Page 10

CHAPTER TEN

The Grand Old House of Darling

My mother was from Nevermoor.

The railpod screeched to a violent halt and Morrigan was thrown against the wall. The doors opened onto what looked like the middle of a lake, but was in fact a crowded Wunderground station covered in half a metre of water. Passengers in knee-high wellies sloshed in and out of train carriages, piggybacking small children and hugging shopping bags to their chests as if this was all business as usual. A shabby wooden sign above the platform read OGDEN TOWN STATION .

Leaning out of the pod, Holliday gave a piercing whistle and tapped her golden W pin to gain the attention of a water taxi driver. She needn’t have bothered; a whole cluster of them had already perked up at the sight of the distinctive Wundrous Society vehicle. Holliday, Morrigan, Carlos and Miss Cheery stepped straight from the pod into a grubby tin motorboat driven by a white-haired woman in a captain’s hat, smoking a pipe.

‘Where to, love?’

‘The gates.’ Holliday checked her watch. ‘Get us there in six minutes and there’s an extra ten kred in it for you.’

As they sped off into the wind, swirls of peppery green pipe smoke swam around Morrigan’s head, combining with the smell of the murky brown water and strong whiffs of diesel from passing boats. It was a noisy, busy part of the river, crammed with working vessels of all kinds – water taxis, fishing boats, rubbish barges – and the sky clamoured with seagulls circling piles of landfill and divebombing fishery workers, hoping for a snack.

Morrigan’s senses were overloaded. The chug of the motor and the screeching of gulls made conversation impossible, even if she’d felt capable of speech. Adding to all this noise were the five words repeating on a loop in her head.

My mother was from Nevermoor.

The thought was slippery and strange. It kept sliding away from her like oil on the river, unable to gain purchase.

My mother was from Nevermoor.

They arrived at their destination – an imposing gatehouse set into a sandstone wall in the river – with two minutes to spare. An arched silver gate loomed above the little motorboat, and the captain explained she could take them no further.

‘Not licensed for it,’ she said. ‘Too shabby for them in there.’

‘This is perfect, cheers.’ Holliday paid the woman in cash, checking her watch again as they clambered out of the boat and up the sandstone steps to a small, dry pier jutting out from the wall and surrounded by water on three sides.

Holliday blanched when she took in Morrigan’s windswept appearance.

‘Carlos. Please. ’

Carlos immediately began to fuss, making one last effort to smooth Morrigan’s hair as best he could.

‘What do you know about my mother?’ she demanded, batting him away. ‘How do you know this Lady Margot’s telling the truth? She could be a sociopath. What’s Silverborn ?’

Holliday had turned away to watch the silver gate, but she suddenly rounded on Morrigan, looking stricken.

‘Don’t say that word!’

‘Sociopath?’

‘ Silverborn .’

‘YOU said it!’

‘I … Ugh, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have said …’ Holliday pressed a hand to her temple, searching for the correct words. ‘You’re of the Silver District. Your origins are … aristocratic. That is to say—’

Morrigan frowned. ‘Posh?’

‘Just say Silverborn,’ said Miss Cheery, rolling her eyes. ‘Everybody does.’

There was a grinding noise, and the gate began to rise slowly, revealing a strip of sunlit turquoise water beyond.

‘ Not everybody,’ Holliday said in an urgent whisper. ‘Certainly nobody from the Silver District. They consider it offensive. Morrigan, listen to me … it is extremely important that you make a good first impression, so please don’t repeat that word, and remember what I said earlier. No Wundersmith stuff— OH! Hello there!’

Her voice rose an octave as another boat glided into view through the silver gate. It was different to their water taxi in every way imaginable: long and slender, carved from wood and painted glossy white. The graceful upwards curve of the prow made Morrigan think of a swan’s neck, and it was decorated all over with a subtle, delicate pattern of pearlescent white flowers.

A man in grey velvet livery stood at the stern, slicing through the water with a single long oar that resembled a feather.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the oarsman, bowing deeply. ‘My name is Mr Hounslow. I come on behalf of Darling House to escort you into the Greater Circle.’

‘ Delighted to meet you, Mr Hounslow,’ Holliday said in an uncharacteristically genial voice. ‘I am Holliday Wu, and this’ – she put a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder, giving her the subtlest nudge forward – ‘is Morrigan Crow. We are most honoured to be invited.’

‘It is my honour to receive you! But … I’m afraid I only have three names on my invitation,’ said Mr Hounslow, glancing at the other two behind them. He unfurled a small golden scroll from his pocket. ‘Morrigan Crow, Holliday Wu and Carlos Aguilar.’ He gave them a small, apologetic grimace. ‘Of course, we would never allow your surplus companion to be stranded. I shall have another vessel sent from our boathouse to return them to Ogden Town Station.’

Before anyone else could say a word, Morrigan grabbed Miss Cheery’s hand and said to her in a clear, calm voice, ‘I’m so glad you were invited too, Miss Aguilar. There’s no way I’d be getting in that boat if you weren’t coming.’ She looked at Holliday, making sure her full meaning was felt. ‘No way in the world.’

Holliday’s face betrayed a moment’s annoyance at this little trick, but she gave a resigned sigh and turned to Mr Hounslow, smiling thinly. ‘Just the three of us, then.’

It was like entering a painting. Or a dream.

Morrigan had seen the Silver District on the Living Map inside Proudfoot House, of course. But no map – not even a vast, sprawling miniature city full of wonders – could possibly have conveyed the feeling of the place.

The most striking thing to Morrigan was how instantly the colour of the water changed. Once they were through the gates it was like they’d sailed into a blue lagoon, so clear and sparkling she could see schools of fish darting deep beneath the surface. It reflected the perfect sky above, bright azure and streaked with peachy-purple sunset clouds.

Morrigan wondered briefly if the Silver District existed, like Wunsoc, inside its own little climate bubble, where everything was just a little bit more . But this wasn’t more ; it was completely different. It was glorious.

Just like in Ogden Town, the streets here were made of water, with little stone footpaths and bridges allowing pedestrians to navigate between buildings. But while the houses and businesses of Ogden seemed to hang over the water like heavy brows, squat and dilapidated, the architecture here was grand and soaring. A pastel rainbow of elegant townhouses rose six, seven, eight storeys high. The canals were wider and the bridges brighter too, their warm sandstone reflecting the golden hour light.

And it was peaceful. There were plenty of people around, but nothing about their movements or attitude felt urgent. They lounged on dainty tables that spilled out of cafés on to the footpaths, sipping cool drinks and sheltering beneath parasols from the late afternoon sun. They strolled arm in arm, or floated meanderingly in painted wooden boats. They picnicked barefoot in pockets of green parkland or idled in sunlit squares by tinkling stone fountains.

After the harried chaos and noise of Ogden, the Silver District was a lazy, sumptuous daydream. Amid this sudden serenity, Morrigan realised she’d been clenching her hands into white-knuckled fists almost from the moment they’d left Wunsoc. She forced her fingers to uncurl.

She’d never been on a boat before today. Not even one of the rowboats available for hire during the summer on Lake Varg, back in Jackalfax, where she grew up. Morrigan had always envied the children whose parents took them punting on those sunny days, even if the lake was an ugly, manmade thing.

Using slow, controlled strokes that made it seem like they were drifting on a cloud, Hounslow propelled them through winding canals until they emerged onto a broad, lively expanse of water filled with pleasure boats of all shapes and sizes.

‘This is the Splendid Canal,’ Mr Hounslow told them, tipping his hat as they passed a three-tiered white riverboat, trimmed with flowering wreaths and decked in fairy lights. ‘Our main traffic arterial; a turquoise vein that flows with the Silver District’s social and commercial lifeblood.’

They cut across the wide canal and into the next neighbourhood of canals and bridges, at the end of which they reached a second gatehouse. This time there was no silver gate set into its archway, but instead an enormous, violently crashing waterfall. The oarsman aimed their tiny boat directly towards it, and Morrigan gasped as she realised he meant to take them straight through.

‘Nothing to fear,’ Mr Hounslow shouted to them jovially over the roar of the rushing water. He tapped the pocket where he’d put the scroll. ‘The Greater Circle’s protective checkpoints will automatically lift for the people who live there, as well as their household staff and invited guests.’

Invited guests. Carlos, not Miss Cheery.

Holliday looked suddenly terrified, her eyes widening in the direction of the waterfall, and Miss Cheery gripped the side of the boat. Morrigan knew all three of them were wondering the same thing: exactly how smart was this waterfall?

Humming softly, Morrigan felt a tingle of Wunder in her fingertips. She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to think. Fast.

‘I – oh, dear,’ she heard Mr Hounslow say behind them. ‘The waterfall isn’t usually this slow to reverse itself. Perhaps I should turn—’

Reverse itself. It was meant to reverse itself. Obeying her gut instinct, Morrigan imagined reaching out through the Gossamer and then … she could feel it. Some extension of herself reaching far beyond her body, grasping the crashing water’s edge like a curtain, pushing it up towards the bridge. The force of the waterfall was powerful and the effort made her shake. She kept her eyes shut tight, breathing steadily and hoping with all her might she could hold it for long enough.

When Morrigan opened her eyes, Miss Cheery was staring at her in amazement.

No. Wundersmith. Stuff, Holliday mouthed fiercely, glaring daggers.

‘Goodness me, that took longer than usual!’ The oarsman gave a hearty laugh of relief, clearly quite shaken but trying not to show it to his passengers. ‘Now if you look straight ahead, just over that bridge you’ll see a glimpse of the famous Paramour Pleasure Gardens, the beating heart of the Silver District, at the centre of every aspect of life for the old families …’

Mr Hounslow’s voice faded behind the roar of blood rushing in Morrigan’s ears. The rest of their brief journey through the Greater Circle was a blur. She tried to focus only on the reassuring feel of Miss Cheery’s hand holding hers tightly, ignoring the way her nervous system twitched with residual Wunder.

They moored outside an immaculately manicured garden, and Mr Hounslow led them up a hedge-lined path to a house that looked almost as big as the Hotel Deucalion. Flowerbeds bloomed abundantly with roses and hydrangea bushes like enormous watercolour clouds. A pair of swans glided by on a little pond, so picture-perfect Morrigan half suspected they were trained to do this whenever guests arrived.

‘Forgive me for not offering a tour of the grounds,’ Mr Hounslow said in a hushed voice as they entered a grand and elegant foyer. ‘I know Lady Margot is eager to see you as soon as possible.’

Morrigan could see why he felt the urge to whisper. As soon as they’d crossed the threshold, she felt the quietness of Darling House as an almost physical sensation. A serene, dignified silence that filled the space to just the right amount. Like a glass with the water ballooning slightly above the rim; precise and perfect.

As they followed Mr Hounslow down a long hallway, Morrigan peeked into each impressive room they passed. Sitting rooms and music rooms and sunrooms and studies. She tried to drink in every detail. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, she just thought …

She should feel something. Jupiter said people left pieces of themselves everywhere. Love, joy, anger, hurt feelings … all the invisible trails and smudges and fingerprints that added up to a life. If this was truly her mother’s childhood home, she should have felt something the moment she walked in the door. Shouldn’t she? A bolt of thunder. Fireworks. A tingle down her spine, just … something.

But all Morrigan felt was a heady mix of disappointment and vindication.

You’re wrong, Holliday , she wanted to say. This wasn’t my mother’s home at all. That woman is a liar.

‘Lady Margot asked me to bring you here, to the Receiving Room,’ Mr Hounslow said as they reached a set of mosaic-tiled doors.

‘Wait—’ began Morrigan, overcome by a sudden urge to flee.

But it was too late.

The doors opened and she was thrust into an enormous room, the loveliest she’d ever seen. The walls were glass from floor to double-height ceiling, offering a stunning view of the grounds beyond. Buckets of sunshine poured in through the windows and refracted, casting rainbows all around. The intricate mosaic pattern of the doors was carried through the vast floor, swirling into imagery of roses and climbing vines. Real rosebushes with pink, peach and crimson blooms filled the place with a heavenly scent, and tall potted trees cast pools of dappled shade here and there. It made Morrigan think of the Deucalion’s conservatory, except this was less a steamy overgrown jungle than a lovingly maintained indoor garden.

In the centre of the room, lit by angular beams of sunlight, four strangers stood as if they’d been posed there for a painting.

Morrigan could swear she felt her heart stop beating in her chest.

Back in Jackalfax, in the house where she grew up, there was a room she called the Hall of Dead Crows … though everyone else called it the Portrait Hall. Its walls were crowded with oil paintings of deceased family members stretching back generations.

Banished to the far end of the hall and nestled unlovingly between Bartholomew ‘Craven’ Crow (a distant cousin who’d died while running away from his Wintersea Republic Armed Forces regiment) and Cuddles Crow (a family guinea pig several generations back, overfed to death by a too-loving toddler), was a portrait of Meredith Crow. Her mother.

Morrigan had always liked to search for her own face in the painting. Sometimes she fancied there was a bit of her around the mouth, maybe, in the slight downward turn of its right corner. Or in the ear that poked out from her mother’s hair – it had the same curve as Morrigan’s, she was sure of it.

Alas, that was where the similarities ended.

Meredith Crow was a pink-cheeked, pixie-ish woman with a soft round jawline, a small red mouth like a bow, and straw-coloured hair that drew down into a widow’s peak. She had a look of mild surprise, and Morrigan always thought it was due to the artist having painted her mother’s eyebrows in what she assumed was an exaggerated, almost cartoonishly angular point, and given her a pair of eyes roughly the size and colour of a Highland cow’s.

But now Morrigan could see there’d been nothing exaggerated about it. Now there were four heart-shaped faces fixed upon hers – all wearing her mother’s faint look of surprise, all with her wide brown eyes and her bow-shaped mouth and dramatically arched brows.

These were her mother’s people. No doubt about it.

‘Lady Darling. Noble daughters of Darling House.’ Mr Hounslow gave a deferential bow. ‘May I present—’

The older woman standing slightly in front of the others held up one tremulous hand, killing the words in his mouth.

‘Leave us, Hounslow.’

The silence that followed Mr Hounslow’s departure was not a filled cup; it was a swoop in the stomach when you miss a step.

The woman stared at Morrigan, eyebrows arched in that look of perpetual surprise. Morrigan knew exactly what Lady Darling was doing. She was searching for evidence too. Trying to feel something.

‘Good afternoon, Lady Darling,’ said Holliday, gamely jumping in to facilitate. ‘Lady Margot. Thank you for inviting us into your—’

Lady Darling’s hand went up again and Holliday instantly stopped talking. Apparently the woman wasn’t done staring yet.

Morrigan could only stare back at her, her mouth and brain having temporarily ceased communication with each other.

Lady Darling was tall and willowy, with silvery-white hair arranged in a chic, sophisticated style, and that familiar pixie-like face. She wore a simple, yet graceful, black dress and a string of pearls around her neck. She looked simultaneously fragile and powerful.

The three younger women surrounding her – Morrigan’s aunts, she supposed – all wore near identical expressions of reserved, tranquil benevolence, smiling warmly at Morrigan but waiting for something. Waiting, she suspected, for a cue from their mother.

But still Lady Darling said nothing.

Morrigan realised with a sudden ringing clarity that she had somehow made it to age thirteen-and-almost-three-quarters without ever having considered the existence of this woman – of any of them. Never wondered who her mother’s family were or whether they were still alive. If they might be wondering about her, too. The thought nearly made her laugh. Why was it so funny, that lack of curiosity?

After an excruciatingly long moment, the old woman shook her head and held a trembling hand to her mouth, turning away from Morrigan and wilting into a nearby chair.

The daughters were by her side in an instant. One of them gently took her mother’s arm, placing it in hers with a reassuring pat.

‘I do believe Mama is quite overcome,’ said another, the most glamorous of the three, as she stepped forward to take Morrigan’s clammy hands in her own cool, slender ones. The shoulders of her dress were so sharp they could have put someone’s eye out. Everything about her was lean and angular except for her big, round eyes, which were fixed brightly on Morrigan.

‘Dearest niece.’ Her voice was a low, pleasant hum. ‘I’m your Aunt Margot. It is such an indescribable happiness to meet you.’

There was a scratching sound to Morrigan’s left, and they all turned to see Holliday scribbling in her notebook.

‘Oh!’ she said, looking up. ‘Apologies. You don’t mind if I quote that, do you? For the Sentinel. Just a small, tasteful piece in the Society pages.’

‘Ms Wu – welcome to our home,’ Lady Margot said warmly, disregarding the bold request. ‘How can we ever thank you for bringing Morrigan into our lives?’

‘Oh no. It’s an honour, Lady Margot.’ Holliday slipped a tiny camera out of her pocket. ‘Though perhaps you might allow me to take a photograph of the happy reunion?’

‘Absolutely not,’ came Lady Darling’s voice from across the room.

Another missed-step silence.

‘Tell us about your studies at the Wundrous Society, Morrigan,’ Lady Margot said, gently smoothing the jagged moment. Her smile reached all the way up into her eyes. ‘You must possess an astonishing talent. What sort of extraordinary things are you learning?’

Morrigan stared at her, mouth open. Was that really what she wanted to talk about? School?

‘Morrigan is completely brilliant,’ Miss Cheery stepped in determinedly, glaring at the oblivious Lady Darling. ‘She’s an extremely valued member of the Wundrous Society. We all care about her very much. ’

‘It warms my heart to know that Morrigan has so many treasured companions in her life. My greatest hope is to soon be counted among them.’ Lady Margot beamed at Morrigan, then turned to her mother. ‘Mama, isn’t it an honour to have a member of the Wundrous Society in our family?’

Lady Darling ignored her.

‘And her patron is Jupiter North!’ Holliday annnounced, looking around the Darlings for some sign that they were sufficiently impressed. ‘ Captain Jupiter North, of the League of Explorers. Owner and proprietor of the Hotel Deucalion, Nevermoor’s only nine-star hotel,’ she clarified, pausing again. ‘He’s … quite famous?’

‘How lovely,’ Lady Margot said in a polite voice that indicated she’d never heard of Jupiter or his hotel.

Morrigan remained silent and watched her grandmother, who was still frowning in the opposite direction. Was Lady Darling upset because she was overwhelmed by meeting her granddaughter for the first time, or because she didn’t believe Morrigan was her granddaughter? She wanted to explain about the portrait in Crow Manor, about her certainty that these women were indeed her mother’s family.

But the words wouldn’t arrange themselves properly, so she simply blurted out, ‘She looked just like you.’

Lady Darling finally turned to look at her again, a bewildered, sceptical expression on her face. ‘Of course Meredith looked like me,’ she said coolly. ‘She was my daughter.’

Her gaze travelled up and down Morrigan with unequivocal purpose, lingering on her face, until Morrigan understood the full meaning of her words.

She caught her own reflection in the glass behind Lady Darling and was struck by the contrast. Coarse, thick black hair, square jaw, a nose that bent ever so slightly to the side and a thin mouth that seemed eternally poised on the verge of snarling. All traits she shared with her father Corvus, her grandmother Ornella and every ancestor in the Hall of Dead Crows, where her own portrait now hung between Great Aunt Vorona and an uncle who’d died in childhood.

It wasn’t, Morrigan realised, that Lady Darling thought she had the wrong family, that her mother had in fact come from some other lineage. She knew Meredith was theirs.

She just didn’t believe Morrigan was Meredith’s.

It felt like the ground had slipped from beneath her feet.

This woman was trying to steal something from her. Something she’d kept safe all her life. Of course Meredith Crow was her mother! She’d stared at her portrait a million, billion times. She knew her by heart.

Morrigan felt a tingle in her hands as Wunder bristled in the air around them, ready to charge at her command, but she took a deep breath and held them firmly at her sides.

‘Come now, sisters, you’re being shy!’ Once again, Lady Margot tried valiantly to rescue the situation. She waved the other two women forward. ‘Don’t you wish to welcome our niece?’

‘Welcome home, dear Morrigan,’ one of the aunts said warmly. ‘I’m your Aunt Miriam. We’re overjoyed to meet you, darling.’

Welcome home. The words swam in Morrigan’s head.

Welcome home ? Home to the Silver District? Home to this house?

‘I’m ever so glad you’ve come home to Nevermoor,’ whispered the aunt who looked the youngest, as she boldly enveloped Morrigan in a hug.

Ah. So that’s what they meant, she realised. Welcome home to Nevermoor.

But she was already home. Nevermoor wasn’t her home because it was where her mother had grown up. It was her home because she’d made it her home. Because she’d taken a chance and followed a stranger through a clockface and competed for her entry to the Wundrous Society and scrambled and fought to claim a place in this mad, wonderful city, and this mad, wonderful city had claimed her right back.

And here they were, these strangers with her mother’s face, welcoming her as if she’d just arrived. As if Nevermoor was a gift they were bestowing on her. What could she possibly say, except—

‘Where have you been?’ It came out more accusatory than she’d intended. She hadn’t known how angry she felt until the words spilled out of her mouth. But she was. She was so mad .

‘Oh! Er … please forgive her,’ said Holliday, rushing to intervene. ‘Morrigan is—’

‘I’ve been in Nevermoor for nearly three years. How did you not know that?’

‘How …’ Lady Margot seemed to hesitate for a moment, processing the question. She glanced fretfully at her mother, then down at her own clasped hands.

‘And what about before?’ Morrigan went on, her head spinning. ‘Did you know my mother was in the Wintersea Republic? Did you know that I existed ?’

Lady Margot looked at her mother again, then back to Morrigan, staring at her for a moment. ‘Please … there’ll be time to talk about all of this. It’s much more complicated than—’

‘It isn’t that complicated, Margot dear,’ murmured Lady Darling. ‘It seems increasingly straightforward to me.’ She raised an eyebrow, before her gaze turned back to Morrigan.

There it was again, that scornful doubt etched in the lines of her face. It twisted in Morrigan’s gut like a knife. She wanted to run back to Wunsoc and find Jupiter and make him promise that Holliday and the Elders would never make her come back to this house, and never ever ambush her like this again.

But she was trapped. And the claustrophobic feeling of being stuck in this room, this house, this secretive district with all its gates and waterfalls, agitated the part of her that wanted control. Told her to take it back.

Morrigan reached out through the Gossamer again, just like at the waterfall, only this time her eyes were open. She gasped as the white-gold glow of Wundrous energy – invisible to anyone but her – ballooned out beyond her arms, extending into something beautiful and grotesque and colossal. A pair of monsters she could control but just barely – monsters that were her .

Those Wundrous hands lifted the mosaic floor by the edges and shook out the room like an enormous rug. Wunder poured into the tiles until they became a rolling mosaic ocean, a tumult beneath her feet, causing the walls to vibrate and the glass in the windows to shatter. The Darlings shrieked and toppled over one another, their perfect poise disappearing in a swell of shock.

Morrigan knew Holliday would kill her, she knew the Elders would be furious, but in that moment she didn’t care. In that moment she felt good. Surrendering to the swarm of Wunder, gathering it up and throwing it out beyond her like that, had felt like finally stretching restless legs. Like scratching an itch or cracking her knuckles. Sheer, intense relief.

But in the aftermath of what she’d done, her relief washed away almost instantly, chased by a growing sense of panic and regret – and surprise.

She hadn’t meant to put so much force behind it. She wasn’t even sure what she’d been trying to do . She’d just … she’d just wanted Lady Darling to stop looking at her like that. To wipe away that look of doubt and protect this one precious thing that was hers. The certainty of her mother’s face.

With the floor still trembling, every person in the room turned to Morrigan as if seeing her properly for the first time.

All those terrified faces. Holliday’s deep dismay. Miss Cheery’s wide-eyed shock. And her mother’s face, her mother’s face, over and over.

Never had Morrigan wanted to undo anything as desperately as she wanted to undo this. The sudden certain knowledge that she could have known her mother’s family, if only she hadn’t made this one, split-second, world-ruining mistake …

‘I—’ Morrigan began in a small, cracked voice. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’

She felt her face crumple.

Miss Cheery stepped towards her, reaching out. ‘Morrigan—’

She needed time to think. She needed this nightmare to just stop for a moment.

And as soon as that desperate thought entered her mind, the room and everything in it ground to a halt. The air suddenly felt as thick as molasses.

Miss Cheery stood frozen, arms extended, only centimetres away. Holliday and the Darlings were still as statues. In the sudden quiet, Morrigan heard her own shallow, rapid breaths like the scrape of a blade on a whetstone.

She’d seen this before. She’d watched her old teacher, Professor Onstald, do this.

Unfortunately, there was no time to unravel the fact that she had just performed a flawless execution of Tempus – a Wundrous Art she’d not had even one single lesson in – because in the middle of the wrecked Receiving Room in the Grand Old House of Darling, a bridge of golden-white Gossamer was building itself in front of her eyes, and a familiar man in a long grey coat was striding across it, flanked by two black wolves.

Morrigan watched in astonished silence as Ezra Squall came to stand beside her, hands in pockets, and surveyed the damages with a weary sigh.

‘Busy day?’