Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  “I think it’s—ugghhhh.” He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and his body convulsed as if about to purge itself.

  “Retreat!” called Morrigan. “Hawthorne, try taking a step backward.”

  “I can’t—I can’t, I’m gonna be—” He covered his mouth with his hands, swaying again.

  “Come BACK, you idiot!” shouted Cadence.

  Hawthorne forced his feet to take one shaky step backward, then another, and Morrigan saw the tension instantly leave his body. He stood up straight, took another step back, then turned and ran the rest of the way.

  “That was horrible,” he said, brushing his hair back from his pale, clammy face. He still looked a little green around the gills. “Who’s next?”

  “Think I’ll pass, thanks,” said Cadence, looking deeply underwhelmed.

  Hawthorne glared at her. “No way. If I did it, you two are doing it.”

  She scoffed. “No chance.”

  “I bet you can’t get farther than I did.”

  “I bet I don’t care.”

  “I bet you’re too chicken.” Hawthorne made clucking noises and pretended to flap his wings.

  Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’ll go. Here, Cadence—hold the map.” She marched down the cobbled alley until a ripple of nausea stopped her in her tracks. She waited, unsure whether she was going to fall over, or faint, or vomit all over her shoes. Or all three.

  But something drew her onward, through the sickening haze—some instinct or impulse she couldn’t explain. She’d been thinking all lesson about that night in Bohemia, and the rotten-smelling alley that had led her and Jupiter to the Old Delphian. More than anything, she felt a burning curiosity to know how far the lane would let her go, what was at the end of it, and what might happen if she just… pushed through….

  She took another couple of steps, then had to lean forward, hands on knees, and wait for the second awful, unbalancing wave of nausea to pass.

  “You can come back now,” called Hawthorne from behind her. “You’ve already gone farther than I did.”

  But despite the overwhelming revulsion she felt at the thought of going any farther, Morrigan took another tentative step. This lane was hiding something. She felt a tingle in her fingertips. And there was something else—voices somewhere up ahead. Indistinct at first, and then—

  “…and now we’ve got the bleedin’ Stealth on our tails. Never stay on schedule at this rate…”

  The Stealth. Had she heard that right?

  Morrigan paused, straining to hear the rest, trying to control her urge to vomit. She had to see what—who—was hiding down this lane. She pushed ahead even as her body shook, even as behind her Hawthorne and Cadence shouted, “Come back! What are you doing?”—and finally, just as Morrigan was certain she was about to bring up her lunch all over the cobblestones, she launched forward, pushing through an invisible wall of resistance… and felt her nausea disappear. Just like that.

  She looked back. Hawthorne and Cadence were gone. The light at the end of Devilish Court was gone; it was like the lane had reversed itself, and instead of looking ahead into a black tunnel, the blackness was behind her.

  Morrigan was standing at the mouth of the alley, on the edge of a large square she’d never seen before. The ground was rough and uneven, and thick tufty grass grew in great swollen patches where the paving stones had long ago broken and never been fixed. The square was set up like a makeshift market, dirty and sprawling, with old canvas tents and tables for stalls. They were empty, as if an event had just ended, or hadn’t yet begun. The place had an air of quiet desolation. The back of Morrigan’s neck prickled.

  “It’ll go for a lot more than that,” came a woman’s gruff voice from inside a nearby tent. “Just hold it for a few more days, until the big—”

  “I need a buyer now,” a man’s voice interrupted in an urgent whisper. “This thing’s a proper rarity, but I can’t hold on to it forever, it’s a menace. Look what it did to me—I’ll be lucky if that’s not infected.”

  Morrigan felt exposed, standing in the near-deserted square, and she drew back into the shadow of the alley. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach that had little to do with the nauseating Tricksy Lane.

  “I told you,” the woman said. “Be patient. If it’s as good a specimen as you say—”

  “It is.”

  “—then it’ll fetch a good price at the next auction, and your reputation will be made. Provided you can deliver again in the autumn lots.”

  Morrigan felt something drip onto her forehead and automatically wiped it off. Her fingers came away black as ink. She looked up and saw that she was standing beneath the shadow of a large wooden arch. A man was perched at the top of a tall ladder, holding a paintbrush in one hand and a tin of black paint in the other, painting a sign on the arch that read:

  THE GHASTLY MARK

  The painter looked down at that moment, his eyes widening as he spotted Morrigan.

  “Oi!” he shouted, and the tin he was holding plummeted to the ground with a clatter, spraying black paint across the cobbles. Morrigan jumped as it splashed her trousers. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

  She didn’t hang around to answer him. The painter hurried down the ladder, nearly tumbling off in his haste to get to her, but Morrigan was faster. She turned and pelted down the tunnel-like alley, back the way she’d come, breaking through the invisible barrier halfway down, plunging headfirst into a physical sensation so sickening she felt it might be the end of her. She pushed on, running through the revulsion without slowing down. A light emerged up ahead and, seeing Hawthorne’s and Cadence’s shocked faces, Morrigan ran even faster, shouting at them as she reached the mouth of Devilish Court.

  “RUN!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FIRE AND ICE

  Morrigan raced ahead, listening for footfalls behind her. She led Hawthorne and Cadence from the darkness of the alley into the bright sunlight of Old Town, weaving through street traffic and pedestrians and never slowing, never stopping until they reached the gates of Wunsoc, breathless and exhausted, but safe. If the man had followed Morrigan out of Devilish Court, they’d lost him somewhere along the way.

  “What was that about?” demanded Hawthorne, bent double and clutching his sides. “What are we running from?”

  Morrigan didn’t know how to answer. A man with a paintbrush? She couldn’t say exactly what it was about the hidden square that had been so deeply unsettling, but that chill on the back of her neck hadn’t gone away, even though she was hot from running. She told Hawthorne and Cadence everything she’d seen and heard, and they looked just as puzzled as she felt.

  “The Ghastly Mark?” said Cadence. “Do you mean the Ghastly Market?”

  “That could be it,” said Morrigan. “Maybe he wasn’t finished painting the sign.”

  Cadence’s eyes widened. “That’s not good.”

  Hawthorne made a face. “Oh, come on, Cadence. You don’t seriously believe in the Ghastly Market?”

  “You don’t?”

  “What’s the Ghastly Market?” asked Morrigan.

  “What’s all this?” said Mildmay, arriving just as the Courage Square clock struck three in the distance.

  “Oh, um…” Morrigan faltered. She wanted to ask Mildmay about what she’d seen, but two things immediately came to mind: firstly, that they’d strayed into the West Quarter, which was supposed to have been out of bounds. And secondly, that she’d completely ignored his three-step plan for dealing with Tricksy Lanes. How could she explain that she’d replaced STEP TWO: RETREAT with her own STEP TWO: KEEP PUSHING THROUGH AND STICK YOUR NOSE IN WHERE IT’S NOT WELCOME EVEN THOUGH THIS IS DEFINITELY AGAINST THE RULES? “Nothing,” she finished lamely.

  Mildmay glanced from her to Hawthorne and Cadence, looking suspicious. “I thought I heard someone mention the Ghastly Market?”

  Morrigan blanched. “No—well, yes. It’s a funny story, act
ually—”

  “Er, yeah, my brother Homer’s been teasing me all year,” said Hawthorne quickly, cutting Morrigan off before she could say anything else. He flashed her a look. “He says, now that I’m in the Society, the Ghastly Market will be after me. But he’s just jealous because he doesn’t have a knack.”

  The young teacher’s expression softened into something like amusement. “The old traditions continue, I see! Passing down the urban legend through the generations.” He looked past Hawthorne. “Ah—there you are!” he called out to the rest of the unit, who were trudging up the hill. Mildmay signaled the guard stationed at the Wunsoc entrance, the gates groaned open, and he ushered everyone up the long drive toward Proudfoot House.

  “What’s an urban legend?” asked Morrigan.

  She, Hawthorne, and Cadence had all hung toward the back of the group and surrounded Mildmay, while the others swarmed ahead, chatting happily and reenacting their successful Tricksy Lane navigations. “Oh, it’s just a story that people tell each other, repeated so often that it becomes an accepted truth. In this case, it’s a silly myth told to frighten young Wunsoc scholars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t pay it any heed.”

  “Told you,” Hawthorne said to Cadence. “It’s not real.”

  “It’s real,” Cadence insisted. “My mum knows a lady whose great-aunt was taken for the Ghastly Market. They never saw her again.”

  Mildmay gave a deep, reluctant sigh and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Well, I suppose the Ghastly Market itself might have been real enough many years ago. It was supposedly a black market—a secret, illegal trading place where you could buy almost anything you can think of—weapons, exotic unnimal parts, human organs, outlawed sorcery ingredients…”

  “Even Wunimals,” said Cadence.

  “You could buy Wunimals?” Morrigan repeated, horrified. “That’s awful.”

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” said Cadence. “And not just Wunimals—centaurs, unicorns, dragon eggs, all sorts. Until the authorities shut it down, of cour—”

  “Magnificats?” Morrigan interrupted. “What about Magnificats?”

  Mildmay looked at her oddly. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  She was thinking about Dr. Bramble’s missing cub, of course, but Fenestra also came to mind. The idea of stubborn, grouchy, loyal, overprotective Fen being put up for sale—of some foolish person actually trying to own Fenestra the Magnificat—made Morrigan want to kick something.

  When she’d first come to Nevermoor, meeting Fen with her shaggy gray fur and attitude problem had been a shock, because Morrigan had seen Magnificats before—in the news—but those were very different. Back in the Republic, President Wintersea famously had six Magnificats pulling a carriage… silent, obedient creatures with sleek black fur and studded collars.

  In light of this new information, Morrigan couldn’t help but wonder where those Magnificats had come from in the first place. Might they have been purchased on the black market? Somehow turned from intelligent, independent creatures like Fen into little more than well-trained transport?

  “I’ve heard people say,” said Cadence, talking more quietly now, “you could even buy a knack; that the Bonesmen would come and kidnap Wundrous Society members and steal their knacks to sell at the Ghastly Market.”

  “The Bonesmen?” Morrigan asked. “What are they?”

  Mildmay chuckled. “The Skeletal Legion, they’re also called.” He rolled his eyes. “Proper bogeyman stuff. Supposedly they used to emerge from dark, lonely places where carcasses were plentiful—graveyards, battlefields, riverbeds, you know—spontaneously assembling themselves from the jumbled leftovers of the dead.”

  “That’s what Homer always says too,” said Hawthorne, his lip curling into a bitter half-smile. “To be careful if I smell salt water or rotting meat, or—”

  “Or if you hear the click-clacking of bones?” Mildmay laughed again. “Yes, when I was in school kids used to terrorize each other with stories about gangs of Bonesmen coming to snatch them in their sleep, leaving nothing behind but a trail of bones. I told you: It’s bogeyman stuff. Monsters under the bed. It’s not real, and it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  But Morrigan wasn’t laughing. She had a sudden, swooping feeling like she’d missed a step going downstairs.

  As Mildmay jogged ahead to talk to the others about their Tricksy Lane practice, she slowed down, holding Hawthorne and Cadence back.

  “I don’t think the Bonesmen are just a legend,” she said quietly. There were goose bumps up and down her arms. “I… I think I saw one.”

  “You think you what?” said Cadence.

  “Where?” asked Hawthorne. “When?”

  “A while ago, down at the docks. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it was just like Mildmay described.” She shivered a little, remembering the strange assembly of bones and debris, the grotesque wrongness of the thing.

  “So if the Bonesmen are real…” began Hawthorne, a frown creasing the spot between his eyes.

  “Then the Ghastly Market must be real, too,” finished Morrigan.

  She thought about Cassiel, Paximus Luck, and Dr. Bramble’s cub. If there was a chance of finding any of them, maybe the Ghastly Market was it.

  And if her hunch was right, she needed to return to Devilish Court and find out.

  He didn’t need to, but Mildmay walked Unit 919 all the way to Proudfoot Station, where Miss Cheery was waiting to take them home. She was sitting in the doorway of their Hometrain, holding a cup of tea with both hands, eyes closed as she soaked up the afternoon sunshine filtering through the canopy above.

  “Oh! Hello, Marina,” called Mildmay. There was a note of surprised nonchalance in his voice that Morrigan could tell he was faking. He pushed his bangs back out of his eyes, then bounced on his toes and swung his arms slightly awkwardly. Morrigan thought she could see a faint blush in his cheeks, and she nudged Hawthorne, smirking.

  “He’s dreaming,” Hawthorne whispered in reply.

  Miss Cheery cracked one eye open. “Hello, Henry. All right, you lot? How was Old Town?” She stood up, pouring what was left of her tea out onto the train tracks. “Everyone ready—”

  The conductor was interrupted by a horrendous sound that was half-scream, half-sob. Morrigan turned toward the noise and was instantly knocked to the ground by what looked—and felt—like a human cannonball. A maelstrom of thrashing limbs and long, mossy green hair.

  “What’d you do to him? What’d you do? ANSWER ME!”

  Morrigan recoiled as Heloise tried to claw at her face. Mildmay and Miss Cheery each grasped one of the older girl’s flailing arms and hauled her away, but Heloise fought them, still trying to lunge at Morrigan. Hawthorne and Cadence rushed to help a shell-shocked Morrigan up from the ground.

  “STOP!” shouted Miss Cheery, struggling to keep her grip.

  “She knows something,” spat Heloise. “She did something to him! Where is he? Where’s Alfie?”

  “Heloise, calm yourself,” said Mildmay. “What are you talking about, what’s happened to Alfie?”

  Heloise sobbed, gulping air down into her lungs. “Look—LOOK!”

  She pulled away and thrust a note under Mildmay’s nose. Mildmay read it aloud, looking increasingly confused. “‘I can’t stay any longer. I don’t deserve to be in the Society. Please find my W pin enclosed. I hereby withdraw from my unit. Regards, Alfie Swann.’ But, Heloise… what can this possibly have to do with Morrigan? If Alfie wanted to leave, then—”

  Heloise choked out a sob. “Alfie didn’t want to leave! He would never leave without telling me. He loves me! He didn’t write this stupid note.”

  Mildmay looked sympathetic. “I’m sure it might seem like—”

  “He didn’t write it,” Heloise insisted. “Alfie doesn’t know what hereby means. He can barely spell his own name. He didn’t write this, he didn’t!”

  Miss Cheery took the note from Mildmay and look
ed it over. “That still doesn’t explain what this has to do with Morrigan.”

  “There’s something wrong with her, everybody knows it!” Heloise screeched, her face streaked with tears. Morrigan flinched away. Everyone on the platform was staring at them now. “She’s done something to him, I know she has. She’s some sort of… I don’t know what she is, but she can control people. I’ve seen her do it. She made him leave! What if she’s hurt him, what if she made him hurt himself? She’s got it in for us because of what we—because of… oh, ALFIE!” She trailed off into sobs.

  “Heloise,” said Miss Cheery. “I know how upset you must feel, but—”

  “What’s her knack?” Heloise demanded. “Nobody knows. Know why the Elders won’t tell anyone? Cos it’s something dangerous. How come all these disappearances only started happening when SHE joined the Society?”

  A sea of faces turned Morrigan’s way. A familiar creeping sensation climbed the back of her neck, and in that instant, she realized she’d been waiting for this. Since her first day at Wunsoc, since the disappearance of Paximus Luck, the cursed girl who still lived somewhere inside Morrigan had been waiting for this. The accusation.

  Miss Cheery took Heloise’s arm again, just as the whispers began.

  “Be careful,” Lambeth said quietly, but Miss Cheery didn’t hear.

  “Why don’t you come with me, Heloise?” she said in a deliberately calm, patient voice. “Come on. Let’s get you up to Proudfoot House and we’ll sort this all out. I think you need a nice cup of tea.”

  Lambeth winced. “Be careful,” she said again, this time looking right at Morrigan.

  Morrigan frowned. “What are you—”

  But Heloise was yowling like an angry cat, and wrenched her arm out of Miss Cheery’s grip. “Shut UP! Don’t you TOUCH ME!”

  Heloise drew her arm back and Morrigan barely had time to register the flash of silver in her hand before the girl had lashed out. Miss Cheery cried out in pain as Heloise sliced her right across the face with one of her throwing stars, drawing a thin, shallow line of blood.