Four.
Her unit would never forgive her, and when everyone else in the Society found out what she really was, they would hate her. She’d be lucky if they didn’t chase her off campus with torches and pitchforks.
Five.
But… Lambeth. An image sprang into Morrigan’s head of tiny, frightened Princess Lamya, perched on her throne at the auction. Of the terror in her face when the auctioneer spoke of her family’s treason, and of what the Wintersea Party would do to them—to her whole family—if they found out the truth.
Six.
She could see the auctioneer in the wolf mask in her mind, could hear his jolly, avuncular voice. “Treason is of course punishable by execution in the Wintersea Republic.” Her stomach churned.
Seven.
Everyone here was supposed to be family. Loyal for life; that was the promise of the Wundrous Society. But Mildmay had broken that promise. The comfortable illusion of Wunsoc—the idea that this was some safe haven where everyone protected each other and nothing bad ever happened—had long since been shattered for Morrigan. Lambeth was not safe here. Not if her secret got out. She thought of Professor Onstald, who had used his last ounce of strength to save them.
How could Morrigan live with herself if she protected her own secret, instead of protecting her friend?
There was nothing for it.
She clutched the note tight in her shaking hand.
Eight.
Elder Quinn stepped up to the microphone again as the applause died down. “These two children,” she began, “have done something extraordinary, something that utterly embodies the values we hold—”
“I’m a Wundersmith,” Morrigan said over the top of her.
Nine.
The clock struck the hour.
She heard a soft, strangled noise of surprise from Hawthorne. Then, so everyone present could hear, so her blackmailers could have no doubt, she shouted—“I’m a Wundersmith!”
The morning seemed to hold its breath.
There was a sudden, uncertain chuckle somewhere in the crowd. Then another. Then, as if they’d all been given permission to find her proclamation funny but still didn’t quite know why, a gentle rumble of laughter skittered across the garden. Pockets of muttering erupted here and there before swiftly dying out.
Then silence fell again, as they realized the truth of it.
There was no “gotcha!” from Morrigan. Nothing from the Elders.
“Impossible!” came a shout from somewhere near the back, and it was joined by others as the understanding grew that this was not a joke, that the Elders really had invited this dangerous entity into their midst. Nobody wanted to believe it. “She’s lying!”
Morrigan looked at her own unit, their faces by turns blank with shock or red with anger. In the near-total stillness, she saw a lone figure making his way toward the balcony, pushing people out of his way. Jupiter looked frightened but fierce, as if he was one step ahead and knew something bad was about to happen, and that made Morrigan even more afraid.
But Elder Quinn held up a hand to stop him. Jupiter halted at the bottom of the steps. He watched the Elders warily for a moment, and then seemed to understand something. The fear in his eyes cleared away and was replaced with something Morrigan couldn’t quite decipher.
“Well.” Elder Quinn’s voice crackled over the public-address system. “Ladies and gentlemen. It seems we have another cause to celebrate this morning.”
Morrigan felt her brain trip over those words. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, blinking at the frail wisp of a woman. Another cause to celebrate? Had Elder Quinn even heard what she’d said?
“Unit 919 has just passed their fifth and final trial,” she announced with a small, satisfied smile. “You all remember quite keenly, I am sure, what it was like to undertake your own Loyalty Trial, when you were first-year scholars. The nature of the trial is different for each unit, of course, but the object remains the same: a test of your commitment to your oaths.”
Understanding dawned in a few of the faces below. Morrigan watched as the members of 919 took in what Elder Quinn was telling them. She turned to Hawthorne beside her, whose mouth was hanging open.
“This marks the completion of Unit 919’s final test, and so we welcome them—for the second time, and with even greater pride—to the Wundrous Society proper. Unit 919, the loyalty you have shown each other this year in the face of various dangers and difficulties will serve you for the rest of your days. You are sisters and brothers for life. Not because you took an oath, but because you proved it.”
The crowd seemed baffled, still not quite able to figure out if Morrigan’s bizarre announcement had been a joke, or part of the test, or if they really were looking at the first Wundersmith to join the Wundrous Society in more than a hundred years. The first since Ezra Squall. Morrigan watched their confusion turn variously to alarm, to skepticism, to laughter, to anger. It was clear nobody knew quite what to think.
“Elder Saga, Elder Wong, and I wish to remind you that although the Society has a rich history of nurturing diverse and sometimes dangerous talents, we would never knowingly invite a corrupting force into our ranks. Indeed, by destroying the Ghastly Market and saving two Wundrous Society lives, Miss Crow has shown herself to be a force for good—a useful, interesting, good person, whom we are delighted to call one of our own. She may be a Wundersmith, but truly from today onward, she is our Wundersmith.”
Elder Quinn’s reassurances were met with stony, worrying silence.
“I would remind you all,” she went on, and her voice had an edge to it, “that your oath extends not just to your own unit members, but to every Wundrous person who makes up our Society, from the eldest to the youngest. The truth about Morrigan Crow will remain within Wunsoc, and I expect every single one of you to uphold your oath and protect this secret from outsiders. Remember: sisters and brothers, loyal for life.”
The crowd responded as one. “Tethered for always, true as a knife.”
Elder Quinn nodded, looking satisfied.
“Well then.” She beckoned the rest of Unit 919 up to the balcony. “If our youngest scholars will come forward—that’s the way, quickly now—I invite the rest of you to join me in congratulating Unit 919 on this most important milestone.”
The mood in the garden didn’t seem particularly celebratory, although on the Elder’s command—and under her stern gaze—they managed to give a halfhearted round of scattered applause before being dismissed.
As the crowd dispersed in all directions, every eye was on Morrigan.
Morrigan felt numbed by what had just happened. Hawthorne didn’t seem to have digested it either, and kept making strange little sputtering noises somewhere between outrage and amusement.
Everyone had left, except the scholars of Unit 919. When the ceremony was over, Miss Cheery had run up the stairs and hugged every single one of them before dashing back to Hometrain. Those whose patrons were present received hearty handshakes and congratulations. Jupiter had tried to look pleased for Morrigan, but she hadn’t missed the blazing look he’d cast the Elders as he departed.
Now the scholars huddled awkwardly on the balcony, nobody quite ready to go off to class yet, and nobody quite sure what to say.
“I don’t understand,” said Thaddea finally. “Why did they blackmail us to keep Morrigan’s secret, when they were just going to make her tell everyone anyway? What a dirty trick.”
“That was the test, Thaddea,” said Mahir.
“I know that was the test, Mahir,” Thaddea said, mimicking his voice. “I just mean… it’s so…”
“Mean?” said Cadence.
“Yes!” cried Thaddea. “It’s so mean. To all of us, but especially to Morrigan.”
Everyone looked up in surprise at that, not least of all Morrigan herself, who just about choked on her own tongue. Hawthorne did choke, but he managed to cover it up with a cough.
“What did it say, Morrigan?” Arch nodded
at the note in Morrigan’s hand with a curious little frown. “To make you give yourself away like that?”
She closed the piece of paper protectively in her fist. “I—I can’t tell you.”
Mahir laughed. “What? What do you mean, you—”
“I just can’t.”
“Don’t be ridic—”
“It’s about me, isn’t it?” Lambeth’s quiet voice came from the back of the group, and she stepped forward, looking miserable but determined. Everyone fell silent. “Elder Quinn said that our whole unit passed the Loyalty Trial, but she was wrong. I didn’t pass.
“You all made a choice to put your brothers and sisters before yourselves. But I chose to be dishonest. I let you believe it could only be Morrigan’s secret you were protecting. I told myself that was true, but… deep down, I wondered… if it was really my secret.”
“What secret, Lambeth?” asked Arch kindly.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “My name isn’t Lambeth Amara. It’s… Princess Lamya Bethari Amati Ra. I’m a member of the Royal House of Ra, from the Silklands in Far East Sang.” She paused, looking around at their stunned faces. “Lam. Just call me Lam.”
It was strange, Morrigan thought, as she watched the poised, graceful confession. Lam was the smallest of all of them, but in that moment, she seemed ten feet tall. She really was regal.
“Far East Sang.” Thaddea’s face turned patchily red. “You’re from the Republic?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a spy?” Francis demanded.
Hawthorne scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Francis, she’s not a spy, she’s a princess.”
“She might be both! My aunt says there are lots of Wintersea Republic spies in Nevermoor. Why else is she even here?”
“Oh, get a grip!”
“I’m not a spy,” said Lam. “My family sent me here to learn how to use my knack. It used to give me terrible headaches that made me sick. Since I’ve been at Wunsoc, I’ve learned how to cope with my visions better.
“But… they should never have sent me at all.” Lam’s eyes turned red, and her voice wobbled a little. “It’s illegal for people from the Republic to cross the border into the Free State. We’re not even supposed to know there is a Free State. If the Wintersea Party found out, they’d throw my whole family in prison, or… or worse. Much worse.” She was trembling. “My grandmother told me I had to keep it a secret or I’d be putting us all in terrible danger. But I’m a dreadful liar, so I decided it was better to hardly speak to you at all. I’m sorry.”
“We can’t tell anyone.” Morrigan looked around at all the members of her unit in turn. “This stays between us. Agreed? Sisters and brothers, yes?”
“Loyal for life,” they responded firmly as one.
Lam sniffed, looking relieved and slightly overwhelmed. She had opened her mouth to say something when—
“EXCUSE ME,” boomed a cold voice from the garden below. Dearborn glared up at them. “But I believe you bothersome malingerers all have classes to attend, do you not?”
The nine scholars scurried inside Proudfoot House, down the hall to the bank of spherical brass railpods waiting to whisk them away to their lessons.
Morrigan dawdled for a moment, smoothing and straightening her uniform quite unnecessarily.
Hawthorne raised his eyebrows. “Right. Good luck, then.”
“Thanks.” She adjusted the cuffs of her new white shirt and felt a little tingle of nerves and excitement. “See you at lunch?”
“Yep,” he replied, boarding a pod bound for the Extremities Department. “Remember—take lots of notes. I want to know exactly how weird it is. And see if you can get Murgatroyd to do that ice thing again! That was cool.” He grinned as the doors slid closed, shoving his face up to yell through the crack: “Get it? It was cool.”
Morrigan snorted and turned back to where Lam and Cadence stood waiting for her, holding the door of their pod.
“You coming, or what?” asked Cadence, and Morrigan leapt aboard just as she pulled a lever labeled SUB-SIX: THE SCHOOL OF ARCANE ARTS.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the best publishers in the business—Hachette Children’s Group, Hachette Australia and New Zealand, and Little, Brown Books for Young Readers—for the creativity, hard work, thoughtfulness, and joy you’ve brought to this whole caper. I couldn’t have hoped for a better publishing family.
I’m especially thankful for the talent and guidance of my editors, Helen Thomas, Alvina Ling, Suzanne O’Sullivan, Samantha Swinnerton, and Kheryn Callender.
Thank you to the best international PR dream team an author could wish for: Ashleigh Barton, Dom Kingston, Tania Mackenzie-Cooke, Katharine McAnarney, and Amy Dobson. You’ve made all this extroverting nonsense an unexpected delight.
Many thanks to Louise Sherwin-Stark, Hilary Murray Hill, Megan Tingley, Mel Winder, Ruth Alltimes, Fiona Hazard, Katy Cattell, Lucy Upton, Nicola Goode, Fiona Evans, Alison Padley, Helen Hughes, Katherine Fox, Rachel Graves, Andrew Sinclair, Andrew Cattanach, Andrew Cohen, Caitlin Murphy, Chris Sims, Daniel Pilkington, Hayley New, Isabel Staas, Jeanmarie Morosin, Justin Ractliffe, Kate Flood, Keira Lykourentzos, Penny Evershed, Sarah Holmes, Sean Cotcher, Sophie Mayfield, Emilie Polster, Jennifer McClelland-Smith, Valerie Wong, Victoria Stapleton, Michelle Campbell, Jen Graham, Virginia Lawther, Sasha Illingworth, Ruqayyah Daud, Alison Shucksmith, Ashleigh Richards, Sacha Beguely, and Suzy Maddox-Kane.
Thank you to Jim Madsen for the incredible cover art.
Huge thanks to Molly Ker Hawn, Jenny Bent, Victoria Cappello, Amelia Hodgson, and everyone at the Bent Agency. Thanks also to the splendid folks of Team Cooper—the mutual support, cheerleading, and admiration within this crew makes me happier than I can say.
A million thanks to all the readers, booksellers, librarians, teachers, and bloggers who have loved and supported Nevermoor. If you have taken Morrigan into your heart and passed her on to someone else, thank you so much. Your kindness and enthusiasm have been overwhelming, and I’m so grateful for every recommendation, review, letter, tag, and tweet.
Thank you to my goddaughter Ella for letting me use the name Paximus Luck. (She came up with it spontaneously when she was only three years old, so I guess the rest of us should just quit now.) Thanks also to Aurianna, a very funny girl I met in Naperville whose name I went and nicked for this book. She made me laugh; I made her a hotel.
Aspiring authors! Get you an agent with the heart, humor, hustle, and chutzpah of Gemma Cooper. A grade-A premium Pollyanna who’s always on your side, reliable as heck, and ready to fish you out of the ankle-deep water you imagine yourself to be drowning in, without even breaking a sweat. Bonus points if they will text you inspiring photographs of elderly Japanese cheerleaders for encouragement at two a.m. Thanks, GC.
And finally, endless thanks and love to my family and friends, especially Dean and Julie, the best hype team around. Sal, thanks as always for being my early reader and sounding board, and for the totes-lols motivational quotes and weirdly specific essential oils.
And, Mum, thanks for literally everything else. Most Wundrous mum ever, eleven out of ten.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jessica Townsend lives sometimes on the Sunshine Coast in Australia and sometimes in London. She is also the author of Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow.
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