Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 5

  “Who’s Murgatroyd?” asked Morrigan.

  “Murgatroyd, of Dearborn and Murgatroyd. The Scholar Mistresses.” Dame Chanda shuddered. “Two horrid peas in a frightful pod. Well, perhaps that’s unfair… poor Dearborn’s not so bad. Murgatroyd’s the one to avoid, if you can.” She threw a look of sympathy at Morrigan’s reflection in the mirror behind her. “Although I’m very sorry to tell you, darling, that you probably can’t.”

  Dame Chanda was right. When they wanted Morrigan, she knew about it.

  It was early on Monday morning—much, much earlier than she would have liked—when she was woken by three knocks on the door.

  Not her bedroom door.

  The new door. The not-really-a-door. The mystery door.

  The one that didn’t open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOMETRAIN

  Morrigan sat up in bed and stared at the door. Her heart thumped in the quiet. A minute or two passed, and she’d nearly convinced herself that it had just been her imagination, when—

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Morrigan held her breath. She wanted to ignore the knocking. She wanted to burrow deep into her blankets and put her pillow over her head until whoever—whatever—it was, went away.

  But that’s not what a Wundrous Society member would do, she told herself firmly.

  Making up her mind, she threw off her blankets and stomped loudly to the door, hoping that the person (or thing) on the other side would hear her booming footsteps and think she was much bigger and scarier than she really was. She leaned in, breathing hard, with the idea of pressing her ear to the door… but then stopped. Close up, she saw something she hadn’t noticed before—a small golden circle, right in the center of the black wood. A circle the size of a fingertip.

  It began to glow—a diffused golden light, emanating from the metal itself. Gently at first, then a little brighter, until finally the glow crept into the center… illuminating a tiny metallic W.

  Ah, thought Morrigan. She pressed the W imprint on her right index finger to the glowing circle. It was warm to the touch.

  The door swung open so quickly, so easily, that she jumped back with a gasp, expecting somebody to pounce at her.

  Nobody was there.

  She blinked into a small, brightly lit room that was something between a hallway, a utility room, and a walk-in wardrobe. The dark paneled walls were lined with hanging spaces for clothes and glass-fronted display cupboards, all empty.

  Had this always been here, Morrigan wondered? Was it part of the Deucalion, or had the mystery door delivered her somewhere else altogether?

  Across from the door she’d just entered was another, identical to the first. Morrigan ran to it and pressed her finger to the golden ring, but nothing happened. With a dull thud of disappointment, she realized it was both cold and unlit.

  “What now?” she whispered, turning around to examine the empty room.

  Her eyes landed on the answer. The room wasn’t entirely empty. On the back of the first door hung a single outfit: boots, socks, trousers, belt, shirt, pullover sweater, and coat. All black, except for the shirt, which was gray. All smart, new, freshly pressed… and in Morrigan’s size.

  “Ah-HA.”

  In less than a minute, she was ready—shirt buttoned, boots laced, pajamas abandoned on the floor—and the circled W on the second door immediately began to glow. Morrigan grinned, reaching out to press it.

  The door swung out onto a small Wunderground station. It was neat and tidy—despite the residual smoke and slight air of neglect—and unadorned but for a gleaming brass clock hanging from the ceiling and a wooden bench at the end of the platform. Morrigan felt her ears pop as she stepped across the threshold. The atmosphere had changed; there was a dense chill in the air here, and a subtle scent of something like engine oil.

  That answered her question, then. She wasn’t in the Hotel Deucalion anymore. No matter how changeable the Deucalion was, no matter how many octopus armchairs and swinging hammocks and talon-footed bathtubs it could conjure up, it definitely wasn’t underground, and it definitely didn’t have a train station, sitting empty, next to Morrigan’s bedroom on the fourth floor.

  Well… almost empty.

  A girl with thick braided hair sat alone, shoulders hunched, legs hanging over the edge of the platform. Morrigan’s door closed behind her with a loud click, and the girl turned at the noise.

  “Hello,” said Morrigan, a little stiffly.

  “About time.” Cadence Blackburn was glowering now, but Morrigan was certain she’d seen her expression change from worry to relief just a second ago. Perhaps because she’d realized she wasn’t alone; that another member of her unit had shown up after all.

  “How long have you been here, Cadence?”

  Not for the first time, Cadence looked surprised to be remembered. She’d told Morrigan after the Show Trial that nobody apart from Morrigan ever remembered her—that was the downside of being a mesmerist.

  But Morrigan had never had a problem remembering her. In fact, she found Cadence extremely memorable. She’d memorably stolen Morrigan’s coveted ticket to the Elders’ Dinner during the Chase Trial. She’d memorably pushed her into a pond on Hallowmas night. Then she’d memorably—amazingly, bafflingly—saved her from being kicked out of Nevermoor. It was safe to say Morrigan had very mixed feelings about Cadence.

  “A while,” said Cadence. “The door locked behind me.”

  Morrigan turned back to see that the golden ring on her own door had stopped glowing. Did that mean the way back was blocked to her now? That made her feel a little uneasy. She tried pressing her finger to it.

  Nothing happened. It was cool and dim.

  “Mine’s that one,” said Cadence, pointing to a forest-green door, three along from the black one. There were eight doors besides Morrigan’s own; eight different styles and colors, leading to eight different homes, she supposed. “It showed up in our living room overnight. Mum wasn’t happy. I had to stop her from calling the Stink.”

  “Mine arrived right in my bedroom.”

  Cadence gave an uninterested grunt. Silence stretched between them.

  The platform was tiny—certainly not long enough for any regular Wunderground train to stop at. Yet the sign hanging above the platform read STATION 919.

  “Is this… wait. No. Do we get our own station?” asked Morrigan, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “Our own private Wunderground station?”

  “Seems that way.” There was a slight note of wonder in Cadence’s normally gruff voice that she couldn’t disguise. Jupiter had joked about Wundrous Society members getting reserved seats on the Wunderground, but their own private station—no matter how tiny—was infinitely cooler than even that. Cadence stood up and dusted off her black trousers. She fixed Morrigan with a searching look. “So… is it true, then? Are you really a Wundersmith?”

  Morrigan nodded.

  Cadence looked as if she didn’t quite believe her. “How do you know?”

  “Just do.” She didn’t want to tell Cadence the truth. That Ezra Squall himself had told her. That she’d had an actual conversation with Nevermoor’s most hated man. “Jupiter can see it.”

  Cadence raised an eyebrow and Morrigan watched her warily. She had the cagey, irritable look of someone who might be about to say something cutting, but you couldn’t be sure with Cadence. It was becoming clear that “cagey and irritable” might just be her default expression. Morrigan could sympathize.

  “That makes us both Dangerous Entities. Two in one unit, that’s brave of them.” Cadence laughed, a little bitterly. “Did they make you have a safeguard?”

  “Yes,” said Morrigan. The safeguard pact had been a strict condition of her entry to the Society. Nine upstanding, influential citizens of Nevermoor who all agreed to vouch for Morrigan’s trustworthiness and… well, she didn’t really know what else they had to do. It was one of those strange Wundrous Society traditions Morrigan didn’t fully understand, but the
important thing was that if Jupiter hadn’t been able to convince the Angel Israfel to become the final signatory to Morrigan’s safeguard pact before the inauguration, she wouldn’t be a member of 919 right now.

  “Me too,” said Cadence. “Three signatories. You?”

  “Nine.”

  Cadence let out a long, low whistle.

  They were both quiet for a moment; then the silence was suddenly broken by three of the other doors flying open at once. Anah Kahlo, Francis Fitzwilliam, and Mahir Ibrahim appeared looking equally dazed and intrigued, adjusting their unfamiliar uniforms. Within moments, they were joined by Thaddea, Archan, Lambeth, and—

  “How good are these BOOTS?” Hawthorne stomped dramatically onto the platform. He grinned at Morrigan and put his hands on his hips, pushing out his chest. “How cool are these clothes? I can see why you like wearing black. I feel like a SUPERHERO. Don’t you feel like a superhero?”

  “Not very,” admitted Morrigan.

  “They should give us capes! Don’t you reckon? Should we ask if they can give us capes?”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Is this a Wunderground station? It looks like one.” His attention darted all over the place, quick as a dog spotting squirrels in the park. “It’s a bit grubby, isn’t it? I don’t mind, though. Mum says dirt’s good for the immune system. Where are we? Station 919? I haven’t heard of any—oh! OH! No way. Morrigan, I think this might be—”

  “Yep,” she cut in. “Our own—”

  “Our own STATION?”

  “Yep!”

  “No WAY.”

  Morrigan grinned. She found she was gladder than usual of Hawthorne’s boundless enthusiasm for the world around him. It provided a distraction from the silent, mistrustful stares of the other unit members. Anah had pressed herself against the wall, as far away from Morrigan as it was possible to be in such a small space. Given that the first time the two of them met, Morrigan had been defending Anah against a bully, she had to admit she found this behavior a little insulting. Nonetheless, she tried to keep her expression neutral, lest Anah think she was putting a hex on her or something.

  Hawthorne jumped high, reaching up to touch the platform sign hanging above them. It swung back and forth, creaking loudly. “When do you reckon the train—”

  “Now,” said a matter-of-fact voice from the corner of the platform. They all turned around. Lambeth was sitting on the floor, cross-legged and straight-backed, gazing into the dark mouth of the tunnel. She was small and serious-looking, with a tawny complexion and long black hair as smooth as silk.

  The rest of the unit exchanged glances, waiting for her to elaborate.

  Morrigan cleared her throat. “Sorry, what…”

  Lambeth turned back to look at the rest of the unit, holding one finger up in the air as if telling them to wait for it. Seconds later, the ground began to rumble beneath their feet. A whistle sounded from somewhere inside the tunnel and the answer to Hawthorne’s question chugged into view.

  “Spooky,” said Hawthorne.

  “You mean creepy,” said Thaddea, casting a sidelong look at Lambeth, who looked just as regal and tranquil sitting on the floor of the station as a queen sitting on a throne.

  It wasn’t a train, exactly, but a single carriage. It looked odd on its own, like a head that had lost its body. It was a bit dented and battered-looking, but clean and shiny as a brass half-kred coin, sending cheerful little puffs of white steam into the air as it slowed to a halt. On its side was a large black W, and underneath that the number 919, which looked freshly painted.

  The train whistle sounded again, the doors opened, and a young woman stepped out onto the platform, holding a crumpled piece of paper. Coltishly long-legged and tall, she didn’t hunch the way some tall people hunched, so that others wouldn’t be intimidated by them. She stood like a ballet dancer, Morrigan thought—shoulders back, feet slightly turned out.

  “Lambeth Amara, short-range oracle,” the woman called out, consulting her paper. “Cadence Blackburn, mesmerist. Morrigan Crow, Wundersmith. Francis Fitzwilliam, gastronomist. Mahir Ibrahim, linguist. Anah Kahlo, healer. Thaddea Macleod, fighter. Hawthorne Swift, dragonrider. Archan Tate, pickpocket.” She looked happily around at the nine faces staring back at her. She hadn’t flinched or grimaced when she’d said the word Wundersmith. She hadn’t even blinked. Morrigan liked her already. “What a mix. All here?”

  The members of Unit 919 looked around at each other and nodded vaguely.

  “All aboard, then.” She beckoned them over, beaming, and disappeared inside the carriage door. Hawthorne followed eagerly, and Morrigan and the others lined up behind him.

  “Whoa,” said Hawthorne as they stepped inside.

  “Cool,” breathed Mahir.

  “Brilliant,” said Thaddea.

  Quite, thought Morrigan.

  It looked just as if somebody had taken an old Wunderground train carriage, gutted it, and turned it into a long cozy sitting room. Big lumpy cushions and squashy armchairs, an assortment of coffee tables and lamps, and an old, worn-out sofa were configured neatly around the space. There was a small wood-burning stove with a copper kettle in the corner, a crate full of kindling, and a pile of crocheted blankets in a rainbow of colors. A single wooden desk, painted red with stickers all over it, sat at the very front of the carriage. The walls were covered with posters spouting inspirational sayings like BE THE VERY BEST YOU YOU CAN BE and THERE’S NO “I” IN TEAMWORK, and a corkboard tacked with colorful notices and picture postcards. The space was cramped but comfy. Chaotic but clean. It was wonderful.

  “Decorated it myself. What do you think?” The young woman watched them breathlessly, with the air of someone bestowing a carefully chosen Christmas gift on a loved one. She was practically bouncing on her toes. “You should have seen it before, it was well spare. I feel sorry for the last unit who had this carriage. Nine boring desks, nine hard chairs. No couch! No beanbags! No fire—and it’s freezing in here during winter, believe me. Not even a biscuit jar! Can you believe that?” She pointed to a large polar-bear-shaped ceramic jar sitting on the red desk. “I hereby promise that that jar will always be full of biscuits. None of your rubbishy ones, either—I’m talking your proper chocolate biscuits. Your pink iced rings. Your custard creams and so on. One thing you all should know about me: I’ve got very high biscuit standards.”

  She took the jar and passed it around, smiling as they nibbled quietly and looking utterly thrilled that she’d been able to meet this most fundamental of needs.

  “Sit down, sit down.” The children all sat, settling in among the hodgepodge of furniture. Morrigan took one of the huge floor cushions, and Hawthorne the one next to hers. The woman made herself comfortable in a plush velvet armchair. In her oversized pink pullover, green checkered leggings, and yellow sneakers, she looked like a melted box of crayons—in stark contrast to the black-clad Unit 919, who could have passed for mourners at a funeral. A curly, bulb-shaped cloud of black hair was tied back from her face with a yellow-gold scarf.

  “I’m Miss Cheery. Marina Cheery. Your conductor.” Morrigan glanced at the others, wondering if she was supposed to know what a conductor was. Hawthorne caught her eye and shrugged. “Bit of a stupid name, Miss Cheery, but I promise I’ll do my best to live up to it. I’m supposed to make you call me Conductor Cheery, but if you ask me, that sounds even stupider. So let’s just agree on Miss Cheery, all right?”

  Unit 919 nodded, mouths full of biscuit.

  Miss Cheery watched the unit with a proud, energized expression, like they were the nine most important people in the world. Her eyes were bright and kind, her skin the deepest, warmest brown, and she had perhaps the nicest smile Morrigan had ever seen on any face. Ever.

  “Welcome to Hometrain,” she said, throwing her arms out around her. “For your next five years as junior scholars, this comfy little carriage will be your transport, your refuge, and your base camp. We’ll start and end each school day right here, all of u
s together. I’ll pick you up at Station 919 every morning, Monday to Friday, and then I’ll drop you back here at the end of the day. Easy-peasy. We call it a Hometrain because that’s what it’s for, you see? Bringing you home. But that’s also how I want you to think of this place.” She looked seriously at them. “As your second home. A place where you can feel safe and happy. Where everyone’s got your back, and no question is a dumb question, and nobody’s going to judge you. So. With that in mind—any questions?”

  Francis stuck his hand up in the air. “What’s your knack?”

  “Glad you asked, Francis,” she said, smiling. “I’m a tightrope walker. Graduate of the School of Mundane Arts and proud of it.”

  Bingo, thought Morrigan. Not a dancer, but close enough. No wonder she had such excellent posture.

  “What’s the School of Mundane Arts?” asked Mahir.

  “Ah! What an excellent question.” Miss Cheery jumped up out of her chair and crossed the carriage to where a large black-and-white poster was hanging. It showed three concentric circles like a target—a gray outer ring, a white middle ring, and a black circle in the center. “The Wundrous Society is split into two streams of expertise: the Mundane and the Arcane.” Miss Cheery pointed to the gray outer circle. “This big circle here represents the Mundane—yours truly included. This is the largest Wundrous Society sector, engaging in public-facing arts, acts, and services, comprising knacks based predominantly in the medicinal, sporting, performing, creative, engineering, and political disciplines. First line of attack in managing the popular and financial support crucial for the Wundrous Society to continue its vital work.”

  Morrigan frowned at those words. What exactly was the Wundrous Society’s vital work? Nobody had ever told her… and, she realized with a small amount of embarrassment, she’d never really thought to ask.

  Miss Cheery continued, reciting the words as if she’d had to memorize them for a test. “Mostly, we Mundanes charm the public and bring in the money. Think of your favorite musician, your favorite athlete, the best circus you ever saw, the cleverest politician you’ve heard on the news, the city’s most brilliant architects and engineers—they’re probably from the Wundrous Society, which means they’re probably graduates of the School of Mundane Arts. We do amazing things in the world to keep popular opinion firmly on the Wundrous Society’s side.” She grinned. “Our motto inside Wunsoc is Just Try Getting on Without Us.”