Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  The effect should have been frightening, but somehow Morrigan wasn’t afraid. She was already in the Society, after all. The hard part was over.

  There was something almost comforting about the presence of these black-cloaked strangers staring down at her from the trees. They weren’t unfriendly, just… still.

  As Unit 919 instinctively began to make its way up the sloping drive toward the hulking redbrick building of Proudfoot House, the black-cloaked Society members broke into a quiet, murmuring chant that Morrigan recognized. It had been delivered to her at the Hotel Deucalion days earlier, written in small, careful handwriting and sealed in an ivory envelope with instructions to memorize and then burn the words:

  SISTERS AND BROTHERS, LOYAL FOR LIFE,

  TETHERED FOR ALWAYS, TRUE AS A KNIFE.

  NINE ABOVE OTHERS, NINE ABOVE BLOOD,

  BONDED FOREVER THROUGH FIRE AND FLOOD.

  BROTHERS AND SISTERS, FAITHFUL AND TRUE,

  EVER TOGETHER, THE SPECIAL AND FEW.

  It was an oath. A promise that each new Society member had to make to their unit—their eight new brothers and sisters. In joining the Society, Morrigan knew she was gaining not just an elite education and a world of opportunities, but also the thing she had craved above all else: a proper family.

  The chant followed Unit 919 all the way up the long drive, and so did their fellow Society members. They jumped down from the trees and crowded in behind the new recruits, forming a sort of guard of honor, repeating the words of the Wunsoc oath over and over.

  Their welcome to Wunsoc grew and gained momentum as Unit 919 marched farther up the drive. A band of musicians scrambled down from a tree on their right and struck up a triumphant melody. A pair of teenagers on either side of the path conjured a rainbow for them to walk beneath like a misty, ethereal archway. When at last they reached Proudfoot House, a huge elephant at the foot of the steps trumpeted their arrival like a town crier.

  And there, waiting on the wide marble steps, stood nine men and women—one with a bright ginger head—watching the arrival of their candidates with pride and delight.

  Jupiter looked as if the sun itself were shining out of his face as Morrigan ran up the steps to greet him. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, his blue eyes welling up ever so slightly. Morrigan was surprised, and rather touched, by the unexpected display of emotion. She showed her appreciation by reaching out to punch him in the arm.

  “Pathetic,” she whispered. Jupiter laughed, wiping his eyes.

  Beside Jupiter stood Hawthorne’s patron, young Nancy Dawson, her cheeks dimpling as she grinned down at her own candidate. “All right, troublemaker?”

  “All right, Nan,” Hawthorne replied, grinning.

  An older patron on Nan’s other side shushed them, frowning disapprovingly.

  “Oh, shush yourself, Hester,” Nan said good-naturedly, turning back to make a funny face at Hawthorne and Morrigan.

  Farther down the line of patrons, Morrigan spotted a man she’d have been happy never to have seen again: Baz Charlton. Baz had spent the previous year trying to thwart Morrigan’s chances in the trials and get her thrown out of Nevermoor, all while helping his own candidates to cheat.

  Baz’s candidate, the mesmerist Cadence Blackburn, stood with her arms folded across her chest. She tossed her long, braided black hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head, looking so perfectly at ease in this bizarre situation that she could almost have been bored. Morrigan was somehow both impressed and annoyed by that.

  Jupiter leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Look around, Mog. This is what you’ve worked for. Enjoy it.”

  Behind them, the Wunsoc crowd pressed in close together. They’d stopped chanting now and were chatting happily among themselves, grinning up at the newest Society members and enjoying the celebration.

  A sudden, unearthly cry rent the air and everyone looked up. A pair of dragons and their riders flew above Proudfoot House, spelling out nine names in fire and smoke across the sky:

  ANAH

  ARCHAN

  CADENCE

  FRANCIS

  HAWTHORNE

  LAMBETH

  MAHIR

  MORRIGAN

  THADDEA

  Since surviving her so-called curse and escaping to the secret city of Nevermoor exactly one year ago today, Morrigan had experienced some odd things. Seeing her own name spelled out in dragon fire was only the latest in a series of firsts, but she had to admit it was one of the better ones so far. Gasps of delight from the other members of Unit 919 told her she wasn’t alone in her astonishment. In fact, only Hawthorne (who had, after all, been riding dragons since he could walk) seemed politely unfazed.

  When the last name had turned to wisps of smoke in the sky, the riders steered their dragons away from Proudfoot House and the patrons led their scholars inside. The crowd of Wunsoc members behind them erupted into cheers and applause, waving them into the house as if they were genuine celebrities. Morrigan couldn’t help but laugh at Hawthorne, who was waving so enthusiastically back at them he had to be pulled inside by Nan, just before the huge front doors swung shut, completely extinguishing the noise outside.

  In the sudden quiet of Proudfoot House’s vast, brightly lit entrance hall, a frail voice called from the back of the room.

  “Welcome, Unit 919, to the first day of the rest of your lives.”

  There stood the three esteemed members of the Wunsoc’s High Council of Elders—Elder Gregoria Quinn, a woman whose fragile appearance Morrigan knew to be extremely deceptive; Elder Helix Wong—a serious, gray-bearded man covered in tattoos; and Elder Alioth Saga—who was, in fact, a large talking bull.

  Compared to the welcome they’d received outside Proudfoot House, the inauguration ceremony itself was brief and unexciting. The Elders said a few words of welcome. Each patron took a black cloak and draped it around the shoulders of their candidate, then fastened a little golden W pin to the collar.

  The scholars of Unit 919 recited the oath they had memorized, pledging lifelong loyalty to each other. They spoke in strong, clear voices. Nobody fluffed their lines. It was, Morrigan knew, the most important part of the ceremony.

  Then it was over. That was that.

  Almost.

  “Patrons,” said Elder Quinn at the end of the ceremony, “I’d like you to remain for a few minutes, if you please. There is an important matter we must discuss. Scholars, please wait on the steps outside Proudfoot House for your patrons.”

  Morrigan wondered if this was a normal part of the ceremony; a few curious glances between the patrons suggested it probably wasn’t. She tried to catch Jupiter’s eye as she followed her unit outside, but he didn’t look at her. His jaw was clenched.

  Outside Proudfoot House, the grounds were chilly, empty, and silent. Not a single person remained, not a scrap of evidence to suggest that the uproarious welcome they’d received just minutes ago was anything more than a collective hallucination.

  The silence stretched out between them. Except for Morrigan and Hawthorne, none of these children really knew each other. A few slightly embarrassed glances were exchanged, and there was some awkward giggling from Anah Kahlo—a plump, pretty girl with blond ringlets who, as Morrigan vividly recalled, had sliced open her patron’s abdomen during the Show Trial, removed her appendix, and stitched her back up… all while blindfolded.

  Hawthorne was, predictably, the first to speak up.

  “You know that thing you did at the Show Trial,” he began, giving Archan Tate a quizzical look, “that thing where you went around the audience and pickpocketed everyone’s stuff while we all thought you were just playing the violin?”

  “Um… yes?” Archan was a sweet-faced, almost angelic-looking boy who seemed entirely too innocent to be such a talented thief. He looked uncertainly at Hawthorne. “Sorry about that. Did I steal something of yours? Did you get it back after? I tried to make sure I gave everything back to the right people. It’s just, my patron thought
it would be—”

  “Absolutely brilliant,” Hawthorne interrupted, eyes wide with awe. “It was absolutely brilliant. We were blown away, hey, Morrigan?”

  Morrigan grinned, remembering Hawthorne’s sheer delight at the Show Trial when he’d realized Archan had pilfered his own dragonriding gloves right out of his pocket, without him noticing a thing. She’d been impressed, but Hawthorne had been positively thrilled by Archan’s knack.

  “It was amazing,” Morrigan agreed. “How did you learn that?”

  Archan flushed pink all the way to tips of his ears. He smiled shyly at Morrigan. “Oh! Um, thanks. I suppose I just sort of… picked it up.” He gave a modest little shrug.

  “Brilliant,” said Hawthorne again. “Maybe you can teach me a bit. Archan, isn’t it?”

  “Just Arch.” He shook Hawthorne’s offered hand. “Only my grandma calls me—”

  At that moment, the doors of Proudfoot House flew open with a loud bang, and Baz Charlton swept dramatically out onto the marble steps, beckoning his candidate.

  “You—what’s yer name—Blinkwell. Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

  Cadence Blackburn looked horrified. “Wh-what? Why?”

  “Did I say you could ask questions?” he said in his sneering, slurred voice. “I said, we’re leaving.”

  But Cadence didn’t move. The other patrons hurried from the house after Baz, their faces by turns fearful and furious. Every one of them was staring at Morrigan.

  She felt ripples of dread radiate through her, as if her body were a pond in which someone had just dropped a very large, very heavy stone. In that instant, she knew exactly why the Elders had kept the patrons behind. She knew exactly what—exactly who—they’d been discussing.

  Hester, the older woman who had shushed Nan earlier, marched straight over to Morrigan. Her pale face was hawkish and severe, her graying auburn hair pulled back tight against her skull. She stared down at Morrigan for several seconds, looking angry and confused.

  “How do you know?” she barked, directing the question over her shoulder at Jupiter. “Who told you?”

  “Nobody told me.” Jupiter, who had sauntered out of Proudfoot House after them, leaned casually against a pillar. He gestured to Morrigan. “I can see it. Plain as day.”

  “What do you mean see it? I can’t see anything.” Hester grabbed Morrigan’s chin forcefully, twisting her face left and right as she peered into her eyes.

  Jupiter’s demeanor changed in an instant. He rushed forward, shouting, “Oi!” but Morrigan didn’t need him to intervene; without thinking, she slapped the woman’s hand away. Hester gasped, leaning back as if burned. Morrigan glanced at Jupiter, wondering if she’d overstepped the mark, but he gave her a grimly satisfied nod.

  Anah’s patron, a young woman called Sumati Mishra, gave a weary sigh. “You know what North’s knack is, Hester. He’s a Witness. He sees things.”

  “He could be lying,” said Hester.

  Though Jupiter himself seemed untouched by the accusation, Morrigan felt herself bristle on his behalf.

  Nan Dawson was equally indignant. “Don’t be a fool, Hester,” she said. “Captain North is no liar. If he says Morrigan’s a Wundersmith—”

  As soon as Nan uttered the word, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the air around them. Wundersmith. Like the striking of a gong, the word reverberated, bouncing off the redbrick building.

  “—then she’s a… Wundersmith,” Nan finished.

  Wundersmith. Wundersmith. Wundersmith.

  The patrons seemed to flinch in unison. The other children’s faces snapped to Morrigan, wide-eyed and thunderstruck. Cadence’s eyes narrowed to slits. Morrigan had the familiar, desolate sensation of standing on a shoreline and watching her fondest dreams float out to sea, unable to haul them back.

  These were supposed to be her brothers and sisters. Loyal for life. But with a single word, they were looking at her as if she was their enemy.

  “I—I’m…” Morrigan’s throat tightened. She wanted to say something, to offer explanations or reassurances, but the truth was… she had none. She’d known for weeks what she was. The only other living Wundersmith, Ezra Squall, the evilest man who ever lived, had dropped the news on her like a bomb. And although Jupiter had tried his best to clean up the mess afterward, to explain to her what it meant, Morrigan still had no idea what it was to be a Wundersmith, and that frightened her.

  Jupiter had insisted that Wundersmith wasn’t a bad word. That it hadn’t always meant something evil. He’d told her that Wundersmiths used to be honored and celebrated—that they used their mysterious powers to protect people, even to grant wishes.

  But Morrigan didn’t know a single person in Nevermoor who agreed with him. And, having met the terrifying Ezra Squall herself, she found it hard to believe that Wundersmiths had ever been good.

  Squall commanded the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow, his own ghoulish, fiery-eyed army of hunters, horses, and hounds, which he’d mercilessly set upon Morrigan in the hope of bringing her to him. She had seen him bend iron with a flick of the wrist, create fire with a whisper, destroy her family home with a click of his fingers and rebuild it in an instant. She had seen past his mild and ordinary façade to the shadow of his true face—dark, hollow eyes, blackened mouth, and sharp, bared teeth.

  And worst of all, Ezra Squall, Nevermoor’s greatest enemy, had wanted Morrigan for his apprentice. Squall, who had built an army of monsters and tried to conquer Nevermoor. Who had massacred the brave people who stood up to him and had been in exile from the Free State ever since. Jupiter’s reassurances couldn’t erase the fact that the Wundersmith had seen something of himself in Morrigan.

  What could she possibly say to dispel the fears of her unit, when she could barely contain her own?

  Once again, only Hawthorne seemed unbothered. He already knew Morrigan was a Wundersmith. When she’d broken the news, his only concern was whether it meant she’d be exiled from the Free State, like Ezra Squall. Hawthorne had never believed for a second that his best friend was dangerous. Morrigan wished she had even an ounce of his certainty. Even in the depths of her stomach-gnawing worry, she felt a small surge of relief—not for the first time—that this strange, unflappable boy had decided to befriend her.

  “And if Jupiter says she ain’t dangerous, she ain’t dangerous,” declared Nan, breaking the weighty silence. She gave Morrigan a small, encouraging smile. It made Morrigan feel a tiny bit braver, even if she couldn’t make herself smile in return.

  Elder Quinn had emerged from Proudfoot House with Elders Wong and Saga at her side, watching the scene with quiet resignation.

  A very young patron wearing thick spectacles and blue bows in her hair stood beside Mahir Ibrahim. She placed her trembling hands on his shoulders and pulled him closer—though she didn’t look particularly capable of protecting him, or anyone—and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Elder Quinn, but how can this little girl be a Wundersmith? There are no more Wundersmiths. Or at least, there’s only one—the exiled Ezra Squall. Everybody knows that.”

  “Correction, Miss Mulryan,” said Elder Quinn. “There was only one. Now, it seems, there are two.”

  “But isn’t anyone worried about what this could mean?” demanded Hester. “North, we know what Wundersmiths are capable of. Ezra Squall showed us that.”

  Jupiter pursed his lips and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Morrigan could tell he was taking a moment to muster some patience. “Squall didn’t do the things he did because he was a Wundersmith, Hester. He happened to be a Wundersmith and a psychopath. Unfortunate combination, but… there you have it.”

  “And how’s he know that, eh?” said Baz Charlton, appealing to the Elders. “We all know what Wundersmiths do: They control Wunder. Look at this little black-eyed beast—anyone can see she’s a wrong’un. What’s to stop her using Wunder to control us?” He looked at Morrigan with undisguised hatred. Morrigan clenched her teeth; the feeling was entirely mutual.

>   “Or worse,” Hester added, “to destroy us?”

  “For goodness’ sake.” Jupiter ruffled his great ginger mane, exasperated. “She’s a child!”

  Hester scoffed. “For now.”

  “But why must she be in the Society?” asked Miss Mulryan in a timid, tremulous voice. Her face had turned three shades whiter than milk, and her small, thin fingers dug tightly into Mahir’s shoulders, as if she was worried Morrigan might whisk her candidate away in some dastardly, Wundersmith-like fashion. Mahir himself was stony-faced, frowning so deeply his eyebrows knit into one. He was nearly as tall as his patron, and together they made Morrigan think of a mouse trying to protect a wolf. “Why risk pl-placing her among… among other children?”

  Morrigan felt her face grow hot. They were speaking about her as if she were a disease.

  It was all beginning to feel a little too familiar.

  For the first eleven years of her life, Morrigan had believed she was cursed. That everything bad that ever happened—in her family, in her town, in almost the whole Wintersea Republic, where she’d grown up—was her fault. She’d learned, at the end of last year, that this wasn’t really true. But the feeling of being cursed was one she could recall keenly, and she had no desire to go through it again. She had an impulse to run down the long drive and straight through the flower-covered gates, but then she felt Jupiter’s warm, steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, you’d rather she was somewhere out there, would you?” asked Elder Saga pointedly, stamping his hooves. “On her own? Doing heaven knows what?”

  “Yes,” insisted Hester. “And so, I am certain, would every other patron and candidate here.”

  “Then they may leave,” said Elder Quinn in a cool, measured voice. Hester and the other patrons looked taken aback. Elder Quinn inclined her head. “If they wish to. These are not, after all, ordinary circumstances. I understand the gravity of this matter, and I understand your concerns. However, my fellow Elders and I have discussed this at great length, and we will not be removing Miss Crow from Unit 919. That is our final word.”