Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Read online

  Morrigan gave a snort of puzzled laughter. “You sure this is the right room?”

  “Mmm. Unfortunately.”

  Jupiter made a space on the sofa for Morrigan to sit, delicately removing items of rubbish and placing them in the trash… then he got carried away and spent the next forty minutes tidying, wiping down surfaces, and making the room as habitable as he possibly could. He didn’t ask Morrigan to help, and Morrigan didn’t offer. She wasn’t touching this health and safety hazard with a ten-foot pole.

  “Listen, Mog,” he said as he worked. “How are you? You okay? Feeling happy? Feeling… calm?”

  Morrigan frowned. She’d felt perfectly calm until he’d asked her whether she was feeling calm. Nobody ever asked anybody if they were feeling calm, unless they thought the person had a reason not to feel calm. “Why?” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong!” he replied, but his voice had gone a bit squeaky and defensive. “Nothing at all. It’s just… when you meet someone like Israfel, it’s important to be in a good mood.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people like Israfel… absorb other people’s emotions. It’s, uh, it’s very bad manners to visit one if you’re feeling particularly sad or angry, because you’re bound to put them in a dreadful mood and ruin their day. And, frankly, we can’t afford for Israfel to be in a mood. This is too important. So, er… how are you?”

  Morrigan plastered a very large smile on her face and gave him two thumbs-up.

  “Right,” he said slowly, looking a little disconcerted. “Okay. Better than nothing.”

  A voice, sounding over the backstage public-address system, announced there would be an intermission of twenty minutes, and moments later the dressing-room door was flung open.

  In strode the star of the show, sweat-soaked, his wings tucked behind his back. He made a beeline for a trolley filled with rattling glass bottles of spirits in varying shades of brown and poured himself a small glass of something amber-colored. Then another. He was halfway through the second when he finally seemed to clock that he had company.

  He stared at Jupiter and downed the last of his drink.

  “Picked up a stray, have we, dear?” he finally asked, inclining his head toward Morrigan. Even his speaking voice was deep and melodic. Hearing it made Morrigan feel a strange little twinge of something, like nostalgia or homesickness or longing, right at the back of her throat. She swallowed thickly.

  Jupiter smirked. “Morrigan Crow, meet the Angel Israfel. None sing so wildly well.”

  “Pleased to—” began Morrigan.

  “Pleasure’s mine,” Israfel cut across her and waved vaguely around his dressing room. “I wasn’t expecting guests this evening. I’ve not got much in, I’m afraid, but…” He indicated the trolley. “Help yourselves.”

  “We haven’t come to be fed and watered, old friend,” said Jupiter. “I have a favor to ask. It’s rather urgent.”

  Israfel flopped into an armchair, swung his legs over the side, and stared sulkily at the glass in his hands. His wings twitched and rearranged themselves, draped over the back of the chair like a voluminous feathery cape. They were sleek and smooth, with soft downy bits underneath. Morrigan only just managed to stop herself from reaching out and stroking them. Might be weird, she thought.

  “I should have known this wasn’t a social call,” said Israfel. “It’s not as if you ever visit anymore, old friend. You haven’t been round since Summer of Eleven. You do realize you missed my triumphant opening night?”

  “I’m sorry about that. Did you get the flowers I sent?”

  “No. I don’t know. Probably.” He shrugged petulantly. “I get a lot of flowers.”

  Morrigan felt sure that Israfel was trying to make Jupiter feel bad, but she couldn’t help feeling bad herself. She’d never met Israfel in her life and yet she couldn’t bear the thought that he was unhappy. She felt a strange urge to give him a biscuit. Or a puppy. Something.

  Jupiter pulled a tattered scroll of paper and a pen from his coat pocket and silently held it out to his friend. Israfel ignored it. “I know you got my letter,” said Jupiter.

  Israfel swirled the glass in his hands and said nothing.

  “Will you do it?” Jupiter asked simply, his hand still outstretched. “Please?”

  Israfel shrugged. “Why should I?”

  “I can’t think of a decent reason,” admitted Jupiter, “but I hope you’ll do it anyway.”

  The angel was watching Morrigan now, his face closed and wary. “Only one thing I can think of that might draw the great Jupiter North into patronage.” He took a sip of his drink and shifted his gaze back to Jupiter. “Please feel free to tell me I’m wrong.”

  Morrigan looked to her patron as well. The three of them sat in a still, uncomfortable silence that Israfel seemed to take as some sort of confirmation.

  “Wundersmith,” he hissed under his breath. He sighed deeply, ran a hand over his face wearily, and snatched the scroll from Jupiter’s hand, ignoring the pen. “You are my dearest friend and the biggest fool I’ve ever known. So yes, of course I’ll sign your stupid safeguard pact. Pointless though it is. A Wundersmith, honestly. How ridiculous.”

  Morrigan shifted in her seat, feeling awkward and a bit resentful. It was galling to be called ridiculous by someone whose dressing room was this much of a cesspit. She sniffed, trying to look haughty and unbothered.

  Jupiter frowned. “Izzy. You can’t know how grateful I am. But this is highly confidential, you realize. It stays between—”

  “I know how to keep a secret,” Israfel snapped, reaching back and, with a wince, plucking a single black feather from one of his wings. He dipped it into a pot of ink on the dressing table and scrawled a messy signature at the bottom of the page, handing it back to Jupiter with a dark look and tossing the feather aside. It fluttered prettily to the floor, its golden flecks catching the light. Morrigan wanted to pick it up and take it home like a treasure, but she thought that might be a bit like stealing his clothes. “I really thought you might have come sooner than this, you know. I suppose you’ve heard about Cassiel?”

  Jupiter was blowing on the ink, trying to dry it quickly, and didn’t look up. “What about him?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Jupiter stopped blowing. His eyes met Israfel’s. “Gone?” he echoed.

  “Disappeared.”

  Jupiter shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “That’s what I said. And yet.”

  “But he’s…” began Jupiter. “He can’t just…”

  Israfel’s face was somber. Morrigan thought he looked a bit afraid. “And yet,” he said again.

  After a silent moment, Jupiter stood and grabbed his coat, motioning for Morrigan to do the same. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Will you?” Israfel looked skeptical.

  “I promise.”

  Down the alley wall they went, out into the garish Bohemian high street lit up as bright as day, and through the crowd toward the Brolly Rail platform—but at a much more civilized pace than before. Jupiter held a hand firmly on Morrigan’s shoulder, as if he’d just now remembered they were in a strange and swarming part of town and he really ought to keep her close.

  “Who’s Cassiel?” asked Morrigan as they waited on the Brolly Rail platform.

  “One of Israfel’s lot.”

  “Cook used to tell stories about angels,” said Morrigan, recalling her family home, Crow Manor. “The Angel of Death, the Angel of Mercy, the Angel of Ruined Dinners…”

  “This isn’t the same thing,” said Jupiter.

  Morrigan was confused. “They’re not really angelkind?”

  “I think that’s probably stretching the imagination a bit, but they are celestial beings, of a sort.”

  “Celestial beings… what does that mean?”

  “Oh, you know. Sky-dwellers. Fancy flying types. Them wot have wings and use ’em. Cassiel is an important figure in celestial circles.
If he’s really missing… well, I suspect Israfel is mistaken, anyway. Or exaggerating—he likes a bit of drama, old Izzy. Here it comes. Ready to jump?”

  At the exact right moment, Morrigan and Jupiter hooked their umbrellas onto the steel loops of the passing Brolly Rail frame and held on for dear life as they sped through the maze of Nevermoor boroughs. Brolly Rail cables ran all over the city in unfathomable patterns, crisscrossing low through high streets and back alleys, then soaring high above roofs and treetops. It seemed stupidly dangerous to Morrigan, whizzing all over the place with nothing but your own grip on your umbrella to stop you from falling and splattering all over the ground. But as terrifying as it was, it was also exhilarating, seeing all those people and buildings fly past as the wind whipped at your face. It was one of her very favorite things about living in Nevermoor.

  “Listen, I have to tell you something,” said Jupiter, when they’d finally pulled the levers to release their umbrellas and leapt from the speeding Brolly Rail, landing in their own neighborhood. “I haven’t been totally honest with you. About… about your birthday.”

  Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?” she said coolly.

  “Don’t be cross.” He chewed on the side of his mouth, looking guilty. “It’s just that… well, Frank got wind that it was today and you know what he’s like. Any excuse for a party.”

  “Jupiter…”

  “And… and everyone at the Deucalion loves you!” His voice pitched several notes higher than normal in unprecedented levels of wheedling. “I can’t deprive them of a reason to celebrate the birth of their very favorite Morrigan Crow, can I?”

  “Jupiter!”

  “I know, I know,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “You said you didn’t want a fuss. Don’t worry, all right? Frank promised to keep it low-key. Just the staff, you, me, and Jack. You’ll blow out some candles, they’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday’”—Morrigan groaned; just the thought of it sent a pink-hot flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck and all the way to the tips of her ears—“we’ll eat some cake, job done. It’ll all be over for another year.”

  Morrigan glared at him. “Low-key? You promise?”

  “I swear to you.” Jupiter held a hand over his heart, solemnly. “I told Frank to rein himself in, then rein himself in some more, and keep reining it in until he got to what he thought was woefully understated, and then rein it in about ten times more than that.”

  “Yeah, but did he listen?”

  Her patron scoffed, looking highly offended. “Listen, I know I’m Mr. Cool-Guy Laidback Relaxington and all that”—Morrigan raised a politely incredulous eyebrow—“but I think you’ll find my employees do respect me. Frank knows who the boss is, Mog. He knows who signs his paycheck. Trust me. If I tell him to go low-key, he’s going to go—”

  Jupiter cut off, his mouth open, as they turned the corner onto Humdinger Avenue, a street dominated by the huge, glamorous façade of the Hotel Deucalion, where Morrigan lived with her patron… and which Frank the vampire dwarf, party planner extraordinaire, had evidently dressed for the occasion.

  The Deucalion was draped with millions of flamingo-pink fairy lights that lit up the whole night and could probably, Morrigan thought, be seen from outer space.

  “Completely over the top?” she finished for Jupiter, who had been rendered speechless.

  Gathered on the Deucalion’s front steps were not just the staff, but what seemed like every guest currently staying at the Deucalion and a few drop-ins besides. Their faces shone with excitement and they surrounded a lavish nine-tiered, pink-iced birthday cake that Morrigan thought looked more appropriate for a royal wedding than a twelfth birthday. A brass band was positioned by the fountain and on Frank’s signal they launched into a rousing celebratory march, just as Morrigan and Jupiter arrived. Topping the scene off was a huge marquee sign running the entire length of the rooftop. Its enormous flashing letters read:

  MORRIGAN IS TWELVE

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” shouted the mob of staff and guests.

  Frank pointed to Jupiter’s teenage nephew, Jack, who lit a cluster of fireworks that went whizzing and whistling into the air, showering the scene with trails of stardust.

  Dame Chanda Kali, the famous soprano and Dame Commander of the Order of Woodland Whisperers, launched into a very theatrical version of the birthday song (which immediately attracted three robins, a badger, and a family of squirrels to worship adoringly at her feet).

  Charlie, the Deucalion’s fleet manager and chauffeur, had groomed and bridled one of his ponies, ready to carry the birthday girl inside.

  Kedgeree the concierge and Martha the maid held armfuls of presents, beaming brightly.

  And Fenestra, the giant Magnificat and head of housekeeping, used the commotion as a cover to discreetly swipe a huge pawful of pink icing.

  Jupiter shot Morrigan an anxious sideways glance. “Shall I, er… shall I have a quiet word to our Roof-Raiser-in-Chief?”

  Morrigan shook her head, trying—and failing—to control a smile that was twitching at the corners of her mouth. She felt a warm, sunshiny glow right in the center of her chest, as if a cat had curled up there and was purring contentedly. She’d never had a birthday party before.

  Frank was all right, really.

  Later that night, deliriously sugared up on birthday cake and exhausted by the never-ending well-wishes of a hundred party guests, Morrigan crawled into the cocoonlike nest of fleecy blankets her bed had turned into that night (it obviously knew what an awfully long day she’d had). She fell asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow.

  Then, what felt like half a second later, she was awake.

  She was awake, and not in her bed.

  She was awake, and not in her bed, and not alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SISTERS AND BROTHERS

  Spring of Two

  Shoulder to shoulder beneath a starry, cloudless sky, the nine newest members of the Wundrous Society stood outside its gates, sleep-rumpled and cold.

  Morrigan might have felt alarmed at having awoken in the middle of the night in the chilly streets of Nevermoor wearing only her pajamas, but two things kept her worry in check:

  Firstly, that the gates of Wunsoc had been transformed into an enormous, unseasonably botanical welcome sign—a rainbow-colored floral tapestry of roses, peonies, daisies, hydrangeas, and twisting green vines that read, thrillingly:

  Secondly, that the boy standing to her right—gangly-limbed, curly-headed, one corner of his mouth smeared with the remnants of a bedtime chocolate—was her best friend in the whole world. Hawthorne Swift rubbed his eyes and grinned at her blearily.

  “Oh,” he said, as unruffled as ever. He craned his neck around to look at the seven other children lined up on either side of them. They too were shivering and pajama-clad, and looked grumpy and alarmed to varying degrees. “One of those weird Wunsoc things, is it?”

  “Must be.”

  “I was having the best dream,” he croaked. “I was flying over a jungle on the back of a dragon and I fell off and tumbled down into the trees… and then I got adopted by a gang of monkeys. They made me their king.”

  Morrigan snorted. “Sounds about right.”

  My friend is here, she thought happily. Everything was going to be okay.

  “What’re we meant to do?” asked the girl standing on Morrigan’s left. Brawny, square-shouldered, pink-faced, and at least a head taller than Morrigan, she had a thick Highland accent and tangled red hair that hung halfway down her back. This, Morrigan remembered, was Thaddea Macleod. The girl who’d fought a full-grown adult troll in her Show Trial and won.

  Morrigan couldn’t answer her question. Partly because she didn’t know, but mostly because she was reliving in her mind the moment Thaddea had swiped Elder Wong’s chair out from underneath him and used it to kneecap the troll with a sickening crack. Terrifying, Morrigan thought—but also, to be fair, quite resourceful.

  “Just a guess,” Haw
thorne said, through a wide-mouthed yawn, “but I think we’re meant to go in and join them.”

  And as he said it, the gates began to slowly open with a great groaning creeeeaaaak. Behind the floral welcome and the high brick walls, the grounds of Wunsoc sloped gently up to Proudfoot House, its every window lit like a beacon calling them onward.

  The air changed as the nine successful candidates—chosen from hundreds of hopeful children to become the new scholars of Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society—stepped inside the gates.

  For the first time ever, the strange “Wunsoc weather” phenomenon didn’t take Morrigan by surprise. Outside the gates in the streets of Old Town, it was a cool, brisk night. Inside the climate bubble of Wunsoc, where everything was a bit more, the grass was covered in a thick layer of frost. The air smelled like snow—crisp and clean and bitingly cold. It turned their breath to clouds of mist. Morrigan shivered, as did the others, rubbing their arms and hopping on the spot for warmth. The gates groaned closed behind them, and silence fell.

  They had all seen Wunsoc last year, of course. Their first challenge—the Book Trial—had taken place inside Proudfoot House itself. Morrigan remembered sitting with hundreds of other children in an enormous room filled with rows of desks. A little blank booklet had asked her questions, which she’d had to answer truthfully, otherwise the booklet would burst into flames. Almost half the children who’d been in that room with her had watched their answers go up in smoke and had been instantly disqualified.

  Wunsoc looked different now, and not just because it was nighttime. The drive was still lined with bare, black-trunked trees—fossilized remains of the now-extinct fireblossom genus. But tonight, perched in their branches like silent, overgrown birds, hundreds of Wundrous Society members—young and old, older and ancient—gazed down at the new arrivals. Just as in the Black Parade last Hallowmas, they were dressed in formal black cloaks, faces lit only by the candles they held.