The Queen smiled serenely at Saint Nick’s handiwork and then gestured to each of the Christmas trees in turn. On her command, dozens of snow-white doves emerged from the branches and flocked together to form a massive, quivering cloud of wings. They flew in miraculous formation, making the shape of a snowflake, then a star, then a bell, then a tree, and finally a peace sign, before flying off into the distance to a thunderous roar of applause.
Saint Nick motioned to his elves, who jumped up onto the sleigh, where two large, dangerous-looking cannons were pointed at the crowd in opposite directions. Morrigan glanced up at Jupiter, wondering if this was legal, but he didn’t seem at all disturbed. If anything, he looked bored.
“Didn’t he do this one last year?” Jupiter said, nudging his nephew.
Jack snorted. “Predictable. Pandering to the greedy masses.”
“Shush,” said Morrigan. She elbowed Jack in the ribs to drive the point home. They might have seen it before, but she didn’t want to miss a single second.
The cannons went off with a loud bang, and again, and again, as the elves fired round after round of colorful foil-wrapped sweets over Courage Square. Children and adults alike scrambled on the ground and jumped to catch them in midair, and soon everyone was shouting approval through mouthfuls of toffee, including Morrigan.
The Queen turned to the Snowhound, who padded regally toward the platform with his head held aloft and his bright blue eyes fixed on his mistress. As she reached up to scratch him behind the ears, he lifted his head and bayed at the moon. It was a long and eerie howl soon echoed by every dog in Nevermoor, like an unearthly choir of wolves. Morrigan felt a fluttering of something in her hair.
“Snow,” she whispered.
Tiny frozen flakes of white danced and swirled through the air, coming to land gently on her nose and shoulders and upturned palms. Morrigan had never seen real snow before. She felt happiness expanding in her chest, filling her up like a balloon. She almost took hold of Jupiter’s coat, worried she might just float away on her own delight.
For a long moment the audience was quiet but for soft gasps and whispers. Then the square exploded with whoops and applause, the reds and greens all cheering together, their rivalry forgotten.
Saint Nick applauded too, smiling and sticking out his tongue to catch a snowflake. The Yule Queen laughed.
“Time for the big finale,” said Jupiter. “Candles out, you two.”
Morrigan and Jack dug in their coat pockets for the white candles Jupiter had given them earlier. Following Jack’s lead, Morrigan held her candle high in the air. A murmur of excitement rippled through the square as everyone around them did the same.
They all seemed to know what was coming, and the younger children giggled and nudged each other as Saint Nick scratched his beard and hammed it up, pretending he’d been bested and didn’t know what to do next.
Then an idea apparently occurred to him—he clapped his hands with delight and swept his arms out toward the crowd, spinning around and around. One by one the candles lit up, picking up speed in a spiraling outward pattern, a continuous roar of flame bursting spontaneously into life until Courage Square was filled with laughter and golden light.
Saint Nick and the Yule Queen embraced as old friends, smiling and kissing each other’s cheeks. The reindeer gathered around the Snowhound, rubbing their necks against him as he playfully snapped at their antlers and licked their faces. The elves threw themselves at the Yule Queen’s legs.
The red and green sections of the crowd merged in a flurry of movement. Nick and Yule supporters swapped items of clothing—a crimson mitten for a sage scarf, a fuchsia flower for an emerald beanie—until nobody was discernible as supporting one or the other. Martha knelt down and offered her scarf to Frank, who in return draped a length of tinsel around the maid’s shoulders. Dame Chanda took Kedgeree’s red tartan bow tie, and he blushed as she fastened her emerald choker around his neck.
Jack took off his ridiculous hat and offered it to Morrigan with a shrug. “I suppose the candles were pretty good.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “But the snow was the best part.” She pulled the scarlet ribbon from her hair and tied it around his wrist in a bow. He looked down at it and grinned. “Wait,” said Morrigan. “Who beat who?”
“It’s whom. And nobody beat anybody,” said Jupiter as he led them out of the square. “They declared a truce like they do every year, and now they’re going to go about their business, delivering presents and making it snow all over the Free State. Job’s a good’un. Sugarplums, anyone?” He ran ahead to the pickled sugarplum stand and ordered two dozen in a brown paper bag.
“So nobody wins?” Morrigan asked. She couldn’t help feeling a little shortchanged.
“You must be joking. Presents and snow?” said Jack, laughing as he threw a snowball at Jupiter’s back. “Everybody wins.”
The three of them decided to walk home, waving off the carriages and pelting each other with snowballs until they were too wet and exhausted to continue. Jupiter piggybacked Morrigan the rest of the way while Jack happily slipped and slid along the icy sidewalks. They demolished the whole bag of sweet-sour sugarplums between them and arrived at the Deucalion forty minutes later with frozen fingers and purple tongues.
“Do you think Saint Nick’s been here yet?” Morrigan asked Jack as they trudged upstairs. She licked some purple sugar from the corner of her mouth.
“No. He only comes when you’re asleep, because he’s too busy to chat. So hurry up and get to bed.” He pushed her down the hall, smirking. “Good night.”
“Good night, broccoli-head.”
Jack laughed as he disappeared into his room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AN ALMOST JOLLY HOLIDAY
Morrigan woke on Christmas morning to the smells of cinnamon, citrus, and woodsmoke. A fire roared cheerfully in the hearth, and hanging on her headboard was a fat red stocking, overstuffed with treats.
She tipped it upside down, and into her lap spilled a treasure of chocolate, clementines, and gingerbread, a shiny pink pomegranate, a knitted scarf that looked like a fox, a pair of red mittens, a gold-and-purple tin of Pakulski’s Pickled Sugarplums, a small clothbound book called Finnegan’s Faerie Tales, a deck of silver-backed cards, and a wooden hairbrush with a ballerina painted on the handle. All this, just for her! Saint Nicholas had outdone himself.
Morrigan pulled on the soft woolen mittens and held them to her face, remembering much less satisfying Christmases past. The Crows were never big on gifts. Once, long ago, she’d worked up the courage to ask Corvus if she might get a surprise at Christmas that year, and to her delight he’d said yes. After weeks of anticipation Morrigan jumped out of bed on Christmas morning, excited to see what had been left overnight, and found an envelope at the foot of her bed. Inside was an itemized bill for every cent Corvus had spent that year paying reparations to the Registry Office for Cursed Children on her behalf.
He hadn’t lied, at least. It was a surprise.
As Morrigan worked the gold foil off a chocolate coin with her teeth, her bedroom door flew open and Jack strolled in carrying a piece of paper in one hand and his stocking in the other.
“Jolly Christmas!” Morrigan said. She almost added, Now go back outside and knock, but decided she was too full of Christmas cheer to really mind.
“Glad tidings of Yule to you.” Jack dropped onto her bed, handed her the note, and made himself comfortable, pouring out the contents of his stocking in a pile. He picked out a gingerbread dog and tore off its head. “Except not entirely glad, because Uncle Jove’s been called away.”
“On Christmas morning?” asked Morrigan, reading the note.
Urgent business on Ma Wei.
Back in time for lunch. Take Mog sledding for me.
J.
“What’s Ma Wei?”
Jack swallowed a mouthful of gingerbread. “One of the middle realms. Probably another explorer missed their scheduled gateway home. He alway
s gets called in on Christmas Day to help some idiot. Ugh—here, you can have this.” He handed Morrigan the pomegranate from his stocking with a look of distaste, and she threw him a couple of her clementines in return.
“You don’t have to take me sledding.” She bit into another chocolate and shrugged. “I don’t even have a sled.”
“What do you think that is, a pony?” said Jack, nodding toward the fireplace.
Morrigan peered over the end of the bed and saw a shiny green sled encircled with gold ribbon. The tag said Jolly Christmas, Mog.
“Wow,” she breathed, quite overwhelmed. Never in her life had she had so many gifts.
“Mine’s red,” said Jack, rolling his eye. “Thinks he’s funny.”
Jupiter didn’t make it back in time for lunch or supper, instead sending his apologies with a messenger. Morrigan might have been disappointed by his absence, except she was far too busy having the greatest Christmas of her life.
The day was marked by a thick, swirling snowfall, courtesy of the Yule Queen. Jack and Morrigan spent the morning sledding down nearby Galbally Hill over and over again and warring with the neighborhood children in an epic snowball fight.
They trudged back to the Deucalion at midday just in time for lunch in the formal dining room. Long tables groaned under the weight of glazed hams, smoked pheasants and roast geese, dishes of fat green sprouts with bacon and chestnuts, golden roast potatoes and honeyed parsnips, boats of thick gravy, crumbly cheeses and braided breads, and bright red crab claws and glistening oysters on ice.
Morrigan and Jack were determined to try a bit of everything (except maybe the oysters), but they both gave up halfway through to lie down in the Smoking Parlor (peppermint smoke: “to aid digestion”), declaring they’d never eat another bite of food as long as they lived. Fifteen minutes later, however, Jack was dutifully plowing through a heaped bowl of trifle and two mince pies, while Morrigan demolished a fluffy white meringue with cream and blackberries.
During Jack’s third trip back to the dining room, while Morrigan lay on a corner sofa and breathed in the soothing mint-green vapors, she heard someone enter the parlor.
“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” said a man’s voice. “He must know what he’s doing. The lad’s a genius.”
Morrigan opened her eyes sleepily. She could just make out two figures through the thick waves of smoke rolling out from the walls—elegant Dame Chanda dressed in flowing silks of red and green, and spry, snowy-haired Kedgeree Burns in his Christmas kilt.
“Too clever for his own good,” Dame Chanda agreed. “But he isn’t immune to making mistakes, Ree-Ree. He’s only human.”
Morrigan wondered hazily if she should let them know they weren’t alone. She was about to clear her throat when—
“Why Morrigan?” said Kedgeree. “Of all the candidates he might have chosen, why her? Where’s her knack?”
“She’s a dear girl—”
“O’ course, o’ course. Grand wee thing. Champion of a gal. But what makes Jupiter think she’s Wundrous Society material?”
“Oh, you know Jupiter,” said Dame Chanda. “He’s always taking on challenges nobody else will. He was the first to climb Mount Ridiculous, you remember. And he went blazing into that troll-infested realm that no one else in the League of Explorers would touch with a hundred-foot pole.”
The concierge chuckled. “Aye, and look at this place. It was a wreck when he found it. He took it on as a hobby and now it’s the grandest hotel in Nevermoor.” His voice had a grave edge. “But you canna’ take on a child as a hobby.”
“No,” agreed Dame Chanda. “At least if he’d failed with the Deucalion, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. You can’t hurt a hotel.”
There was a pause. Morrigan froze and held her breath, worried for a moment that they’d spotted her through the clouds of peppermint smoke.
After some time, Kedgeree sighed heavily. “I know we should keep our noses out, Chanda, but I’m only worried about the poor wee thing. I think he’s setting her up for a terrible disappointment.”
“It’s worse than that,” added Dame Chanda in an ominous voice. “If the Stink finds out she’s here illegally, think of what Jupiter risks. It’s treason. He could go to prison, Kedgeree. His reputation, his career… gone. And not only that, but—”
“The Deucalion,” finished Kedgeree solemnly. “If he’s not careful, he’ll lose the Deucalion. And then where will we all go?”
Morrigan was unsurprised to find herself wandering the halls of the Hotel Deucalion in the middle of the night, trying to banish her stomachache and bad dreams.
It was past midnight when she noticed that the door to Jupiter’s office was ajar. She peeked inside. He sat in a leather armchair by the fire, and on the table beside him was a steaming silver teapot and two small painted glasses. He didn’t even look up. “In you come, Mog.”
Jupiter poured the tea—mint, with swirling green leaves—and stirred a sugar cube into Morrigan’s glass. His eyes flicked up to her face briefly as she took the chair opposite. She thought he looked tired.
“Another nightmare.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re still worried about the Show Trial.”
Morrigan sipped her tea and said nothing. She was used to it by now, the way he always knew these things.
Once again she’d dreamed of epic failure. But this time, instead of ending when the audience began to jeer and boo, the nightmare continued with a parade of vicious, slavering trolls filing into the Trollosseum with clubs, presumably to beat Morrigan to death and put her out of her misery.
“The trial’s next Saturday,” she said pointedly, hoping it would prompt him to tell her, at last, what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to perform.
He sighed. “Stop worrying so much.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“You keep saying that too.”
“Because it’s true.”
“But I don’t have a talent!” she said, accidentally splashing tea down the front of her nightgown. “Why am I even doing these trials when I’ll never get into the Society? I can’t ride dragons or—or—sing like an angel. I can’t do anything.” Morrigan found that once she started naming her worries out loud, she couldn’t stop. “What if the Stink finds out I’m here illegally? They’ll kick me out and put you in prison. They’ll take the Deucalion away from you. You—your reputation—your career—” Morrigan’s voice caught in her throat. “You can’t risk all that just for me! What about the staff? What about Jack? You can’t look after him if you’re in prison. And what about—” She faltered, losing her thread.
Jupiter waited for her to continue, smiling politely behind his glass of mint tea. That infuriated Morrigan even more. Was he even worried about whether she’d make it into the Society? Or was this just something he was doing for fun? Was Morrigan just his…hobby?
The thought made something swell up inside her, like a cornered animal rearing back, preparing to force its way out of her rib cage. She put her glass down. It rattled on the tray.
“I want to go home.”
The words were out of her mouth, low and dark, before she’d even thought of saying them. They hung heavily in the air.
“Home?”
“Back to Jackalfax,” she clarified, though she knew Jupiter realized exactly what she meant. He had become very still. “I want to go back. Now. Tonight. I want to tell my family I’m alive. I don’t want to join the Wundrous Society and I don’t—” The words wouldn’t come easily; they fought her at every syllable. “I don’t want to live at the Hotel Deucalion anymore.”
That last bit wasn’t true, but she thought it would be easier if Jupiter thought so.
Morrigan loved the Deucalion, but no matter how many rooms and hallways and floors it had, it would never be big enough to contain her growing dread of the Show Trial. Her worry felt like a monster, like the ghost that haunted the Deucalion’s walls, seeping int
o her bones like winter so that she could never feel truly warm.
She waited for Jupiter to speak. His face was impassive, and so very still that she thought it might crack, like a porcelain mask. He stared into the fire for a long time.
“Very well,” he said finally. His voice was soft. “We’ll leave at once.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE GOSSAMER LINE
How much farther?”
“Not much. Keep up.” Jupiter marched down the dingy tunnel with its off-white tiles and flickering overhead lights, keeping his usual pace while Morrigan jogged, trying to match it. She glanced up at his face now and then but couldn’t read anything from it.
He’d barely spoken, other than to tell Fenestra where they were going. The Magnificat had looked at him with alarm and—to Morrigan’s surprise—sorrow. She hadn’t said a word, but when Morrigan followed Jupiter out the front door, Fen nudged her gently with her great gray head and emitted a quiet, mournful sound. Morrigan blinked fiercely, clutching her oilskin umbrella, and didn’t look back.
They’d made their way through the darkened streets, hopping a Brolly Rail platform to the nearest Wunderground station, and then began their descent through the mazelike tunnels and staircases. They climbed through hidden doors into dark, dirty hallways, following a path Morrigan had never taken before but Jupiter seemed to know by heart.
Twenty minutes and countless blind turns later, they rounded a tight corner and came upon an empty platform. Posters lining the walls were faded, cracked, and old-fashioned, advertising products Morrigan had never heard of.
A sign above their heads said it was the departure point for the Gossamer Line.
“Are you sure about this?” Jupiter’s eyes were fixed on the tiled floor. Though he spoke quietly, his voice bounced around the cavernous space. “You don’t have to go.”
“I know,” said Morrigan. She thought of Hawthorne, of never getting to say goodbye to him, her best friend—and of Jack, sound asleep at the Deucalion, waking up to find her gone—and she felt a sudden sadness. She pushed it down, clamped a lid on it. She couldn’t stay and watch Jupiter lose everything he had, because of her. “I’m sure.”
The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 23
