Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

“You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. It’s okay. You still owe me.”

  “Yeah.”

  It was a moment or two before Morrigan realized Hawthorne had grown bored and quietly disappeared from her bedside.

  “He’s gone to find a bedpan to wear as a hat, hasn’t he?”

  Cadence nodded. “Oh, almost certainly.”

  Nurse Tim had a few grievances to air while he checked Morrigan’s vitals.

  “… and suddenly all eight of them are here, taking up all the oxygen in the room. Hanging homemade banners all over the place! Playing the fiddle! Challenging elderly patients to an arm-wrestle! I said excuse me, this is a hospital, not me uncle Clive and auntie Trudy’s ruby wedding anniversary bash at the Clodspoole-on-Sea church hall. Spare me the shanties.” He shifted his stethoscope from her middle back to her upper back. “Another big breath in and out, that’s the way.”

  Morrigan breathed in deep through her nose and out through her mouth.

  “I mean you’re no trouble, pet, but can I just say? Your friends are a proper nightmare. Not being funny, but please don’t come back again.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “And then all that hoo-ha last night with Captain Dramatic and the Elders! Oof. One more big breath for me.” Again he moved the stethoscope, and again Morrigan’s chest rose and fell.

  “What hoo-ha?”

  “Going off like firecrackers, they were, all four of them. Shouting! In a hospital! Grown adults, mind.”

  “What were they shouting about?” Morrigan asked, though she had a fairly good idea.

  “Oh, who knows. Elder Quinn said she wanted to be here when you wake up to ask you some questions, and then Elder Wong says let’s bring in one of them lot from the Public Distraction Department to prepare a statement for the press about something-or-other, and that sent the mouthy ginger off on one. ‘None of you lot cares about what’s best for Morrigan,’ he says. ‘You would have thrown her to the wolves if I hadn’t fought you every step of the way!’ I thought Elder Quinn might smack him in the jaw, but he’s not half stirring when he gets on a roll, is he? He should join an amateur theatrical society.”

  He is an amateur theatrical society, Morrigan thought, taking another big breath in and out.

  “I’ll admit it did liven up my dinner break, but once I’d finished my cheesy lentil pie I had to kick them all out, I’m afraid. Poor old Mrs. Purkiss can’t take that sort of excitement, not with her blood pressure,” he said, with a nod to the lady in the corner bed.

  Morrigan felt dread settle in her bones. The thought of raking over the night’s events, of carefully concealing certain incriminating details and crafting a repeatable lie that the Elders would believe and accept, was positively exhausting.

  “Here, hold this under your tongue for three minutes.” Nurse Tim popped a glass thermometer in her mouth and went to fetch the clipboard from the end of the bed. “What happened this time?”

  “Oh, you know,” Morrigan said around a mouthful of glass. “Jumped off a building, got chased by Wunimals, set Courage Square on fire.”

  “Oh aye, what are you like?” Nurse Tim said absently as he checked his wristwatch and made a note on the clipboard. “And Mr. Schultz is back with his ingrown toenail again—I’M JUST TELLIN’ ’ER ABOUT YER TOENAIL, MR. SCHULTZ,” he added in a raised voice. The gentleman waved his crochet hooks from the other end of the ward, smiling. “You’re all in the wars, you lot. Cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “And I suppose I’d best let the shouty one know you’re awake.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Despite her fatigue, Morrigan couldn’t help smiling a little at the thought of Jupiter telling off the Elders. Captain Dramatic always had her back.

  “More water? More juice? Doesn’t look very nice, this juice. Shall I bring you some fresh juice from home? Now we’re ready for the grand reopening and the kitchen’s running again, I can bring you just about anything! What would you like—pineapple juice? Grapefruit? Dragonfruit? Winterberry? Lemonberry? Rippleberry? Tripleberry? Peachy sunset? Unicorn surprise? Whimsical springtime slush?”

  “No, thank you.” Morrigan sighed. “And I know you made at least three of those up.”

  Jupiter had rushed into the teaching hospital mere minutes after Tim had sent for him, and he’d been fussing around her like a nervous butterfly ever since. One minute he was checking her forehead for fever, the next fetching extra blankets she didn’t need. He’d asked her three times if she wanted to move to a better bed (“The beds are all identical,” she’d told him), and twice if he should find her a spot with a nicer view (“There are no nicer views,” she’d said. “There are no windows. We’re three floors underground”). It had moved beyond amusing into tiresome, and finally graduated to maddening.

  The only time he wasn’t fretting was when they’d discussed the Courage Square events—a brief, serious, whispered conversation.

  As expected, Jupiter had already heard most of the story from Fen, but Morrigan filled in the blank spaces. He’d listened to her version carefully—twice—interrupting only occasionally to clarify a detail here and there, then had her repeat the story to him a third time, erasing all mention of Ezra Squall and stitching the gaps together with mild untruths. Together they concocted a believable enough reason for her having been in Courage Square that night (cabin fever—she’d been cooped up in the Deucalion so long, she decided to hop on the Brolly Rail for a quick zip around the city before safely returning home—only she fell off in Courage Square), and a believably patchy memory of having somehow used the Wundrous Arts in ways she hadn’t realized she was able, to destroy the Hollowpox by means she didn’t fully understand. It was all mostly true, which of course made it an excellent lie. After a couple of practice runs, Morrigan felt confident she could convince the Elders.

  Now if only she could convince Jupiter to chill out.

  She watched him pick up the chart hanging off the end of her bed, then put it back. He’d already read it twelve or thirteen times—excessive, Morrigan thought, considering all it said was BED REST in large capital letters.

  “Jupiter,” she said firmly. “Sit down, please. I want to ask you something.”

  He came over and yanked her pillows out from behind her head to fluff them up for the millionth time. “Of course. Just let me fix—”

  “SIT. DOWN. PLEASE.”

  She said it so loudly that even hard-of-hearing Mr. Schultz at the other end of the ward jumped with fright, his crochet hooks clattering onto his lap.

  Jupiter finally, reluctantly, dropped into the chair beside Morrigan’s bed, looking as if he’d quite like to leap back up again and rearrange her many flower-filled vases. She gave him a pointed look, and he sat on his hands.

  “By all means,” he said magnanimously. “Ask away.”

  She looked him in the eye. “The infected Wunimals. The ones here in the hospital. They haven’t recovered, have they? They weren’t cured when the Hollowpox died. They’re still…” She lowered her voice. “They’re still unnimals, aren’t they?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a moment to respond. “Dr. Bramble is—”

  “Don’t say it,” she snapped. “Don’t say she’s getting closer to a cure every day, Jupiter. Not unless you mean it. Not unless it’s true.”

  She glared at him, waiting, while his face transitioned through the argument inside his head. It was clear he wanted to stick with defiant optimism, but he seemed to realize that wasn’t going to fly anymore.

  “They’re… Yes. They’re still unnimals,” he conceded. “The ones that are awake.”

  “And the others?” she asked, thinking of Sofia. She curled her hands into fists around the blankets. “What will happen to them when they wake up? Will they be… hollow?”

  “We don’t know for certain.”

  “But if you had to guess?”

  Jupiter didn’t answer that. He didn’t need to. They sat
quietly for a while, feeling the weight of the conversation settle.

  “I wasn’t lying to you,” he said at last. “Those other times. Dr. Bramble really was close. Or at least… she thought she was.” He paused, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, collecting himself. “We’re not giving up, Mog. We’re going to bring them back.”

  When he met her gaze, his bright blue eyes were wide and earnest, but she could tell he was trying to persuade himself as much as her. She nodded and gave a small, tight-lipped smile that she hoped was convincing.

  “I have something for you too, by the way,” he said, glancing at the things surrounding her bed. “Not quite as extravagant as Dame Chanda’s bouquet, but I think you’ll like it. I had to become a burglar to get it.”

  Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “You what?”

  “Mm.” He ruffled up his hair and shrugged, obviously trying to look casual. “Decided to try it last night. Something different.”

  “You decided to try… becoming a burglar,” Morrigan repeated, and she couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

  “Yeah, just this one time. Won’t be making a habit of it,” Jupiter said, sniffing, then added, “Mind you, I was exceptionally good.” As he spoke, he hopped up lightly and ran to fetch his coat, reaching into an inner pocket and retrieving something Morrigan had thought she might never see again. He held it out to her.

  “Emmett,” she whispered, taking the old, battered-looking toy rabbit with both hands.

  Something squeezed in her chest.

  Emmett. Her friend.

  Morrigan looked up at Jupiter. “You went all the way to Jackalfax. And broke into Crow Manor.” Her voice cracked. It was hard to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Just… just to steal him for me?”

  Jupiter smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, technically I didn’t steal him. He belongs to you.”

  Morrigan was silent for a moment. She stared at the rabbit, blinking fiercely, and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Dear old thing, isn’t he?” Jupiter reached out to tug at one of Emmett’s floppy ears but stopped when Morrigan instinctively snatched the rabbit away. He held his hands up. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine, it’s just…” She floundered for a moment, suddenly embarrassed. “He’s so old, that’s all. He’s falling apart.”

  “May I have him for a moment?” Jupiter asked, and hastily added, “I’ll be gentle.”

  Morrigan hesitated. “Um… all right.”

  Jupiter took Emmett from her with tender care. He cradled the rabbit, studying his seams and stitches, the patches where his yellowing white fur had been worn away by too much love, the orphaned thread of cotton on his backside where a fluffy tail used to be, before it came off in the wash and disappeared who knew where.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “What?”

  “You love this rabbit.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I already know that.”

  “You don’t, though. Not the full story.” Jupiter sat down again in the chair beside her bed, still holding the rabbit as gently as if it were a real unnimal. “You think you love him because you’ve had him since you were a baby. You think you love him because he listened to eleven years of your secrets and stories. And because he was always just the right size for tucking into the crook of your neck as you fell asleep, for hiding on the seat beside yours at the dinner table.”

  Morrigan smiled. She did used to sit Emmett next to her at dinner sometimes. Nobody knew because nobody ever sat on her side of the table, and of course if Grandmother had spotted “that dirty old thing” in the dining room, she’d have pitched a fit. But it made Morrigan feel like somebody was on her side to have him there, even if he couldn’t speak up for her.

  “You think you love him because of his soft floppy ears and his dear little waistcoat.”

  Emmett wasn’t wearing a waistcoat… but he used to. Just like he used to have a fluffy tail.

  But Jupiter, of course, could see the missing waistcoat. Just as he could see Morrigan’s bad dreams and worries, and the hollowed-out Wunimals, and Dame Chanda’s perpetual kindness.

  “And because of his button-black eyes,” he continued. “Because they remind you of your own black eyes. And because he’s the only friend you had when you were small. But that’s not why you love Emmett so much.”

  Morrigan shivered slightly, though the room was warm.

  “You love him,” Jupiter continued in a soft, low voice, “because every fiber of his fur, every stitch in his seams, every fluff of his stuffing is infused with—is positively glowing from the love of the person who owned him before you. His very first owner.”

  Something in the back of Morrigan’s brain clicked, like a key turning in a lock.

  Jupiter held the rabbit closer, examining every inch of fur, a frown deepening the crease between his eyebrows. “Her handprints are all over him. Cloudy silver smudges. Big hands, little hands. Hands a bit like yours. Twenty-odd years of them, layer upon layer.”

  Morrigan held her breath, so reluctant was she to miss a single whispered word. Jupiter at last lifted his eyes from Emmett’s dusty little face to her pale one.

  “Mog,” he said quietly. “I think, perhaps, this rabbit belonged to your mother.”

  Somehow Morrigan knew instantly that he was correct. A feeling of warmth spread from her chest all the way out to her fingertips, and she reached for Emmett, smoothing down his ears gently.

  It really was a most extraordinary knack.

  Morrigan didn’t sleep that night. She wanted to. She could have happily spent another week unconscious. But her mind wouldn’t turn itself off.

  Thoughts of her mother had turned to thoughts of her family here in Nevermoor. The family she’d found at the Hotel Deucalion. The friends she counted as sisters and brothers, and the new friends she’d made in unexpected places.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Sofia, and about Jupiter’s face when he’d admitted there was no cure in sight. Even with everything she’d tried to do these past few days—taking the Gossamer Line to Ylvastad, negotiating with Wintersea, arguing with Jupiter, everything that had happened in Courage Square—so many Wunimals were still in danger. Her friend was still in danger.

  Mostly, though, Morrigan was thinking about what Anah had told her. After visiting hours were over and Jupiter went home, Anah had crept onto the dimly lit ward to visit her.

  “Morrigan,” came her whisper in the dark, then a quiet “Ow!” as she bumped into something.

  “Anah?” Morrigan whispered back, sitting up in bed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shh,” said Anah, tiptoeing over. Morrigan scooted sideways to make room for her. “I heard Nurse Tim telling your patron you’d woken up, so I volunteered to stay late so I could come see you. Normally junior scholars aren’t allowed to be on duty past six o’clock, but I think they’re getting desperate. Can I have a bit of your chocolate? I’m famished, haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast.”

  “Help yourself,” said Morrigan, pushing the half-eaten box into her hands. “Is everything all right?”

  Anah didn’t answer at first. She nibbled at a strawberry whip, looking anguished. Finally she whispered, “I’m glad you’re awake. We had a little party here for you, hoping it might wake you up, we were all so worried. What you did… it was really brave. And things are better now, without any new Hollowpox patients coming in. I just wish…” She paused to take a bite of a peppermint cream. In the dim light, Morrigan thought she saw tears shining in her eyes. “I wish there was something we could do for the ones who are already here.”

  “I know,” Morrigan said darkly. “I thought—”

  But she didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. I thought I’d cured them? Or worse—I thought Ezra Squall had cured them? It seemed outrageously foolish now, to have believed he would keep his word.

  “Jupiter said they’re not giving up,” she went on. “They’re
still looking for a cure.”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Anah. “I’m sure Jupiter and Dr. Bramble will keep looking for as long as it takes. But Dr. Lutwyche wants the Hollowpox task force to disband. As far as he’s concerned, the threat is over. He’s furious about all the space and time and resources the unnimals—I mean the Wunimals—are still taking up. Sorry.” She winced a little at her slip of the tongue. “He wants things back to normal, and Morrigan… you know I want the Wunimals to be all right again, but… they’re just not. Almost three-quarters of the teaching hospital is a quarantine zone now. More of the infected are waking up every day and it’s overcrowded and unhygienic and… well, it smells like a—”

  “Don’t say it—”

  “—zoo, I’m sorry, but it does!” Her face flushed but she met Morrigan’s glare defiantly, continuing in a fierce whisper. “Listen. All the medical staff and assistants were called to a meeting this afternoon. This is strictly confidential, but… it was about what happens next.”

  “And? What happens next?”

  “Please don’t tell anyone I told you. There’s nothing you can do, I just thought you’d want to know in case… in case you wanted to say goodbye to your friend. The foxwun, what’s her name?”

  “Sofia.” Instantly, Morrigan’s eyes prickled. “Is she awake? Is she…”

  She couldn’t finish that question, but Anah nodded miserably, and she had her answer. Not a foxwun anymore, then.

  Morrigan swallowed painfully. “What do you mean, say goodbye?”

  “They’re going to start moving them tomorrow, so we can begin a deep-clean and get the hospital fully operational again. The Wunimals Minor are all still asleep, they’ll be moved to their own special ward until we know exactly how they’ve been affected. Dr. Bramble is putting together a small team to care for them.”

  “And the Majors?”

  “Some of them will go to the unnimal husbandry facilities in the Practicalities Department here on Sub-Three—”

  “What?” Morrigan shrieked. Anah’s hand shot out to cover her mouth, but Morrigan pulled it away and whispered, “Like farm unnimals?”