Things are ever so much worse than you know.
You’ll find that out for yourself soon enough, and when you do, you will come looking for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Call Me Mog
Not half an hour later, Morrigan stepped from a single brass railpod onto the platform for the forbidden Gossamer Line, clutching her umbrella tight with both hands to stop them shaking.
She hadn’t been certain it would work. The bank of railpods in Proudfoot House could take her to most stations, but she’d hardly dared to hope that one of them would agree to take her to a locked, abandoned platform somewhere deep in the labyrinth of Nevermoor’s Wunderground network. Not when she couldn’t even remember where it was, or how she’d managed to get there with Jupiter the first time she’d (illegally) travelled on it. Yet, here she was. All she’d had to do was ask.
Morrigan thought, perhaps, it was her two secret weapons that had sealed the deal: the new fiery-warm imprint tingling on her fingertip, and the words of Ezra Squall ringing in her head.
‘One day, you may realise how formidably you could run this city, if only you’d put in a little effort.’
The abandoned station was just as she remembered it. It had been shut down years ago, when the Gossamer Line was declared unfit for public use. The posters on the walls were faded and old-fashioned, advertising products that probably didn’t exist any more, but other than that the place was immaculate. The green tiles looked shiny and new. The wooden benches had barely been used.
She remembered what Jupiter had said on her first Christmas night in Nevermoor, when they’d travelled together on the Gossamer Line to visit Crow Manor. If anyone can ride the Gossamer Line, it’s you. He’d said it was because she was with him, but he’d lied. That was before Morrigan knew she was a Wundersmith.
That’s why she ought to be able to ride the Gossamer Line without trouble. It was a Wundrous Act, and she was a Wundersmith. It didn’t matter that she had no idea what she was doing. Wunder knew what it was doing.
So why wouldn’t her hands stop shaking?
I should have told someone, Morrigan thought, suddenly gripped by fear. I should have told Hawthorne where I was going, or Cadence. I should have told Jupiter!
But it was a hollow thought. She knew she never would have told them. They would only have tried to stop her.
Taking a deep breath, she hung her oilskin umbrella on the platform railing. It would be her anchor – a precious personal object left purposefully behind with her body, ready to tug her back into the physical realm when she was ready.
Before her last nerve could abandon her, Morrigan closed her eyes, stepped up to the yellow line, and waited for the whistle of the Gossamer train.
The first time she’d travelled this way, Jupiter had made her close her eyes, and she could understand why. It felt like travelling through a dream, while standing on a cloud made solid. But the cloud was bright as diamonds, golden-white as Wunder. And the dream was an entire universe, wild and confusing, whizzing by at high speed. It was a rush of blood to the head, so blindingly brilliant it was hard to think. And Morrigan needed to think. She covered her eyes.
The problem was … she didn’t know where to go. Where was Ezra Squall? She knew the name of his company – Squall Industries – but where in the Wintersea Republic was it? Would he even be there if she found it?
As it turned out, none of that mattered. The Gossamer Line didn’t need a map. It didn’t need to be coerced or convinced to go anywhere. The Wundrous golden-white train seemed to read her thoughts the instant she had them, and within moments it had arrived at its destination.
Morrigan stepped down from the train carriage and found herself inside a large wood-panelled room. It reminded her of some place she’d been before. The furnishings were grander and darker, the décor much statelier, and altogether it was much less of a pigsty … but it made her think of the Angel Israfel’s dressing room at the Old Delphian Music Hall. There was a large wardrobe, and an elegant sofa, and a dressing table laid out with all sorts of things. Brushes and bottles of greasepaint and little glass trinket trays.
There was a double door made of dark wood, with an unusual set of silver handles that interlocked to form a large, ornate W.
Was she back at Wunsoc?
She mustn’t have done it right.
Morrigan sighed – and had just closed her eyes to picture her brolly and call the train back – when the double doors opened and a woman entered the room, stopped, and looked at her.
It was strange. The first time Morrigan had travelled on the Gossamer, she’d been invisible to everyone at Crow Manor. Everyone except her grandmother because, as Jupiter had explained, she’d wanted Ornella Crow to see her.
Surely, then, the woman standing in front of her wearing a grand white wig and black robes should not be able to see Morrigan, because in this moment Morrigan most assuredly did not want to be seen.
And yet … the woman was definitely looking at her.
Morrigan breathed in sharply.
She knew precisely who this was. Her brain rushed to make connections, one after the other, click-click-click … and suddenly she also knew where she was. She’d never seen the place in person before, but she’d heard about it her whole life.
The W on the door didn’t stand for Wundrous.
It stood for Wintersea.
She was inside the Chancery, in the heart of Ylvastad, the capital city of the Wintersea Republic.
The Gossamer Line must have misread her intention. Or maybe – ugh, she could have smacked herself in the forehead – maybe when she’d wondered ‘where in the Wintersea Republic’ Squall was, it had simply responded in the most efficient way possible by taking her to the heart of the Republic.
Morrigan felt a little of her courage seep away. She wasn’t prepared for this.
The woman was still watching her expectantly, and she absolutely could not think what the proper thing was to do … so she bobbed an awkward half-curtsy, held up her hand in a sort-of wave and mumbled, ‘Hello … er, ma’am.’
President Wintersea blinked back at her.
She looked nothing like her official portrait, which hung in homes and schools and government buildings all over the Republic. The painting made her look stern and powerful and forbidding, but in person she had quick eyes and a pleasant, curious face – despite its thick coat of stark white makeup. She watched Morrigan as one might watch a pigeon that had flown in through the open window and made itself at home.
‘Who are you?’ she asked simply.
‘Mor— uh, Mog.’ Morrigan had been about to say Morrigan Crow, but then she realised that in the Wintersea Republic, Morrigan Crow was a girl on the Cursed Children’s Register who had died right on schedule, two and a half years ago. President Wintersea might remember, given Morrigan’s father was the State Chancellor of Great Wolfacre.
The president narrowed her eyes. ‘Moramog? Strange name.’
‘Just … just Mog. Sorry.’
‘Mmmog,’ she echoed, with considered and deliberate enunciation. ‘Still strange.’
Morrigan didn’t really know what to say, though she quite agreed. ‘Um. Yes, it is. Sorry.’
‘Why do you keep apologising?’ asked President Wintersea. ‘Dreadful habit for girls to get into, you must break it at once.’
‘Oh. Sor— I mean. Nothing. Sorry.’ Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. Why was she making such a fool of herself?
But when the president spoke again, she sounded amused. ‘Oh, I’m afraid there’s no hope for you. You’ll be apologising for things you didn’t do all your life. At least you’re good at it. Mog – it really is an appalling name, but if you insist – Mog, what are you doing in my private chambers? This is highly unorthodox. Have you come to assassinate me?’
‘Wh-what?’ Morrigan just about choked in her haste to deny the accusation. ‘No! I wouldn’t even know h—’ But she stopped, seeing President Wintersea’s e
yes twinkling. ‘You were joking.’
‘Of course I was joking. If I really thought you were here to kill me, don’t you think I’d have called for security by now?’ She tilted her head. ‘Why are you here?’
Morrigan tried to think fast. ‘I … came to talk to you.’
Wintersea raised her eyebrows. ‘People normally just send their angry letters to my office, you know. But fine. You may speak for as long as it takes me to deal with all of … this.’ She gestured vaguely at her wig, black robes, dramatic face paint and the heavy gold chain she wore around her neck – the ceremonial garb of the Chancery. Crossing the room to sit at the dresser, she kept an eye on Morrigan in the mirror. ‘Come on, then. What’s got your goat?’
This was not at all what Morrigan imagined the president of the Wintersea Republic would be like. The informality of it all had completely thrown her … not to mention the fact that she shouldn’t be there. It was Squall she needed to speak to.
‘I wanted to ask you some questions. About … about, um, Squall Industries,’ she finished, plucking a topic from the air.
‘Right,’ said Wintersea, deftly removing hairpins. ‘Fascinating. Squall Industries. How old are you, Mog?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Why in the world would a thirteen-year-old care about the machinations of the energy industry?’ As she removed the pins, she dropped them onto a ceramic tray, where one by one they landed with a clatter. Her eyes briefly met Morrigan’s in the mirror. ‘Shouldn’t you be … I don’t know. Skiving off school and setting things on fire?’
Morrigan felt a lurch in her stomach. She was skiving off school, sort of. She had been setting things on fire – quite recently, and quite publicly. Could Wintersea possibly know—
‘Unless – oh dear, you’re not one of those teenagers who cares about the state of the world? How dreadful. Help me with this, won’t you?’
Morrigan rushed forward to help her remove the heavy Chancery wig, but as she reached for the powdered white monstrosity, her hands went straight through it. She gasped. The Gossamer. How could she have forgotten? She looked up at the president, her black eyes widening in the mirror.
Wintersea’s gaze, however, was flatly unsurprised. Even expectant.
She’d laid the trap, and Morrigan had walked into it.
‘I am the president of the Wintersea Republic,’ she said, unsmilingly. ‘Don’t you think I know who you are, Morrigan Crow?’
Morrigan said nothing. She knew nothing could happen to her while she was here on the Gossamer, but still she couldn’t fight her rising panic.
She should just leave, she thought. She should think of her oilskin brolly, call for the Gossamer train and get out of there. But something in Wintersea’s steady, unflappable expression had her pinned to the floor.
‘Maud,’ the president said finally.
‘I … sorry, what?’
‘My name,’ she clarified. ‘Maud Lowry.’
‘I thought your surname was Wintersea.’
Maud laughed through her nose, just a little – short and sharp. ‘When I took the role, I inherited the title. I am Maud Lowry. My job is President Wintersea, leader of the Wintersea Party. Though the distinction rarely matters these days.’ She paused. ‘You might find the same thing happens to you, as you grow up. You are Morrigan Crow, but your title is Wundersmith. People will begin to confuse the two. You may even begin to confuse them yourself.’
Morrigan, frozen somewhere between fear and curiosity, didn’t respond. She wondered whether the woman was subtly prodding for confirmation that she was, indeed, a Wundersmith.
Maud finished removing the wig with a sigh of relief and placed it on the dressing table. She closed her eyes, massaging her scalp and ruffling her hair a little. It was maybe a couple of inches long, and a deep, rich auburn colour, messy and matted with sweat, plastered in uneven tufts against her skull. She took a handful of translucent powder from a small glass dish, sprinkled it over her head and rubbed it in vigorously, drying and smoothing her hair until it looked, if not immaculate, at least presentable.
The transformation was instant and profound. Without her white wig, she was almost ordinary. She looked like somebody’s mum. She looked like a Maud.
She began divesting herself of the President Wintersea costume, carefully, piece by piece – removing the golden chain from around her neck and locking it away in a wooden box, arranging the Chancery robes over a wooden mannequin in the corner. Beneath the endless folds of black fabric, she wore a pair of grey trousers and a pale blue jumper, soft and expensive looking. As she rolled up the sleeves, Morrigan spotted a tiny hole in one of them.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I’m the president,’ Maud said again, sounding mildly exasperated. She returned to the dressing table and scooped up a blob of white face cream from a small glass jar. She began to massage it roughly into her skin, speaking to Morrigan through the mirror while smearing away black eye makeup. ‘I have an entire government department dedicated to finding out interesting things. I know who you are and that you escaped to the Free State. I know you’re here on the Gossamer Line. I know you’re a member of the Wundrous Society. A Wundersmith. I know you brought the fireblossoms back to life and, frankly, I suspect I know precisely why you’re here.’
Morrigan swallowed. Could she possibly know about Squall’s offer?
‘The Hollowpox,’ said Maud, wiping away the face cream with a flannel until her skin was pink and clean, every trace of makeup gone. ‘You’ve come to ask for my help.’
‘I – no,’ Morrigan began haltingly, and Maud’s face snapped upwards. She spun around on the stool to look at her directly, eyes narrowed again with suspicion.
‘No? Then why are you here?’
‘No, I meant … yes. That’s why I’m here.’ What else could she say? ‘I’ve come to ask for your help. Er, please.’
‘Awful business,’ Maud said quietly. A line creased her forehead. ‘We didn’t call it the Hollowpox, of course. We didn’t really call it anything at all. The Wunimals have always just got on with things, you see. Kept themselves to themselves. When they finally reached out, well …’ She pursed her lips, looking away. ‘I’ll only say that if they’d involved us sooner, we could have done more. The cure came too late for too many.’
‘Cure?’ Morrigan felt her heart leap into her throat. ‘You have a cure?’
‘Of course. We’re the Wintersea Party. We have the greatest scientists and innovators and thinkers in the realm at our disposal.’ Maud threw the flannel into a laundry basket.
A cure. The Wintersea Party had an actual cure for the Hollowpox, and it came without any of Squall’s strings attached. Had the Gossamer Line known that, somehow? Was that why it had brought her here instead, and allowed Maud to see her? Morrigan felt she could burst into song.
‘Thank you, President Wintersea,’ she effused, unable to keep the relief from showing on her face. ‘I can’t tell you how this is—’
‘Morrigan—’
‘Honestly, I don’t know how to thank you. This means—’
‘Morrigan, stop. Stop. STOP.’ Maud stood, holding her palms up to stem the flow of gratitude. ‘This means nothing. I can’t just … give it to you. I’m sorry, it doesn’t work like that.’ She sounded genuinely regretful. ‘I know it took courage to come here. It was a noble thing to do, but—’
‘I don’t understand.’ Morrigan said quietly. ‘You said you have a cure.’
Maud nodded. ‘We do.’
‘But you don’t want to share it.’
‘It’s not a question of what I want.’
‘Why, then?’ She felt anger and confusion bubbling up inside her. ‘Why can’t you help us? Just because the Wintersea Republic and the Free State are supposed to be enemies? That’s not real life, that’s not even real people, it’s just governments.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It is that simple!’ Morrigan insisted. ‘Wunimals a
re turning into unnimals. People are dying. It’s always simple when people are dying, you either save them or you don’t!’
‘Am I suddenly the prime minister of the Free State? I don’t wish to sound callous but, politically speaking, your epidemic isn’t our problem.’
‘Politically speaking, it is your problem! It came from your Republic, didn’t it?’
Maud leaned back in her chair and surveyed her with cool surprise.
‘Why would you believe such a thing?’ she asked in a level voice. ‘All borders between the Republic and the Free State are closed. How could this disease have entered one from the other?’
Morrigan stared at her. Was it possible that President Wintersea didn’t realise how porous her own borders were? That people were smuggling Wunimals and humans across them on a regular basis?
She couldn’t be that uninformed.
‘I just meant … nobody’s ever heard of this disease in the Free State,’ Morrigan mumbled, tiptoeing herself backwards out of what felt like a trap, ‘but you said you’ve had it here in the Republic before. I thought maybe that meant … it could have come from here. I guess that was stupid, sorry.’
The ‘sorry’ was deliberate this time. Morrigan chose her words carefully, making herself small and unthreatening, a mouse before a lioness.
Maud steepled her fingers together and held them to her lips, looking thoughtful. ‘I’m not unsympathetic, Morrigan. It’s a terrible and dangerous disease, but a decision like this – to offer aid to a state that considers itself our enemy – must be made by my entire government, and I’m afraid the Wintersea Party is something of a dragon. A big, weighty old beast that can be difficult to reason with and impossible to steer. They’ll never agree to help the Free State without some sort of quid pro quo. A deal,’ she clarified, noting Morrigan’s look of confusion.
‘But they’re your party,’ Morrigan pointed out. ‘Aren’t you the one with the power?’
Maud stiffened slightly and cast her a wary, calculating look.
Morrigan rushed on, worried she’d said something rude. ‘I just mean … well, you’re the president, after all. Shouldn’t they do what you say?’
Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow: Nevermoor 3 Page 33
