Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  The silence was broken by a weak, wheezing voice from across the hall.

  “Hurry! I can’t… hold it… much… longer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NONE SING SO WILDLY WELL

  Professor Onstald looked directly at Morrigan from where he was tied to the clock face, and gave one slow, deliberate blink of his shiny eyes.

  He’d done it again. Slowed the world to a crawl. It was as if a great cosmic giant had pressed a finger to the planet, holding it back from its normal speed of orbit.

  It was the second time in as many days that Morrigan had witnessed Onstald’s extraordinary talent. But this time… this time was so much stranger.

  Then, there had been books and papers and a clock ticking on the wall, and Mildmay, and Morrigan herself, almost frozen in time.

  Now, Morrigan somehow remained untouched by the phenomenon—as did Hawthorne, still clinging to her—while the pandemonium around them stood perfectly still. The tidal wave curled above their heads. There was a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding, stuck in the moment of splitting a giant fir tree right down its center. There were people in masks and fancy clothes everywhere she looked, unable to move, caught up in scenes of destruction they couldn’t escape. There was an iceberg—nearly as tall as the ceiling—threatening to crush everything in its path. All those stolen moments had become one enormous frozen tableau, one giant mess of a snow globe.

  “What is HAPPENING?” shouted Hawthorne, his voice echoing in the vast, silent hall. His breathing was so sharp and fierce Morrigan thought he might hyperventilate. “Did you do that? Did you make it stop?”

  “No.” She suddenly realized that in the hurried mess of Hallowmas, she’d somehow forgotten to tell Hawthorne the details of yesterday’s episode with the tortoisewun. “It’s Professor Onstald. This is his knack.”

  Hawthorne seemed to take this revelation in his stride.

  “How are we going to free them?” he asked, jumping into action. He led Morrigan out from underneath the wave, weaving a path through a clutch of masked guests who’d frozen in their attempt to make a run for it. “I could try to climb that chain up to Lambeth, and you go help Cadence, and then—”

  “No.” Morrigan stopped. “No—wait a second.”

  Lambeth’s words were repeating in her head.

  Calling. Dying. Freezing. Burning. Flying.

  Those weren’t just nonsense words that she’d been jabbering out of fear. Morrigan should have known better. The radar in Lambeth’s mind had tuned in to something. She was describing the strangeness she saw on the horizon, in the only way she could understand it.

  Calling. Morrigan had called Wunder.

  Dying. Everyone here was dying, a hundred times over in a hundred different ways.

  Freezing. Onstald had frozen time.

  That left—

  “Burning,” she whispered. “Flying.”

  And in speaking those two words aloud, Morrigan was struck by a moment of pure clarity. She knew exactly what to do, because her next steps had been laid out before her by Lambeth, the oracle.

  “Hawthorne,” she said. “Go. Help Cadence. Her platform’s nearly at the ground—climb up and untie her, and then you’ll need to carry her out of here. Go back the way we came, right out of the museum. Get as far away as you can.”

  Hawthorne shook his head. “But—you’re coming too, aren’t you?”

  “I have to help Israfel first. No time to explain.” She saw the obstinate look on his face and said more forcefully, “Hawthorne, go! Help Cadence. Onstald can’t hold on forever.”

  “But what about Lambeth, and Onstald?”

  “I’ll take care of them, just go.”

  Despite his obvious doubts, Hawthorne turned and ran as fast as he could through the mire of catastrophes, heading for Cadence.

  Morrigan looked to where Israfel was held up high by the rope tied around the joint of his wings, right between his shoulder blades.

  Step four. Burning.

  She could do this. Before Squall’s visit to the rooftop that night, Morrigan would never have believed it. But now she knew—Wunder was with her. It wanted to help her.

  She closed her eyes, picturing that spark of energy inside, the caged flame in her chest. There was no time to think too hard about it, no time to worry if it would work. She didn’t have the luxury of worry. The flickering grew brighter with Morrigan’s certainty and, opening her eyes, she exhaled fire.

  The precision of it was exhilarating—that feeling of perfect alignment with the source of her power. The rope around Israfel’s wings burned through in the exact spot she’d intended it to, but he didn’t drop. Israfel stayed aloft only because Professor Onstald’s knack was keeping him there. Her first success singing through her bloodstream, giddy with self-belief, Morrigan tried again with the rope binding his wrists, and somehow—miraculously—it worked exactly as she’d hoped. She didn’t even sear his skin.

  They didn’t have long. Morrigan could feel a tremor in the air, as if time itself was quaking. Onstald couldn’t control it much longer.

  “Israfel,” she called up to the angel in a clear, strong voice. She knew he could hear and see what was happening around him, because she’d experienced it herself in Onstald’s classroom. The world had stopped, her body had frozen, but her mind had been unaffected. “Listen to me. You’re going to unfreeze in just a few moments. I need you to fly to Lambeth—to Princess Lamya. Take her and get out of here.” She pointed to Lambeth’s platform. Israfel said nothing, of course, but Morrigan felt certain he’d understood. His deep brown eyes were fixed on hers.

  She heard a wheezing, grunting sound behind her. Hawthorne had returned, half-dragging, half-carrying the statuelike Cadence with him.

  “I thought I told you to go straight—”

  But she was drowned out by the horrendous, creaking groan of the iceberg shifting, a sound like the world itself was about to end. Time was speeding up again. Grindingly slow at first, but picking up speed.

  “GO!” Morrigan shouted at Hawthorne.

  “No!” he insisted. “We’re not leaving without you, idiot.”

  Cadence was slowly coming back to herself. She swayed on the spot, almost knocking Hawthorne over, but he caught her just in time and propped her up.

  There was a sound of beating wings from above; Israfel too had unfrozen and launched magnificently into the air, heading directly for Lambeth’s platform, just as instructed.

  “Hawthorne, go,” Morrigan insisted. “Cadence, get him out of here. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

  He stared at her a moment, tight-lipped and white-faced, then nodded reluctantly and ran with Cadence into the antechamber.

  It was a lie, of course. Morrigan did not know what she was doing.

  But she had to try. Because ancient Professor Onstald, as much as he despised Morrigan, had used his last remaining strength and stopped time to save her and her friends. How could she leave him there alone?

  “I’m coming to help you,” she called out to him, trying to see a path through the madness that was once again gaining momentum. If she could reach the chain that controlled Onstald’s platform… well, what then? She didn’t know.

  Morrigan screamed as the lightning-struck tree crashed to the ground right in front of her, nearly landing on her head and effectively blocking off Onstald’s side of the room.

  The tortoisewun could barely lift his head. He looked up at her and his wrinkled, leathery mouth formed a single word.

  “RUN.”

  Morrigan shook her head, her mind whirring—there must be a way to save him, there must!

  Onstald gave a weak nod, his energy draining by the second.

  “Go!” he ordered her. “Run!”

  Morrigan’s heart sank, tears of frustration burning in her eyes. There was no way to get to him. This was it for Onstald, and he knew it, and he wasn’t going to drag her down with him. He was saving her life.
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  A look of understanding passed between them, and then Morrigan turned and ran. Through the epic turmoil of the main hall, ducking low and scurrying like a mouse through a den of monsters. Through the antechamber, out of the entrance hall, and into the cool, black night. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached Hawthorne and Cadence, huddled a block away, trying to catch their breath. A handful of auction guests had also managed to escape and were melting into the darkness of the surrounding streets.

  Morrigan looked back at the museum. Despite every danger and disaster she knew that building contained, strangely none of them spilled out. She wondered how long it would be until the chaos burned itself out and the people she’d freed from the globes would finally be at rest.

  The stunned silence was broken by the beating of wings as Israfel descended. He landed lightly beside her, Lambeth in his arms, shaken but safe.

  “Thank you,” said Morrigan, still breathless. “We need to… get the Stealth. Can you help?”

  “You need to get away from here,” said Israfel. Hawthorne and Cadence jumped a little in surprise. His speaking voice was as Morrigan remembered it: like a memory of something lost. The golden veins in his black wings caught flashes of light from the museum, so that he seemed to glow. He looked exhausted. Morrigan remembered what Jupiter had told her about Israfel, that night at the Old Delphian. People like Israfel absorb other people’s emotions. “Stay together. Make your way back to the Hotel Deucalion. And—listen to me, this is important—you must cover your ears while you run. Press your hands against them as tight as you can, and don’t let go until you’re at least three blocks away. Understand?”

  The others looked confused but nodded in agreement.

  They turned to run. As Morrigan watched the other three pace ahead of her, something made her pause.

  Could they really just leave? The Museum of Stolen Moments was imploding, a hundred different death scenes toppling like dominos, all contained within the magic of its walls. The auction guests inside… they were the very worst kind of people, she knew, but still… did they really deserve to meet their end this way? Caught up in the churning chaos of other people’s disasters? Shouldn’t she do something?

  And what about Professor Onstald? The tortoisewun had spent the last few months berating her, telling her how evil Wundersmiths were… and yet he had sacrificed himself for her and her friends. He chose to save the life of a Wundersmith instead of his own.

  “Morrigan Crow.” She turned back to see Israfel hovering behind her, suspended above the ground by the slow, rhythmic beating of his wings. His gaze was hard, but as he looked down at her there was kindness in his eyes… and something else. A raw bewilderment that Morrigan—who felt baffled by the world on a near-daily basis—found deeply relatable. “You saved my life tonight. I find myself in your debt.” He watched her for a moment, pressing his mouth into a line. Morrigan could tell he wanted to say something more but wasn’t sure if he should… or perhaps he couldn’t quite find the right words. Israfel breathed a deep sigh. “You’d do well not to mention that to the folks at Wunsoc. I shouldn’t be in your debt.”

  Morrigan didn’t know what to say to that.

  “It complicates things, you see?” he pressed, giving her a significant look. “For both of us.”

  She did not see, but Israfel was already rising into the air, turning back toward the museum, where flashes of light illuminated the windows. There was a sound of shattering glass—another globe had broken—then a bright orange fireball, quickly doused by a crashing wave. Plumes of smoke curled from the windows like demons. A faint cry in the distance made the hair on Morrigan’s neck stand up.

  “What are you doing?” Morrigan called up to him. Tears pricked behind her eyes and her voice felt thick in her throat. Was he going to try to go back inside the building? Would he too get trapped in the maelstrom? “Are you going to try to save them?”

  “No,” he said. “They’re beyond saving.” His low, mournful voice carried to her on the wind and pierced a little bit of her heart she hadn’t known existed.

  “Then what are you—”

  “Go home,” he commanded.

  Morrigan heard Hawthorne, Cadence, and Lambeth at the end of the street, calling her name. She covered her ears and turned to run, but again, something stopped her.

  She looked back to see the Angel Israfel alight on the steps of the museum, a dark, distant figure silhouetted against the lightning-lit doorway. He stood there, unmoving, for several moments. Morrigan wondered what he could possibly be doing, and then… she remembered.

  None sing so wildly well.

  She remembered what Jupiter had told her, that night at the Old Delphian Music Hall.

  A perfect and unbroken peace, he had said. Loneliness and sadness will be a distant memory. Your heart will fill up, and you’ll feel the world could never disappoint you again.

  Israfel couldn’t save them.

  He could only sing to them.

  Jupiter had warned her about listening to Israfel. She knew she shouldn’t.

  But when would she ever have this chance again?

  Morrigan let her hands fall away from her head. Above the sound of her friends calling her name, above the roaring of waves and the booming of cannons, above even the new sound of distant sirens coming closer… she heard the sweet, celestial voice of Israfel for the first time.

  Just for a second. Just one note.

  When Morrigan tried to recall—days and weeks and years later—the sound of that single note, the feeling of it, she would remember being warmed by the sun in winter, and held by a mother she’d never known. She’d remember a joyful, bone-deep certainty that she had never hurt another living being. That nobody had ever truly hurt her, and nobody ever could. She’d remember the smell of earth after rain.

  She’d also remember what came next. The clatter of footsteps on cobblestones, and the feeling of strong hands closing fast over her ears, blocking out all sound. Looking up to see a pair of wide, wild blue eyes in a forest of ginger hair. The bittersweet feeling of crashing back to earth, knowing she would land somewhere safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CLOSING A WINDOW

  Five arrests. A few bored rich people and a dodgy politician.” Jupiter sighed. “More escaped, and unfortunately they were able to slip through the cracks among the chaos. Like the cockroaches they are. The ones who’ve been questioned are all claiming they were only there for the thrill of the thing, of course. None of them will confess to having bid on anything.”

  Jupiter threw himself down onto one of the daybeds in the Smoking Parlor. The walls were pouring out a gentle, almost buttery lemon smoke (“to increase mental sharpness and zest for life,” according to the schedule on the door), which was slowly helping to cure Morrigan’s brain fog. In the wake of last night’s relentless havoc, her zest for life could probably do with a little tweaking. Currently the only zest she had was for staring at walls and eating bowls of chicken dumpling soup.

  Jupiter took a deep whiff of lemon smoke, rubbing his eyes tiredly. After personally seeing Lambeth, Cadence, and Hawthorne to their homes, and taking Morrigan back to the Deucalion, he’d gone straight back out to help the Stealth’s investigation. It was past lunchtime already, and he hadn’t slept at all.

  When he’d emerged from his trancelike state on the Deucalion rooftop, dazed and befuddled, to find that Morrigan and Hawthorne had disappeared, he was instantly certain it had something to do with the Ghastly Market. He’d rallied everyone he could think of—his colleagues in the League of Explorers, members of his own unit, plus Fenestra, Frank, Kedgeree, Dame Chanda, Martha, Charlie, and Jack—to help the Stink and the Stealth scour the darkest, most secret, and most dangerous places they could think of. But to no avail… until the Stealth received another mysterious anonymous tip with the location of the Museum of Stolen Moments, which they found hidden behind a tangle of backstreets in a run-down, deserted part of the city.

  N
obody knew who’d tipped them off, and Morrigan wasn’t about to tell them it was probably Squall.

  She got up to pour Jupiter some tea. “But the ones who were arrested will go to prison, won’t they?” she asked.

  Jupiter gratefully accepted the cup Morrigan handed to him. She curled up in the armchair opposite, hugging a cushion to her chest. “There’s nothing to charge them with, Mog. No evidence of any wrongdoing. No record of money changing hands. Black market trading is illegal, but there’s no evidence of any actual trading—not now that the museum is destroyed. They’re all claiming they thought it was a party.” Jupiter made an angry growling noise in the back of his throat. “Scum.”

  “And Mildmay?”

  “Mmm, speaking of scum.” He grimaced. “Gone. Disappeared into thin air, as far as anyone can tell.”

  “The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow,” Morrigan said simply. She’d already recounted her version of the night’s events, though she wasn’t sure how much of it Jupiter had chosen to share with the Stealth. “Do you think they…” She couldn’t bring herself to end that sentence. She wasn’t even sure how she meant to end it. Finished him off? Chased him out of Nevermoor?

  “Perhaps,” said Jupiter, ignoring the ambiguity. “Though we didn’t find any evidence of…” He trailed off also, and covered it by taking a sip of tea. “So, who knows. Maybe he got away. If he’s smart—and I think we can agree he must be reasonably cunning, to have fooled so many people—then he’ll have run very far away by now, and he won’t stop running. But not to worry, Mog. The Stealth haven’t given up. They’ll find him eventually, and he’ll be brought to justice.”

  Morrigan was silent for a while. “I liked him. Before… you know.”

  “I know.”

  “He was my favorite teacher.”

  “From a choice of two,” Jupiter pointed out. “But yes. I know.”

  He drank his tea, almost finishing the cup, while Morrigan tried to wrestle her thoughts into some sort of order.