Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  “He was nice to me,” she said finally. “Mildmay. He was funny, and his classes were fun, and I felt like I was good at something. And Professor Onstald… he hated me. He was horrible, all year long, and I felt like I was something horrible.” She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. “But Mildmay set up the Ghastly Market. He betrayed all of us. And Onstald saved my life.”

  Jupiter stayed quiet.

  “I can’t… I can’t match those things up.” Morrigan looked at him, frowning. She didn’t know quite how to say what she meant, but he nodded, encouraging her to try. “The second thing doesn’t change the first thing. Not for Mildmay, and not for Onstald.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Mog.” Jupiter sighed. “Some people are brave bullies. Some people are friendly cowards.”

  “Not so friendly in the end, though, was he?” said Morrigan, thinking of the way Mildmay had shrugged when he was found out. That sheepish little grin. You always were my most attentive student. “Scum.”

  Jupiter stood up and began pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I don’t understand is how Squall was able to orchestrate all of this when he can’t even get inside Nevermoor. You are sure he was traveling on the Gossamer?”

  “Yes,” said Morrigan. “I told you—Mildmay was helping him.”

  “With the Ghastly Market, yes, but… Mildmay couldn’t do the things you described. All that puppeteering business on the rooftop. You said he wasn’t even there.”

  “He wasn’t.” Morrigan felt something squeeze inside her chest as she remembered what Squall had told her. She swallowed. “Jupiter, it was me. Squall said that I’d… given him a window.”

  Jupiter stopped pacing. “A window?”

  “A window into Nevermoor,” she clarified. “He said because I didn’t know how to use the Wretched Arts, all the Wunder that was gathering around me had nowhere to go. It was burning so bright it only took a little push through the Gossamer. That’s how he could use Wunder through me. That explains the thing with the Magnificub at the first Ghastly Market. It was me. Well… it was him through me. And the puppeteering on the rooftop, and…” Morrigan paused. She’d never told Jupiter about Heloise and her throwing stars. But before she could finish, he gave a miserable groan.

  “Stupid.” Jupiter sank back down onto the daybed. His voice was muffled as he rubbed his whole face in his hands. “Stupid, stupid idiot.”

  “Who, Squall?”

  “No, me. I could see it.” Turning a deep shade of purplish red, he gestured vaguely to Morrigan. “You. Wunder. Critical mass. I saw it growing and growing around you—it got so bright sometimes I had to filter it out, or I’d have been nearly blinded just looking at you.”

  Morrigan’s eyes doubled in size. “You can do that?” The depth and breadth of Jupiter’s talent as a Witness was still a mystery to her.

  “Yes, I can. And I ignored it instead of doing something about it.” He sighed, looking right at her, his forehead creased. “I thought it must be normal for a young Wundersmith! Mog, please believe me—I had no idea this would happen. I didn’t know Squall could—”

  “I know you didn’t!” Morrigan cut in. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not your fault.”

  “It is—partly, at least. I should have realized the danger you were in. I should have known Squall would take advantage if he could. I’ve been preoccupied for months—so focused on Cassiel and Paximus Luck and Alfie Swann, when I should have been focused on what was happening right in front of me.”

  “Cassiel!” Morrigan said, sitting up straight. “I forgot all about him! So, what happened to him? And Paximus Luck?”

  “The Stealth has a lead on Paximus, which they’re following across the border into the Republic—that’s strictly confidential. But as for Cassiel”—Jupiter shrugged, looking baffled—“I honestly have no idea. I’ve chewed through more resources at the League of Explorers than I can possibly justify, looking for him on-realm and off. We’ve handed it over to the Celestial Observation Group for now. They don’t quite have our reach, but they can watch the skies. They’ll keep me informed.”

  “So you don’t think it was anything to do with Squall or the Ghastly Market?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Staring at the floor, he sat and breathed in the lemon smoke.

  “No,” he said finally. “No, I think that one’s unconnected.”

  “Is Israfel upset?” Morrigan asked. “Were they good friends?”

  “Cassiel isn’t really anyone’s friend.” Jupiter inhaled sharply and seemed to come to himself, sitting up and returning to their previous thread of conversation. “I don’t understand. Why has Squall shown such restraint? If you really gave him a window into Nevermoor—a way to use his own powers through you—then surely he could have made you do almost anything! Commit terrible crimes, or—or leave Nevermoor!” His eyes bulged at that realization. “And where is he now? Why did he just let you go?”

  Morrigan had been thinking about this all morning. “He said something funny.”

  “Funny ha-ha, or—”

  “Funny peculiar. He said that he and I have a shared enemy.” She frowned, trying to recall Squall’s exact words. “He said I had to be given the freedom to become the Wundersmith he needs me to be. Because… terrible things are coming. And though by teaching me to use my powers, he was shutting the window, his long-term plans were more important. He said he needed me alive.”

  “Mog,” Jupiter said in a tight voice, “he’s playing mind games with you. Trying to make you believe there’s some terrible enemy lurking out there, and that he can help you defeat it. He wants to frighten you, so that he can use your fear to control you.”

  “I know,” said Morrigan, sounding much more certain than she felt. She swung around in the armchair, dangling her feet over one side. “But is he right about the window through the Gossamer? Maybe I should learn to use the Wretched Arts properly, so he can’t use them through me anymore.”

  Jupiter was silent, but Morrigan could see that he was suddenly energized, eyes bright with some new impulse.

  “Jupiter?” she prompted him.

  He leapt to his feet. “Grab your brolly.”

  By the time they made it to Proudfoot House and Jupiter had let her in on the plan, Morrigan was filled with the kind of queasy dread she associated with last year’s Show Trial, or waiting to die on Eventide, or sticking one’s hand into a bucket full of venomous snakes.

  Jupiter knocked sharply on the Scholar Mistresses’ office door. He didn’t even wait for an answer but marched straight to where Ms. Dearborn stood, behind the room’s only desk. Morrigan followed a few cautious steps behind, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the Scholar Mistress.

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Murgatroyd, please.”

  Dearborn stared at him, blinking. “Excuse me?”

  “Murgatroyd. I need to speak to her. Now.” Morrigan could see the muscles in his jaw working. Cracks appeared in his thin veneer of politeness. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

  “Well. As you can undoubtedly see,” Dearborn said coolly, “she isn’t here.”

  “MURGATROYD,” Jupiter repeated, looking her right in the eye. He clapped his hands. “Oi! Murgatroyd. I know you’re in there somewhere. Come out. I need to speak to you.”

  Morrigan winced. What was he doing? Trying to get himself killed?

  “Captain North, how dare you,” snapped Dearborn, recoiling. “If you think that either she or I will to respond to—”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I think.” Jupiter’s raised voice was drawing curious glances from a few Society members as they passed the office door. “You’ve been playing power games with my scholar’s education all year long. Your baseless fears have done Morrigan more harm—put her, and the rest of the Wundrous Society, in more danger—than you could possibly understand, and you’ve broken the trust that should exist between patron and Scholar Mistress. From now on I’ll be taking a much c
loser interest in Morrigan’s schooling. Murgatroyd, GET OUT HERE.”

  “Stop that—Maris, no—”

  Dearborn’s face twisted into something awful. She rolled her neck uncomfortably, her fingers curling and muscles juddering. Morrigan heard that strange, now-familiar sound of bones popping and crunching, and the dreaded Murgatroyd was suddenly before them. Her cracked, purpling lips split into what might equally have been a smile or a threat. She narrowed her sunken gray eyes at Jupiter.

  “Rude.” The Arcane Scholar Mistress spoke in a guttural growl. “What do you want?”

  Jupiter didn’t hesitate. “You said Morrigan ought to have been in your school. In the Elders’ Hall that day, you said we’d all failed her.”

  Murgatroyd stuck out her lower lip, looking doubtful. “Did I?”

  “Yes,” said Jupiter. “You said someone had to teach her the Wretched Arts. And you were right. Somebody here, in the Wundrous Society, needs to teach Morrigan the Wretched Arts before she learns them from a more dangerous source.” Jupiter gave her a meaningful look. “Do you understand what I’m—”

  “He’s back, then,” Murgatroyd interrupted. She directed her question at Morrigan. “Squall. Been visiting, has he?”

  Morrigan blinked, instinctively turning away from the intensity of Murgatroyd’s flat, murky gray gaze. She looked at Jupiter instead, who nodded at her.

  “Er—yes.”

  “Taught you some tricks, has he?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Murgatroyd looked neither surprised nor frightened by this news. She sucked air through her sharp brown teeth. “Thought so. Heard about you shutting down the Ghastly Market. Thought you must have learned something nasty along the way.” Morrigan bristled at what felt like an accusation, but the Scholar Mistress gave her an appreciative little nod. “Good for you.”

  “Oh. Um… thanks.”

  Murgatroyd sighed, sneering at the doors to Proudfoot House. “Warned ’em, didn’t I? Trio of old fools. Said it from the beginning; it’s asking for trouble, trying to squash down a thing like that. Like sticking a lid on a pot full of fireworks. Dangerous.”

  “You’ll take her, then?” Jupiter pressed. “You know she doesn’t belong in Dearborn’s school. She belongs with us, in the School of Arcane Arts.”

  Morrigan felt a lurch of dread. She knew Jupiter wanted the best for her, but did he really think this was a good idea? It was bad enough having Dearborn as her Scholar Mistress; it was universally agreed that Murgatroyd was much worse.

  However. Her dread was keeping company with some other, much subtler feeling. A tiny background hum of vindication. What was so mundane, after all, about being a Wundersmith?

  The Scholar Mistress appeared to be thinking about it. “Well… she’s not exactly Arcane, is she?”

  “She’s not Mundane either,” said Jupiter flatly.

  “No.” Murgatroyd sniffed, watching Morrigan with an appraising eye. She leaned in close—closer than Morrigan would have liked—and spoke in an unsettling rasp. “Gregoria Quinn thought she could tuck you away inside these hallowed halls, where you wouldn’t become a problem for the rest of the Free State. Wouldn’t become another mess for the Wundrous Society to clean up. I told her, the fool—safest place for a firecracker is out in the open.”

  Another mess for the Wundrous Society to clean up. Again, Morrigan resented the implication. She said nothing but stared the Scholar Mistress right in the face, unblinking.

  “Mmm.” Murgatroyd gave a single, decisive nod. “Go on, then. I’ll take the little beastie.”

  Morrigan wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but Jupiter’s whole body relaxed as he heaved a great sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Scholar Mistress,” he said.

  She dismissed them with a careless flick of her wizened hand, and as they made their way down the hall, Morrigan could hear Murgatroyd cackling to herself like a witch.

  “Oh-ho, Dulcie’s going to spit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE FINAL DEMAND

  The next morning, everyone at Wunsoc was summoned to the manicured gardens at the back of Proudfoot House. Elder Quinn, Elder Wong, and Elder Saga were gathered on the balcony, looking grave.

  “By now you have all heard about the tragic demise of Professor Hemingway Q. Onstald, the eldest of our teaching staff and an honored member of the Society.” Elder Quinn spoke into a microphone, her voice ringing clearly across the grounds. “We all owe a great debt of gratitude to Professor Onstald, who perished while performing a tremendous feat of bravery and sacrifice. At this point I’m confident there isn’t a soul among you who remains unaware of the existence of the Ghastly Market, the story of its destruction, and the heinous fact that the abduction of Society members for the market was perpetrated by one of our own.”

  The garden filled with low, angry muttering.

  It was safe to say nobody here would ever forgive Mildmay for his crimes. Least of all Morrigan and her friends. He would probably be safer around the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow.

  The scholars of Unit 919 had come straight here from Hometrain and were gathered in a tight knot. Morrigan and Hawthorne had been asked by the others to tell their stories of Hallowmas night at least a dozen times now, and were still occasionally getting requests to hear certain parts again. Naturally, Morrigan had neglected to mention the part about Ezra Squall, instead letting them assume that Mildmay had arranged everything on his own.

  Miss Cheery was keeping very close. She hadn’t stopped fussing over Cadence and Lambeth for two days, and Morrigan and Hawthorne too. Cadence pretended to be annoyed by it, but Morrigan could tell she was secretly pleased. The conductor was standing behind them even now, arms folded, guarding her unit like a mother bear.

  Lambeth, meanwhile, hadn’t yet said a single word to anyone, and seemed even more distant than usual. Morrigan wondered what was going through her head. She hoped “Princess Lamya” knew her secret was safe with them—with her, Hawthorne, and Cadence—and she made a mental note to tell her so, as soon as they were alone.

  Elder Quinn went on. “What I will say is this: It has been many, many years since one of our own has so deeply shamed the Wundrous Society. I pledge to you that the traitor, whose worthless name shall never again pass my lips, will be found and will be brought to justice. You have my word.

  “Tomorrow afternoon we will bid farewell to our brave friend and colleague, Professor Onstald, at a memorial service in the Elders’ Hall. All who wish to pay their respects are encouraged to attend. Meanwhile, it must also be mentioned that two of our junior scholars…”

  Morrigan’s attention was snatched away just then as she felt someone slip a note into her hand. She turned to see who’d done it, but the crowd was thick and close, and all she managed to spot was a swish of robes disappearing somewhere far behind her.

  It was a folded-over piece of paper, with her name written on the side.

  “…showing the precise bravery and resourcefulness that won them their place among us, and—”

  “That’s us,” Hawthorne whispered in her ear. “Brave and resourceful. She forgot hilarious and good-looking.”

  But Morrigan had stopped paying attention to Elder Quinn. She unfolded the note, hands trembling, and read it through twice.

  Morrigan Odelle Crow

  We have kept the secret of Unit 919.

  But you have a dangerous secret of your own.

  Reveal yourself as a Wundersmith to everyone present,

  before the clock has struck the hour.

  Or we will reveal the truth about Republic deserter

  Princess Lamya Bethari Amati Ra

  To the Wundrous Society

  And to the world.

  Her heart jolted, her mind taking a moment to catch up.

  The blackmail hadn’t been about her at all! The secret they’d been threatening to reveal wasn’t her secret. It was Lambeth’s.

  A heavy, sick feeling crept into Morrigan’s stomach. Unit 9
19 had protected her against the blackmailers, each faithfully carrying out their own task, even when they really didn’t want to.

  And now it was her turn. She closed her eyes, swallowing her anger and dread, more determined than ever to find who was behind this. They wouldn’t get away with it.

  “Go on, Morrigan.” She felt Miss Cheery give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and a gentle little shove forward.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Elder Quinn just called your name. You and Hawthorne.” Morrigan looked up at the big, warm smile from her conductor but couldn’t bring herself to smile in return. “Go on, daydreamer, up you go.”

  She felt something twist and blacken inside her as she followed Hawthorne through the crowd, all the way up the white marble steps to where the Elders stood, beaming down at them. It felt like a death march. Blood rushed to her face and thrummed in her ears.

  As they reached the Elders, the bell in the clock tower on Proudfoot House began to strike the hour. Nine o’clock. Nine chimes. Morrigan’s mind raced.

  One.

  The black-cloaked crowd below applauded, long and loud, lifting their hands up. Hawthorne turned to grin at Morrigan as he waved at them, his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. He nudged her forward a little, mistaking her reluctance for shyness.

  “Go on,” he said. “You earned it.”

  Two.

  How quickly the somber mood had turned to celebration. And it was her they were celebrating—her and Hawthorne. She spotted Jupiter’s proud, almost tearful face in the crowd, and her mouth felt dry. How could she go and ruin this?

  And not just ruin the mood, Morrigan thought—ruin everything. Ruin any chance of a good life at Wunsoc. For herself, and her whole unit.

  Three.

  Elder Quinn’s words from the beginning of the year were still etched in her memory:

  If anyone is found to have broken our trust… all nine of you will face expulsion from Wunsoc. For life.

  She was about to ruin her own life, plus eight others.