The Trials of Morrigan Crow Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ship & Bird Pty Limited

  Jessica Townsend has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover and interior art copyright © 2017 by Jim Madsen

  Cover design by Sasha Illingworth and Angela Taldone

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  Simultaneously published in 2017 by Hachette Children’s Group in the UK and Hachette Australia

  First US Edition: October 2017

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  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Townsend, Jessica (Children’s author), author.

  Title: The trials of Morrigan Crow / Jessica Townsend.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2017. | Series: Nevermoor; 1 | Summary: “A cursed child destined to die on her eleventh birthday is rescued and whisked away to a secret realm called Nevermoor and given the chance to compete for a place in a prestigious organization called the Wundrous Society.”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017003436 | ISBN 9780316508889 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316439954 (large print) | ISBN 9780316508865 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316508902 (library edition ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Blessing and cursing—Fiction. | Contests—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emigration & Immigration. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emotions & Feelings.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T696 Tr 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017003436

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-50888-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-43995-4 (large print), 978-0-316-50886-5 (ebook), 978-0-316-51398-2 (int’l)

  E3-20170926-JV-PC

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE:

  THE CURSED CROW

  CHAPTER TWO:

  BID DAY

  CHAPTER THREE:

  DEATH COMES TO DINNER

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  THE HUNT OF SMOKE AND SHADOW

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  WELCOME TO NEVERMOOR

  CHAPTER SIX:

  MORNINGTIDE

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  HAPPY HOUR AT THE HOTEL DEUCALION

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  INTERESTING. USEFUL. GOOD.

  CHAPTER NINE:

  WUNDROUS WELCOME

  CHAPTER TEN:

  ILLEGAL

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  THE BOOK TRIAL

  CHAPTER TWELVE:

  SHADOWS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  THE CHASE TRIAL

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  A MOST NOBLE STEED

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  THE BLACK PARADE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  FOLLOW THE GLOW

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  THE BATTLE OF CHRISTMAS EVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  AN ALMOST JOLLY HOLIDAY

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  THE GOSSAMER LINE

  CHAPTER TWENTY:

  DISAPPEARING ACT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

  THE SHOW TRIAL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

  THE MESMERIST

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  FOUL PLAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:

  BATTLE STREET

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:

  MASTER AND APPRENTICE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:

  W.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For Sally, first guest of the Hotel Deucalion

  And for Teena, who made me think I could do anything, even this

  PROLOGUE

  Spring of One

  The journalists arrived before the coffin did. They gathered at the gate overnight and by dawn they were a crowd. By nine o’clock they were a swarm.

  It was near midday before Corvus Crow made the long walk from his front door to the tall iron rails keeping them at bay.

  “Chancellor Crow, will this affect your plans to run for reelection?”

  “Chancellor, how soon will the burial take place?”

  “Has the president offered condolences?”

  “How relieved do you feel this morning, Chancellor?”

  “Please,” Corvus interrupted, holding up a leather-gloved hand to silence them. “Please, I wish to read a statement on behalf of my family.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his smart black suit.

  “We wish to thank you, the citizens of our great Republic, for your support over the past eleven years,” he read in a clear, authoritative voice honed by years of demanding order in the Chancery. “This has been a trying time for our family, and the distress will no doubt linger for some time yet.”

  He stopped to clear his throat, looking up for a moment at his hushed audience. A sea of camera lenses and curious eyes gleamed back at him. A ceaseless assault of flashes and clicks.

  “The loss of a child is difficult to bear,” he continued, returning to his notes. “Not only for our family, but for the townspeople of Jackalfax, who we know share in our grief.” At least fifty pairs of eyebrows shot upward, and a few embarrassed coughs broke the momentary silence. “But this morning, as we welcome the Ninth Age of the Wintersea Republic, know that the worst is behind us.”

  There was a sudden, loud caw from overhead. Shoulders hunched and faces flinched, but nobody looked up. The birds had been circling all morning.

  “The Eighth Age took from me my beloved first wife, and now it has taken my only daughter.”

  Another piercing caw. One reporter dropped the microphone he was thrusting at the chancellor’s face and scrambled noisily to pick it up. He turned pink and mumbled an apology, which Corvus ignored.

  “However,” he continued, “it has also taken with it the danger, doubt, and despair that plagued her short life. My… dear Morrigan”—he paused to grimace—“is finally at peace, and so must we all be. The town of Jackalfax—indeed, the entire state of Great Wolfacre—is safe again. There is nothing to fear.”

  A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the crowd, and the onslaught of camera flashes seemed to slow. The chancellor looked up at them, blinking. His paper rustled in a slight wind, or perhaps it was his hand shaking.

&
nbsp; “Thank you. I will not be taking questions.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CURSED CROW

  Winter of Eleven

  (Three days earlier)

  The kitchen cat was dead, and Morrigan was to blame.

  She didn’t know how it had happened, or when. She thought perhaps he’d eaten something poisonous overnight. There were no injuries to suggest a fox or dog attack. Apart from a bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, he looked like he was sleeping, but he was cold and stiff.

  When she found his body in the weak winter morning light, Morrigan crouched down beside him in the dirt, a frown creasing her forehead. She stroked his black pelt from the top of his head to the tip of his bushy tail.

  “Sorry, kitchen cat,” she murmured.

  Morrigan thought about where best to bury him, and whether she could ask Grandmother for a bit of nice linen to wrap him in. Probably best not to, she decided. She’d use one of her own nightshirts.

  Cook opened the back door to give yesterday’s scraps to the dogs and was so startled by Morrigan’s presence, she nearly dropped her bucket. The old woman peered down at the dead cat and set her mouth in a line.

  “Better his woe than mine, praise be to the Divine,” she muttered, knocking on the wooden doorframe and kissing the pendant she wore around her neck. She glanced sideways at Morrigan. “I liked that cat.”

  “So did I,” said Morrigan.

  “Oh yes, I can see that.” There was a bitter note in her voice, and Morrigan noticed she was backing away, inch by wary inch. “Go on now, inside. They’re waiting for you in his office.”

  Morrigan hurried into the house, hovering for a moment near the door from the kitchen to the hallway. She watched Cook take a piece of chalk and write KICHIN CAT—DEAD on the blackboard, at the end of a long list that most recently included SPOYLED FISH, OLD TOM’S HEART ATACK, FLOODS IN NORTH PROSPER, and GRAVY STAYNES ON BEST TABELCLOTH.

  “I can recommend several excellent child psychologists in the Greater Jackalfax area.”

  The new caseworker hadn’t touched her tea and biscuits. She’d traveled two and a half hours from the capital by rail that morning and walked from the train station to Crow Manor in a wretched drizzle. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, her coat soaked through. Morrigan was struggling to think of a better remedy for this misery than tea and biscuits, but the woman didn’t seem interested.

  “I didn’t make the tea,” said Morrigan. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  The woman ignored her. “Dr. Fielding is famous for his work with cursed children. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Dr. Llewellyn is also highly regarded, if you like a gentler, more maternal approach.”

  Morrigan’s father cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Corvus had developed a subtle twitch in his left eye that appeared only during these mandatory monthly meetings, which signaled to Morrigan that he hated them as much as she did. Coal-black hair and crooked noses aside, it was the only thing father and daughter had in common.

  “Morrigan has no need of counseling,” he continued. “She’s a sensible enough child. She is well acquainted with her situation.”

  The caseworker chanced a fleeting look at Morrigan, who was sitting beside her on the sofa and trying not to fidget. These visits always dragged. “Chancellor, without wishing to be indelicate… time is short. Experts all agree we’re entering the final year of this Age. The final year before Eventide.” Morrigan looked away, out the window, casting around for a distraction, as she always did when someone mentioned the E-word. “You must realize this is an important transitional period for—”

  “Have you the list?” Corvus said, with a hint of impatience. He looked pointedly at the clock on his office wall.

  “Of—of course.” She drew a piece of paper from her folder, trembling only slightly. The woman was doing rather well, Morrigan thought, considering this was just her second visit. The last caseworker barely spoke above a whisper and would have considered it an invitation to disaster to sit on the same piece of furniture as Morrigan. “Shall I read it aloud? It’s quite short this month—well done, Miss Crow,” she said stiffly.

  Morrigan didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t really take credit for something she didn’t control.

  “We’ll start with the incidents requiring compensation: The Jackalfax Town Council has requested seven hundred kred for damage to a gazebo during a hailstorm.”

  “I thought we’d agreed that extreme weather events could no longer be reliably attributed to my daughter,” said Corvus. “After that forest fire in Ulf turned out to be arson. Remember?”

  “Yes, Chancellor. However, there’s a witness who has indicated that Morrigan is at fault in this case.”

  “Who?” Corvus demanded.

  “A man who works at the post office overheard Miss Crow remarking to her grandmother on the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying.” The caseworker looked at her notes. “The hail began four hours later.”

  Corvus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shooting an irritated look at Morrigan. “Very well. Continue.”

  Morrigan frowned. She had never in her life remarked on “the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying.” She did remember turning to Grandmother in the post office that day and saying, “Hot, isn’t it?” but that was hardly the same thing.

  “A local man, Thomas Bratchett, died of a heart attack recently. He was—”

  “Our gardener, I know,” Corvus interrupted. “Terrible shame. The hydrangeas have suffered. Morrigan, what did you do to the old man?”

  “Nothing.”

  Corvus looked skeptical. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

  She thought for a moment. “I told him the flower beds looked nice.”

  “When?”

  “About a year ago.”

  Corvus and the caseworker exchanged a look. The woman sighed quietly. “His family is being extremely generous in the matter. They ask only that you pay his funeral expenses, put his grandchildren through college, and make a donation to his favorite charity.”

  “How many grandchildren?”

  “Five.”

  “Tell them I’ll pay for two. Continue.”

  “The headmaster at Jackalfax—ah!” The woman jumped as Morrigan leaned forward to take a cookie, but seemed to calm down when she realized there was no intention to make physical contact. “Um… yes. The headmaster at Jackalfax Preparatory School has finally sent us a bill for the fire damage. Two thousand kred ought to cover it.”

  “It said in the newspaper that the lunch lady left the stove burner on overnight,” said Morrigan.

  “Correct,” said the caseworker, her eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her. “It also said she’d passed Crow Manor the previous day and spotted you on the grounds.”

  “So?”

  “She said you made eye contact with her.”

  “I did not.” Morrigan felt her blood begin to rise. That fire wasn’t her fault. She’d never made eye contact with anyone; she knew the rules. The lunch lady was fibbing to get herself out of trouble.

  “It’s all in the police report.”

  “She’s a liar.” Morrigan turned to her father, but he refused to meet her gaze. Did he really believe she was to blame? The lunch lady admitted she’d left the stove burner turned on! The unfairness of it made Morrigan’s stomach twist into knots. “She’s lying, I never—”

  “That’s quite enough from you,” Corvus snapped. Morrigan slumped down in her chair, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her father cleared his throat again and nodded at the woman. “You may forward me the bill. Please, finish the list. I have a full day of meetings ahead.”

  “Th-that’s all on the financial side of things,” she said, tracing a line down the page with a trembling finger. “There are only three apology letters for Miss Crow to write this month. One to a local woman, Mrs. Calpurnia Malouf, for her broken hip—”

>   “Far too old to be ice-skating,” Morrigan muttered.

  “—one to the Jackalfax Jam Society for a ruined batch of marmalade, and one to a boy named Pip Gilchrest, who lost the Great Wolfacre State Spelling Championship last week.”

  Morrigan’s eyes doubled in size. “All I did was wish him luck!”

  “Precisely, Miss Crow,” the caseworker said as she handed the list over to Corvus. “You should have known better. Chancellor, I understand you’re on the hunt for another new tutor?”

  Corvus sighed. “My assistants have spoken to every agency in Jackalfax and some as far as the capital. It would seem our great state is in the throes of a severe private tuition drought.” He raised one dubious eyebrow.

  “What happened to Miss…” The caseworker consulted her notes. “Linford, was it? Last time we spoke you said she was working out nicely.”

  “Feeble woman,” Corvus said with a sneer. “She barely lasted a week. Just left one afternoon and never returned, nobody knows why.”

  That wasn’t true. Morrigan knew why.

  Miss Linford’s fear of the curse prevented her from actually sharing the same room with her student. It was a strange and undignified thing, Morrigan felt, to have someone shout Grommish verb conjugations at you from the other side of a door. Morrigan had grown more and more annoyed until finally she’d stuck a broken pen through the keyhole, put her mouth over the end of it, and blown black ink all over Miss Linford’s face. She was prepared to admit it wasn’t her most sporting moment.

  “At the Registry Office we have a short list of teachers who are amenable to working with cursed children. A very short list,” said the caseworker with a shrug, “but perhaps there will be someone who—”

  Corvus held up a hand to stop her. “I see no need.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said yourself, it’s not long until Eventide.”

  “Yes, but… it’s still a year away—”

  “Nonetheless. Waste of time and money at this stage, isn’t it?”

  Morrigan glanced up, feeling an unpleasant jolt at her father’s words. Even the caseworker looked surprised. “With respect, Chancellor—the Registry Office for Cursed Children doesn’t consider it a waste. We believe education is an important part of every childhood.”