She pointed to the white middle circle. “This bit represents the Arcane. Barely a third as many members as the Mundane, but just as important and—some people would say—twice as powerful. Engaging in private-facing arts, acts, and services, comprising knacks based predominantly in the magical, supernatural, and esoteric disciplines—your witches, your oracles, your psychic mediums, your sorcerers, and so on. They’re usually the first line of defense in protecting the Society, the city, and the Free State from forces that wish to harm. Their motto is If Not for Us, You’d All Be Speaking Zombie.”
“What’s the black circle for?” asked Cadence, pointing to the center of the chart.
“Oh…” Miss Cheery stared at the poster and shrugged, as if she’d never really thought about it. “That’s just meant to represent the Society as a whole.”
“When do we find out which school we’re in?” asked Thaddea, sitting up as straight as possible in her beanbag. She cracked her knuckles, looking keen to start protecting the Free State from forces that wish to harm.
“Unbutton your coats,” Miss Cheery instructed, “and pull out your shirtsleeves.”
They did so, and Morrigan noticed for the first time that while most of them were wearing gray shirts, the same as hers… two among them were wearing white.
“Ah, there you go,” said Miss Cheery. “So my fellow graysleeves are Anah, Arch, Mahir, Hawthorne, Morrigan, Thaddea, and Francis. And our Arcane whitesleeves are Lambeth and uh… um”—she looked down at her piece of paper, running her finger down the list of names—“Cadence! Right. That makes sense. Cadence is a mesmerist, you see, and—”
“Who’s Cadence?” asked Francis.
Miss Cheery nodded to where Cadence sat glaring stormily at them. The entire unit—except for Morrigan—turned to her with looks of surprise, as if they’d only just noticed she was sitting there. (They had only just noticed she was sitting there.)
“Hmm,” said Miss Cheery, writing herself a little note. “Yes. We’re going to have to do something about that. Anyway, Cadence is a mesmerist, and Lambeth is a radar—which is a very specific type of oracle—more short-term forecasts than long-range prophecies. Those are two rare knacks, even in the Arcane Arts. We’re lucky to have you in our unit, girls.”
Cadence looked slightly mollified by this. Lambeth was reading the posters on the walls and whispering under her breath and didn’t seem remotely interested in the conversation. She gave a small, quick smile as though someone had said something funny, then frowned, and then brightened again. Morrigan watched her closely. If Lambeth was a radar, she was obviously tuned to an entirely different frequency from everyone else.
The rest of the unit was split between those stealing surreptitious glances at Morrigan and those who were outright staring at her. She knew what they were thinking, because she was thinking precisely the same thing.
Why was she in the School of Mundane Arts, when Cadence and Lambeth were in the Arcane? What was so mundane about being a Wundersmith?
“Are you any good, miss?” asked Thaddea, licking chocolate off her fingers and changing the subject altogether. “On the tightrope?”
That was a rude question, thought Morrigan… and not a very clever one, since Miss Cheery was obviously good enough to get into the Wundrous Society. She suspected Thaddea was only asking because she was annoyed that she wasn’t in the School of Arcane Arts. Morrigan doubted she’d enjoyed the phrase just as important and twice as powerful.
“Pretty good, yeah,” Miss Cheery said with a shrug. “I’ve never been a conductor before, though, so I expect I’ll be lousy at that, at least to begin with. Go easy on me while I learn the ropes, all right?”
With those words, she smiled directly at Morrigan, and Morrigan couldn’t help smiling in return. She already liked Miss Cheery. Feeling braver, she put her hand up. “Miss, what exactly is a conductor?”
“Oh yeah.” She slapped herself gently on the forehead, laughing. “Only forgot the most important bit, didn’t I? Every new unit in the Wundrous Society has a conductor, who stays with them for their junior scholar years. My job is to get you where you need to be. I obviously mean that in a practical, day-to-day way—I will physically transport you to and from Wunsoc, as the conductor of this Hometrain.
“But in a broader sense, I’m here to help you get where you need to be by the end of your junior years, a sort of… guide, I suppose. Here to help you navigate your Wunsoc education. If there’s anything you need for your classes, any special equipment or kit or anything, I’ll make sure you have it. I’ve already put in a big order to the Commissariat this week.” She checked off an imaginary list on her fingers. “Boxing gloves, fireproof armor, a full set of kitchen knives, a sensory deprivation tank… you’re an interesting lot, aren’t you?”
Laughter rippled gently through the unit. Morrigan looked at Hawthorne and grinned. This was really it; it was really happening. The first day of the rest of their lives. She couldn’t wait to start.
“I’ll be working with each of you,” Miss Cheery continued, “and your patrons, and the Scholar Mistresses, to make sure you have a schedule of classes designed to maximize your potential as Wundrous Society members—and as well-rounded human beings and citizens of the Free State. To help you perfect your knacks, but also to polish the many other gifts you bring to the world. Including—no, especially—your good hearts and brave spirits. And I hope more than anything that we can all be friends. It seems the most sensible option, since you’re stuck with me for the next five years,” she finished, beaming.
If anyone else had talked about her “good heart” and “brave spirit” with a look of such glowing approval, Morrigan might have made gagging noises. But there was something about Miss Cheery that made her want to simply sit quietly and listen closely to every word she said.
“Right, then,” said the conductor, clapping twice. “Time to get you where you’re going. It’s orientation time, and you’ve got a VIP tour with Paximus Luck, you lucky ducks!”
“No WAY,” said Hawthorne, his face lighting up like this had just turned into the best day of his life. “Paximus Luck? For real?”
“For real,” said Miss Cheery, grinning.
“The real, actual Paximus Luck? Plucky?” Mahir clarified. “The famous master illusionist slash stealth prankster slash vigilante street artist?”
“The very same.”
Mahir and Hawthorne exchanged awestruck grins.
Morrigan had no idea who Paximus Luck was. Must be a Nevermoor thing, she thought.
“But I thought his identity was a secret?” said Cadence.
“Yeah, well, he’s a lot less fussy about that than you’d imagine,” said Miss Cheery. “At least inside Wunsoc. Pax gives the tour to new scholars every single year; he’s been doing it for decades.” The conductor jumped up from her seat and ran to the front of the carriage, where she took command of a series of levers and buttons. The engine gave a great groan and thrummed into life. “You just wait. He always does an epic first-day trick for the newest unit. Last year he made a herd of woolly mammoths stampede out the front doors of Proudfoot House and then disappear into the forest, like ghosts. Just an illusion, of course, but still—it was cool.”
“Wow,” breathed Arch.
“Right, let’s get going or you’ll be late for the best day of your life,” Miss Cheery called back over her shoulder. “Any more questions?”
Hawthorne stuck his hand straight up in the air.
“Miss, can we get capes?”
CHAPTER FIVE
DEARBORN AND MURGATROYD
Proudfoot Station. Oldest Wunderground station in Nevermoor,” announced Miss Cheery. “Most people don’t even know it’s right here on the Wunsoc campus, in the middle of the Whingeing Woods.”
Hometrain 919 emerged from the Wunderground tunnel into the bustling, buzzing brightness of the loveliest train station Morrigan had ever seen. She counted six platforms, connected by picturesque redbrick footbridges
covered in climbing ivy, just like the vines that crept up the walls of Proudfoot House. There were polished wooden benches and small glass-walled waiting rooms. The station was surrounded by thick green forest, and the trees curved protectively over the top of it, forming a natural domed canopy. It was still early—the sky was a cool dawn blue—but what little light there was filtered through the foliage in dappled pools. Gas lamps hanging on the platforms were just beginning to extinguish, one by one.
Despite the early hour, three more Hometrains (the numbers 918, 917, and 916 painted on their sides), a full-length steam engine, and a knot of small brass train carriages were already parked at various platforms.
Miss Cheery pulled up to Platform 1, which was teeming with Wuns, young and old, and opened the carriage door to let Unit 919 out. The platform walls were covered with sign-up sheets for all sorts of clubs, groups, bands, and societies-within-the-Society. Morrigan didn’t like the sound of the Goal-Setting and Achieving Club for Highly Ambitious Youth, which met on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings, and all day Sunday. But she thought she could probably get on board with Introverts Utterly Anonymous, which promised no meetings or gatherings of any sort, ever.
There was an air of agitated excitement at the station. People clustered together, talking in whispers. Morrigan heard snatches of passing conversation.
“…nobody knows, the Elders aren’t saying anything…”
“…one of his tricks, maybe?”
“…never done this before…”
Miss Cheery frowned, looking a little disconcerted at the scene.
“Is something wrong, miss?” asked Morrigan.
“Not really, but it’s usually a bit more festive on the first day back after break. And Paximus Luck is usually here waiting for—”
“All right, Marina?” A young man was leaning out the door of Hometrain 917, calling to Miss Cheery. He jumped down onto the platform and jogged over. “Heard you’d been made a conductor. Congratulations.”
“Cheers, Toby,” she said distractedly. “What’s going on? Where’s Plucky?”
Toby looked grim. “Nobody knows. He disappeared overnight.”
Miss Cheery made a face. “But that’s impossible.” Morrigan was struck by a sudden memory of Jupiter’s nearly identical conversation with his friend Israfel on Spring’s Eve, about Cassiel, the angel who had gone missing. “Plucky wouldn’t disappear the night before an orientation tour. He’s never missed one, not in twenty-five years.”
Another disappearance.
A vague and nameless dread began to coil in Morrigan’s stomach like a snake. It was a feeling she was familiar with. The feeling that something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong, and that she might be to blame.
Stop that, Morrigan told herself fiercely, and she shook her head as if to shake the awful thought right out of it. This is nothing to do with you. You. Are. Not. Cursed.
She wished she could get a note to Jupiter.
Miss Cheery slumped, looking hopelessly around the station. “Who’s taking the tour, then?”
“Er…” Toby had the air of someone about to deliver truly dreadful news.
Miss Cheery led Unit 919 out of the station and pointed up a wide, tree-covered path that took a straight line all the way to Proudfoot House, looking dignified in the distance. “Stay on the path, yeah? And whatever you do, do not stray into the Whingeing Woods.”
“Are they dangerous, miss?” asked Francis, peering nervously through the undergrowth.
“No, just annoying.” Miss Cheery leaned in, as if she didn’t want the trees to overhear. “Once they start moaning, they never shut up, so don’t show any sympathy. Now, listen up, you lot. It seems that, er, one of the Scholar Mistresses will be giving your tour. Ms. Dearborn or Mrs. Murgatroyd will meet you on the steps of Proudfoot House, so”—she paused, sighing heavily—“just… just behave yourselves, keep your heads down, and muddle through, all right?”
With those inspiring final words, the conductor waved them off from the station and Unit 919 began the short, now slightly frightening walk to Proudfoot House.
Morrigan thought she heard a low, resentful muttering somewhere in the trees far off to her left (“…traipsing through here with their great clodhoppers this early in the morning, no respect…”), but following Miss Cheery’s advice, ignored it. She and Hawthorne fell to the back of the group, talking quietly.
“I can’t believe it,” grumbled Hawthorne. “We nearly got to meet Paximus Luck, and he goes and disappears! Of all the rotten luck. Unless—oh!” Something dawned on his face. “Ohhhh. Wait. Do you think this is just part of the prank?”
“Maybe,” said Morrigan doubtfully. “Bit of a lame prank.”
“Nan told me all about the Scholar Mistresses,” Hawthorne continued. “She said Murgatroyd’s a proper menace.”
(There was a rustle of leaves to their right, a pitiful moan. A creaky, muffled voice from the trees: “Oof, are my branches ever aching today…”)
“That’s what Dame Chanda said too,” Morrigan said a little louder, trying to drown out the Whingeing Woods. “Sort of.”
“Nan said if I’m going to make trouble—”
Morrigan snorted. “If?”
“—then I’d better hope it’s Dearborn who finds out, not Murgatroyd. She said it’s best to make yourself as unnoticeable as possible when it comes to Murgatroyd. I told her—Nan, firstly I’m insulted that you would assume I’m going to make trouble.” He grinned sideways at Morrigan, who snorted again. “And secondly, I’ll obviously just have to make sure neither of them finds out, won’t I?”
The sky was lightening when the Wundrous Society’s newest scholars emerged from the woodland path. As they climbed the sloping, frost-covered hill toward Proudfoot House, a line of pale gold on the horizon turned to pink, blossoming in the sky like a gigantic flower and illuminating the redbrick façade.
A woman stood on the steps of Proudfoot House, waiting to welcome them. Or not welcome them, exactly, Morrigan saw as they came nearer. More… stare at them in chilly silence.
She was still and statuesque, dressed in typical Wundrous Society black, but for the gray shirtfront tucked beneath her cloak. Her hair was so blond it was almost silver, piled on top of her head in an old-fashioned topknot that made her seem much older than her young and unworn face suggested, Morrigan thought. She had the unblemished, moonlike complexion of someone who took excellent care of herself and probably spent an awful lot of time indoors. Her eyes were ice blue, her cheekbones sharp as knives. These things combined could have made her beautiful. Instead, the overall effect was of a glacier in human form: cold, hard, unassailable. She looked down at them from the top step of Proudfoot House as if they were insects she was planning to squash beneath her elegant black shoes.
This must be Murgatroyd, Morrigan thought. Remembering the advice Nan had given Hawthorne, she tried to shrink back and make herself unnoticeable.
“Good morning, Unit 919,” said the woman. Her voice made Morrigan think of a sheet of glass: perfectly smooth all along its surface, with a sharp edge concealed at the end. “I am Dulcinea Dearborn.”
Morrigan swallowed a small sound of surprise.
“I am the Scholar Mistress for the School of Mundane Arts,” she continued. “Yet, despite the infinite responsibilities and workload that come with such a title—and thanks to the untimely disappearance of one irresponsible buffoon—the Elders, in their wisdom, have appointed me as your tour guide today. I console myself with the knowledge that you’ll enjoy it even less than I will.
“You may call me Ms. Dearborn, or Scholar Mistress. You may not call me Mrs. Dearborn, or Miss Dearborn, or Professor Dearborn, or Mother, or Mama, or Mummy, or any other derivative thereof. I am not your parent. I am not your nursemaid. I have no time for childish problems. Should any arise, you will either take them up with your unit conductor, or squash them deep down in the pit of your soul where they shall no longer bother you. Have I made
myself clear?”
Unit 919 nodded mutely as one. After the warm, joyful welcome from Miss Cheery and the coziness of Hometrain, meeting Ms. Dearborn felt like being doused in ice water. Morrigan couldn’t help but wonder which poor, deluded scholar had ever accidentally called this arctic shelf of a woman Mummy.
“The thing you must remember above all else, scholars, is this: You. Are. Not. Important. It is the same every year: The newest unit of scholars is inducted to our ranks, the latest nine in a long and unbroken line of the Free State’s most Wundrously Wundrous individuals. You come with the baggage of a lifetime of specialness, of having been the most talented, the cleverest, the most adored and admired in your humdrum little families, schools, and communities.”
Morrigan tried not to scoff. She deeply, vehemently, wholeheartedly—but, of course, silently—disagreed with this assertion.
“And when you arrive on my doorstep,” Dearborn continued, “you expect the same treatment. You expect to be coddled and cooed over. Lauded and loved. You want all the busy, important grown-ups who walk the grounds of Wunsoc to stop in their tracks and admire you. To exclaim, ‘Oh! It’s our newest batch of little Wunders! Aren’t they all so very marvelous?’” She paused, looking at each one of them in turn, giving a sickly-sweet smile that warped into a sneer. “Well, you can forget that. Remember: YOU. ARE. NOT. IMPORTANT. Not in these hallowed halls. Nobody’s going to hold your little handies or wipe your little nosies. Everybody at Wunsoc has a job to get on with—every junior and senior scholar, every graduate, every teacher, every patron, every Elder, and every Master. That includes you. Your job is to be respectful of your betters, to do as you’re told and to constantly improve yourselves, ready for the day when—if you are lucky—you might be called on to make yourselves useful. Understand?”
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 6
