nonsense.’

Bertram opened a compartment above the control deck to retrieve a familiar pastel-blue paperback. He hesitated a moment, then handed it to Morrigan without looking at her.

‘Madeleine Malcontent,’ she whispered.

‘They all betrayed her,’ he went on bitterly. ‘Every friend she ever had, every Grand Old House in that silver-gated viper’s den … even her own family. Lord and Lady Darling denounced her as a traitor – more concerned with protecting their place in the Greater Circle than protecting their own child.’ His voice trembled with anger. ‘She was barely more than a teenager! A sheltered, naïve girl who had no idea what she was getting into. I went to see them. Tried to make them understand there were ways out of the Wintersea Republic but I needed their help. I was just a broke student back then and I knew it would be difficult and costly. Especially in Meredith’s case, because you don’t just—’

Her uncle stopped quite abruptly. For a moment Morrigan thought he was choking. His eyes bulged slightly, and blood began to trickle from his nose. She stepped forward uncertainly, but he took a sudden heaving gasp of a breath.

‘You don’t just … change your mind …’ The trickle of blood became a stream. ‘About joining the Wintersea Party.’

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Birthday-ish Cake

Bertram abruptly shut down the conversation after that, and Morrigan wasn’t at all sorry about it … even though she was sure she hadn’t yet heard the full story. The moment her uncle recovered from his unsettling episode, he turned to the control deck and began pulling levers, and Arachne’s engine roared into life. The last two words he spoke to her that night were, ‘Where to?’

Morrigan almost said the Hotel Deucalion, but changed her mind at the last second. She had one last stop to make, via her Wunsoc wardrobe.

‘Darling House. But … can you take me right up to my bedroom window?’

Francis was surprisingly cool about being woken at two o’clock in the morning. At first, grumbling and rubbing sleep from his puffy eyes, he’d looked ready to slam his station door in Morrigan’s face. Her first reason for visiting – to show him the green bottle from her grandmother’s safe and see if he could confirm her suspicion about its origins – didn’t impress him much (although he graciously agreed to look into it). But when she decided to push her luck by asking for his help to bake and decorate an enormous cake, he instantly perked up and began gathering ingredients, as if he couldn’t think of a better middle-of-the-night activity. He even helped her carry the finished product back through the station and into Room 85 three hours later, before rushing home to get ready for his Sunday morning extracurricular patisserie class. (Morrigan made a mental note to do something extremely nice for Francis at her earliest opportunity.)

The cake was a big rectangular beast in Jupiter’s favourite flavour – six-layer triple chocolate fudge covered in thick, gooey ganache – and there was a long message to her patron in oozy green icing across the top. Francis had done most of the actual baking while Morrigan entertained Asparagus the schnauzer, but she’d piped all the words herself.

As the sun hadn’t yet risen, her plan was to store it in the Deucalion’s walk-in cold room until a slightly more civilised hour, when she could give it to Jupiter in person. She lugged the great chocolate monstrosity all the way down to the kitchens on her own, stopping periodically to lean against a wall and catch her breath. (I’m going to have the biceps of a grizzly bear after this, she thought, as she struggled through the final stretch. Thaddea will be proud.)

But when she reached the kitchens, Morrigan was alarmed to find the man himself, piping bag in one hand and palette knife in the other, surrounded by gigantic mixing bowls and puddles of cake batter. He wore a checked apron over a velvet dinner jacket, both blobbed with pink and yellow icing, and his ginger hair and beard had turned ghostly white from a thick dusting of flour or icing sugar. Every surface of the kitchen was littered with the remains of many, many cakes covered in Jupiter’s delirious iced handwriting, furiously crossed out in some places and smooshed to illegibility in others. It seemed he’d been at it for some time.

The Deucalion’s head chef hovered nearby, pressing his palms together as if in prayer over the chaos in his usually pristine kitchen.

‘Captain North, I beg you. Please, please let me to assist!’

‘I DON’T NEED HELP!’ Jupiter bellowed, eyes wild. ‘I have to get this RIGHT, Philippe, and I have to do it MYSELF!’

The chef threw his hands in the air and fled, wailing as he ran straight past Morrigan without even seeing her. ‘Never work for madman, my mother say! I should have listen her! He is MAD!’ He stormed down the hall, muttering curses in his native Serendese. (Morrigan gasped as she recognised a very rude word that Mahir had taught her.)

‘OH!’ Jupiter shouted over his shoulder at Chef Honeycutt’s retreating form. He clutched his piping bag, returning to the task at hand. ‘So, when I make two dozen cakes in one night it’s MADNESS, but when you make forty-three eye fillets with a red wine reduction it’s the DINNER SERVICE? Bit of a DOUBLE STANDARD, PHILIPPE, IF YOU ASK ME!’

‘I drafted mine on paper before I wrote it on the cake,’ Morrigan said from the doorway.

Jupiter jumped as if her calm, quiet voice was a thunderbolt, and turned around, dropping his piping bag. It spurted a bright pink arc across the floor.

He stared at her silently, blinking for several seconds, until finally she squeaked out, ‘Could you hurry up and read this please? It’s quite heavy.’

He leaned forward, squinting suspiciously at the tiny words on top of the cake as if he thought she might have written him hate mail in the green icing. Morrigan held the behemoth patiently, her arms now shaking with the effort, and rolled her eyes as Jupiter slowly read the message under his breath:

JUPITER U REALLY R DREADFUL AT COMMUNICATION. IF U HAD JUST TOLD ME ABOUT THE LETTERS U WROTE 2 THE DARLINGS & WHAT THEY WROTE BACK I WOULD HAVE BEEN UPSET BUT I WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD & IN THE LONG RUN IT’S ALWAYS BETTER TO KNOW THE TRUTH. THAT SAID, I SHOULD HAVE REALISED U WOULDN’T BETRAY ME OR LIE TO ME ABOUT SOMETHING SO IMPORTANT WITHOUT A GOOD REASON & I’M SORRY I LEFT HOME TO LIVE WITH THE DARLINGS BECAUSE THEY MIGHT B MY RELATIVES BUT U R MY FAMILY. U & JACK & FEN & CHANDA & FRANK & MARTHA & CHARLIE & KEDGEREE. BUT HONESTLY NEXT TIME CAN U JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH EVEN IF IT’S HARD & U THINK IT WILL HURT MY FEELINGS BECAUSE I AM A TEENAGER NOW & I CAN HANDLE IT 4 GOODNESS SAKE U NUMPTY.

KIND REGARDS MOG.

When he got to the bit that said ‘U R MY FAMILY’, Jupiter had to stop for a moment, blinking rapidly. Morrigan busied herself with an examination of the ceiling.

‘How …’ Jupiter began hoarsely, then cleared his throat. ‘How did you make your writing stay so neat all the way to the end?’

‘It’s called having patience. You should try it.’

‘Hmm.’

He tilted his head in concession to her point then moved to take one side of the cake, and together they crab-walked it over to the countertop and set it down with a thud. Finally unburdened of the six-layer monster, Morrigan flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulders in relief. She walked around the island slowly, peering down at the smashed cakes that lay abandoned on the countertop and the floor, and reading whatever bits of iced messages she could decipher. Phrases like one of the greatest regrets of my life and no excuse whatsoever and orange-bearded ninny-headed buffoon and so so so so so so so so so so so so very sorry, so very very VERY sorry indeed jumped out at her.

Jupiter waved both hands in vague little circles above the cakes. ‘What … er, what I think I was trying to, um … to say—’

She held up a hand to stop him. ‘Oh, I think I’ve got the picture.’

‘You do?’

‘You’re not at all sorry and you absolutely refuse to apologise, right?’

‘Very funny. You read my letters?’

Morrigan swiped a bit of pink buttercream with one finger. ‘Yes. I found them in my grandmother’s – in Lady Darling’s study. I saw your name on the back and … well, obviously I had to read them. You’d have done the same.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed without hesitating. ‘I’m fantastically nosy.’

‘Mmm.’ Morrigan fell silent, but the moment Jupiter opened his mouth again she cut him off, forcing the words out in a rush. ‘Why’d you let me believe … Why didn’t you just tell me they didn’t want anything to do with me? I could have handled it! I’m tougher than you think.’

‘I know you are,’ he agreed mournfully. ‘But I’m not. It’s pathetic, I know, but … I couldn’t handle how angry it made me. Their casual disregard for you, their wilful ignorance of how glorious you are, how lucky they’d be to know you. And I knew, I knew if they only met you, they’d see exactly what I saw. A child who is funny and clever and kind and stubborn and thoughtful and mischievous and hilarious and … and excellent in almost every conceivable way!’

Morrigan snorted, looking away in embarrassment. He really was a bit much sometimes. ‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up. It’s true,’ Jupiter grumbled weakly. He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t want … I mean, I shouldn’t have let you find out that way. The letters.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘You should have told me yourself. You’ve had years, Jupiter.’

‘I know. But once they made their position clear, I just …’ He sighed, hanging his head, and rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes. ‘You already had one mostly terrible, uncaring family. Why would I hand you another, I asked myself, when you were so comfortably and blissfully unaware of their existence? You were thriving without them.

‘And I suppose … I just kept hoping they’d come round, eventually, and they’d beg your forgiveness and do everything they could to make up for lost time.’ He stopped, pressing his mouth into a straight, angry line. ‘But I should have found a way to tell you the truth, and I should have trusted you to bear it. I just …’ He trailed off, shaking his head ruefully.

‘When Aunt Margot came to the Deucalion that day,’ said Morrigan, ‘in the Smoking Parlour. When she said the Darlings didn’t know about me. You knew she was lying, and you just … you just stood there and let her lie to me.’

‘Yes.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Even though you knew it would make you look like the bad guy. Even though you knew I’d be furious with you.’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry, Morrigan, I just—’

‘Cared more about my feelings than the truth?’ she murmured, recalling something Squall once said.

Jupiter sighed, deflating like a punctured tyre. ‘I just wanted the world to be a softer place for you.’

Morrigan found she couldn’t look at him directly just then, and went to rummage through a cutlery drawer for two forks, taking longer than strictly necessary as she blinked her traitorous eyes under control.

‘We should, um … probably get started on these.’ She thrust one fork at Jupiter and used the other to hack into the least damaged of his twenty-four attempts at her favourite cake (lemon-butter raspberry ripple with crumbled meringue pieces and raspberry cream filling).

Jupiter watched her in a weighted, worried silence as she took a second bite of cake, gripping his fork as if it might turn on him and take his eye out. Morrigan stared back at him as she chewed and swallowed. After a long, awkward moment, and a synchronised intake of breath, they both blurted out—

‘There’s something else I have to tell you.’

Another silence.

‘Er. Right. Shall I go first?’ asked Jupiter after a moment. ‘Mine’s … quite bad.’

Morrigan grimaced. ‘Mine’s not great either. But okay.’

‘I’m … ashamed to say I’ve been keeping another secret from you.’ He swallowed painfully, hands clasped. ‘Or, rather, another person—’

‘Is this about my uncle?’

The colour drained from Jupiter’s face, and he seemed to lose the power of speech.

‘My father’s brother, Bertram Crow?’ Morrigan prompted. ‘Another cursed child, whose patron smuggled him into Nevermoor?’ Jupiter remained frozen, so she went on, rather enjoying herself now. ‘Bertram Crow who’s in your Wunsoc unit and knew my mother and made you swear an oath never to tell me about him and you kept that promise all these years even though you didn’t want to because but you had no choice because brothers and sisters, loyal for life?’ She reached her fork across the island to swipe a corner of the untouched chocolate cake. (Francis had worked hard on that. Someone should eat it.)

Jupiter stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a guppy.

‘Oh,’ she added, wiping a bit of chocolate icing from the corner of her mouth, ‘and you asked him to spy on me in the Silver District and report back to you.’

‘I— W-well. I wouldn’t say spy, exactly, more like …’ He trailed off, looking embarrassed, and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Well, you should be, because it made him look very suspicious. I thought he could be the murderer until a few hours ago.’

‘Mmm, I saw the list,’ Jupiter reminded her grimly. He looked as if he had much more to say on that topic, but was holding back for the time being. ‘Look, Birdie and I have never been great friends. But I can confidently say he’s not the murdering type. Even if he wanted to murder someone, he utterly lacks the follow-through.’

‘Birdie?’

‘That’s what we called him in school. He was Bertram, then Bert, then Bertie, then Birdie, because … well, you know.’

‘Crow.’

‘He’ll always be Birdie Crow to me, although he took our patron’s surname when he went into business – for dodgy tax reasons I presume. Styles himself BC Smithereens these days,’ Jupiter said, with an eyeroll and a little flourish.

‘You had the same patron?’

‘He didn’t mention that? I’m not surprised, he always resented having to share anything.’ He gave her a curious look. ‘What did he tell you? How did this all come about?’

Morrigan recounted the strange events of her night, from the discovery of the letters to the siege of Beauregard House to her brief stint as a jailbird, and finally the details of her enlightening conversation with Bertram in the arachnipod.

‘That must have been a lot to take in.’ Jupiter frowned, watching her thoughtfully. ‘I thought you’d … I mean, you don’t seem … Forgive me, I thought there’d be more, sort of …’

‘Shouting?’ she suggested wryly. ‘Octopus chair?’

‘Mmm, at least.’

‘I don’t know. Finding out about Bertram … It’s not the same as with the Darlings. I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything, not knowing him. I’m not even sure I want to get to know him.’ She winced. ‘Does that sound bad? I just mean, he’s a bit …’

‘Disconcerting?’

‘Yeah,’ she agreed, even though the word was insufficient. ‘Being around him made me feel sort of …’

‘Sad?’

‘Yeah.’ That wasn’t quite right either. Morrigan thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done. Not with Bertram … or with the Darlings.’ She looked up at Jupiter just in time to see his shoulders drop, finally relieved of a weight they’d been carrying for three years. ‘I think sometimes there is no right choice.’

Once again Jupiter looked like he might cry, but instead he shoved a heaping, gooey forkful of cake into his mouth.

‘I dun deverve thif cake,’ he mumbled through chocolate-ganache-covered teeth. ‘Buh I’m gad I haff it.’

‘You can thank Francis later.’

‘I wiww. And liffen,’ he said, swallowing as he tapped a section of the green icing letter with his fork, ‘about this bit. Leaving home, not realising I wouldn’t betray you, not realising I wouldn’t lie without a good reason – you don’t need to apologise for any of that. I’m the grown-up here. It’s not your responsibility to read my mind, Morrigan.’

‘Mog,’ she corrected him quietly.

His eyebrows shot upwards. ‘You sure?’

She nodded briskly and stabbed a bit of lemon raspberry cake, grasping for a change of subject as she felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘Do you think we should just write notes next time? Like normal people?’

‘Yes, or a nice card perhaps,’ Jupiter murmured in agreement. He licked a bit of green icing off his thumb, nodding at the cake carnage. ‘But it wouldn’t taste as good.’ He got to his feet, sighing reluctantly as he checked the time. ‘Time to go, I’m afraid. The Guiltghast task force is meeting early to prepare for tonight. Lots to do.’

‘Oh, you volunteered for that?’ Morrigan said, pushing crumbs around her plate. ‘Just what you need. I’ve always said you’re too idle.’

Jupiter rolled his eyes fondly. ‘Ha, ha. I only volunteered because … well, I … didn’t think I’d get to see you on your birthday.’ His face flushed a little. ‘Thought I might need the distraction.’

‘What a fun and terrifying distraction,’ Morrigan said dubiously. ‘Conall’s plan is going to work, isn’t it?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know. I fear we might have bitten off more than we can chew with the Guiltghast.’ He frowned, then noticed her matching look of worry and tried to brighten up a little. ‘I’m sure it will be fine, Mog. Just have to keep our wits about us, that’s all! And tomorrow we can celebrate your birthday properly.’

Morrigan pointed her fork at the cakes. ‘Haven’t we just celebrated?’

He scoffed. ‘This isn’t birthday cake!’

‘It’s birthdayish.’

‘You really think Frank would let you turn fourteen without a shindig of some description? Shins will be dug, believe me.’ Jupiter untied his apron and attempted to bat the flour from his beard. ‘Before I go, what was it you wanted to tell me?’

Morrigan’s mouth hung open slightly. She’d been so relieved to have patched things up, she hadn’t even told him the most important thing yet. The worst thing. Now he had to prepare for Operation Guiltghast, and he was already anxious about the task force needing to keep their wits about them, and having perhaps bitten off more than they could chew …

And suddenly, she realised she couldn’t tell him. Not today. If she told him about Squall and the apprenticeship right now, it would be all he could think about. How could she risk distracting him when the stakes were so high, and the consequences so dire if a single thing went wrong?

‘It can wait,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’

And, for the first time since signing the contract, Morrigan believed her own promise.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Gone to the Winter Trials

‘So … the Darlings have no idea you’ve seen the letters.’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘And they don’t know you got arrested last night.’

‘Nope.’

‘And they don’t know the Vulture’s your uncle on your dad’s side.’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘And they’re still throwing you this birthday party tonight.’

‘Technically it’s a ball, but yes.’

‘And you’re not planning to attend, even though you’re the guest of honour.’

‘Don’t see why I should.’

‘And this morning, when they presumably went to wish you a happy birthday, you just … weren’t there.’

‘No, I was at the Deucalion.’

‘Because you’ve made up with Jupiter.’

‘Correct.’

‘And Jupiter knows that you know about the letters.’

‘And about my uncle, yeah.’

‘But you haven’t told him about Squall.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Because of the Guiltghast thing tonight.’

‘Correct.’

‘But you’re going to tell him.’

‘Tomorrow. Definitely.’

‘Right.’ Cadence took a long sip of peppermint fizz and leaned back in her seat, processing. The Trollosseum was buzzing with excited chatter and bursts of marching band music, and the two girls had to virtually shout into each other’s ears to be heard above the din. ‘And, sorry, just going back to your sudden disappearance from Darling House … You don’t think your aunts might find it strange?’

Morrigan shrugged. ‘I left them a note when I snuck back in to get Emmett and the letters this morning.’

‘A note?’ Cadence raised her eyebrows. ‘Saying what?’

‘Gone to the Winter Trials.’

‘And that covers everything, does it?’

‘It covers enough so they won’t send out a search party or call the police,’ Morrigan said, feeling defensive at her friend’s mild incredulity. ‘I’ll figure out the rest later.’

The truth was, there were about a million things she wanted to say to the Darlings – that she’d read Jupiter’s letters, for one, and knew they’d been lying all this time. That she suspected she knew the reason for their sudden change of heart about meeting her, and why it had come after she was exposed in the newspapers as a Wundersmith. The pieces were coming together in her mind – Aunt Margot’s plan for the Silver Assembly, and how eager she was for Morrigan to show off her powers all over the district – and the picture beginning to form was an ugly one.

She’d sat on her mother’s bed for nearly fifteen minutes that morning, pen and paper in hand, watching through the window as the first rays of sunrise lit up the Paramour Pleasure Gardens. But her thoughts were too big and unwieldy to shrink into words. ‘Gone to the Winter Trials’ was the best she could do.

Cadence was watching her, eyes slightly narrowed in calculation. ‘You’re never going back there, are you?’

Morrigan was about to object, to say yes, of course she would do the grown-up thing and go back to confront her aunts with all she knew, to demand an explanation, demand the full truth. But there was never much point lying to Cadence.

She shook her head, and her friend gave a sombre nod of understanding.

‘Not sure I would either, if it was me,’ Cadence admitted. ‘It’ll be much trickier to figure out who killed Dario from outside the Silver District, of course, but maybe we can use the lintel chain—’

‘I think I should go to the police,’ Morrigan said decisively. ‘It’s time to tell them what I saw at the boathouse.’

Cadence stared at her. ‘You realise you’d be admitting you were near the scene of the crime?’

‘What choice do I have? Somebody lied to the police about Gigi,’ Morrigan reminded her. ‘They’re trying to frame her, and they’re twisting the things I witnessed to do it. And if I’m right – if that anonymous tip was from Aunt Margot – then it’s partly my fault.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘I could have told the police months ago what really happened between Gigi and Dario. But I was so worried about protecting the Darlings from more scandal, and Modestine from more heartbreak … I was so sure they couldn’t have anything to do with a murder …’ Morrigan scowled, furious at her own stupidity. ‘You were right. I wanted to think the best of them. But Margot’s been lying to me this whole time, and now … What if she’s framing an innocent person for her own—’

‘Whoa, hang on,’ Cadence interrupted. ‘We don’t know that. The Vulture might be crossed off our list, but Gigi’s still a suspect without an alibi, remember? And her parents! Any one of them might still be the murderer.’

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I don’t know, but we don’t have all the facts yet. And if Margot is the informant, that doesn’t automatically mean she’s the killer – if anything, it might make it less likely.’

‘How?’

‘You think she overheard you telling Noelle about Gigi and Dario,’ said Cadence, ‘and then told the police a distorted version to make Gigi look like the killer, right? But if Lady Margot only learned about the affair that night at the feast, it means she didn’t spot them together at the wedding, which means—’

‘—there goes our motive for her,’ Morrigan murmured.

‘Exactly. And if she did spot them at the wedding and murdered Dario in anger or revenge, why would she wait this long to use that information to frame Gigi? She could have done it right away. Double revenge!’ Cadence cast her a knowing, sympathetic look. ‘I understand why you’re ready to point the finger at one of the Darlings. After those letters—’

‘It’s not just about the letters,’ Morrigan huffed irritably, then twisted in her seat for the umpteenth time, suddenly desperate for a change of subject. She squinted around the crowded Trollosseum stands, hoping to spot a curly brown head bobbing towards them. ‘Where is he? He knows where we’re sitting, right?’

Hawthorne had left a note of his own that morning, stuck to his station door.

Early training sesh!!!! C U l8r at Trollosseum!!!!!!

‘Don’t panic,’ said Cadence. ‘The events don’t start for another half-hour.’

‘Yeah, but Hawthorne hates missing all this preliminary stuff.’ Morrigan waved vaguely at the dance troupes entertaining down in the arena. ‘Why would Nan make him train on the last Sunday of the Winter Trials? It’s so mean.’

‘Mmm,’ Cadence hummed in agreement, but it was clear she wasn’t really listening. Her eyes kept darting to the satchel sitting by their feet. ‘Did you read any of it yet?’

‘No.’ Morrigan bent down to retrieve the pastel blue paperback her uncle had given her. She turned it over in her hands, unable to make herself open it. ‘Don’t know if I will.’

Cadence’s mouth went slack. ‘Are you joking?’

Avoiding the question, Morrigan craned her neck to look for Hawthorne again, but instead spotted Anah, Mahir and Arch returning from the concession stand loaded down with snacks. She and Cadence pulled their legs in, letting the others shuffle past to their seats.

‘They’re out of salt and vinegar crisps, Cadence, so I got you – oh!’ Anah gasped, almost tripping over when she saw the book in Morrigan’s hands. She dropped into the seat beside her. ‘You found a copy? What does—’

‘She hasn’t read it,’ said Cadence, sticking her head around to watch Anah’s reaction, which didn’t disappoint.

‘Why not?’ she shrieked, accidentally splashing peppermint fizz over Mahir in the next seat.

‘I didn’t say I’m never going to read it,’ said Morrigan, flicking a disgruntled look at Cadence. ‘Just … not yet. I need time to think.’

Morrigan rubbed her face, yawning widely. After a long and eventful night, she’d barely snatched three hours of sleep before the trials, and the prospect of explaining this sudden reversal to her friends was only compounding her fatigue. She could barely explain it to herself.

Part of it, at least, was that she kept hearing Squall’s words in her head about patching together a false image of her mother based on lies and hearsay. It was aggravating to admit that he might have a point. Once she read that book, she could never unread it. The words would live in her head forever, and she’d never know for certain which were true, and which were lies.

Anah chewed thoughtfully on her lip. ‘If you’re not going to read it, you might want to consider selling it.’

Morrigan’s mouth fell open in horror. ‘Of course I’m not going to sell it!’

‘Not the worst idea ever,’ said Cadence. ‘You could probably buy a house with that thing.’

Anah looked dubious. ‘Not a house. Maybe a bike? A really nice bike, given it’s a first edition.’ She reached for the book before Morrigan could stop her and flipped to the beginning. ‘Our club president, Mike, told me how to tell. See this serial number on the copyright page?’ She pointed to a long sequence of seemingly random numbers. ‘The one at the beginning means it’s from the very first print run. But Madeleine only ever had one printing anyway.’

Morrigan reclaimed the book, holding it up close to read the page of tiny text. ‘“Copyright Hillary D’Boer. The moral rights of the author have been asserted,”’ she read aloud. ‘Immoral rights, more like. “First published in Nevermoor, First Pocket of the Free State, by Clark & Sons Press. Summer of One, Third Age of the Aristocrats.” Oh … this was published not long after I came to Nevermoor.’

Something about that made Morrigan’s stomach feel weird. To think she could have walked past copies of Madeleine Malcontent in a bookshop window that first summer! Had she ever sat next to someone reading it on the Wunderground, she wondered, not knowing she was within grasping distance of her mother’s controversial history? What a thought.

And there was something else about it that felt strange. First published in Nevermoor by Clark & Sons Press.

‘Clark & Sons,’ she murmured. ‘Do we know anything about them?’

‘Mike says there won’t be a Clark & Sons for much longer, the way the Silverborn Saga’s going,’ Anah said ominously. ‘They’re only a small independent press, and nothing else they publish is nearly as successful as—’

‘Sorry I’m late! Eldritch Murdergarden doesn’t open until ten on Sundays,’ Francis puffed as he made his way along the row. He pulled the green bottle from his pocket and returned it to Morrigan. ‘You were right – it is from their little shop. Not poison, though.’

‘What is it, then?’ she asked. ‘I thought all they sold was poison.’

‘Yes, lots of people think that – if you’re going to call yourself a Murdergarden, I suppose it’s bound to give a certain impression,’ said Francis thoughtfully. ‘But they do all sorts. This is from their unnimal medicine range. The shop assistant said it’s a single-dose muscle relaxant used by veterinarians.’

Morrigan frowned. ‘Must be for the Darlings’ cat, Winslow.’

‘It’s not for cats.’ Francis rolled his eyes. ‘It’s for when vets need to vaccinate a hippopotamus, or pull a dragon’s tooth, or … I don’t know, give a polar bear a haircut or something. They give them a dose of this to calm them down first, so nobody gets eaten. It’s extremely potent. That’s a single dose, but they’re sold by the dozen. Ooh, is that caramel popcorn?’ Francis was evidently done with the conversation.

Morrigan read the label’s fine print:

IN CASE OF HUMAN OR WUNIMAL CONSUMPTION, SEEK EMERGENCY MEDICAL CARE IMMEDIATELY. MAY CAUSE AGITATION, MEMORY LOSS, CONFUSION, DISORIENTATION, LETHARGY, IMBALANCE, SERIOUS ILLNESS, SEIZURES OR DEATH IN HUMANS AND WUNIMAL MINORS.

She turned to raise her eyebrows at Cadence, who was reading over her shoulder. ‘This is the bottle I found in my grandmother’s safe.’

Cadence returned her look of meaning with a sceptical squint. ‘You’re thinking … what? Lady Darling poisoned Dario with an unnimal sedative? But she has an alibi, remember? And we might not have the murder weapon, but we know it wasn’t poison, he was—’

‘Actually, that’s not what I was thinking.’ Morrigan pointed out the words that had caught her attention. ‘Agitation, memory loss, confusion, disorientation. I mean, seizures and death aside … is it just me, or does this describe my grandmother’s symptoms?’

Cadence’s eyes widened slightly. ‘You think she’s poisoning herself with medicine made for unnimals?’ She carefully uncorked the empty bottle and took a tentative sniff, before hastily closing it. ‘Aniseed! Blergh, smells like the horrible sweets my gran likes.’

Morrigan paused, picturing Lady Darling’s study in her head, the way it had looked last night. She couldn’t shake the feeling there was something she was missing, something obvious she’d overlooked. ‘What if someone else has been giving it to her?’

‘Then why would the empty bottle be in her safe?’

‘Hear me out. She smashed up her dinner … threw her soup everywhere. What if it was because she found the bottle and suspected someone was trying to poison her?’

Cadence tilted her head, considering it. ‘Who’d have a motive for that, though?’

‘Aunt Margot.’ The dots were rapidly connecting in Morrigan’s head, and she rushed onwards before Cadence could muster up a counter-argument. ‘Since her mother’s been sick, Margot’s the head of the family, right? She attends the Silver Council on Lady Darling’s behalf, so she’s involved in all the important decision-making for the district, which she obviously loves because she’s a control freak. The Silver Assembly is coming up in spring, and she clearly sees it as an opportunity to get rid of the Devereaux family, to vote them out of the Greater Circle and demote them to a Lesser House. And … I think I’m part of it, too.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Lady Darling didn’t want me anywhere near Darling House or the Silver District. That was obvious from the moment we met, and it’s even more obvious now I’ve read Jupiter’s letters. It was Aunt Margot who came to the Deucalion after that article came out in the newspaper telling everyone I’m a Wundersmith. She got in touch with the Wundrous Society about me.’ She leaned in, lowering her voice. ‘I think Squall had it right.’

Cadence visibly flinched. ‘Squall?’

‘Yeah. When I destroyed the Receiving Room, I was scared the Darlings wouldn’t want anything to do with me, now they knew I was dangerous, but he said …’ She paused, trying to remember his exact words. ‘He said, If anything, they know you’re valuable. I didn’t get what he meant at the time, but … Cadence, the Silver District was built by Wundersmiths. The Silver Council used to pay bribes to the Society in exchange for Wundrous Acts, to have Wundersmiths come into the district and create all this magical infrastructure for them. All this time, I thought Margot was just being a proud aunt, but she’s been showing me off to the Grand Old Houses like … like a prop.’ Morrigan spat the word out in disgust. ‘Trotting me out to perform for them, like a circus pony. She wants revenge on Lord and Lady Devereaux for whatever happened at the last Silver Assembly, we know that. I think she’s using me to assert her power, showing off my powers as a threat or a promise or something, to make sure the other families support her bid to take Devereaux House down.’

Cadence nodded slowly. ‘That’s why she’s so keen to make you Morrigan Darling! So nobody can forget the Darlings have a Wundersmith in the family. And maybe your grandmother was getting in the way of that part of the plan, since she obviously didn’t want you there – er, sorry,’ Cadence added, one leg bouncing in excitement now. ‘But I think you might be right! Maybe Lady Margot had to poison her mother, just enough to keep her under control.’

Morrigan gasped as something else clicked into place. ‘That’s why Lady Darling always wants Tobias to make her tea tray … because her daughter has been poisoning her! She must have suspected it for ages, but her mind’s so addled she can’t fight back or communicate it to anyone properly. Maybe she’s been trying to find proof this whole time, and then … Oh!’ She sat up ramrod straight, gripping Cadence’s arm with her fingernails. ‘Last night, the aunts were running late for the opera! What if Margot put the medicine in her soup but she was in such a rush that she left the bottle behind—’

‘—and Lady Darling finally got her proof!’ said Cadence. ‘She knocked over the bowl of soup because she knew it was poisoned, then tried to hide the bottle in the safe so that once it was out of her system, she could finally tell someone what was happening to her!’ She puffed out her cheeks, clearly impressed. ‘Phew. Excellent reasoning, Detective Crow.’

Morrigan wished she could feel good about her deductions, but all she felt was ill. ‘I have to go back. Lady Darling might not want anything to do with me … and after what Bertram told me last night, the feeling’s extremely mutual. But she still needs help. I can’t just leave her to be slowly poisoned to death.’ She stood up and started gathering her things. ‘Tell Hawthorne where I went, okay? I’ll let you know—’

‘Um, excuse me,’ Cadence interrupted, snatching Morrigan’s bag and pulling her back down into the seat. ‘First of all, you don’t have to go back. We have to go back. And secondly … we’re not just waltzing in there without a plan. What are we, amateurs?’

‘Yes.’

Cadence ignored that. ‘Where’s your notebook? Write this down. Our first stop obviously has to be Eldritch Murdergarden. We’ll need—’

She was drowned out by a loud squeal of feedback and a pair of now-familiar voices booming over the loudspeakers in joyful unison.

‘GOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING, DRAGONSPORT FANS, AND WELCOME TO THE FINAL DAY OF THE WINTER TRIALS!’

The Trollosseum exploded with cheers and applause and thousands of feet thumping rhythmically in the stands.

‘Eddie, I am BURSTING with excitement for today’s programme! It’s Spring’s Eve, the atmosphere here in the Trollosseum is electric and there isn’t an empty seat in the house. This is going to be a phenomenal finale to a truly spectacular season!’

‘You said it, Tofty. This year’s Winter Trials have been full of surprises, and they just keep coming! You all know that talented newcomer Quincy Frost was named as Alights on the Water Like a Seabird’s new rider, but this morning we’ve heard Frost has been usurped by an even younger rider. I guess the Rinaldis really were just looking for a fresh face all this time!’

‘You can’t get any fresher than Hawthorne Swift, Eddie! Who could forget young Swift’s dynamite performance in the opening flights earlier this—’

A jolt of electricity seemed to go through Unit 919’s row of seats, and the commentary was drowned out by shrieks of excitement as they all turned to each other, bouncing and babbling in shock.

‘Did you know he was—’

‘He didn’t say anything—’

‘So that’s why he had training this morning!’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t—’

‘Since when?’

‘Shhh – SHUSH, what are they saying?’

‘—certainly is a bold choice, but a thrilling one! At just fourteen years old, I’m sure this impressive young man and his new flight partner have a long and exhilarating career ahead of them, and I for one—’

‘Morrigan Crow? Over here – hello? Are you Morrigan Crow?’

A nervous-looking man in a white shirt and red vest was shuffling down the row towards them, while spectators shifted to let him pass. He was carrying a clipboard and wore an official lanyard around his neck that said Rinaldi Stables.

‘Are you Morrigan?’ he asked again, breathlessly, as he reached her.

Morrigan blinked up at him. ‘Um, ye—’

‘Who’s asking?’ Cadence demanded, and the man jolted in surprise.

‘Mr Swift sent me to fetch you urgently. Free backstage pass, love, it’s your lucky day!’

‘Why?’ Morrigan asked, already gathering up her things as she and Cadence exchanged a worried look. ‘Is something wrong?’

The man glanced around uneasily; a few people were casting curious looks at his uniform. ‘No questions at this time, thanks. And, er, which one of you is—’ He consulted his clipboard, then turned to the rest of Unit 919. ‘Mahir Ibrahim?’

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Long May You Burn

The man in the red vest guided Morrigan and Mahir from the Trollosseum stands through a series of security checkpoints and into a tiny elevator (failing to notice, naturally, that Cadence had tagged along). Morrigan was flabbergasted; she hadn’t believed for a second that the Rinaldis would actually trust her recommendation, so she’d never bothered mentioning it to her friend – no sense getting his hopes up. But, sure enough, at ground level the doors pinged open to reveal Hawthorne Swift, resplendent in red-and-gold Rinaldi riding leathers, pacing at the entrance of a rocky, firelit tunnel. Despite her nerves, Morrigan couldn’t help beaming with pride at the sight of him.

‘Cheers, Gary!’ Hawthorne nudged the man back into the elevator as he ushered his friends out of it, reaching in to jab the top-floor button. ‘You head up to the box, I’ll take it from here.’

‘All right, Swift?’ the man asked suspiciously.

‘Pre-flight ritual! Just need my hype team here to help me, er … stretch.’

‘Only ten minutes to gates, son.’

‘IT’S TEN AND A HALF MINUTES ACTUALLY, THANKS GARY!’ Hawthorne shouted as the elevator doors closed, before whirling to face his friends, wide-eyed and panic-stricken. Grasping Morrigan’s forearm, he dragged her into the torchlit tunnel, Mahir and Cadence hurrying along behind them.

‘What’s – ow, Hawthorne, let go – what’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell us—’

‘Only found out last night,’ he said in a rush. ‘Cosimo changed his mind about Quincy Frost and apparently my name was next on the list. I trialled with Alights at the Rinaldi Stables this morning, and it was AMAZING. Few wrinkles to iron out, but for our first flight together it was epic! The Rinaldis offered me the saddle on the spot. I wanted to surprise you all when I flew out into the arena, but … I don’t know what to do! It’s like she’s suddenly a different dragon.’

They rounded a corner and emerged in a huge, steamy cavern with high rock walls. Cut into one side was an enormous metal door leading to the arena, and above it a timer was counting down from nine minutes and forty-seven seconds in big, flashing red numbers. Several storeys up, Alights on the Water was flying aimlessly and erratically. She landed on one jagged outcrop of rock before launching off and soaring to another, occasionally giving a bone-chilling screech or firing off a jet of orange flame.

‘Look! She’s refusing to come down to the launch gate. She won’t even take a lure.’ Hawthorne jerked his head towards a wooden barrel filled with thick, arm-sized strips of red meat that seemed to add up to roughly half a cow. ‘That’s how you signal a dragon that it’s time to saddle up and fly. Most dragons don’t need it if they’re used to competing; it’s just part of the ritual. It’s polite. But when I offered it, she just about singed my eyebrows off! Took off up to the perches and now she won’t come down. I’ve tried every signal I know, I’ve begged, I’ve ordered, I’ve reasoned, I’ve begged some more … NOTHING! If the Rinaldis find out I can’t move their dragon into position, I’ll be laughed out of here! I might never get another opportunity like this. I can’t mess it up.’

‘How can we help?’ asked Morrigan.

‘I don’t even know!’ he moaned, tugging at his curls. ‘I was just desperate and I panicked. Can you do something Wundersmithy? Weave her into somebody that might actually listen to me? Or – OH! Cadence, you could—’

‘I can’t mesmerise a dragon,’ Cadence said flatly. ‘I can’t even mesmerise my neighbour’s nasty little Shih Tzu. Doesn’t work on unnimals.’

‘Have you tried talking to her?’ asked Mahir.

‘That’s why I asked for you,’ said Hawthorne. ‘I tried a bit of Dragontongue, but my words got jumbled! Dunno if I complimented her tail or asked her where the discotheque is.’

‘Just tell me what you want to say. I’ll translate it back to you, and you can repeat the Draconian words after me.’

Hawthorne hesitated, looking from the flashing red countdown to the dragon perched on an uppermost rock ledge.

‘Think about how she’s feeling,’ Morrigan reminded him. ‘Talk to her like a friend.’

He nodded and looked up directly at Alights. ‘Okay, I wanna say … that I know it’s been a horrible time since you lost Dario.’

Mahir thought for a second, and then translated quietly. ‘Hchlem machtan anfel’ok ket Dario khas, Mir Drachmas-lev najh.’

Hawthorne loudly and confidently repeated the first part, his voice bouncing around the enormous room, before glancing back at Mahir.

‘Mir Drachmas-lev najh,’ Mahir said again more slowly, and Hawthorne echoed him.

The dragon continued to charge around, thrashing her great tail against the stone walls and giving no sign that she’d registered Hawthorne’s words.

‘Dario was an amazing rider,’ he went on. ‘And he was your best mate. I know you’d rather it was him here than me. You must be sick of having all these new riders foisted on you.’

Mahir continued to translate sentence by sentence, and Hawthorne called out the Draconian words to Alights, taking care with the tricky pronunciation, making the soft guttural ch sound in the back of his throat and rolling his Rs. Morrigan could hear how much he’d improved, even if it wasn’t as pitch perfect as Mahir’s lilting, almost musical intonation.

‘But if you give me a chance, I promise I’ll work so hard to earn your trust. I’ll do everything I can to be a good flight partner … and a good friend … for as long as you’ll have me.’

‘… gratkash vlek amh-lesken machar fostoriach,’ Mahir finished, and Hawthorne repeated after him. Alights still hadn’t descended, but she was tilting her head curiously towards him.

‘She’s listening,’ Cadence whispered. ‘Keep going.’

‘I know I’m young,’ said Hawthorne. ‘But so are you, and everyone knows you’re the greatest of all time! And maybe today will be the last time we ever fly together … or maybe it will be the start of something amazing. But we won’t know unless we try.’

Alights took off again, but this time she landed on a ledge halfway down to the ground and seemed to be considering his proposal.

‘Should I offer her another lure?’ Hawthorne whispered from the side of his mouth. The others shrugged in bewilderment.

He took a cautious step closer to the barrel but stopped when Alights suddenly soared in a downward spiral, landing a few metres away from them. Morrigan felt the ground tremble, and she, Mahir and Cadence retreated, pressing themselves against the wall.

But not Hawthorne. He stood confidently, hands loosely open at his sides, face turned daringly upwards. He held himself with the still, serious composure he only ever seemed to show in the presence of a dragon. Alights was equally still, her immense flank heaving with every breath, fiery golden eyes narrowed dangerously to slits. Her head was almost the size of Hawthorne’s entire body, and steam jetted rhythmically from her nostrils as she appeared to consider whether to eat him.

Reaching into the barrel, he pulled out a fat, shiny strip of lure meat and held it out to her, taking a few measured steps forward. There was a warning rumble like distant thunder, and the dragon’s mouth opened to reveal a set of glistening white teeth as long and sharp as daggers.

‘H’chath shka-lev,’ Hawthorne called out to her in a steady voice. He hadn’t needed help this time, but Morrigan and Cadence both looked enquiringly at Mahir, who translated in a whisper, ‘Long may you burn.’

Hawthorne tossed the meat high in the air, but if he’d been hoping Alights would catch it, he was disappointed. The offering landed with a dull wet slap on the stony ground. After a moment, she took a cautious sniff.

‘Finally,’ whispered Hawthorne, and he bent at the knees as if preparing to take a running jump onto the saddle fitted between her shoulder blades.

Before he could leap, however, the dragon lifted her head to the ceiling and gave a ground-shaking, chest-vibrating, devastating roar, like a thousand bows pulled across a thousand cellos all at once. Morrigan, Mahir and Cadence clamped their hands over their ears, but again Hawthorne stood his ground.

‘H’CHATH SHKA-LEV!’ he repeated.

The dragon took three great stomping steps towards him, jaws opening wide, teeth bared menacingly.

‘MOVE!’ Morrigan and Cadence yelled in unison, and Hawthorne dived left just in time, hitting the ground into a commando roll seconds before the barrel of meat beside him was incinerated by a stream of volcanically hot dragonfire. Morrigan could feel its searing heat from the other side of the room. Hawthorne shielded his face but didn’t move.

‘H’chath shka-lev,’ he tried one more time, without much conviction.

‘Hawthorne, get back here!’ shouted Morrigan.

‘Time to cut your losses, mate!’ Mahir agreed.

Hawthorne looked miserably at the timer above the door as it reached thirty seconds. Twenty-nine … twenty-eight …

‘It’s not worth getting your head chomped,’ said Cadence. ‘Come on!’

The dragon’s piercing yellow gaze turned slowly back to Hawthorne. A deep growl like the rumble of a tractor engine reverberated all around.

‘Morningtide’s child is merry and mild,’ Morrigan sang in a terrified whisper. A tingle of Wunder swarmed to her fingertips. If she breathed her own jet of fire, would it distract Alights enough so that her friends could run back through the tunnel to safety? Or would it only make things worse?

Just as she decided to go for it, a lone figure emerged from the mouth of the tunnel.

Vesta Rinaldi moved so fast she was almost a blur. Never had Morrigan seen Spiderlily look so impressively, spine-shiveringly, leg-skitteringly … spiderlike. She felt a split second’s confusion, wondering why the Rinaldis would send the most junior member of their family to assist at such a crucial moment … until she realised Vesta, like Hawthorne, was decked in full red-and-gold riding leathers, with the notable addition of a small shooting star embroidered in glittering thread over her heart. Morrigan and Cadence looked at each other, mouths open, reaching the same conclusion at the exact same moment.

Vesta placed herself directly between Hawthorne (still on the ground) and the dragon (head down, teeth bared). She stretched out a hand, fingers splayed.

‘H’chath shka-lev.’

The girl’s voice was bold and unwavering, her greeting warm and comfortable. Like she was saying good morning to an old friend for the millionth time.

Alights on the Water ducked her head immediately, closing her eyes and leaning down to allow Vesta’s small palm to press affectionately against the spot between them. An ancient, resonant voice rumbled up from the depths of the dragon’s throat. It was a voice that sounded like a mountain, somehow. Weighty and immovable. Eternal.

‘Machar l’ok dachva-lev.’

Morrigan shivered. She didn’t need Mahir’s translation this time; she remembered.

I burn brighter knowing you.

As the flashing red countdown reached single digits, it was accompanied by the obnoxious, repetitive whoop of a siren. A grinding of metal on metal joined the cacophony and the enormous door began to roll slowly upwards, letting blinding sunlight into the dim pre-flight chamber.

Nine … eight … seven …

It happened so quickly, Morrigan almost missed it. One second Vesta was on the ground, the next she and Spiderlily had taken three gigantic eight-legged jumps up the side of the dragon’s thick hide and landed neatly in the saddle.

In a series of rapid, practised movements, Vesta locked all eight chair legs into place – four gripping the sides of the saddle, four wedged tightly on either side of the dragon’s wing joints. She pulled a lever, and Spiderlily’s metal frame shifted and transformed around her, tucking neatly out of the way. Securing herself in a comfortable position, Vesta took the reins in one hand and patted Alights roughly with the other. The dragon took her signal and moved to stand before the steel door, now halfway risen.

‘It’s what you’ve been waiting for!’ boomed the commentator’s amplified voice. ‘Here they come – the one and only Alights on the Water Like a Seabird and her official new flight partner … Hawthorne Swift!’

The swell of noise from the crowd in the Trollosseum was immense. Morrigan glanced over at Hawthorne, whose expression was a mix of numb shock, gut-wrenching disappointment and reluctant admiration.

‘Sorry, Swift, but I was here first,’ Vesta shouted as she turned back to grin at them, flipping down the visor on her helmet to cover half her face. ‘No hard feelings.’

The second the door was fully open, the girl and her dragon took to the sky, soaring up into the sunlight.

The four friends stood in dazed silence for ten seconds or so – about the time it took the door to fully descend again.

‘Well,’ Cadence said, once they’d been plunged back into darkness. ‘Guess we found our mystery dragonrider.’

‘But Vesta’s only eleven!’ said Morrigan. ‘Is she even allowed to compete?’

Hawthorne gave a baffled shrug. ‘I don’t think there’s, like … an official rule against it or anything. But I doubt there’s ever needed to be, ’cos no dragon owner in their right mind would put an eleven-year-old in the saddle for a professional competition.’ He turned on his heels. ‘Come on. We can watch from the Rinaldi box, if we hurry.’

‘What does this mean?’ asked Mahir, following Hawthorne into the tunnel. ‘If she is our mystery dragonrider … does that also make her the murderer? Did she kill her own brother just to steal his dragon?’

‘Vesta told me Dario helped design Spiderlily – that’s her chair,’ Morrigan clarified, noting Mahir’s look of confusion. ‘You saw how the chair and the saddle fit perfectly together – they were made that way. So Dario wanted Vesta to ride Alights, which means—’

‘He was coaching her,’ Hawthorne said confidently. ‘Obviously. Dario was the only person that dragon ever liked.’

‘Apparently not the only one,’ said Cadence.

‘But why didn’t Vesta tell anyone it was her?’ asked Morrigan, as they reached the elevator and piled inside. ‘Cosimo’s been looking for a new rider all this time! Why would she keep it a secret when she’s obviously the best person for the job? Sorry Hawthorne.’

‘None taken,’ he said gloomily.

‘Maybe she was worried someone would accuse her of murder?’ said Cadence.

‘Maybe the Rinaldis did know,’ Hawthorne suggested, ‘but they still didn’t want to give her the saddle? It’s a dangerous sport.’

‘But she clearly knows what’s she’s doing,’ Morrigan pointed out. ‘That dragon did everything she wanted it to. She didn’t even need a lure!’

‘Good thing she didn’t,’ said Mahir, ‘because that stuff smelled funky. I think it’d gone off or something. No wonder Alights wasn’t interested in it.’

Hawthorne sniffed his hands curiously. ‘Actually, it does smell kind of weird. Not off weird, though, more like … What is that, throat lozenges?’ He held a hand up to Mahir’s nose.

‘Ugh, liquorice!’ Mahir batted his hand away, making a face. ‘Yuck.’

Morrigan felt her brain trip over something. She automatically slipped her hand into her pocket and felt it close around the cool glass bottle, her pulse quickening.

‘Aniseed,’ she murmured, and Cadence glanced over at her sharply. After a microsecond’s confusion, her eyes widened.

‘You think … somebody tried to poison Alights, just like Lady Dar—’

The elevator opened directly into the Rinaldi box at that moment, and Cadence’s voice was swallowed by a wall of sound. The large, bright room was even more packed than the last time Morrigan had seen it and she kept instinctively to the back, hoping to go unnoticed. She was certain the Darlings must be there somewhere, probably front and centre.

Hawthorne was the only one who didn’t need to stand on his toes to see the glass viewing panel. Morrigan caught flashes of golden scales here and there, but between the commentary and the gasps of awe from the other spectators, she managed to draw the obvious conclusion: Vesta and Alights were a force to be reckoned with.

‘I have to say, Eddie, my expectations were high after Swift’s performance in the opening flights, but he has WELL AND TRULY surpassed them with this performance!’

Morrigan heard a grunt of irritation beside her.

‘I’m with you there, Tofty. Just look at that fluid, intuitive movement – the decisive command of Swift and the razor-sharp responses of Alights on the Water. It’s like these two have been riding together their whole lives!’

Morrigan was so busy trying to see between the heads of the two tall men in front of her, she lost her balance and bumped into one of them.

‘Oops, sorry – oh!’ Her stomach gave a nervous flip as she recognised him. ‘Uh. Hello, Uncle Tobias.’

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but fortunately Tobias Darling – like everyone else in the room – was utterly focused on the progress of Alights on the Water and barely spared her a glance.

‘Morrigan! Ah. Your aunts hoped I might see you here.’ Tobias smiled awkwardly. ‘They’re all in a dither preparing for the party tonight. Wanted me to remind you to … something or other.’ The message seemed to slip from his mind entirely. He frowned as he watched the flying, rubbing anxiously at his chin as if stroking a nonexistent beard. ‘Rather good, isn’t he? Your friend. You never mentioned he could do a three-sixty March Hare.’

‘That’s not my friend,’ said Morrigan, but Tobias didn’t seem to hear.

‘Impressive stuff. I must say I didn’t realise …’ He trailed off, blinking. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘That’s not Hawthorne. It’s Vesta.’

‘Vesta?’ Tobias turned to look at her properly then, jumping when he saw Hawthorne beside her. Slack-jawed with shock, his face snapped back to the dragon and her rider. ‘Vesta Rinaldi?’

From the front of the room, Cosimo Rinaldi turned to look at them, seeming to register the sound of his sister’s name through the din. His eyes flitted from Morrigan to Tobias and finally landed on Hawthorne, standing there in his full riding leathers. The blood drained from his face, his complexion curdling like milk.

Then Cosimo was pushing aggressively through the crowded room, knocking grown men over in his haste to flee the box. By the time he’d taken the elevator to ground level and sprinted onto the arena floor, Vesta had already executed a textbook landing. She calmly detached Spiderlily from the saddle, dismounted and climbed down to the ground in a flurry of metallic legs, whipping off her helmet in a final flourish.

The cheers in the Trollosseum turned briefly to a buzz of confused chatter, but cheering soon resumed, and doubled when Cosimo ran to his sister and wrapped her in a lung-constricting hug.

‘Well … er, I don’t mind saying, I’m a bit confused, Eddie – the Rinaldi rollercoaster took us for one last loop there with yet another change of rider! But this is certainly a touching display from one of dragonsport’s notoriously taciturn characters. I guess the Rinaldi Stables’ big boss is just a big softie! All eyes on the leaderboard now as we wait for the judges’ verdict.’

Everyone in the Rinaldi box seemed to hold their breath as the name Alights on the Water Like a Seabird climbed from eleventh place … all the way to first place.

Whatever hearing Morrigan had left after the dragon’s ear-splitting roar in the pre-flight chamber, was wiped out by the thunderous noise that exploded inside the Rinaldi box. She rushed her friends outside into the hall, away from the clamour of celebration and confusion. ‘Let’s get the others. We’ve got to make a plan for tonight.’

‘What’s tonight?’ asked Mahir.

Morrigan smiled, feeling her heart thump riotously in her chest.

‘We’re going to a ball.’

CHAPTER FIFTY

The Debut of Morrigan Darling

‘I just don’t understand why I’m dressed as a swan.’

Morrigan stood before the mirror in her mother’s bedroom, trying not to scowl too hard at her reflection. Her birthday ball gown had been delivered that afternoon, freshly altered by the expert tailors at Bloom Couturiers, and it had taken twenty minutes and the assistance of Aunt Miriam and Aunt Modestine just to get her into the atrocity.

It was floor length, with a beaded silk bodice and a full skirt made entirely of white feathers. Morrigan thought she might have merely looked like a fancy feather duster or a very fluffy bride (both of which would’ve been bad enough), were it not for the small pair of wings attached to her back.

Wings, for goodness’ sake.

‘It’s tradition, dear.’ Aunt Miriam adjusted the enormous skirt, smoothing down the feathers to make sure they were all pointing in the same direction. ‘The swan is our family emblem.’

‘Be thankful you’re not from Culvert House,’ Aunt Modestine whispered in her ear. ‘Their emblem is a crab. Poor Ebony Culvert debuted the same year as me … Her dress had pincers.’

‘Every daughter of Darling House has worn this very dress for her debut,’ Aunt Miriam went on, ‘going all the way back to our Great-Grandmother Augusta. Isn’t that special?’

‘Very special,’ said Morrigan, adding under her breath, ‘Not weird at all.’

‘Oh Morrigan, you look ever so beautiful,’ said Aunt Modestine, her voice catching with emotion. ‘Truly, I think you almost look as lovely as I did on my debut birthday.’

‘Modestine!’ said Aunt Miriam reprovingly, but she was trying not to laugh.

‘What? It’s a compliment, Mim!’

The door opened and Aunt Margot entered, gasping when she saw Morrigan.

‘Oh! Just look at you.’ She held a hand to her heart. ‘You are a vision. Girls, will you go downstairs and greet the guests? I’d like a moment with our niece before the party, if I may.’

Morrigan instantly felt her muscles clench. Pretending to smooth down the feathered skirt, she studied her reflection so that she didn’t have to look at Aunt Margot, until suddenly the woman was behind her in the mirror – statuesque, smiling, impossible to avoid.

‘You look perfect, darling,’ she said softly. ‘We are so very proud of you.’

Morrigan tried to smile, too, but it felt a little wooden. ‘Thank you, Aunt Margot.’

‘Everyone in the district is here! Well, everyone of importance.’ She gave a tinkling little laugh that made Morrigan feel slightly queasy. ‘Do you know, I was just speaking with Lady Choi and Lady Whittaker. They were saying what a charming, lovely girl you are … and how extraordinarily talented. The Grand Old Houses are so enamoured of your marvellous gifts, my dear. You really are a Wundrous thing, aren’t you?’

Morrigan didn’t say anything. She knew what was coming.

‘Lady Whittaker asked me if you would be gracing us with some splendid bit of magic this evening, and I thought – oh, what a marvellous idea!’ Aunt Margot was able to feign a look of gentle surprise quite easily. She had the eyebrows for it. ‘I hadn’t thought of it myself, but it does seem just the thing for your debut birthday, doesn’t it?’

She watched Morrigan expectantly, and it was tempting to say nothing at all. Or better yet, to refuse altogether. I’m ever so tired, Aunt Margot. I couldn’t possibly. It would have been so satisfying to watch her aunt try not to blow a gasket.

But that wasn’t part of the plan.

‘Just the thing!’ Morrigan agreed instead, doing her best imitation of the Darling look of innocent astonishment. ‘I’d love to perform for our guests. In fact, I have something quite splendid in mind.’

Aunt Margot’s relief was palpable. ‘Oh, how wonderful!’

‘I thought I’d save it for near the end of the party, if that’s all right with you? Sort of a finale, you know. Finish the night with a bang.’

‘Something to celebrate the arrival of spring, perhaps?’ Aunt Margot prodded lightly. ‘New beginnings, transformation … That sort of thing?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Delightful! Spring is such a special time, and especially this year – assuming the Skyfaced Clocks do change, of course. The first spring of Basking is an important one in the Silver District.’

‘Because of the Silver Assembly?’ Morrigan asked.

Aunt Margot blinked in surprise, then hastily fixed a smile to her face.

‘That’s right.’ She picked up a hairbrush and began to smooth the ends of Morrigan’s black hair, arranging it on her shoulders just so. ‘It’s not very common to debut at fourteen, you know. Miriam and Modestine were sixteen, and I was fifteen, though I’d been begging my parents since I was twelve.’ She smiled, shaking her head. ‘But your aunts and I are so impressed with you, Morrigan. Your maturity. Your level-headedness. Your wonderful gifts. We all feel you’re perfectly capable of taking a grown-up place in our family and having a say in consequential matters. Not just in Darling House, but in all the Silver District.’ She paused, waiting for Morrigan to say something, then went on. ‘Carrying the Darling name … your mother’s name … it means something, Morrigan. It signifies that you are an important person, in an important Nevermoorian family. But to your aunts and I, it’s even more than that. Adding your name to the Darling House door would almost be like … like bringing Merry home at last.’ Aunt Margot looked at her directly, and the gloss of unshed tears in her eyes was so convincing Morrigan almost believed it. ‘You don’t have to decide anything now, dearest. But do say you’ll consider it?’

Morrigan nodded, and Aunt Margot beamed at her.

‘Wonderful! Now, shall we go and join—’

‘I think I’ll practise my splendid bit of magic before I come down,’ Morrigan cut in. ‘I want everything to be perfect.’

Aunt Margot’s face gave an almost imperceptible flicker of impatience before she nodded, smiling thinly. ‘Well … don’t be long, dear. Your guests are waiting.’

‘I’ll be downstairs with a smile on my face in no more than ten minutes,’ she couldn’t resist replying.

Her aunt faltered, glancing back as she left, a tiny frown lining her forehead. The door shut softly behind her. Morrigan turned back to the mirror, grimacing at her reflection.

‘Ready to ruffle some feathers?’ asked a voice from the other side of the room, and Morrigan yelped in fright, just about jumping out of her skin.

‘CADENCE! For goodness—’ She clutched her chest, spinning around to see her friend perched comfortably in the middle of the enormous plush bed, where she’d been sitting quietly for the last hour. ‘I forgot you were there!’

‘Don’t get yourself in a flap.’ Cadence couldn’t hold in a snort of laughter at her own joke, flapping her hands like tiny wings (just in case Morrigan didn’t get it).

‘Do not say a word about this dress,’ Morrigan warned her. She slumped down on the chaise longue, folding her arms and glowering at the bedroom door. ‘Did you hear what she said? It would almost be like bringing Merry home at last. As if they ever tried to bring her home! As if Lady Horrible ever cared about my mother. I bet that’s the real reason she ran away to the Republic, because her sister was such a bully. Now she’s a bully and a murderer.’ When Cadence didn’t respond, Morrigan looked over to see her biting her nails with a thoughtful frown. ‘You’re not having doubts, are you? Cadence, she’s poisoning her own mother.’

‘I know …’

‘And we know she’s prone to violent outbursts! You saw her in the ghostly hour.’

‘I know, I know.’ Cadence exhaled heavily. ‘I just … feel like we’re still missing something. I can see her poisoning Lady Darling, but why Dario’s dragon?’

Morrigan shrugged. ‘Spite? I told you, she hated the idea of her sister’s husband being a dragonrider. She said so on the night of the wedding, remember?’

‘No, you said’ – Cadence pulled out her notebook and flipped to somewhere near the beginning – ‘quote, “Margot didn’t like the idea of Dario having a job, because she was worried about appearances and propriety.” Not the same thing. She didn’t mind him being a dragonrider as a hobby. And she wasn’t even at the trials today!’

‘That we know of.’

‘Regardless, why sabotage a dead man’s dragon? Nobody’s that spiteful.’

‘Because … I don’t know,’ Morrigan admitted with a sigh. ‘But even you said Inspector Gravely never has all the facts until the very end, right? The culprit has to fill in the gaps, even if the detective’s most of the way there. We’re most of the way there, Cadence.’

Chewing on her lip, Cadence seemed to be considering this when there was a knock on the Wunsoc wardrobe door and seven more people piled into the room, chatting excitedly.

Hawthorne, Mahir, Arch, Francis, Anah, Thaddea and Jack had all worn their fanciest party clothes, as requested. (Lam was disappointed to miss out, but she had a key role to play in tonight’s Operation Guiltghast.) Thaddea’s ball gown of Macleod tartan and Jack’s sparkly silver eye patch were particularly swish … but really, Morrigan thought they all scrubbed up quite nicely.

She was about to say so when they stopped as one to stare at her, all chatter abruptly ceasing. There was a collective inhale that would no doubt have preceded a chorus of very unfunny jokes, but she headed them off with the most furious glare she could muster.

‘If even ONE of you says a SINGLE THING about this dress, I will HURL YOU OUT OF THAT WINDOW. Understood?’

They nodded mutely – even Hawthorne, who’d clapped a hand over his mouth and looked ready to expire from the effort of not commenting.

‘Right. Good. Thank you.’ Morrigan folded her arms and took a calming breath. ‘Everyone’s clear on the plan, yes? Should we go over it again?’

‘Nah, let’s just wing it,’ said Thaddea, looking mightily pleased with herself.

Ignoring the muffled laughter from the others, Morrigan turned to Francis. ‘Did you get it?’

Francis drew a tiny bottle from his pocket to show her. ‘They said it could take a couple of hours to work. Anah’s coming with me, to monitor her recovery.’

‘Okay,’ she said, exhaling in relief. ‘You better go now, then. Here – I’ve drawn you a map. That part of the house should be quiet, but if you run into anyone, just pretend you’re Silverborn. Act like you’re meant to be there.’

‘Swan in like you own the place,’ Cadence added, ducking as Morrigan threw a cushion at her head.

‘Jack, remember to be on the lookout for—’

‘The second I hear anything, I’ll let you know,’ Jack assured her.

Morrigan gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Hawthorne, Mahir: when I give you the signal—’

‘We went over the plan four times already,’ Hawthorne interrupted. ‘Can we just go before all the good food’s gone? I’m starving.’

They entered the party in staggered groups of two and three, immediately dispersing … except Morrigan, who went in last, knowing all eyes would be on her the moment she arrived.

The Receiving Room was elegantly decorated with great lengths of white satin and chiffon sweeping down from the ceiling like the inside of a circus tent. And, just like at Modestine’s wedding, there was an entire flock of swans sculpted from ice.

The worst thing, however, was the obnoxiously large white banner hanging across the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the grounds. The words stitched into it in thick, glittering silver thread made Morrigan twitch with anger.

The Debut of Morrigan Darling

So much for having everything just the way she liked it.

‘There you are!’ Aunt Miriam swooped in to take her right arm, and Aunt Modestine her left. ‘Everyone’s dying to see you, dear.’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of filling a dance card for you,’ Modestine whispered, giggling. ‘Everyone wants a spin around the floor with the girl of the hour!’

And so began what felt like the longest evening of Morrigan’s life – a torturous parade of dances she didn’t know and people she didn’t like and, Oh, what a BEAUTIFUL gown and, Oh, what a SPLENDID ball and endless, endless questions about whether she’d be putting on one of her charming little shows for their entertainment.

‘Oh yes!’ she replied every time. ‘Just make sure you stay until the end.’

Unit 919 (and Jack) were like satellites. They mingled and moved around each other all night, keeping an eye on Morrigan and the Darlings while watching for a sign of Francis and Anah. Louis and Lottie arrived late, with a thrilling tale of having feigned chicken pox to get out of attending a Spring’s Eve party with their parents.

‘I can’t believe you’re debuting before us,’ Lottie moaned.

‘I can’t believe you’re losing the lintel chain,’ Louis grumbled.

‘I can’t believe you drew red dots all over your faces just to come to my birthday party,’ said Morrigan, who was actually rather touched. (She didn’t tell them she had no intention of being listed on the Darling House door, and therefore would not be losing the lintel chain; there was no time to explain.)

At one point, Cadence signalled her from across the room before slipping through the mosaic-tiled door. Morrigan immediately excused herself, making her way through the throng of guests and out into the wide, dim hallway.

‘Cadence?’ she called softly. A hand reached out from a curtained alcove and pulled her into the tiny dark hiding spot. Morrigan clicked her fingers, conjuring a small flame to illuminate her friend’s face. Cadence looked like she’d won the lottery or been struck by lightning. ‘Are you—’

‘We’ve got Margot’s motive all wrong,’ Cadence said in an urgent whisper. ‘I knew we were missing something! What if she didn’t discover Dario and Gigi … but Dario discovered something about her?’

‘Such as?’

‘At the wedding, she was rude about him having a career, and he said’– she flipped open her notebook, running a finger down the page – ‘don’t we all need a creative outlet? Weird way to describe dragonriding. A creative outlet? It’s a sport!’

Morrigan stared at her. ‘Cadence, I don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘What if he didn’t mean his creative outlet? What if he was taunting your aunt, trying to hint that he knew something she was hiding?’ As she spoke, Cadence began scribbling something on a blank page. ‘A secret she couldn’t risk anyone else discov—’

Suddenly the curtain was jerked open, and both girls yelped as Aunt Margot’s face appeared out of the darkness.

‘Morrigan! There you are.’ She was smiling, but her voice was icily tense. ‘You had us all so worried. I thought perhaps you’d gone missing again.’

Heart racing, Morrigan forced herself to give a bland, contrite smile. ‘Um … sorry, Aunt Margot. Just needed a moment of quiet.’

‘And who’s this?’ Her aunt’s gaze had shifted to Cadence, who just managed to hide the book behind her back in time.

‘Nobody,’ said Cadence, before shoving Morrigan out of the alcove and closing the curtain.

Aunt Margot blinked dazedly around the hallway, already forgetting anyone else had been present. ‘Come along, dear.’

There was a faint ripping sound. Morrigan felt a hand reach for hers through the velvet hangings and press a crumpled piece of paper into it. Wary of Aunt Margot’s eyes on her as they returned to the party, she could only glance at it quickly before slipping it into her pocket, puzzling over the two words she’d just read.

LADY HORRIBLE.

The moment the doors to the Receiving Room swung open, Aunt Margot signalled to the band, who immediately blasted a jubilant round of Happy Birthday. She led her niece through the parting crowd and up onto the bandstand to make a flowery, emotive speech that Morrigan, heart and mind both racing, barely heard.

She spotted Cadence re-entering the party and tried to subtly convey her confusion about the note with the tiniest shake of her head. But Cadence merely widened her eyes, nodding in Aunt Margot’s direction.

Then suddenly the room filled with applause, and Morrigan was alone on the bandstand, and all eyes were on her, hungry for entertainment. Her legs felt like water, which was just about the only thing preventing her from running away. That, and the memory of what Squall had said to her the first time she’d stood in this room.

Why not let them see what you’re capable of? Sometimes a healthy bit of fear is a good thing.

With those words somehow dampening her nerves and galvanising her will, Morrigan decided she would start as she meant to go on.

Dramatically.

She threw her reach far beyond her, out into the night sky, grasping for the darkest patch she could see, and used it to weave the abominable swan dress into something that felt more … her.

The transformation started at the hem of the full, feathery skirt. Darkness bled upwards like rivers of ink until the entire dress was a sleek glossy black, with a faint green iridescence wherever it caught the light. The stupid little wings expanded magnificently, and there was a gasp of appreciation from the audience when Morrigan ruffled them out to display a much more impressive wingspan. She caught her reflection in the enormous window and was satisfied that she finally looked as she ought to: not a swan, but a Crow.

Her audience was thrilled – all except Aunt Margot, whose lips were pressed together in a familiar look of contained fury. Morrigan smiled, pausing to enjoy the moment.

But she wasn’t finished. The ice sculpture swans took flight next, spreading their translucent wings to soar around the room with no sense of order. Morrigan didn’t manage to make them form a perfect V, but somehow the messy, flapping chaos felt more appropriate … certainly it felt more dangerous. Some of the guests had to duck to avoid getting hit in the head by a frozen bird.

Her next trick drew inspiration from Saint Nick and the Yule Queen, and the last time she’d watched the Battle of Christmas Eve. Inhaling deeply, Morrigan found the tiny, ever-present spark of Inferno inside her chest and breathed an immense plume of fire. She wove it midair into a golden dragon and sent it flying through the flock of ice swans, melting them in a matter of seconds. The people standing underneath shrieked with laughter and delight as they were showered with fat droplets of water, like rain.

Right on cue, the ceiling lights went out (that was Hawthorne and Mahir’s job). The Receiving Room was plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by candles and the great glowing dragon, which continued to soar above them. Morrigan stepped off the little stage and walked out into the centre of the floor. She made the dragon fly downwards in slow, lazy spirals, pushing the crowd back and clearing a wide circle around her, guiding her audience’s train of thought exactly where she wanted it to be: on Dario Rinaldi.

Morrigan crouched down and pressed her hands into the mosaic-tiled floor, bringing it to life. Not like when she’d shaken it out like a rug, though – this time she was careful and deliberate. The patterned ceramic rippled gently outwards like water in a pond, rocking in slow, lapping waves that ended just before the guests’ feet. The red-tile roses were pushed to the edge, leaving only a swirling pond of blue and green in the middle. Her fire dragon alighted on the surface, morphing into the shape of the infamous golden dragon boat to glide smoothly through the water mosaic.

It was in that moment that the mood in Darling House shifted from delight to discomfort. Morrigan felt the change instantly, and was pleased by it.

She walked to the edge of the circle and, picking up a single piece of red tile, tossed it into the centre of the pond where it landed with a splash. Soft gasps of wonder swiftly turned to horror and shock as the drop of red spread, staining the water. More and more of the green and blue tiles turned to crimson, until the dragon boat appeared to be floating on a pool of blood.

Unhappy murmurs rippled through the guests, and Morrigan heard words like inappropriate and tasteless being whispered in her direction. Good, she thought. The stage was set, and they were ready to embark on a journey together. Ready to find an answer to a question the Silver District had been diligently ignoring for almost four months.

‘Who murdered Dario Rinaldi?’

Morrigan’s voice rang out clearly in the silent room. Her question dropped like a stone into still water, its impact rippling outwards, spiralling through the scandalised guests.

‘Well, wasn’t that … artistic!’ Aunt Margot jumped up onto the bandstand and was clapping enthusiastically, trying to draw her guests’ attention away from the macabre display. Some of the guests joined in the applause, glancing around uncertainly, but most were staring at Morrigan in horror. ‘I think it’s safe to say none of us has ever seen such an extraordinarily … Wundrous display! Thank you, Morrigan, dear. Your aunts and I are so proud of your remarkable gifts, and we can’t wait to see what marvellous, useful things you’ll create with them as you grow up—’

‘I’m not finished,’ Morrigan interrupted her, holding up a hand for quiet.

‘I think that will do for this evening, darling,’ Aunt Margot said, smiling with her teeth but not her eyes. ‘We don’t wish to tire you out on your debut birthday, do we? Back to the dancing now, everyone! Let’s have some more music—’

Morrigan violently hurled her invisible reach beyond her in all directions, and in a flash, every white silk hanging, every red, pink and peach rosebush in the room turned to inky black. Across the top of the enormous glass windows, the silver-threaded words on the biggest banner of all began to unravel at speed. The Debut of Morrigan Darling disappeared, restitching and reshaping itself into a declaration the birthday girl considered much more appropriate, much more promising:

The Deductions of Morrigan Crow

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The Unravelling

Morrigan admired the banner for a moment … then she had an idea, and squished in three more words at the end:

The Deductions of Morrigan Crow and Detective Blackburn

There were confused murmurs around the room at this addition. Morrigan glanced at Cadence, who rolled her eyes but seemed pleased, so she left it there.

An elderly woman leaned over to her son, saying in a loud croak, ‘Dario Rinaldi? I thought that wedding planner chap did it.’

‘I’m glad you brought that up, Lady El-Hashem,’ said Morrigan. ‘Actually, the wedding planner chap was cleared by the police. It’s been public knowledge for months that he didn’t do it, and yet everyone in the Silver District seems perfectly happy to keep pretending he did do it.’ She turned to survey the faces around her, raising her voice. ‘Why? Because he’s not one of you? Because it’s safer to pretend it was someone from outside the Silver Gates, someone you never have to see again? Because the truth – that Dario’s murderer is with us right now, in this very room – feels much too dangerous?’

There was a satisfying gasp, just as Cadence had promised there would be when she wrote this line down for Morrigan to memorise, borrowed from Inspector Gravely and the Killer of Castle Kell.

‘But before we unravel the mystery of who killed Dario,’ she continued, as Cadence strolled casually over to join her in the centre of the room, ‘Detective Blackburn and I wish to tell you about another crime. One that happened today – or almost happened.’

‘Today isn’t just Morrigan’s birthday,’ Cadence jumped in, clasping her hands behind her back as she began to pace like her fictional heroes. Morrigan tried not to smile. She felt keyed up, frantically running through their plan in her head, but it settled her nerves to see that her fellow detective was as cool as a cucumber. ‘And it isn’t just Spring’s Eve, either. It’s also the last day of the Winter Trials. Ladies and gentlemen, we must congratulate the Rinaldi family on their extraordinary win today!’

With a flick of her wrist and a surge of Wunder, Morrigan shone a bright, beaming circle of light on Cosimo, Vincenzo, Olivia and Vesta.

‘Cosimo,’ Cadence said, swivelling to face the wary-looking Rinaldis. ‘What a result! You really had us on tenterhooks all season long, wondering if you’d ever find a rider for Alights on the Water Like a Seabird. But she was right under your nose the whole time!’

‘A wonderful surprise,’ Cosimo said in a tight voice, with a smile that resembled a grimace. ‘Who knew my baby sister was hiding such a talent?’

‘You knew,’ Cadence replied smoothly, and Cosimo’s expression faltered. ‘Obviously. Or at least you suspected. That’s why you never told the police that a mystery dragonrider had “borrowed” Dario’s dragon at the time of his murder. Because you knew only one other person could fly Alights on the Water that well, and you didn’t want her to get in trouble or draw unnecessary attention.’

‘And you certainly don’t think it’s wonderful,’ Morrigan added, ‘or Vesta wouldn’t have had to train in secret with Dario all these years.’ She turned to the younger girl. ‘Isn’t that right, Vesta?’

Vesta opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to change her mind.

‘Dario had Mr Smithereens make that chair for you, didn’t he?’ Morrigan prodded gently. ‘You told me at the Feast of the Manyhands that they designed it together to do all sorts of extraordinary things … run and jump and fetch things for you. You forgot to mention, lock perfectly in place on a dragonriding saddle.’

Vesta shot a hesitant glance at her family, looking nervous but defiant. ‘They … don’t want me to ride dragons. They think it’s too dangerous.’

‘It IS too dangerous!’ Vincenzo said in a hoarse, angry voice. Morrigan wondered if the Rinaldis had been having this argument all afternoon. ‘And not a suitable pursuit for a well brought up young lady.’

‘I’m not a well brought up young lady, I’m a DRAGONRIDER!’ Vesta objected. ‘And I don’t care what you say, Papa, I’m not starting at Dev Ladies’ in the spring. I’m going to Hackerby Hall! It’s the only competitive dragonsport school in the Free State and THAT’S WHERE I’M GOING.’

Vincenzo expanded like an irate walrus. ‘You are NOT applying for that school.’

Vesta choked out a laugh. ‘I’ve already enrolled, Papa! Dario helped me. He was going to convince you and Mama to let me go, and – and he was going to—’ She crumpled into tears. ‘We were going to surprise you all at the wedding, pretending it was Dario flying at midnight. He’d planned to show up at the end and announce that he was retiring from dragonriding next year to take up coaching, and he was passing his saddle to me! But then … he was g-gone’ – she stifled a sob – ‘and my whole future was gone with him! I knew if I didn’t find a way to fly with Alights on the last day of the Winter Trials, I might never get the chance again.

‘Dario always said that one day I’d be a better dragonrider than him, and he was RIGHT. I will be. And if you don’t let me ride Alights in the summer tournament, you’re – you’re STUPID. You’re MAD. You’re throwing away the whole Rinaldi legacy—’

‘Of course you’re going to ride Alights in the tournament,’ said Olivia Rinaldi in a quiet, weary voice.

Vesta stopped abruptly, staring at her mother in disbelief. ‘I – what?’

‘What?’ echoed Cosimo and Vincenzo.

Olivia looked at her husband and son as if she couldn’t quite comprehend their stupidity. ‘Dario was right! Vesta is going to be a better rider than him someday. He told us that when she was eight years old, but we were too protective … too scared to let ourselves see it … and look what’s happened! LOOK at your daughter – for three years, she’s been hiding this glorious part of herself! Hiding it from us, because she thought we would take it away from her, the thing she loves the most, the thing she was obviously born to do.

‘Vincenzo, I know you’re afraid of anything hurting our precious, one and only girl. And I know dragonsport is dangerous, but …’ Olivia held a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. ‘Dario is dead, and it wasn’t dragonriding that killed him. One of my children has already been taken from me. I will not banish any part of the children I have left. Vesta has her own life to live, and I am going to watch her live it. All of it.’

Her certainty seemed to deflate Vincenzo’s argument entirely, and he looked around in a daze, blinking and shaking his head. ‘I … but … I don’t understand what this has to do with finding Dario’s murderer,’ he said weakly, turning back to Morrigan and Cadence. ‘You said a crime was committed today? A crime was almost—’

‘Vesta could have been killed today,’ said Cadence. Murmurs rippled through the room and Olivia pulled her daughter closer, clutching her tight. ‘Not because dragonriding is a dangerous sport, but because somebody has been trying to sabotage Alights on the Water at the Winter Trials all season long. It worked once – you all saw her first flight, with Didi Gundry. Everyone chalked up her terrible performance to grief over Dario’s death, but it wasn’t that at all.’

‘Somebody drugged Alights before her flight with one of these,’ Morrigan explained, holding up the little green bottle for everyone to see. ‘A powerful unnimal sedative. It made her fly dangerously and erratically, sinking her to the bottom of the leaderboard. But she’s been slowly climbing back up the ranks every Sunday, and her saboteur knew that if she had one good flight today, she could win the whole thing – which, of course, is exactly what happened, because Alights is a very clever dragon. Much too clever to fall for the same trick twice.’

She passed the bottle to Cadence like a baton in a relay race, knowing everybody in the room had their eyes on it.

‘Alights knew her lure meat had been tampered with again,’ said Cadence. ‘She recognised the sedative’s strong smell of aniseed. She refused to take the lure, and until Vesta arrived – her trusted friend – she was refusing to fly at all.’

‘So, the plan to sabotage Alights didn’t work,’ Morrigan went on. ‘Which is lucky, because if it had, the saboteur could have seriously injured or even KILLED the rider in her saddle.’ She paused here, looking at the spellbound guests all around her, and her eyes narrowed as they landed on Aunt Margot. Morrigan wanted to see her face, to see her grasp the full impact of what she’d done – or tried to do. ‘That rider was supposed to be my best friend, Hawthorne Swift. But instead, it was an eleven-year-old girl, from a family who had already lost one child—’

A great cry of anguish erupted from behind Morrigan, and she turned to see Cosimo Rinaldi falling to his knees beside his sister, head buried in his hands, his whole body wracked with sudden sobs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he bawled. ‘Vesta, I’m so sorry … I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know it was you … I would NEVER have done it if I’d known …’

Morrigan’s mouth fell open. Her eyes met Cadence’s, and she saw her own shock reflected there. Cosimo? They’d been about to announce that Margot was the saboteur and segue smoothly into accusing her of poisoning her mother, and ultimately of murder, according to the plan.

Olivia and Vincenzo looked aghast at their son’s confession.

‘Mama, Papa, forgive me,’ Cosimo sobbed. ‘I’ve tried to keep it from you all these months … You were so buried under your grief. But someone has been blackmailing me … Blackmailing us! They threatened to ruin Rinaldi House, Papa, I couldn’t just—’

‘Be quiet, Cosimo, don’t say any more,’ said Vincenzo, drawing back from his son.

But Cosimo couldn’t stop. ‘They sent me the sedatives anonymously, with a promise to expose our family if I didn’t fix the trials against Alights. They knew everything.’

‘Everything about what? What were they threatening to expose?’ Cadence demanded sharply, but she was drowned out by furious shouting from Olivia Rinaldi.

‘You stupid, reckless boy! You could have killed your sister! How could you—’

‘I didn’t know it would be Vesta flying Alights today, Mama, you must believe me,’ Cosimo pleaded through tears. ‘If I didn’t submit to their demands, all our plans would have been for nothing!’

‘You thought it was HAWTHORNE! You could have killed MY FRIEND!’ Morrigan roared, just as Cadence shouted, ‘WHAT PLANS? WHO WAS BLACKMAILING YOU?’ But both their voices were lost amid Cosimo’s sobs and Olivia’s rage.

Unlike Cadence, Morrigan thought it was obvious who the blackmailer was. She didn’t know why Aunt Margot wanted to blackmail the Rinaldis, but it was too much of a coincidence that she was poisoning Lady Darling with the very same brand of unnimal sedative that had been used to sabotage Alights on the Water.

She watched her aunt, expecting to see some clue or confirmation in her face – guilt, or triumph, or the fear of discovery, or something. But Margot must have been the world’s greatest actress, because she looked as shocked and dismayed as everyone else in the Receiving Room.

Morrigan bit down hard on her lip. It had to be Margot, didn’t it? She suddenly remembered the note Cadence had slipped into her hand through the curtain and unfurled it to read the mysterious message again, wondering what it could possibly mean. How could Dario know about Lady Horrible, and why would that—

Morrigan felt a strange, dizzying heat wash over her. In her haste to hide the note from Aunt Margot earlier, she’d missed the second half of the message it contained.

LADY HORRIBLE

HILLARY D’BOER

Cadence had started connecting the top line to the bottom, letter by letter. She’d only got three letters in – L to L, A to A, D to D – but Morrigan got the gist.

Hillary D’Boer was an anagram of Lady Horrible. It was Aunt Margot’s pen name.

She looked over at Cadence in disbelief. This didn’t make sense. How could her aunt be the author of the Silverborn Saga? She could have believed it of Lady Darling. But not Aunt Margot, who’d called the books vile, and wicked, and filth, and burned Morrigan’s copy of Madeleine Malcontent with such savage loathing. Nobody was that good at pretending. Were they?

But Cadence saw the note in her hand and nodded. Her friend’s face was so sombre, so full of reluctant certainty, that Morrigan instantly knew she was right. She felt ill.

Lady Margot had taken the nickname her sister gave her in a moment of anger and used it as a pen name … and she’d hidden behind that pen name to betray Meredith.

‘No wonder you burned it,’ said Morrigan, tears pricking her eyes as she glared at her aunt. ‘You didn’t want me to see the vile, wicked things YOU wrote about my mother.’

Finally, finally, she saw a crack in Aunt Margot’s façade for the first time. A flash of guilt. It was all the confirmation Morrigan needed. She shook her head in disgust.

‘Whatever do you mean, darling?’ Modestine was looking fretfully from her niece to her sister. ‘Margot would never say bad things about Merry! Margot, what is she talking about?’

‘Don’t they know?’ Morrigan demanded, nodding at Modestine, Miriam and Tobias beside her aunt. ‘Have you been lying to everyone all this time?’

She had her answer immediately, in the infinitesimal flick of Margot’s eyes towards her husband. And suddenly it clicked.

‘Clark & Sons,’ Morrigan whispered. Now she remembered why the name had rung a tiny bell. She could see Dario’s mischievous grin in her mind, hear his teasing voice. Don’t you agree, Tobias? You don’t miss being a Clark lad, surely?

Of course Tobias knew about the Silverborn Saga. He was Hillary D’Boer’s publisher.

‘Is that how you met? Was that the family business Tobias supposedly gave up to become a Darling?’ Morrigan glared at her uncle. ‘I knew you weren’t a lumberjack.’

Aunt Margot held out a placating hand. ‘Morrigan, darling, please come with me … I can explain everything, but we must talk in private—’

‘Talk in private with a murderer? No thanks.’

‘Murderer? Morrigan, no, what are you—’

‘Margot Darling murdered Dario Rinaldi,’ Morrigan announced loudly, and the room fell silent. The Rinaldis ceased their arguing and turned to stare at her.

She shot a guilty glance at Cadence, who looked exasperated. This wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to take their audience through all the clues one by one, just like Inspector Gravely would do. To slowly reveal all they knew, lulling their suspect into a false sense of security, before putting her on the backfoot with some leading questions, and then finally letting her incriminate herself in front of all the gathered witnesses.

‘Morrigan! How could you think such a thing?’ Margot cried, grasping her sisters’ hands for support and looking as if she might genuinely faint. ‘I promise you – I swear—’

Morrigan heard a whispered ‘ouch!’ and from the corner of her eye, saw a tiny spark of light. Jack winced as a small fire appeared in his hand, burning down almost instantly to reveal a small piece of blackpaper. It fluttered on his upturned palm, uncurling into its original pristine state from the disappearing flames.

Jack frowned at the note, then held it up to show Morrigan a short, urgent message written in big capital letters.

PLAN B

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Plan B

The Receiving Room and everyone in it seemed to fade around her. Morrigan checked the clock on the wall, her pulse quickening. Eight minutes to midnight.

Plan B was the contingency Gavin Squires had insisted on when he’d agreed to Conall and Lam’s risky strategy of feeding the Guiltghast on Spring’s Eve. The leaders of the Guiltghast task force had solemnly shaken on it: if midnight came and Plan A somehow went sideways, the Beastly Division would step in immediately and take care of things their way.

Plan B, Morrigan realised, had to mean that the chronologists were wrong again. It meant Lam had seen eight minutes into the future, and the Skyfaced Clocks weren’t going to change tonight … which meant the Unresting wouldn’t swarm to Eldritch Moorings … which meant the Guiltghast would remain as it was. Unfed and dangerous.

Plan B meant a pre-emptive strike. It meant killing the Guiltghast in its sleep.

Morrigan squeezed her hands into fists. The Guiltghast didn’t deserve to die just for the crime of being hungry. It didn’t ask to be abandoned and neglected for a hundred years, left alone to starve or fend for itself the only way it knew how, the way it was made for.

And what if Plan B went wrong? Did the Beastly Division know what they were doing, really? Was the Guiltghast even killable? Jupiter thought they’d bitten off more than they could chew, and Morrigan suspected he was right. She’d seen the Guiltghast in all its glory, witnessed its size and power. If they missed their mark, if they failed to kill it, what then? The monster would wake up starving and angry, ready to defend itself from a botched attack – and someone would almost certainly get hurt. Maybe Lam, or Jupiter, or Conall.

She had to at least try to put a stop to Plan B, but how could she possibly get there in time? There were only eight minutes – seven, now.

Cadence was frowning curiously at her, and Morrigan mouthed the words Plan B. With no further explanation needed, her friend gave a decisive nod, and Morrigan knew she’d taken the baton and was ready to run with it.

‘Let’s return to the night of Dario and Modestine’s wedding,’ Cadence announced, trying gamely to bring the runaway train of their plan back on track. ‘It was late in the evening, and the groom was nowhere to be seen …’

Morrigan melted out of the spotlight and scanned the room for Unit 919. Thaddea stood within grasping distance of Aunt Margot as instructed, poised to leap into action if she showed any signs of lashing out at her accusers. Hawthorne, Mahir and Arch were dotted around the room, paying close attention to Cadence, ready to jump in if she needed them.

‘What’s Plan B?’ whispered a voice in her ear. Morrigan looked round to see Jack sidling up beside her, closely trailed by Louis and Lottie, who looked equally confused and thrilled by the whole spectacle.

Taking the blackpaper note from Jack, Morrigan jerked her head towards the door and the four of them slipped from the Receiving Room, unnoticed by the guests who were now utterly in Cadence’s thrall. Marching down the dim hallway, she hurriedly explained Lam’s note and the dangerous implications of attempting to kill the Guiltghast.

‘Louis, how many lintels from Darling House to your headquarters in Eldritch?’ asked Morrigan.

‘A couple dozen,’ said Louis. ‘But we’ll never make it by midnight.’

‘Are you talking about that thing you saved Barty from?’ Lottie asked.

Morrigan stopped abruptly, causing a collision between Jack and the twins behind her. She was picturing the glowing net she’d made to catch Barty. The way it had fallen into the water, swirling and threading itself around the Guiltghast, wrapping and suffusing it with Wunder.

She thought instantly of her Nocturne lessons with Squall. How she’d wrapped the shards of broken tile in glowing golden-white threads … and her brolly, before leaving it on the windowsill and summoning it across four boroughs.

Those small items had been hard enough, though, hadn’t they? She couldn’t summon something the size of two fishing boats all the way from Eldritch Moorings to the Silver District!

But perhaps she didn’t have to. Perhaps she could do the reverse. Squall had said as much when she’d asked about summoning big things, like Cascade Towers. He said Wunder would read her INTENTION and take the path of least resistance to execute it. It would summon HER to IT, not the other way around.

Morrigan chewed aggressively on her mouth, trying to think. It was at least possible, wasn’t it? A glance at the hallway clock told her she only had four minutes to find out.

‘What? What are you thinking?’ Jack lifted his eye patch to look at her properly. ‘It’s something stupid. You’ve just had a stupid, dangerous idea.’

‘Be quiet, Jack. I need to concentrate.’

‘Morrigan—’

‘SHUSH.’

She squeezed her eyes shut, covering her ears to block out Jack’s objections and the muffled sounds coming from the Receiving Room.

Intuitively, she pictured her reach extending miles beyond her body, further out into the Nevermoor of her imagination, homing in on the specific collection of Wunder she’d left threaded around the Guiltghast. That was what she was calling out to across the city, through the calamitous noise and complex, many-layered chaos of the Gossamer web … drawing it towards her, telling it, I want to be there, with you.

She saw the gently bobbing boats, the busted gaslights and rusty chains. The broken-down wharf and its fathomless black water. The slow blink of an enormous eye.

She imagined reaching far beneath the surface of the water to touch the face of the Guiltghast, imagined golden-white fingertips entwining with long silvery tendrils flowing like mermaid’s hair.

It was working, she could feel it. Every part of her vibrated with determination and urgency and clear, focused intention and it was going to work, it HAD to work. Everything around her seemed to fall away, and for a moment it was like being lost in those seven seconds of liminal blackness between lintels.

Morrigan was so convinced of her success that before she’d even opened her eyes, she was already thinking of what to say to Gavin Squires, how to convince the Beastly Division not to attack the Guiltghast. If she had to throw herself physically between them, she would.

She was so convinced of her success that when she did open her eyes to see the baffled faces of Jack, Louis and Lottie staring back at her, she felt the violent gut-punch of disappointment as an almost physical sensation.

She’d failed.

They were going to kill the Guiltghast, and she had no choice but to hope for that terrible outcome – because if they couldn’t kill it, it might just kill one of them. It might hurt someone she cared about.

Jack seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘Uncle Jove’s done more dangerous stuff than this. He never takes stupid risks. He always comes home.’

Morrigan nodded, even while the voice in her head added: So far.

The clock chimed midnight just as the Receiving Room doors swung open and Archan Tate ran into the hall, wide-eyed and slightly out of breath.

‘Morrigan! You need to come back. It’s … not going well.’

In her brief absence, things in the Receiving Room had deteriorated in a way Morrigan hadn’t even thought to anticipate.

‘… and there have been whispers among you for months now, I’ve heard them! You’ve had your doubts about this strange girl, just as I have but, like me, you’ve been too well-mannered to say them aloud. Well, I say it’s time for us to SPEAK UP!’

It was no longer Cadence holding court, but Tobias. Tobias, pacing the centre of the floor, all eyes on him. The fiery golden dragon floated around him in slow, serene circles, lending an air of drama that the Silverborn were unfortunately eating up.

‘Tobias, stop,’ said Aunt Margot. ‘I don’t need you to—’

‘We were seduced!’ he shouted, ignoring his wife’s objections. ‘Seduced by the glamour of having our very own Wundersmith again, right here in the Silver District!’

Morrigan cringed; she was reminded of Laurent St James, rallying the Concerned Citizens to hound her out of town.

‘STOP TALKING,’ Cadence ordered, but her words were lost underneath his booming voice.

‘Morrigan Crow was never really one of us, though, was she?’ He pointed up at the altered banner. ‘She’s made that perfectly clear!’

Morrigan weaved between the party guests, making her way quietly towards him.

‘Now she dares to accuse her own aunt – the aunt who took her in and gave her everything! – of a crime so heinous, so horrific …’ He shook his head and turned to cast a loving, sympathetic look at his wife. ‘You all know Margot, and you know her heart. I don’t need to tell you she didn’t murder her own sister’s husband! But I implore you, noble neighbours, do not blame her for the mistake of bringing this wretched girl into our midst.’

‘Tobias, enough.’ Margot’s expression was so cold, her face might have been carved from ice. ‘Stop this immediately. I won’t let you—’

‘You thought she’d be of service to our district, didn’t you, darling? That she’d help our friends and neighbours, do her duty to the very people betrayed by her own mother all those years ago. That she’d make up for Meredith’s despicable crimes.’ He spun around just as Morrigan stepped into the clearing, and his lip curled with disgust at the sight of her. ‘But instead, we have this … this wilful, headstrong, DANGEROUS girl. A girl who on her very first visit to Darling House, ATTACKED her aunts and grandmother and destroyed this very room, using the dark powers you all find so entertaining.’

Shocked, suspicious faces turned to glare at Morrigan.

‘STOP, Tobias, just STOP!’ sobbed Modestine. ‘It was an accident, she wasn’t—’

‘And the very next time she was invited back, for a family wedding – the MOST important day of her aunt’s life – once again, disaster strikes! The groom is MURDERED.’ He gave a bitter, dubious chuckle. ‘Are we supposed to believe that’s a coincidence? Do you see the pattern now? Do you see the danger this girl presents to the peace and safety of our district?’

Tobias swivelled to face Morrigan again, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Where were YOU while Dario was being murdered, Morrigan Crow?’

There came an almighty crashing sound from outside in the grounds of Darling House. Several people shrieked with terror, turning to the glass wall overlooking the Splendid Canal and the Paramour Pleasure Gardens.

Silence … and then another crash, accompanied by a sizeable wave of water sweeping up from the canal and splashing over the Darlings’ iron fence and into the garden. It was followed by something that made Morrigan’s insides turn to ice: a long, creeping silvery tendril curled its way out of the water.

‘Oh … no,’ muttered Morrigan, quietly processing the fact that she was much better at Nocturne than previously thought.

The party guests all looked on in horror as a giant, many-tentacled, milky-translucent jellyfish monster loomed up from the canal and clambered over the tall black spikes of the fence.

Cadence gripped her arm. ‘Is that … ?’

Morrigan nodded mutely.

The Guiltghast moved so much faster than an oozing primordial blob the size of a small house ought to be able to. It steamrolled the sloping lawns, crushing flowerbeds and garden furniture, destroying everything in its path and leaving a long, glistening trail as it barrelled straight towards its summoner.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Confessions

Spring of Four

The Guiltghast threw itself at the window of the Receiving Room in a desperate frenzy – again, and again and again – eliciting a chorus of screams from the guests with each thundering impact.

‘It’s the Manyhands!’ someone cried out.

‘Get back!’ Morrigan shouted, waving people towards the other end of the room, but nobody was listening. They stood frozen, staring in horror at the monster outside. ‘It’s NOT the Manyhands. Everyone please, move away from the window, it’s—’

‘Do you see?’ There was genuine fear in Tobias’s face now. He threw his arms around Aunt Margot, trying to shield her. ‘This girl – this Wundersmith has brought a MONSTER into our district! She killed Dario, and now she’s trying to kill the rest of us!’

‘MOVE!’ Morrigan boomed in her loudest, most dangerous voice. They could believe what they wanted about her as long as they listened.

‘YOU HEARD HER, YOU BIG POSH NUMPTIES!’ Thaddea took up the task, shoving and corralling people as far away from the window as she could, while Hawthorne, Cadence, Arch, Mahir and Jack followed her lead. ‘GET BACK! MOVE!’

On its fourth try, the Guiltghast shattered the glass from floor to ceiling and suddenly it was inside, gliding along the floor with preternatural grace and speed. The gigantic eyes on either side of its head scanned the room while its long, glimmering tendrils reached out in every direction, sensing its way like a serpent’s tongue tasting the air. Looking for food.

Looking for its biggest and tastiest prey item, Morrigan realised, as it landed right in front of the guiltiest person in the room.

Mouth open in a silent ‘O’, Lady Margot Darling stared up at the enormous thing looming above her, clutching tight to her husband in terror. Morrigan pelted towards them, throwing her reach ahead of her a fraction of a second too late. The Guiltghast reached out faster—

‘AUNT MARGOT, RUN!’

But it wasn’t reaching for Aunt Margot. A thick cluster of tendrils pushed her carelessly aside and instead curled around Tobias’s neck like a hand, raising him into the air.

‘Tobias!’ Aunt Margot cried out, grabbing vainly for her husband as he was lifted out of reach.

‘Tobias?’ Morrigan and Cadence echoed in unison.

More tendrils wrapped around and around his body, cocooning him like a fly in spider silk. The sound of his screaming was horrendous, but the silence when he stopped was somehow worse.

The Guiltghast was electrified, lighting up like a disco with flashes of colour that travelled from the point of contact with Tobias all the way into its vast, jelly-like abdomen. The pale translucence turned completely transparent as it filled with moving three-dimensional images and confusing snatches of sound. It was as if the creature had turned into a living projector and was fast-forwarding through the film of Tobias’s life, hunting for his guiltiest secrets. They were about to watch Tobias’s confession, Morrigan realised. Whether he liked it or not.

An eerie hush fell. Nobody moved.

The broken, blinking montage began to slow, resolving into a scene of lapping water, glittering lights and distant music. A handsome but pensive Dario Rinaldi sat on a dark, narrow path beneath the arch of a bridge, his legs dangling down into the golden dragon boat bobbing on the canal. He had something in his hand that Morrigan couldn’t quite make out, and he was absent-mindedly scraping it back and forth against the stone, making a sharp metallic rasping sound as he stared gloomily at the water.

‘My son,’ Olivia Rinaldi sobbed. ‘My SON!’

Her husband had to hold her back from running for the Guiltghast, arms out as if she might be able to reach inside its bulbous body and hug her eldest boy. Morrigan could see why. The image was so real, it almost felt like Dario was in the room with them. When he looked up and scowled, it felt like he was scowling at her.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded, pausing his repetitive scraping.

‘You were supposed to meet me,’ said Tobias-of-the-past, sounding flustered and irritated. He clambered out of a small wooden kayak, tethering it to a metal post on the narrow ledge, and held something out to Dario as he approached him. ‘Here – take it. And make sure you give her the whole dose.’

Morrigan gasped as she recognised the small green bottle.

Dario made a noise of disgust, pushing his hand away. ‘No. I’m not doing it.’ Dario glanced furiously over his shoulder, making sure they were alone. ‘Do you know how seriously the FSDA takes flight-fixing? I could be banned from dragonsport for life! I wouldn’t even be able to coach. I’m not risking my career just so you can make a quick fortune by betting against us. And I’m certainly not risking the safety of my dragon.’

‘You already agreed!’ Tobias snarled. Morrigan could tell he was trying to intimidate, to sound commanding, but it read as desperation. ‘It’s too late to back out now!’

‘Give it up, you pillock. I’m not throwing the trials.’ Dario checked his watch, then gave the thing he was playing with one final rasping scraaape against the stone before casually tossing it to the ground, where it landed with a clatter. He got to his feet and dusted himself off, reaching for the golden oar he’d left propped against the prow of the boat. ‘What is it, Tobias? Secret gambling debts? Designer shoe addiction? Whatever you need the money for, maybe it’s time to confess to your wife. I’m sure she’ll come to your rescue, now that Darling House is—’

‘Worry about your own wife!’ Tobias’s cheeks had turned a blotchy purplish-pink, his brow glistening with sweat. ‘This isn’t a bluff, Rinaldi. If you don’t throw the trials, I WILL tell Modestine about your affair – and I have evidence to prove it!’

Dario began giggling, just like he and Modestine had done at the altar that afternoon.

‘What, you don’t believe me? I have PHOTOS of the pair of you together, you fool!’ Tobias sneered, his face turning redder by the second. ‘I even stole a pathetic, lovesick letter you carelessly left in your coat pocket one night at— Why are you laughing?’

Dario was bent double now, practically howling. ‘Oh man … I really needed cheering up, Tobias, you have no idea. This has done me a world of good.’

‘This isn’t a JOKE, Rinaldi, I will go RIGHT NOW and tell—’

‘By all means,’ said Dario, wiping tears away. ‘Please, tell her everything. Tell her sisters while you’re at it! Good lord. Margot doesn’t trust you with anything, does she?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Tobias snapped.

‘Modestine knows all about Gigi and me, you silly man. She’s known since we were teenagers … almost as long as I’ve known about her and Sunny Ghoshal. Oh, you hadn’t clocked that one? Well, Sunny’s always been more discreet than me.’ He shook his head, still grinning. ‘Modestine and I were never in love; she’s my best friend. This whole wedding is a sham! A clever scheme concocted by Margot and Cosimo and enthusiastically signed off by my parents and your mother-in-law. The only real marriage that happened today was between Rinaldi House money and Darling House influence.’

‘I don’t – this is nonsense. Nonsense.’ Tobias squinted at Dario, shaking his head. He looked like he’d just been told Christmas was cancelled.

Dario sighed. ‘The deal is, Modestine and I get married, sealing an alliance in which the Rinaldis promise to use our considerable dragonsport wealth to dig Darling House out of its sinkhole of debt, which Margot and her parents have been hiding from the district for years … and in return, the Darlings promise to use their considerable voting power and social status to advance Rinaldi House into the Greater Circle at the next Silver Assembly. Not my idea of a fun time, but Cosimo’s very ambitious, and my parents have always had their sights set on joining the council. Modestine and I agreed to do it if we could end the marriage afterwards, once the dust settled. Then she could be with Sunny – a much better man than me, but a man from a Lesser House and without the gargantuan Rinaldi fortune to recommend him.’ He heaved another great sigh, hunching in on himself. ‘And I could … be with Gigi. Far away from here.’

The two men were silent for a moment. Dario stared out at the water again, presumably lost in miserable thoughts of his argument with Gigi, while Tobias frantically recalibrated his line of attack.

‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘Fine. If you won’t throw the trials, I’ll expose this … this Silver Assembly scheme to the district! I’ll go back to the wedding and make an announcement right now, so help me—’

‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish,’ Dario spat, whipping round to face him fully. ‘You’re not going to expose anything. I know you, Tobias. You may be a weak, deceitful, conniving scoundrel, but you do love your wife. You’re not about to let the truth about her come to light, are you?’

Tobias scoffed. ‘I’ll simply tell them it was all Rinaldi House’s scheming and Margot had nothing to do with it! I’ll tell them you’ve been cheating on poor Modestine all this time, taking advantage—’

‘I meant the other truth … Mr Clark.’ Tobias visibly paled, and Dario barked out a laugh. ‘We never had a DEAL, you idiot! I was playing with you. Did you really think I was going to let you try to blackmail me without getting my own back? I admit I didn’t exactly figure it out on my own. Had some help from an acquaintance of mine. I believe you know Mr Smithereens?’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, I meant … I believe you are owned by Mr Smithereens. Or at least Clark & Sons Press is.’

Tobias shook his head, not in denial but disbelief. ‘How—’

‘He helped me with a gift for my sister a while back.’ Dario shrugged. ‘We got on rather well; no idea why people hate him so much. I think he wanted me to know what sort of family I was marrying into, because recently he decided to tell me all about your little publishing enterprise. Clark & Sons … home of the famous Silverborn Saga.’

Tobias seemed to sway slightly, looking as if he might be sick.

‘How passionately folks around here despise those books,’ Dario continued, lowering his voice to a gleeful whisper. ‘Though I hear nobody else likes them much these days, either. I suppose people were bound to tire of cheap, tawdry scandal eventually.’

‘Shut up.’ Tobias was visibly shaking, his hands balled into fists.

‘You must regret it? Stepping back from the family business for a chance to marry into the aristocracy, only to watch your younger brothers run it into the ground and sell it off to the first predator that came sniffing around. Does Margot know who owns Clark & Sons now?’

Tobias swallowed and gave a quick, reluctant shake of his head.

‘That’s why you need a big, fast, dodgy windfall,’ Dario surmised. ‘You’re desperate to buy your legacy back from Smithereens & Co. before your wife finds out you’re in business with the most hated man in the Silver District. Is that right?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I could have helped you, Tobias, if you’d only asked. But instead, you threatened me! You threatened my family. You threatened my dragon.’

‘We agreed,’ Tobias said, his voice a desperate whine now. He tried again to shove the green bottle into Dario’s hand, but Dario slapped him away.

‘The game is up. You have nothing on me, and I have EVERYTHING on you.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Just imagine if the district discovers Hillary D’Boer was one of their own all along. And a Darling, no less! What do you think would happen at the Silver Assembly then? Forget about the scandal of the Rinaldis buying our way into the Greater Circle … the Darlings will be lucky if they manage to stay in the Silver District at all.’

‘Shut your mouth, Rinaldi.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Dario said seriously. ‘In fact, I’ll make you a deal after all. You will keep your mouth shut about the Silver Assembly plot. You will leave Gigi and I alone. You will stay far away from the Winter Trials, and in fact from dragonsport altogether, and especially from the Rinaldi dragons.’ He paused to let his words land, looking Tobias directly in the eye. ‘And in return, I won’t tell the entire Silver District that it’s your wife who’s been writing all those hateful, slanderous stories about them for the last fifteen years. Agreed?’

Tobias glared at the other man, trembling with panic and fury, gripping the green glass bottle tight in his fist. He lunged forward without warning, swinging a wild punch at the side of his head, but Dario easily ducked away. Tobias tilted off-balance, lost his footing and fell backwards onto the stone path, and Dario’s ecstatic giggle bounced off the underside of the bridge and the water, sounding like a chorus of birds.

‘I’ll let you get away with that this one time, because I think you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one night.’ He held out his hand to help Tobias up, but the other man pushed him away and scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

Still chuckling, Dario turned to step into the gently rocking boat, just as Tobias spotted something on the ground. It glinted in the moonlight.

Morrigan felt her breath catch in her throat.

She recognised it now, the thing Dario had been playing with. It was the pointed metal tip of the golden dragon boat’s tail. It had broken off during the wedding photos, when Dario and Sunny were fooling around in the boats. She remembered the horrible sound of the metal grinding against the stony underside of the bridge when he sailed too close to the edge of the canal.

And … Oh. She’d seen it since then, hadn’t she? In her grandmother’s study! The letters from Jupiter had so thoroughly distracted her, she’d missed the crucial piece of evidence tucked alongside them, staring her right in the face.

The little rusty golden spear! She hadn’t even questioned why Lady Darling would keep a dirty old thing like that with all her jewels and letters and precious objects. After all, why would the murder weapon be in her grandmother’s safe?

Everything happened quickly.

Without hesitating, Tobias snatched up the sharpened dragon tail. He lunged forward, releasing an unnimalistic cry of rage, and thrust it into Dario’s back – once, twice, three times.

Dario twisted awkwardly as he tried to lash out at his attacker, and fell backwards in what felt like agonising slow-motion, landing at the bottom of the dragon boat, one arm thrown out at an upsetting angle. His face was pure shock and confusion as he gave one last gurgling breath, before the life left his eyes.

Tobias stood staring at Dario’s body – wide-eyed and trembling uncontrollably, covered in his brother-in-law’s blood, his breath coming in heaving, panicked sobs – until the sound of Sunny Ghoshal’s amplified voice jolted him from his stupor.

‘Friends and honoured guests of the bride and groom, we have one last treat for you this evening. The new Mr Dario Darling requests that you leave the Glade and make your way towards Darling Bridge …’

Tobias looked down in horror at his bloody hands – the sharpened dragon tail held in one, and the little green bottle in the other. He shoved both items into his pockets, then picked up the oar and used it to push the boat out, before letting it slip from his hands into the water.

The golden dragon floated tranquilly down the canal, taking Dario Rinaldi on his final flight.

The Guiltghast finally released Tobias, but far too late. His body fell like a sack full of dirt and landed with an awful thud on the tiled floor. Eyes open, he stared up at the ceiling, uncannily echoing Dario’s final repose.

With a primal, wailing scream, Olivia Rinaldi threw herself at her son’s killer, clawing and thrashing with a rage so pitiless, so wild, it could only belong to a grieving mother. It took the combined strength of Vincenzo and Cosimo to carry her from the Receiving Room.

In the wake of the Rinaldis’ departure, there was a strange interval of maybe ten or fifteen seconds in which Morrigan watched as the Silverborn moved from shock and bewilderment, to a building, simmering fury. Dazed silence became the low hum of a beehive, and like an angry swarm, they turned as one towards the target of their rage.

Not Tobias, who’d murdered their beloved shooting star.

Not Morrigan, who’d brought a monster into their once-safe neighbourhood.

‘You,’ Lady Prisha Mahapatra said in a voice thick with disgust, pointing a shaking finger at Aunt Margot. ‘You’re Hillary D’Boer?’

But Margot was still staring at her husband’s body, her eyes glassy and uncomprehending, and she didn’t seem to register the accusation at first.

‘You wrote all those awful things about me … while pretending to be my friend?’ Lady Prisha raised her voice, stalking towards Margot. ‘You comforted me when Priti Pretentious was published! You told me not to worry, that it was just a collection of sordid lies … and all this time, they were YOUR lies!’

Margot blinked, turning so ghostly white she looked almost blue. ‘I … Prisha, I’m so—’

‘Salvador Skinflint?’ shouted a young man from a Lesser House. ‘How dare you accuse me of stinginess!’

‘The newspapers have never stopped calling me Daphne Dreary!’

‘Ursula Uncouth? The only uncouth behaviour I see is yours, you horrid, deceitful—’

‘Friedrich Fraudulent! If you think I won’t sue for defamation, young lady—’

Their anger and condemnation built like a tsunami while Aunt Margot stood in the centre of it all, silently absorbing the overlapping accusations, making no effort to defend herself or explain.

‘It’s not true,’ Aunt Miriam was saying over and over, shaking her head in disbelief, clutching Winifred’s hand tight. ‘It’s not true.’

‘Margot, tell them,’ said Aunt Modestine, grabbing her eldest sister’s shoulders and roughly shaking her. ‘Tell them it’s a mistake, you’re not – you would never …’ She trailed off as tears began to spill down her cheeks. ‘You would never write those things about Meredith. You would never.’

Margot heaved a sudden gasping sob, shaking her head. ‘Modestine, I—’

Her words were lost, instantly silenced by a thick, silvery rope wrapping around her throat and yanking her high into the air.

The Guiltghast wasn’t yet satiated.

Tendrils flew out in every direction like a forest of electrified seaweed, seizing dozens of people all at once, and the Guiltghast became a storm of lights and colours, a cacophony of voices and confessions tumbling into the air, bouncing off the high ceilings in a confusing jumble. It flashed like lightning, like strobe lights, brighter than a hundred Christmas trees.

‘RUN!’ Morrigan shouted at the dumbfounded party guests, all immobilised by their fear. Her friends once again tried to corral people away, but she shouted at them too, pushing Cadence and Jack and Hawthorne towards the exit. ‘Don’t worry about them, just GET OUT OF HERE!’

Morrigan didn’t waste her breath trying to command the Guiltghast to stop. She threw her reach again and again and again, dozens of golden arms snaking out beyond her body, trying to grab the enormous lashing limbs that now buzzed like loose electrical wires, seeking out the monster’s next morsel. Nothing worked; the Guiltghast slipped from her Wundrous grasp over and over before finally zapping her so painfully she felt her skin burn. Shaking it off, she immediately tried again and yelled as she was zapped a second time, then a third.

Meanwhile a relentless showreel of secrets, lies and petty crimes flickered inside the Guiltghast’s body – forgeries and betrayals and torrid affairs and small acts of viciousness all set to a horrendous soundtrack of anguished screams. Some of the Guiltghast’s victims were quickly cast aside and managed to stumble away, their minor misdeeds barely offering a crumb.

Others provided heartier fare, like Lady Fortescue’s serial pilfering of valuable items from every house in the Silver District – a gold ashtray, a bejewelled letter opener, an emerald ring, a diamond-encrusted cat collar. After eating at least thirty of her crimes, the Guiltghast threw the woman on the ground, where she lay frighteningly still.

Next came Lord York, who kicked his hunting dogs until they yelped and mistreated his household staff and set his pet honey badger on his neighbours’ pet peacock, laughing viciously to himself as the blood and feathers flew … and then Lord York himself was thrown across the Receiving Room, where he hit the wall with a sickening crack and slid all the way to the floor, unmoving.

In desperation, Morrigan resorted to her Beauregard House strategy, picking up anything she could find and hurling it at the impervious Guiltghast until – forgetting her reach, forgetting everything Squall had taught her, forgetting even that she was a Wundersmith – she ran headfirst at the monster herself, only to bounce off it and land hard on her back.

Lifting her aching head, Morrigan felt desolation creep in. She tried to stand but her legs felt like sandcastles, ready to crumble.

How could she have been so catastrophically stupid? She’d done exactly what Tobias had accused her of. She’d brought a monster to the Silver District, and it was going to kill them all.

The Guiltghast, finally finished with Aunt Margot, dropped her from a height. Morrigan felt her veins turn to ice. Time slowed to a crawl as she watched her aunt fall, arms and legs flailing, hair whipping around her head.

And then everything was still, and quiet.

The Guiltghast held its final victims aloft, frozen in time. Aunt Margot was suspended barely a metre from the ground, a microsecond from what was sure to be a fatal impact. The air was thick as molasses, a familiar feeling … and for seconds that felt like an eternity, all Morrigan could hear was her own rapid, rasping breaths and the pounding of her blood inside her ears.

Then a golden-white Gossamer bridge appeared from nowhere, building itself brick by brick. Ezra Squall’s brisk footsteps rang out like gunshots in the vast, silent room.

When he reached Morrigan he stared down at her, looking bored and furious.

‘Get up. We don’t have much time.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The Third Disturbance

‘Without embellishment,’ Squall said, watching impassively as Morrigan struggled to her feet, ‘and in as few words as possible … explain.’

‘I don’t—’ She took a trembling breath and swallowed the big, frantic story that wanted to explode from her, distilling it down to its simplest form. ‘I … summoned it here.’

Squall looked highly sceptical of this, but didn’t stop to question it. ‘Why?’

‘They were going to kill it.’

‘They?’

‘Wunsoc.’

He frowned. ‘According to my sources, the Wunsoc plan was to feed it, not to kill it.’

‘Yes,’ Morrigan said impatiently. She began ripping her stupid wings off, feeling suddenly crowded and claustrophobic. ‘But only if the Skyfaced Clocks changed, and my friend is a short-range oracle and she saw that they weren’t changing after all, so the Unresting wouldn’t come, so the Beastly Division was going to switch to Plan B and try to kill it, so I summoned it here … except it was an accident, because I was trying to send myself THERE, because you said that was possible with really big Wundrous Acts and I thought that would be easier than bringing it here—’

‘It certainly would have been easier,’ he agreed, casting a bewildered look at the Guiltghast, as if he still didn’t quite believe what she’d done.

‘—but then it crawled up out of the canal and smashed through the window and it just … it just …’ She trailed off, gesticulating wildly at the scene: all the people held high in the air by long electrified tendrils, hanging limp or writhing in agony. Margot, suspended above the ground. Piles of smashed glass everywhere. And Tobias’s lifeless body, staring into nothing.

Squall pointed at him. ‘Who was that?’

‘The murderer.’ She swallowed, and her throat felt like razorblades. ‘My uncle.’

He looked at her sharply. ‘You’re certain?’

‘We all just watched him do it.’ Morrigan swallowed again, wincing. ‘Live from the Guiltghast’s stomach.’

Squall nodded, pressing his mouth in a line, and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t time to adequately express what a colossally idiotic thing you’ve done, but as you’ve once again invoked Tempus by accident via panic and regret, I daresay you get the picture?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He sighed, then fell silent for several seconds, during which he seemed to be making calculations in his head. ‘Well, you have a decision to make. Option one: we do nothing. Wait for time to begin grinding forward again and let … all this play out as it will.’

All this, Morrigan surmised from the careless flick of his hand towards the Guiltghast, meant the dozens of deaths and injuries that had occurred, were occurring, or were about to occur inside the frozen disaster zone of the Receiving Room.

She shook her head emphatically. Not an option.

Squall began to pace, sparing Tobias’s body a glance as he passed it. ‘I suppose justice has been done for him, at least. Unfortunately, the headlines tomorrow won’t be about a murderer being caught by a clever teenage detective. I imagine they’ll be more focused on the massacre committed by a teenage Wundersmith.’

Morrigan wasn’t sure if she wanted to vomit or cry. ‘What’s option two?’

‘Go back. Make a better choice.’

‘Go back where?’

He checked his wristwatch. ‘What time did you summon the Guiltghast?’

‘Four minutes to midnight.’

‘Precisely?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then that’s where we’re going.’ He began to remove his black leather gloves and held up both hands to face her.

‘Wait, you mean … Tempus?’ She blinked her stinging eyes repeatedly, daring to feel a tiny spark of hope. ‘But last time this happened you said you couldn’t—’

‘I never said I couldn’t,’ he said waspishly. ‘I said I wouldn’t. In that situation, it was neither advisable nor necessary. This situation is entirely different.’ Once again he gestured to indicate the Guiltghast, the bodies, the entire horrifying tableau. ‘And it will only get worse once time begins moving again. While time is stopped, we have a brief window in which going back and making another choice is a much simpler, more straightforward path. The job is already half done. When this window closes, turning back the clock becomes MUCH more difficult, and the ethical consequences exponentially greater.’

‘If I don’t summon the Guiltghast … the Beastly Division will kill it,’ said Morrigan. ‘And nobody will ever see what Tobias did. He’ll just get away with it.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Squall, shrugging lightly. ‘Perhaps if you go back, one guilty person will get away with his crime. But let me be very clear: if you don’t go back, there is not a single guilty person who will leave this room unharmed. I can’t say I’m particularly bothered by the extermination of spoiled aristocrats, but you must realise that once the massacre is over … as the one who brought it about, you will be the guiltiest person left in the room.’

Morrigan felt a chill at those words, but said nothing.

‘You will remember his confession,’ Squall continued, ‘even if nobody else does. You must simply find a way to use the information you learned from it. And as for what the Beastly Division will do … look around you. Have you considered that they may, in fact, have a point? That perhaps killing the Guiltghast is the best—’

‘Is that all being a Wundersmith IS?’ Her raised voice echoed in the vast, silent room. ‘Is it just about killing and … and death? First the Museum of Stolen Moments, then the Hollowpox, now the Guiltghast. Am I just meant to be an exterminator? Because if that’s all this is, you can forget it! I don’t want to be your apprentice anymore. If that’s all this is, I don’t even want to be a WUNDERSMITH.’

Squall was silent for a moment, and she saw him check his watch again, before sighing. ‘I admit, you’ve inherited an impossible task. Learning to be a Wundersmith one hundred years ago, surrounded by other Wundersmiths, in a city that celebrated our existence and applauded our work, was already hard. Learning to be a Wundersmith now, in a city that hates Wundersmiths, a city full of the dying, dangerous, neglected creations of your predecessors …’ He trailed off with a small but careful shrug. ‘You will be faced with many choices like this one, and sometimes the most palatable choice will be destruction, and sometimes that will feel as if you are the thing being destroyed.’

Morrigan felt a terrible weight of foreboding burrowing under her skin, nestling into the spot between her shoulder blades. Before she could respond, Squall went on, smoothly, lowering his voice to a murmur.

‘But I see you, Morrigan Crow. There is black ice at the heart of you. And you will need it for what lies ahead. THIS is the work of being a Wundersmith. Everything else, all the tricks and the artistry …’ He fluttered his hand as if brushing dust away. ‘It’s just window dressing. The truth is, we’ve been treading water these past months. Waiting for the Skyfaced Clocks to change, and for Basking to arrive. Now our real work can begin.’

Morrigan’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘But Basking didn’t come. The Skyfaced Clocks didn’t change.’

‘Well, that’s the curious thing,’ Squall said quietly, glancing around the room. ‘The Skyfaced Clocks did change.’

‘But Lam saw—’ She reached into her pocket for the blackpaper, as if expecting to find she’d somehow misread it. ‘She would never have sent me this if she wasn’t sure.’

‘The Third Disturbance is a Waking Giant.’

‘The third … what?’

‘Basking is heralded by three disturbances,’ Squall explained. ‘The clocks can only change once all three disturbances have occurred, and the third – what clocksmiths call the Waking Giant – is the most important by far. The clocks were waiting for a giant to wake. What your oracle friend saw was true, at the time. It’s a paradox, see? She saw the future, so she sent you the note. And what did you do in response?’

‘I summoned the Guiltghast.’

Squall nodded. ‘Which changed the future.’

The threads were beginning to pull together in Morrigan’s mind, the full picture emerging in a quick, satisfying tapestry.

‘The task force was waiting for the Skyfaced Clocks to change … so that the Unresting would come … so they could wake up the Guiltghast to feed it,’ she said slowly. ‘But the Skyfaced Clocks were waiting for the Guiltghast to wake up BEFORE they could change! And when Lam told me the clocks weren’t changing, I summoned the Guiltghast … which means they did change after all, because they had their Waking Giant!’

‘Precisely.’

‘But it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? If I go back and make a different choice, the clocks won’t change after all.’

‘Yes, they will.’

Morrigan squinted at him, shaking her head like she had water in her ears. ‘But you JUST SAID, the clocks were waiting for a giant to wake up before they could change! If I never SUMMON the Guiltghast, it won’t wake up before midnight, which means no Waking Giant, which means—’

‘I said the summoning of the Guiltghast woke a giant,’ Squall interrupted, and there was the faintest, most minuscule hint of amusement in his black eyes. ‘I didn’t say the Guiltghast IS the giant.’

Morrigan opened her mouth and then closed it again. She was so confused it felt like her brain might explode. Before she could say anything more, however, a sound broke the silence: a single drop of water, falling from the Guiltghast’s tendril and landing on the tiled floor with the tiniest plink.

Morrigan’s stomach felt like a boulder had been rolled into it, but Squall moved immediately into action. He held his hands up once again, palms facing outwards, and she mirrored the gesture.

‘I suggest you close your eyes, Miss Crow.’

As their fingertips met through the Gossamer and the room around them began to swirl into darkness, she felt an immediate wave of nausea and let her eyelids drop.

Spring’s Eve

Winter of Three

‘What? What are you thinking?’

It felt like an eternity had passed, and like no time had passed at all.

‘It’s something stupid. You’ve just had a stupid, dangerous idea.’

Morrigan opened her eyes to find three familiar faces staring back at her, scrunched up with worry or confusion or both.

‘You’re right,’ she told Jack. ‘It was an extremely stupid idea. Louis, Lottie – how long would it take you to get to the Silk from here?’

‘We could do it in one lintel,’ said Louis. ‘The Carringtons are next in the chain, and they live right near the watchhouse.’

‘Good. Go and tell them they have a murderer to arrest at Darling House. No time for questions,’ she said, holding up a hand as Lottie took in a sharp breath. ‘Just hurry. Please.’

As the twins disappeared down the hall, Morrigan turned back to Jack. ‘I need you to bring my grandmother to the Receiving Room as quickly as possible – but be careful. She’s been unwell. Her bedroom is in the east wing, just—’

‘I’ll find it,’ Jack told her, lifting his eye patch onto his forehead as he took off at a sprint. Morrigan crossed her fingers, hoping the antidote Francis picked up from Eldritch Murdergarden had done its job.

She ripped her wings off (again) and began to pace the width of the hall, thinking about something Squall had said.

You will remember his confession, even if nobody else does.

You must simply find a way to use the information you learned from it.

What had she learned from Tobias’s reluctant confession that they hadn’t known before? What missing element did she see in the Guiltghast?

The memory of it hit her just as the Receiving Room doors swung open and Arch appeared right on cue, wide-eyed and breathless.

‘Morrigan! You need to—’

‘I need you to steal something!’ she shouted, grinning triumphantly at her quick-fingered friend. ‘Do you know how to crack a safe?’

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Two Wolves

Spring of Four

‘We were seduced! Seduced by the glamour of having our very own Wundersmith again, right here in the Silver District!’

Morrigan flicked all the switches on the wall as she burst back into the Receiving Room, flooding the huge space with light again. She threw her reach into the centre of the floor, where Tobias was holding court, and doused the golden glow of the dragon boat. It disappeared instantly, leaving only a trickle of embers floating towards the ceiling. (If this murderous liar wanted to put on a show, she wasn’t about to let him use her dramatic lighting.)

‘STOP TALKING,’ Cadence ordered, but once again her voice was lost in the din.

‘Morrigan Crow was never really one of us, though, was she?’ Tobias bellowed, waving up at the banner. Morrigan cast her reach out once again, snatched down the black silk and let it float to the ground, just for the pleasure of hearing the room gasp.

‘No,’ she agreed, stepping into the circular clearing to face her uncle. ‘I never was. Glad we sorted that out.’

‘Now she dares to accuse her own aunt!’ Tobias valiantly ploughed on, raising his voice above hers as he continued his oration. ‘The aunt who took her in and gave—’

He was silenced by the black silk banner tightly wrapping around him like an enormous ribbon, from just below his elbows all the way to his mouth.

‘You’re right, I was wrong to accuse Aunt Margot,’ Morrigan announced, without missing a beat. ‘So let’s talk about you, Tobias. Specifically about how you were covered in blood after you killed Dario. After you stabbed him in the back three times …’ – she paused just long enough to see the satisfying fear in Tobias’s eyes; he hadn’t expected her to know that detail – ‘… you were drenched in his blood. All over your hands, all over your suit.’

Cadence sidled close to her, whispering, ‘Um, hi. What are you talking about?’

‘Play along; I’ll explain later,’ she whispered back.

Tobias objected to this in a passionate but incoherent stream of muffled words. At a pointed look from Cadence, Morrigan sighed and unravelled the black silk with a flick of her reach, to just below his chin. (She supposed Inspector Gravely would have allowed her suspects to object.)

‘—libellous, unfounded NONSENSE!’ Tobias finished in a splutter, turning to appeal to his wife. ‘Margot, you saw me at the fireworks! Did it look like I was covered in blood?’

Margot’s forehead creased in a frown. She began to say something, then bit her lip, as if trying to remember.

‘Of course you weren’t,’ Morrigan went on. ‘Because you’d gone back to Darling House to clean up and change your suit by then.’

Tobias scoffed. ‘This is another fascinating fairy tale you’ve concocted, Morrigan, but there’s a problem with your little scenario – how did I manage to murder Dario, then cross Darling Bridge to go home and change my clothes, somehow getting past the crowd of our friends and neighbours gathering to watch the fireworks … without anyone noticing that I was covered in blood?’ He gave a strained, angry laugh, looking around the room for support.

There was an uneasy titter from the guests.

‘Because you didn’t go home via the bridge,’ said Morrigan. ‘You arrived in a wooden kayak when you murdered Dario. After you killed him, you paddled around to the other side of Darling House and crept inside to change your clothes. After that, it would have been easy to slip into the crowd on Darling Bridge and pretend you’d been there all along.’

‘I WAS there all along! I was with my wife.’ He looked to Margot again for corroboration. ‘Tell them, darling!’

But Margot said nothing. She was looking anywhere but at her husband’s face.

‘Only for the last bit,’ Winifred piped up, frowning.

‘Oh, how would you know?’ Tobias snapped at her.

‘Because Miriam, Modestine and I were with Margot the whole time,’ she snapped back. ‘The four of us walked over together from the Glade.’

‘That’s right,’ Miriam said quietly. ‘You didn’t come with us. I turned around at one point and you were there, standing behind Margot … but that was right at the end. Just before … just before Dario’s boat …’

Tobias rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Miriam, I was late because I was checking on your unwell mother, if you recall? She had a headache, and Margot was busy rounding everyone up for the cake-cutting, so I was doing—’

‘Son-in-law duty, yeah,’ Morrigan cut in. ‘Very good of you. It’s true that you went to see my grandmother – one of the maids saw you leaving her room. But I don’t think you were helping her. I think you were doing the opposite. I think …’ She considered for a moment, imagining the scene in her head. This was the part, she realised, where the detective had to wade into unknown territory. To throw out some educated guesses on a fishing line and see what she could catch. She looked at Cadence, who gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Lady Darling saw you, didn’t she? You’d rushed back to Darling House, covered in Dario’s blood, in shock at what you’d done … and she saw you before you’d had a chance to get changed.’ Morrigan frowned, unsure how to proceed.

‘You went to her for help, didn’t you?’ Cadence stepped up beside her, adopting the familiar detective’s stance. Morrigan shot her a quick, grateful smile, relieved the professional was here. ‘You were so upset and panicked that you went to see Lady Darling, and confessed everything, hoping she’d help you cover up your crime. But it didn’t quite go the way you’d hoped, did it Tobias? Did she threaten to tell the police? To tell your wife?’

It was all conjecture, Morrigan knew. But it didn’t much matter if they were guessing, because she knew for certain what happened afterwards, and everything else was just a stick to poke the bear.

‘This is preposterous,’ spat Tobias. ‘Who are you and how did you—’

‘You had to shut her up, didn’t you?’ Cadence went on.

‘You were the son Lady Darling never had,’ Morrigan added, remembering how her aunts had said Tobias was the favourite. ‘You were a Darling, and you’d given up so much to become one. Your family business … even your own name. You thought that meant something. You thought being a Darling meant you were protected. That being Silverborn’ – a wave of scandalised whispers erupted, and Morrigan had to fight the urge to roll her eyes – ‘meant being shielded from consequence. But you’re not really Silverborn, Tobias, are you? Silvermarried doesn’t count, does it? You learned that, when you realised your mother-in-law wasn’t going to cover up your crimes. It never mattered what you gave up, how much you dressed and talked and acted like them. Lady Darling was never going to forget where you came from.

‘And that’s why you’ve been poisoning her all these months,’ she finished, to looks of horror from all four of her aunts.

‘P-poison?’ Tobias choked out an unconvincing laugh. ‘How dare you accuse me of something so outrageous! Margot, you can’t think that I would ever—’

‘Not exactly poison, you’re right,’ Morrigan continued, taking the little green bottle from Cadence. ‘It’s an unnimal sedative from Eldritch Murdergarden – just one dose, but they sell them by the dozen. The same sedative Cosimo Rinaldi fed to his dragon.’ She tossed the bottle lightly to Miriam, who caught it with ease. ‘Read the warning label on the back, Aunt Miriam. Do those side effects sound familiar? Agitation, memory loss, confusion, disorientation. Doesn’t it sound exactly like your mother’s symptoms? Hasn’t she been deteriorating at a rate of knots, ever since the wedding? You thought it was the shock and stress of Dario’s death. But it was much more sinister than that, wasn’t it, Tobias? You still had it in your pocket after the murder … it must have been easy to slip that first drop into Lady Darling’s tea. Just enough to shut her up.’

Miriam and Winifred squinted down at the fine print on the bottle. Tobias was gazing pleadingly at his wife, but Aunt Margot’s face was cold and unyielding.

‘It’s Tobias who’s been blackmailing you, Cosimo,’ said Morrigan, watching as Cosimo’s look of confusion turned to fury. ‘But only after he tried, and failed, to blackmail your brother.’

‘He tried to blackmail Dario?’ said Modestine. ‘I don’t understand, what could Dario possibly—’

‘Tobias threatened to tell you about Gigi,’ Morrigan said simply.

Modestine’s eyes widened as she looked at Sunny Ghoshal, who was hovering protectively nearby as always. Confused murmurs rippled through the room, but Morrigan didn’t need to elaborate. Her aunts all knew exactly what she meant, and why Tobias’s threat would never have worked. She could say it out loud right now, reveal the Darling–Rinaldi sham marriage and Silver Assembly plot to the entire district. Perhaps she ought to.

‘Alights on the Water was such a sure bet to top the leaderboard,’ Morrigan continued, ‘that anyone who bet against her would stand to make a fortune if she lost. And you needed money, lots of it, to try to buy back your family business from the Vulture.’ She paused for a moment to untangle what she knew, trying to fill in the gaps. ‘I wonder why you didn’t simply ask your wife for money? Was it because you knew that, despite appearances, Darling House didn’t have any?’

Whispers spread through the room as the Silverborn reacted to this most scandalous news. Morrigan looked over in time to see Aunt Modestine and Aunt Miriam exchange covert, anxious glances. But it was Aunt Margot’s reaction she was most interested in.

‘You sold it … to the Vulture?’ she asked Tobias in a horrified whisper. ‘You sold that wretched man everything we – everything I—’ Margot choked out a bitter, hysterical laugh. ‘You just … handed him all the ammunition he needs to ruin me? To ruin my family, like he’s always wanted?’

‘My BROTHERS sold it, Margot! You of all people must realise I had no legal say in that decision, since I was forced to leave the business when I married you. But I was trying to get it back from the Vulture. I was trying to protect you—’

‘By blackmailing Dario?’

Tobias was sweating now, shaking his head over and over. ‘I – that’s not—’

‘Yes, by blackmailing Dario,’ Morrigan confirmed on his behalf. ‘But you made a mistake, Tobias – a mistake you fixed with Cosimo by keeping your threats anonymous. Since Dario knew exactly who was blackmailing him, it gave him the chance to turn the tables on you. He pretended to go along with your plan just long enough to do some digging of his own. To discover your worst secret. And your wife’s.’ She locked eyes with Aunt Margot, who was as white and still as porcelain. ‘Don’t we all need a creative outlet?’

Time seemed to slow as Morrigan and her aunt regarded each other, and she knew they were wondering the same thing.

Would she do it? Would Morrigan reveal the true identity of Hillary D’Boer to the entire Silver District?

Could she really throw her aunt to the wolves?

‘When you realised what you’d done,’ she went on, returning her attention to Tobias, ‘that in trying to protect your wife, you’d somehow made things even more precarious for her … you panicked. And you murdered Dario rather than risk him exposing the truth.’

‘What evidence do you have, you ridiculous child? A bottle you could have picked up from anywhere? Where’s this alleged blood-soaked suit, hmm? It doesn’t exist!’ Tobias was all bluster and bravado, but Morrigan could see his lip quivering, and he kept shooting nervous glances at his wife. ‘Margot, it isn’t true. You can’t possibly trust her, she’s a Wundersmith!’ The black silk banner had unravelled and fallen to the floor by now, and he lunged for Margot desperately, grasping her arms and shaking them as if trying to shake out a reaction. ‘Darling, she’s a LIAR, just like her lying, traitorous mother. It’s Meredith wretched Malcontent all over—’

With a guttural, anguished, wordless cry, Aunt Margot wrenched out of her husband’s grip and pushed him so violently away that he landed metres from her on the floor, cowering in shock.

‘Don’t ever speak my sister’s name again.’

She spoke in a hoarse whisper, but somehow every word was a thunderclap.

In the ringing silence that followed, Louis and Lottie ran breathlessly into the Receiving Room, bringing with them two plum-coated officers of the Silk.

‘Arrest this man, Sergeant Stokes,’ said Morrigan, pointing at Tobias.

The officers looked at each other uncertainly, as if waiting to be told this was all a joke. ‘Er … what for?’

‘The murder of Dario Rinaldi.’

Tobias laughed unconvincingly, sweat now dripping down his red, blotchy face. ‘Do you really think that’s how this works, Morrigan? I’m afraid you can’t just make up stories and expect the police to follow your orders. You can’t prove a single word of these wild accusations!’

‘No, I can’t,’ Morrigan admitted. ‘But she can.’

Following behind Louis, Lottie and the Silk, another group entered at a much gentler pace. Jack and Francis each held one of Lady Darling’s arms as she tottered along slowly, and Arch and Anah both hovered close by.

Lady Darling still looked frail and weak, but her glassy, confused expression was gone, and the moment she spotted Tobias her eyes sharpened.

‘Show them, boy,’ she ordered croakily, waving Arch towards the police officers.

Arch held out a white linen napkin, unwrapping it carefully to reveal the golden dragon tail. The point of its blade glittered in the light, though most of it was crusted over – not with dirt and rust, Morrigan now realised, but dried blood.

‘Do be careful with that, Sergeant,’ said Lady Darling. ‘You’ll want to preserve his bloody fingerprints.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

From the District to the Deucalion

They didn’t celebrate Morrigan’s birthday at the Hotel Deucalion the next day, nor the one after. There were too many police interviews and serious conversations to be had. Too much sleep to catch up on. Too many surprise visitors to see. (Well, three.)

Louis and Lottie St James appeared on the first night of Basking. They’d snuck out via the lintel chain and taken the Wunderground (for the first time ever) all the way to Humdinger Avenue, just to deliver the freshest Silverborn scandal.

‘Guess where Gigi Grand has been this WHOLE TIME?’ shrieked an overexcited Lottie, bouncing up and down on Morrigan’s bed (which promptly and obligingly turned into a jumping castle). ‘LOCKED INSIDE DEVEREAUX HOUSE! Like a TRAGIC PRISONER!’

‘What?!’

‘Mmm. Apparently Noelle went to see the Silk in the middle of the night, because—’

‘I’M telling it, Louis!’ Lottie said, throwing a cushion at her brother. ‘Noelle went to the Silk and told them her parents have had Gigi locked up in her old bedroom for MONTHS and they’d forbidden Noelle to tell ANYBODY and the Silk had to come and BREAK HER OUT!’

In her mind, Morrigan instantly saw Noelle’s pale, frightened face when they met outside the Silver District Watchhouse. That’s why she’d looked so terrified. Because she was doing something incredibly brave: defying her parents to rescue her sister. Morrigan felt the sting of regret, wishing she’d followed the horrid, brave little rat into the station and offered to help her.

‘Gigi secretly went to visit Noelle on the night of the wedding and fell asleep,’ Lottie went on, ‘and the next morning when Lady Devereaux heard the news about Dario, she ran in to tell Noelle and found Gigi there with her, and when Gigi found out Dario had been murdered she was HYSTERICAL and told her parents she loved Dario and they were planning to run away together in the spring and when she tried to leave and see if he really was dead, Lord and Lady Psychopath LOCKED HER UP because they were scared she’d bring even MORE scandal on their house if anyone found out she’d been having an affair with Dario, especially when they were already worried about the Silver Assembly … but now they might be charged with KIDNAPPING!’

Eyes wild, lungs heaving like a marathon runner, Lottie took a minute to catch her breath while Morrigan tried to process the news. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Our cousin Penny,’ the twins said in unison.

‘Of course. And did Gigi … tell her parents anything else? About Dario or … Modestine?’

‘Like what?’ asked Louis.

Morrigan blinked. ‘Um, nothing.’

Gigi must have kept the Darling–Rinaldi marriage plot a secret from her parents. Even though surely it would have given them enough ammunition to protect their own position at the Silver Assembly, and maybe that would have convinced them to let Gigi go. She’d been missing all this time because she was protecting her friend.

The daughters of Devereaux House had both been quite brave.

‘You know,’ said Morrigan, chewing thoughtfully on her lip, ‘I think you two should consider inviting Noelle to the Lintel-hoppers Club.’

Morrigan’s third surprise visitor arrived the following morning. Margot Darling was escorted by Fenestra to Jupiter’s study, which he’d graciously agreed to vacate for the purpose of their meeting (after making it loudly and repeatedly clear that he’d be just down the hall). Fenestra had agreed to no such thing, but eventually took Morrigan’s many hints and departed (after staring dead-eyed at Lady Margot while slowly pawing her handbag off the side table and onto the floor).

‘How did you know I was Hillary D’Boer? It was awfully clever of you.’

Morrigan wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting Aunt Margot to start with, but it wasn’t that. ‘I didn’t. My friend Cadence figured out your anagram. Lady Horrible.’

She explained briefly what she’d seen in her mother’s bedroom in the ghostly hour (being purposefully vague about how it was created, of course).

‘Of all the scenes from our childhood you might have witnessed,’ Aunt Margot said, shaking her head ruefully. ‘I truly hate to think you’d judge either of us from what you saw in there. Certainly not my finest moment, but even your mother … Oh, Morrigan. She was so much more than some silly fight we once had.’

‘It didn’t seem like a silly fight to me,’ Morrigan said, scowling. ‘You hit her.’

‘Yes, I was horrible. She was right to call me that. Unfortunately, Meredith saw the very worst and the very best of me … and vice-versa, I might add. We were best friends and co-conspirators, but we were also mortal enemies. Often on the same day. I’m afraid that’s what having sisters is like, sometimes. I’ve also never laughed with anyone the way I used to laugh with Meredith. When she left, I wasn’t sure I’d ever have fun again.

‘I admit things did occasionally get a little strained between us, after my debut.’ Margot fiddled with one of her gloves, looking away. ‘When I came of age, our parents laid everything on my shoulders quite suddenly. The Darlings had once been a big family, but various deaths and ill-advised marriages meant our numbers had dwindled so dramatically that by the time I debuted, my parents and I were the only names left on the family plaque. I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but for a Greater House in the Silver District, it’s a dangerous position to be in.’ She sighed, and her cheeks turned faintly pink with embarrassment. ‘We were also … heavily in debt. It was a tightrope walk just to keep our family afloat.

‘I realised very quickly how precarious our family’s situation was, and how important it would be for my sisters and me to make smart, strategic decisions when it came to marriage and children and making alliances with other houses. I didn’t want to be thinking about things like that at fifteen.’

‘But you didn’t make a smart, strategic marriage,’ Morrigan pointed out. ‘You married someone from outside the Silver District, without any money.’ She refrained from saying, you married a murderer since, technically, Tobias hadn’t been a murderer when she married him.

‘Yes. Tobias Clark was my one rebellion. And now, of course, my greatest regret.’ Her face was grey with misery. ‘Morrigan … I want you to know that I didn’t write that awful book about your mother.’

Morrigan raised her eyebrows dubiously, but said nothing.

‘You were right about everything else,’ Aunt Margot rushed onwards. ‘I am … I was Hillary D’Boer. I started writing silly little stories when I was a teenager, about all the worst and most ridiculous people I knew. I wrote them for your mother, to make her laugh. Meredith sent one of my earlier efforts to an editor at the Looking Glass and they published it anonymously. It caused a dreadful stir in the district, which of course Merry adored.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I stopped writing after she left us, because … well, there didn’t seem much point if it wasn’t for her.’

She paused to swallow. ‘But then … everything began crashing down. The newspapers were suddenly publishing the most awful stories about my sister, saying the most abominable things. Everyone turned against her, against us. The Devereaux led open warfare, campaigning to get us voted out of the Greater Circle. They’d always been jealous of our family’s influence, and the scandal of Meredith’s treason was a perfect opportunity to drag Darling House through the muck. My parents only just managed to pull us through to the other side—’

‘By publicly denouncing my mother as a traitor,’ Morrigan interrupted flatly. ‘By abandoning and betraying their daughter.’

Aunt Margot’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, bringing herself under control. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you do anything to stop them?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I was too frightened. Too small and selfish. I took the coward’s way out and vented my anger by picking up my pen again. I took my revenge on the page. If Meredith’s mistakes could be splashed all over the papers for people’s entertainment, then so would everybody else’s. The newspapers lapped them up, and then a young man from a small publishing company called Clark & Sons approached me through the Looking Glass, offering to turn my anonymous little tales into real books, and well … the rest is history.

‘My royalties from the Silverborn Saga helped keep Darling House afloat, and my family never seemed to question where the money came from, so I just kept going. What had started as an outlet for my rage became my greatest source of pleasure. Together, Tobias and I built an empire on scandal and secrets. I was finally having fun again. Until I wasn’t.

‘The last book I wrote in the series was Gigi Grand. It was … crueller than the others. I got carried away trying to pay back Devereaux House – taking the embarrassment of their own daughter’s misdeeds and shining the brightest possible spotlight on it.’ Margot laughed then – if you could call it a laugh, that mean little expulsion of air through the nostrils. ‘I remember the day it came out, I stood in front of a bookshop window, watching people line up to buy it. I thought I’d feel euphoric.’

‘And did you?’ asked Morrigan.

‘No. I felt the way I’d always felt. Frightened and small and selfish. I’d done to Georgette exactly what had been done to Meredith, and I hated myself for it.’ She was silent for a moment, staring at a spot on the carpet. ‘That was the day I told Tobias the Silverborn Saga was over. On paper, he’d left Clark & Sons years earlier – once we were married, I didn’t want to risk any official legal trail exposing my connection to the series. But unofficially he was still Hillary D’Boer’s only point of contact with the company, since his brothers never knew who the real D’Boer was. I’d always insisted on remaining a mystery, even to them.

‘That made it easier for Tobias to become Hillary himself.’

Morrigan blinked. ‘Tobias—’

‘Wrote the last few woeful, mean-spirited, unfunny Silverborn Saga books, yes,’ Aunt Margot confirmed, her nose wrinkling in distaste. ‘His brothers refused to accept D’Boer’s resignation. The Silverborn Saga was Clark & Sons’ big money tree, and they weren’t about to cut it down. Tobias begged me to keep writing, and when I made it clear I wouldn’t, he buckled under pressure from his brothers. He pretended Hillary D’Boer had had a change of heart and churned out five new volumes in quick succession.’ She sniffed. ‘The nosedive books, I believe my readers call them.’

‘Including Madeleine Malcontent?’

Aunt Margot nodded, and her expression twisted into something dark and bitter. ‘His brothers’ idea, apparently. One final, desperate effort to rescue a dying franchise by publishing the biggest Silver District scandal in history – the story Hillary D’Boer had always refused to tell. I couldn’t forgive Tobias for that. I should have ended our marriage on the spot, but by then I was already setting my plans in motion for the next Silver Assembly, and I couldn’t risk the slightest whiff of gossip or disgrace coming near Darling House.’ She gave a low, humourless chuckle. ‘If I’d known my husband was going to become a murderer, I rather think I’d have settled for the embarrassment of a divorce.’

Morrigan took a deep breath, noticing the surge of relief she felt. For all the Darlings’ lies and misdeeds, for all that they’d ignored her for years and tried to use her for their own gain … she still felt unspeakably glad to know that Aunt Margot wasn’t the author of Madeleine Malcontent after all. That this betrayal, at least, could be crossed off her list of grievances against Darling House.

‘What’s going to happen at the Silver Assembly now?’ she asked. ‘Darling House has a murderer, but Devereaux House has a pair of kidnappers. Maybe you’ll both get voted out?’

Aunt Margot winced at her bluntness. ‘I suppose we’ll find out next week.’

‘I read the letters Jupiter wrote to Lady Darling, you know,’ Morrigan told her, before she lost her nerve. ‘And the one he wrote to you. And I’ve filled in the blanks. I know you only wanted me at Darling House because I’m a Wundersmith. You thought it would help you at the Silver Assembly, didn’t you?’

Margot at least had the decency to look ashamed. ‘I hoped it would. But Morrigan, that wasn’t the only reason. I’ve been trying for years to convince my mother to bring you here. I never told anybody this, but … once, I even made plans to bring you home to Nevermoor behind her back.’

‘Really?’ Morrigan didn’t even try to hide her scepticism.

‘Does the name Ardith Asher mean anything to you?’

Morrigan frowned. She did know that name. How did she know that name? Why did it make her think instantly of Jackalfax?

‘She was one of your mother’s school friends,’ Aunt Margot went on. ‘We all attended Devereaux Ladies’ College. Ari came from outside the Silver District, on a merit scholarship. She became a history teacher at Dev, and now she’s the deputy headmistress.’

‘Mrs Ardith Asher of Devereaux Ladies’ College wishes to present her bid …’ Morrigan murmured. The memory had sunk to the deepest part of her mind and been buried there, like a skeleton beneath the murky bed of the River Juro, but now it emerged perfectly intact. A pink, sweet-smelling envelope with her name on it, torn into pieces by her father and falling to the ground like confetti. ‘I thought that was a joke.’

‘Not at all. Mrs Asher doesn’t like me very much, but when I told her Merry had left a child in the Wintersea Republic who was nearing school age, she agreed to bid on you. Dev Ladies’ is a Silver District institution; I thought if they laid claim to you and brought you to Nevermoor, Mama would have no choice but to accept you into our family. But Mrs Asher told me she was outbid, despite her best efforts.’ Aunt Margot pursed her lips, looking as if she remained unconvinced by Mrs Asher’s efforts.

Morrigan experienced a strange flash of something that was not quite déjà vu, but more like a brief glimpse of another life she might have had. She was imagining, for the first time ever, what might have happened if things had gone slightly differently on Bid Day. If Corvus hadn’t torn up her bids. If the Skyfaced Clocks hadn’t changed.

‘Morrigan, my mother is a difficult, stubborn woman,’ said her aunt. ‘But you must understand, losing Meredith, and then my father so soon afterwards … it broke something in her forever. I don’t expect you to forgive her, but—’

‘That’s good,’ Morrigan interrupted. ‘Because I don’t need a grandmother who doesn’t want me. I already have a family.’

Aunt Margot gave her a small, unconvincing smile. ‘I’m sure the Crows are—’

‘Ew,’ said Morrigan. ‘Not the Crows. I meant Jupiter and Fen and Jack and everyone at the Deucalion. My siblings in Unit 919. I have people who care about me, and not just because I’m a Wundersmith. You can tell your mother I said thanks. If she hadn’t failed to have the smallest scrap of interest in me, I might never have found my real family.’

Aunt Margot’s chin wobbled slightly, but she smiled through unshed tears.

‘You have no reason to believe me, Morrigan, but I truly am happy to see the life you’ve made for yourself,’ she said, glancing around the room at the photos plastering Jupiter’s study walls. ‘I hope one day you might allow me to be a part of it again.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Obviously

Frank meant well. He’d wanted to welcome Morrigan home to the Deucalion in the best and only way he knew how. Guessing (correctly) that she was by now sick of string quartets, orchestras and brass bands, he’d opted to give Charlie a record player and several boxes of vinyl and put him in charge of the party music. Instead of tiny fancy canapés and crystal goblets, he’d plugged in a bunch of old fairground machines to make snow cones and popcorn and put Martha and Kedgeree on barbecue duty, churning out semi-burned hotdogs and greasy burgers. There was absolutely no dress code, and the guest list was limited to Unit 919 and their families, Miss Cheery and her girlfriend, Roshni, plus all the usual suspects at the Hotel Deucalion.

Of course, Frank couldn’t resist decking out the rooftop with colourful festoon lights, dodgem cars and an impressive collection of noisy, flashing arcade games. But there was no chocolate fountain or fondue volcano. No trapeze artists, no line-dancing elephants. No fifty-person choir singing Happy Birthday. No skywriting plane to scrawl ‘MORRIGAN IS FOURTEEN’ across the sky.

Morrigan was impressed; she’d never known Nevermoor’s pre-eminent party planner to show such restraint. She knew it was probably at Jupiter’s insistence and that it was undoubtedly killing Frank … and she appreciated it, she really did.

But even so, she was on the lookout all night for a moment when she could escape – just for a bit – for a few minutes of quiet. And the second that moment arrived (when Hawthorne accidentally drove his dodgem car off the track and crashed into an arcade game), Morrigan grasped it. In the mess of shouting and hysterical laughter, she slipped downstairs to find refuge on an empty moonlit balcony overlooking the Palm Courtyard. Collapsing gratefully onto a sunlounger, she gazed up at a clear sky full of stars.

Three days had passed since Spring’s Eve and, until today, she’d been almost too wrung out to think a full, coherent thought. It had been blissfully mind-numbing to be so empty of murder and dragons and letters and monsters and endless, spiralling worries.

But tonight, her head was filled with THINGS again, and the biggest thing of all was that she had to tell Jupiter about Squall, and she had to do it now.

Don’t ruin the party, said a little voice, buzzing like a mosquito in her mind. You can tell him tomorrow. You’ve waited this long, what’s one more—

The annoying little voice was interrupted by the balcony doors opening and, as if summoned by her thoughts, Jupiter appeared in the bright bluish moonlight.

‘Oh, hello!’ he said with a look of mild surprise. ‘Mind if I join you? It all got a bit much for me up there.’

Morrigan looked up from her sunlounger, raising an eyebrow. It was an unconvincing line from Nevermoor’s biggest party-loving extrovert. ‘Really?’

‘No,’ he admitted, smiling as he stretched out on the lounger next to hers. ‘I was looking for you. Thought you’d be in the Smoking Parlour, to be honest.’

‘I think it’s in one of its experimental moods. So far today it’s done Water From a Garden Hose in Summer, New Box of Sticking Plasters and Uncooked Rice.’

‘Uncooked? Interesting.’

Jupiter crossed his ankles and clasped his hands behind his head. Morrigan did the same, and they sat like that for several silent minutes, staring up at the moon.

‘I meant to tell you, your friend Lam was quite marvellous on Spring’s Eve,’ he said finally. ‘Very calm under pressure. She seemed convinced the clocks weren’t going to change, at first. But sure enough, just before midnight the Unresting showed up in full horrible force, and she leapt into action.’

‘Wait.’ Morrigan sat halfway up, leaning on her elbows. ‘You mean Plan A worked? The Guiltghast got fed?’

‘Mmm, ultimately, the whole thing went off without a hitch. I found it quite terrifying, frankly, but Lam was like a traffic conductor. “This way please, straight ahead to the Guiltghast, enjoy your oblivion.” I think Conall’s already planning to poach her for an apprenticeship in the Wundrous Supernatural League.’

Morrigan lay back down again, limp with relief. She and Squall hadn’t sent the Guiltghast back in time to its doom, after all.

She took a deep, cleansing breath of cool night air.

‘I’m ready to tell you the thing now.’

‘I know. That’s why I came looking for you.’

‘You’re going to hate it.’

‘I know.’

She looked over at him, but his eyes remained skyward. ‘No, Jupiter, listen to me. You’re really going to hate it. I need you to understand that.’

‘I know.’ He sighed, then finally turned his face towards her. ‘And I need you to understand that whatever it is … however much I hate it … it could never make me hate you.’

‘You might want to wait until you’ve heard—’

‘The dealbreaker doesn’t exist, Mog,’ he said calmly. ‘Take a moment to believe that.’

She took a moment to believe it. Then she took another breath. Then she told him everything.

Morrigan had imagined this conversation a million times, seen it play over and over in her mind – how Jupiter’s face would broadcast his every thought and feeling, how he’d groan and pace and interrupt and shout and ask why, and how could you? How she’d be constantly on the backfoot, apologising and defending herself and eventually shouting back at him because hadn’t he lied to her, too? Hadn’t they lied to each other?

But none of those things happened. He was quiet through the whole story and his face betrayed nothing. Morrigan was glad she’d had the practice run of telling Jack, and although that had been at least a hundred times easier, this time she felt she did a better job, even if she jumped confusingly around in the timeline. She knew the things that Jupiter would care about most, and she emphasised them: that Squall hadn’t tricked her, and that he hadn’t made his cure for the Wunimals contingent on her signing the contract. She was honest about everything, even – especially – the real reason she had ultimately agreed to the apprenticeship. She described how it had felt to wield the power of a real Wundersmith in the teaching hospital that night. How her brief proximity to that gift had finally made her understand how far she was from possessing it.

She tried to explain that learning only from the ghostly hours – from dead Wundersmiths – wasn’t enough. That it was never going to be enough, and she could see the danger waiting for her down the safe path, even if nobody else could. Wunder would continue to swarm to her even if she lacked the skill to control it.

It was only when she told him about the Hush that Morrigan saw something flicker in Jupiter’s face. He crossed to the other side of the balcony and leaned back against the cement balustrade, arms folded, looking thoughtful.

‘Usually when people are hiding something, I see it in a handful of predictable ways – a big wall around them, or the smudge of a lie on their face, or a thick white fog I can’t see through. But after that night you cured the Wunimals, you were a sort of … house of mirrors. Instead of what I might usually see when I look at you – the little worries that flit around you like moths, or the remnants of a dream trailing away in the morning, or the bright green flicker of some new idea – I was just seeing my own things, reflected back to me. It seemed almost normal, just … distorted. And I was sure I’d seen something like it a long time ago, but I couldn’t think where. I talked to Fen about it and we both remembered what it was like when Jack become a teenager, how suddenly he felt like a closed book, and it took a long time to creak that book open again … and I thought that must be why it was familiar. But I don’t think that was it at all. I think …’ Jupiter hesitated, staring at the ground, before eventually he seemed to change his mind. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard of this Hush. But I don’t like it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Morrigan. ‘It’s gone now.’

Jupiter gave a sort of agitated nod, chewing on the side of his mouth as if he was trying not to say all the things he wanted to say.

‘You could have got there without his help,’ he said finally.

‘I don’t think I could have.’

‘We might have found a way.’

Morrigan made a sceptical noise. ‘You don’t really believe that.’

He didn’t respond, which was her confirmation.

‘I want to see him,’ Jupiter said. ‘Squall. I want to meet with him.’

‘I’m … not sure if he’ll agree to that.’

‘And if I was seeking his agreement, that might be a problem.’ He looked at her flatly. ‘The next time he sends the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow for you, I’m coming too.’

What an unfathomably terrible idea, Morrigan thought.

But she nodded and said, ‘Okay.’

They settled into a slightly less comfortable silence for some time, until Morrigan remembered something important. ‘Jack told me about his mum and dad.’

‘Did he?’ Jupiter glanced over in vague surprise. ‘Good. About time. He’s a well of secrets, that boy.’

Morrigan felt a stab of guilt as she thought of Jack’s biggest secret of all, and how it was her secret now, too. At least she had a couple of years to talk him out of his plan, she supposed. Another problem for future Morrigan.

‘I’m sorry about your sister. About Rosamund.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t know … All those trips away from the Deucalion, going off-realm all the time … I didn’t realise—’

‘Of course not, Mog. How could you?’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, though. It’s my job.’

‘Do you think they’re still …’ Morrigan hesitated, suddenly unsure how to finish that question. ‘I mean, do you have any idea what could have happened to them?’

‘Many ideas.’

Jupiter’s darkened gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance. Morrigan waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. They were quiet for a bit, each occupied by their own thoughts, until he spoke again.

‘I’m glad Jack is confiding in you.’ Pushing away from the balustrade, Jupiter returned to the lounger beside hers, stretching out his long legs again. ‘You have so many brothers and sisters, but he only has one.’

Morrigan peeked sideways at him. ‘Speaking of which. There’s something I’ve been wondering about.’

‘Mmm?’

‘If … Jack’s mum is in your unit,’ she began haltingly, ‘and that makes her your sister, which makes you Jack’s uncle … and Bertram is my uncle, and he’s your brother … then doesn’t that—’ She paused, suddenly feeling shy. ‘Doesn’t that make you … sort of my uncle, too? A bit?’

Morrigan glanced away, feeling her face glow with embarrassment. She felt, inexplicably, as if she was asking for something she had no right to, something that didn’t belong to her.

But Jupiter simply nodded and said quietly, ‘Of course it does, Mog. In a … sideways sort of fashion.’ He smiled. ‘Uncle-adjacent, at the very least. Definitely.’

‘But you never said – you never told me to call you—’

‘I didn’t think I could!’ he said in a rush. ‘Or, at least, I didn’t think I ought to, with Birdie being so adamant about …’ Jupiter trailed off, scratching at his beard. ‘I’d have been betraying him if I told you—’

‘But you didn’t have to tell me,’ she said. ‘Not about him being in your unit. You could have just … you know.’

‘Told you to call me “Uncle” anyway,’ he finished for her, looking mournful. ‘I know. But we’d only just met, and I didn’t want to be pushy, and then it seemed too late and – well, I’m an idiot, aren’t I? Obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ she agreed.

Jupiter’s chest heaved as he took a big breath, then he sat up and turned face-on to look at her, planting his feet on the ground. His bright blue eyes were as wide as she’d ever seen them, full of regret and hope all at once. ‘So … is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘Too late?’

Morrigan thought about that for a moment. ‘I don’t know. It might be.’

‘Give it a go.’

‘Uncle … Jupiter,’ she said, then scrunched her nose up. ‘Bleurgh, no – Uncle Jove? Uncle Jove. Unnnclllle … Joooove.’ She rolled the words around in her mouth, getting a feel for the shape of them.

‘Try it in a sentence,’ he suggested eagerly.

‘All right.’ She sat up, crossing her legs. ‘Let’s see. You are an idiot, Uncle Jove.’

‘That’s the spirit!’

‘Uncle Jove, stop tap dancing on the concierge desk,’ she continued, tilting her head from side to side. ‘Hmm, maybe. Chips are not a vegetable, Uncle Jove!’

‘Well that simply isn’t true, but yes, I think you’re getting the hang of it.’

‘That pink suit makes you look like a melted ice cream cone, Uncle Jove!’

His mouth fell open. ‘What – hang on. Which pink suit? I thought you liked—’

‘Uncle Jove, get a haircut!’ Morrigan shouted gleefully. ‘Stop embarrassing me in front of my friends, Uncle Jove! You know, I think it does feel sort of right.’

‘I think it feels sort of like a stealth attack.’

She grinned. ‘Works for me.’

‘Delighted to hear it. Go on, try another. Only maybe you could be slightly nicer this time.’

‘I missed you, Uncle Jove.’ Jupiter made a choking sound, and for once in his life he seemed unable to speak. Morrigan took advantage of this temporary lapse and, summoning all her courage, barrelled onwards in a rush. ‘IloveyouUncleJove.’

Jupiter swallowed once, then twice. His eyes were suddenly glassy. ‘I—’

He stopped, swallowing again.

Morrigan’s throat felt thick and her palms grew warm and she was acutely aware of the prickly feel of fabric against her neck. She opened her mouth to say something else, to clarify, maybe even to walk it back, but nothing came out.

The silence stretched. It felt like the sky had tilted on its axis.

Then he was beaming at her, bright as an oncoming Gossamer train. His chin dimpled and he gave a brisk nod, trying valiantly to pretend he wasn’t about to cry. The big sook.

‘I love you too, Mog.’

Her lungs filled with air, and the prickly feeling subsided, and she thought, Yes, I knew that. I already knew.

‘Obviously,’ Jupiter added, a little self-consciously.

Morrigan smiled. The sky tilted back where it belonged.

‘Obviously,’ she agreed.

On the morning after her second fourteenth birthday party, Morrigan Crow woke to find two final, unexpected presents. The first, two glass bottles of cream-top milk left outside her door by an anonymous benefactor. (Morrigan suspected she’d find said benefactor curled up in a patch of sunshine somewhere later that day, and resolved to say thank you with a tray full of tiny salmon sandwiches.)

The second gift was much smaller, but infinitely bigger. She’d given it to herself quite by accident.

It must have been the summoning of the Guiltghast that did it, she thought. A tiny figure had emerged on the pad of her right pinkie finger overnight, delicate and precisely drawn. A cheerful little bird with brown feathers and a white neck, its yellow beak open in song. Tattoo-like, but not a tattoo.

Morrigan stared at her hand, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement.

It was time to meet the Nightingale in the Nest.

Stay alert for a message from the Wundrous Society with news of Morrigan’s next adventure.

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Copyright

A Lothian Children’s Book

Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2025

by Hachette Australia

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www.hachettechildrens.com.au

Hachette Australia acknowledges and pays our respects to the past, present and future Traditional Owners and Custodians of Country throughout Australia and recognises the continuation of cultural, spiritual and educational practices of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Our head office is located on the lands of the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation.

Copyright © Jessica Townsend 2025

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

978 0 7344 2102 9

978 0 7344 2103 6 (ebook edition)

Cover design by Christabella Designs

Author photograph courtesy Emma Nayler

Paperback cover illustration by Jim Madsen

Paperback inside front cover images courtesy Shutterstock

Hardback cover images courtesy Shutterstock

Hardback endpaper illustration © Beatriz Castro 2017

Text design by Bookhouse, Sydney