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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Shooting Stario

‘Got your notebook?’

‘Check.’

‘Pen?’

‘Check.’

‘Write down everything. Our memories aren’t as reliable as we think.’

‘Got it.’

‘But be subtle. Don’t go whipping out your pen every two minutes.’

‘This is such good advice,’ said Morrigan. ‘Should I be writing it down?’

If Cadence noticed her sarcasm, she didn’t acknowledge it.

The two girls followed a path through pristine landscaped gardens towards the splendid facade of Darling House, stark white against a pale blue sky. Morrigan shifted an enormous bunch of flowers from one arm to the other. When Cadence had told her gran where they were going that day, she’d insisted on making two bouquets from the snapdragons, lavender and larkspurs that grew in her small garden, ‘For the boy’s poor mother and wife.’

Cadence smoothed her smart black dress for the umpteenth time. She seemed keyed-up and ready, Morrigan thought, rather than nervous. ‘I’ll disappear first chance I get and search for the wedding photos. I can mesmerise my way out of trouble if anyone catches me, but it’ll be better if I don’t have to, so find a way to distract your aunts and grandmother while I sneak around.’

‘Fine. But wouldn’t it be easier if I did the snooping?’ she suggested, lowering her voice as they ascended the front steps. ‘I can cover myself in shadow, so nobody sees me.’

‘It’s not about them seeing you, it’s about them missing you. Your absence will be too conspicuous, whereas nobody will remember I was there in the first place.’ Cadence waited as an elderly couple passed by with a genial nod to Morrigan, which both girls returned politely. ‘One more thing: don’t go drawing anyone’s attention to me.’

‘Don’t you want to meet my family?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t need you pointing out my presence every five minutes like you always do, okay?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Cadence, lowering her voice as they crossed the threshold into Darling House, ‘because you think it hurts my widdle feewings when people forget I’m there. Which it doesn’t, by the way.’

Morrigan’s lip curled. ‘I do not— ’

‘Yes, you do, and it’s stupid. But I appreciate it. But it’s very dumb of you. But nice. But stop it. Is that your aunt?’

Elegant and understated in a black tailored dress, Lady Margot descended a sweeping staircase into the entrance hall just as the girls were handing over their coats to a member of the household staff. She kissed Morrigan twice on each cheek, thanking her repeatedly for being with them on such a difficult day.

‘And my dear girl, of course you can bring a friend home to see us! In fact, I insist upon it. We so wish to meet all your friends,’ she said in her quiet, smooth voice, putting an arm gently around Morrigan’s shoulders as she steered her down a wide hallway lined with gilt-framed landscapes. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay with us tonight, and your friend could come for tea tomorrow? How does that sound? We’ll add their name to the waterfall scroll right away.’

‘Oh, um …’ Morrigan glanced back at Cadence, who was trailing close behind and looking amused. ‘Actually she’s … she’s right here. This is Cadence Blackburn, one of my best friends.’

Morrigan had forgotten all about the Greater Circle’s stringent security measures when she’d impulsively decided to bring Cadence with her. Luckily, some quick thinking and a bit of mesmerism had gotten them into Hounslow’s swan boat without incident, and when they approached the waterfall gate Morrigan had thrown her reach at it with much more confidence this time, easily lifting the curtain of water.

‘Oh! Oh my.’ Aunt Margot gave a little yelp of surprise when she noticed Cadence, but swiftly recovered her poise. ‘Well of course she is. My sincere apologies, Miss Blackburn!’ She blinked, momentarily confused. ‘How exactly did you—’

‘I’m honoured to meet you, Lady Margot. Though I wish it were under happier circumstances.’ Cadence dropped into an effortless curtsy, and Morrigan bit her lip to hide a smile.

Despite her confusion, Aunt Margot was charmed by Cadence’s manners and welcomed her to Darling House … then turned to continue down the hall and promptly forgot she existed.

Just before they reached the familiar mosaic-tiled door, Morrigan felt a nudge in her back – a subtle reminder from Detective Blackburn.

‘Oh! Aunt Margot,’ she said, in a rehearsed tone of respectful curiosity. ‘I read in the newspaper that the police have arrested the wedding planner. Is that true? It must be such a relief to know that the killer is caught, and justice will be done.’

She looked back at Cadence again, who nodded in approval. The girls had agreed to pretend they didn’t know about Mr Stirling’s release, just to see Aunt Margot’s reaction – which Cadence was confident would reveal whether the woman was, in her words, ‘a bit suss’.

‘Unfortunately,’ Aunt Margot said quietly, her expression darkening, ‘justice has certainly not been done. I’m afraid the police have, inexplicably, dropped the charges against that terrible man.’

‘Oh! Then they don’t think he did it after all?’

‘No. But I believe they are dangerously mistaken.’ She clutched a string of pearls around her neck with one hand and the door handle with the other, knuckles white. ‘I’ve seen for myself what a vicious, vengeful man Mr Stirling is. But I suppose he managed to bribe someone to provide an alibi, and now we must all live with the fact that Dario’s murderer remains free.’

‘I see.’ Morrigan nodded slowly, twisting the white ribbon on her bouquet. ‘And you … definitely think it was him?’

‘ Who else would it have been?’ was the sharp, narrow-eyed retort. Morrigan must have flinched, because Aunt Margot reached for her hand almost instantly, reverting to warm, honeyed tones. ‘Oh darling, forgive me, this week has truly taken its toll.’ She pressed her lips together and shook her head, smiling thinly. ‘Come now, let’s not speak of such dreadful things. Mr Stirling will never return to the Silver District, I promise … We are very safe here. Nobody can enter unless invited and – er. I’m sorry. Who are you?’ she finished, looking up in surprise at Cadence.

‘Shall we go in?’ Morrigan gently directed her aunt through the mosaic door, glancing back to see Cadence mouth the words, Bit suss.

It was a relief to see the grand Receiving Room restored to its original state of perfection. (She made a mental note to find and thank the Wunsoc clean-up crew, whoever they may be.)

‘Oh dear. I’m afraid I’m being pulled in all directions today, there’s so much to see to,’ said Aunt Margot, nodding and holding up one finger to Mr Hounslow, who was trying urgently to get her attention from across the room. ‘And naturally my highest priority must be poor Modestine. But Miriam will take excellent care of you.’

‘And … how is Lady Darling?’ Morrigan asked hesitantly, feeling a familiar nervous flip in her abdomen. ‘Is she feeling better?’

Aunt Margot’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry to say that Mama is not at all well. All this upset has done her fragile constitution no favours. She was ever so eager to see you again, darling, and so very disappointed to have missed you at the wedding. But our family physician said she absolutely must stay in bed today, and I quite – yes, I’m coming, Hounslow, one moment.’ She gave a flustered sigh. ‘It never stops. Dear, would you excuse me for—’

‘Of course,’ Morrigan said quickly, waving her away. The sooner Aunt Margot left her and Cadence to their own devices, the sooner their investigation could begin.

Surveying the vast, sunlit room, Morrigan felt she hadn’t fully appreciated the capacity of the place on her first visit. So much for Modestine’s ‘ small and intimate’ celebration; it seemed every family in the district must be there. Hundreds of black-clad mourners filled the space with a low buzz, like a hive of sombre bees.

‘Popular guy, wasn’t he,’ Cadence said under her breath.

‘Apparently.’

‘Lots of famous faces.’

Morrigan’s head swivelled. ‘Who?’

‘Dragonriders, mostly. Hawthorne’s going to spew when I tell him who was here.’ She nodded discreetly towards a man built like a plough horse, broad and towering with a great bushy moustache. ‘That’s Reg Grubb; he’s a member of the Farnham Flankers, a synchronised soaring team from Saint Fiera. And there’s Didi Gundry talking to Qasim Abdullahi over by the orange tree.’ Morrigan glanced over to see two athletes dressed in formal black riding leathers, conversing in rapid sign language. ‘Two retired legends, both rumoured to be reconsidering their retirement now Alights on the Water is up for grabs. Quincy Frost with the curly blonde hair behind them – she’s new on the circuit, quite young but has some serious momentum from a slew of regional wins this year. The bloke eating scones with his mouth open is Hector Gillies. Don’t you recognise any of them? Some of these people must have been at the wedding.’

Morrigan tried to study the dragonriders’ faces without staring too hard. ‘Not sure … but my table was at the back, and there were lots of people.’ She thought about it for a moment, then murmured, ‘When we get the photos, you and Hawthorne should—’

‘Already memorising a list of riders to look for,’ Cadence confirmed. ‘We can’t rule out sabotage as a motive. Some of this lot have reputations for being cut-throat.’

‘When did you become such a dragonsport expert?’

‘About four days ago. It’s called research.’

Morrigan had no response to that. Once again, the depths of Cadence’s brain – and her time management skills – were both terrifying and inspiring.

Stretching along one side of the room was what could only be described as a Dario Rinaldi shrine. Hundreds of framed photographs told the story of his life in chronological order; from a smiley, dimple-cheeked baby held by doting parents, to a gangly boy with a cheeky grin and then a brooding, athletic teenager in red-and-gold dragonriding kit … all the way to the handsome groom with his radiant bride, beaming up at the camera from the golden dragon boat, surrounded by floating lanterns. Morrigan felt a chill on her neck.

Cadence frowned, pointing at the photo. ‘Is that the boat he was—’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yikes. Isn’t that a bit …’

‘Eerie?’ suggested Morrigan. She was looking at the deliriously joyful newlyweds sailing on a river of light, but could only see the lifeless, glassy-eyed groom floating from beneath the shadowy bridge.

‘I was gonna say tasteless, but yeah. Eerie.’

At the end of the photographic journey through Dario’s life, the red-and-gold uniform he wore in the photos was framed and mounted, still stained with sweat patches and singed black on one corner. Across the back the words SHOOTING STARIO were embroidered in glittering gold thread.

‘That’s the nickname his fans gave him,’ Cadence explained, ‘because he and his dragon rose so quickly through the tournament ranks. Dario the Shooting Stario.’

Morrigan frowned as something snagged in her memory. What was the weird thing Squall had said in their last lesson when she’d mentioned Dario? The Falling Star. It was strange to think of Ezra Squall being a dragonsport fan. (Though not much of a fan, she supposed, as he didn’t even get Dario’s nickname right.)

She looked around casually, trying to spot the other suspects on their list so she could point them out to Cadence. She couldn’t see Gigi Grand’s parents, or – thankfully – Laurent St James.

‘There’s the brother,’ she whispered, nudging Cadence.

Cosimo ‘Ogden Town Dario’ Rinaldi stood dutifully behind his parents and younger sister near the centre of the room. He looked just as sombre as he had at the wedding, but at least this time his mood matched the event, Morrigan thought.

Vincenzo, the Rinaldi patriarch, was loud and expressive in his grief. Surrounded by friends and well-wishers, he held court with stories about his beloved eldest son, by turns weeping and laughing, but always talking, always gesticulating wildly and wiping his eyes with a soggy white handkerchief.

His wife, on the other hand, might have been a garden statue. Olivia Rinaldi’s drawn, grey face was turned to the far side of the room.

Beside her, looking tearstained and miserable, was Dario and Cosimo’s eleven-year-old sister Vesta. She sat in a gleaming black metal chair with eight spindly legs that reminded Morrigan of Jupiter’s arachnipod. Instead of a two-storey high mechanical spider-shaped vehicle, though, Vesta’s version was a neat travelling chair for one, and instead of a huge flight deck full of levers and buttons and screens, it had a small panel of mechanical controls at the end of each armrest. Vesta kept glancing anxiously at her mother every few seconds, but Olivia could only stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, her dull gaze fixed somewhere beyond the grounds and canal. She was barely there. She was a shell.

Morrigan watched as Cosimo placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder, and she shrugged it away. A flash of emotion crossed Cosimo’s face but was gone in an instant.

Was that hurt , Morrigan wondered. Or anger?

She remembered Jupiter’s expression as she walked away from him yesterday and felt a queasy, unsettled feeling in her stomach.

‘Should I have told Jupiter where I was going?’

Cadence sighed. She’d already heard this lament several times since Morrigan had knocked on her station door that morning. ‘You did tell him. You left a note.’

‘Yeah, but it said I was going to your place.’

‘You did go to my place.’

‘For about ten minutes, before we took the Wunderground—’

‘Look,’ said Cadence. ‘Was it lying by omission? Yes. But was it actual, outright, bold-faced lying? Also sort of yes. But is it likely to have serious consequences? Possibly. But will those consequences include violent death, grave injury or a prison sentence? Probably not.’ She shrugged. ‘I think we’re in a moral grey zone with this one, and if you’re going to investigate a murder, you need to be comfortable with moral grey zones. Lying to authority figures is part of the detective’s toolkit. Comes with the territory.’ She clocked the scepticism on Morrigan’s face and rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re here now, anyway. Might as well make the most of it. You can start by having a chat with Auntie Widow … once that crowd’s thinned out.’

Cadence nodded towards the other side of the room, where a second swarm had gathered around Modestine, who sat by the window. Rays of sunlight through the glass lit her sad face just so , making her yellow curls glow around her head like a halo. It was almost like she’d been placed in precisely that spot for the prettiest effect.

‘What am I supposed to say to her?’ whispered Morrigan, grasping Cadence’s arm in sudden panic.

‘Start with “sorry for your loss”, then casually bring the conversation round to murder.’ Cadence whirled Morrigan around and shoved her towards the centre of the room. ‘Good luck!’

It took some time to wind through the crowd. With one eye on Aunt Modestine, Morrigan navigated an ever-shifting discord of noisy crosstalk and quiet tête-à-têtes, slinking as close as she dared, trying to hone her eavesdropping skills (not polite, she realised, but perhaps another of those ‘moral grey zones’ detectives had to get used to).

‘You heard Lord and Lady Devereaux refused the Darlings’ invitation today?’ was one tantalising tidbit she picked up from a group of gossipy old men. ‘Bad blood there, old sport, very bad blood …’

Feeling relieved to know she wouldn’t be running into Noelle today, Morrigan sidled up behind the Rinaldis and pretended to be interested in a large potted rosebush.

‘ There you are, dear heart.’ A pair of hands landed on her shoulders, and she looked up to see Aunt Miriam manoeuvring her away. ‘You must come and meet our beloved neighbours, the El-Hashems. Have you ever ridden a pony? They have ever so many.’

Morrigan spent the next half-hour being paraded from guest to guest. If it wasn’t a perfectly ridiculous thing to think about someone else’s memorial service, she might almost have believed she was the guest of honour. And even while the investigation suffered for it, she couldn’t help feeling pleased – and a little relieved – by Aunt Miriam’s obvious eagerness to show her off. She was acting like … like a proud aunt , Morrigan realised. (And not at all like she’d seen ‘ notorious Wundersmith Morrigan Crow’ mentioned in any newspaper articles about Dario recently, which was a relief.)

Meanwhile, the only evidence of Cadence’s presence in Darling House was the paper-wrapped bouquet now sitting in Olivia Rinaldi’s lap. She must have already slipped away to hunt down the photographs.

With Cadence’s instructions in mind, Morrigan finally managed to spirit herself away from the Receiving Room at one point in the afternoon, taking refuge in a small library down the hall. Sitting cross-legged in a darkened corner, she whipped out her notebook to scrawl a few observations while she could still remember them.

Lord & Lady Dev refused invite – angry or guilty?

Vulture – late + badly dressed (again). Everyone surprised he came (again). Not v popular. Dislike or fear?

Why was he

Morrigan paused midsentence. She felt uneasy writing these last words.

The Vulture’s late arrival had been greeted by an undercurrent of whispers. If Morrigan wasn’t straining to listen to all the conversations around her at the time, she might not have caught the subtle swell of hostility – because, oddly, the whisperers all beamed warm, welcoming smiles at the Vulture, even as they slated him from a distance.

‘There he is again ! Like seeing a Yeti outside its cave, no?’

‘Seems to be showing rather a special interest in the Darlings …’

‘Good grief, what is he wearing? The blatant disrespect!’

If the Vulture had been inappropriately dressed for the wedding, it was nothing to his memorial attire. He looked like he’d rolled out of bed and thrown on whatever dirty, wrinkled outfit he’d been wearing the day before – pale blue jeans ripped at the knees and a faded candy-pink band T-shirt, slightly moth-eaten on the collar and emblazoned with the words THE WUNTU FREEFAWS .

Seeing the Vulture in daylight and without his wide-brimmed hat, Morrigan was surprised to find he was quite a bit older than she’d thought. He had a shaggy mane of stark white hair and pale blue eyes sunk in deep purple sockets, and without his bulky overcoat Morrigan could see he was so thin a gentle shove might snap him in two. Overall, he gave the unsettling impression, not of a vulture, but a skeleton with poor posture.

It was during this uncharitable thought that Morrigan’s gaze had accidentally locked with the Vulture’s from across the room. He grew suddenly still, a cucumber sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide and staring for several uncomfortable seconds. The back of Morrigan’s neck prickled and she gasped as she noticed the blood that dripped from his nostril, over his lips and all the way down his chin. The man was so busy staring at her, he hadn’t even realised his nose was bleeding. She reflexively held a hand to her own nose. It seemed to jolt the Vulture back to self-awareness, and he mirrored her movement, catching the drip-drip-drip mid-stream and wiping it casually on his shirt.

The grotesque strangeness of the moment had disturbed Morrigan so much she’d instantly excused herself, slipping from the crowded Receiving Room and down the hall to the library where she now sat cross-legged in the corner.

Frowning, she finished writing her sentence.

Why was he staring at me?

Suddenly the door flew open and a figure in a sweeping black dress stormed into the room. Aunt Modestine slammed the door behind her and began to pace, muttering under her breath. She took a book from the shelf and threw it across the room, then another, then another. Morrigan tucked her notebook into her pocket and shrank instinctively against the wall. The fourth book landed with a SMACK right next to her head, and she yelped.

‘Oh!’ Modestine’s hands flew to her mouth when she spotted Morrigan’s ashen face. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so – I didn’t mean to – oh no!’

Her face crumpled and suddenly she was wracked with full-body sobs. She stood slumped in the middle of the room, wailing like an overtired toddler.

Morrigan scrambled to her feet, gathering the now slightly worse-for-wear bouquet she’d abandoned on the floor, thrust it at her aunt and blurted out, ‘ Sorryforyourloss .’

Modestine stopped crying. She looked uncomprehendingly at Morrigan, then at the flowers, before breaking into a small, watery smile.

‘You came,’ she said with a sniffle, accepting the bouquet.

Morrigan tried frantically to find the right thing to say.

‘Aunt Modestine, you must be so—’ She pressed her lips together. You must be so what? Sad? Obviously. ‘I’m sorry for your …’ She trailed off awkwardly. She’d already said that one. ‘What a lovely memorial. I’m sure Dario would have, um … liked it.’

If someone had offered Morrigan a chance to be swallowed up by the Guiltghast at that moment, she would gladly have taken it. Dario would have liked his own funeral?! Had she ever said anything so stupid in her whole life?

‘That’s sweet of you, but I’m afraid he would have despised it.’ Modestine glanced towards the library door, scowling. ‘I told Margot I wanted to celebrate his life, not stand around watching people eat sandwiches and gossip and be miserable. I wanted everyone to wear red and gold – his riding colours, you know – not this awful black nonsense . I wanted there to be music, and dancing! Dario loved to dance. Margot said that was a ridiculous idea, but she didn’t know him at all . He was my best friend! Shouldn’t this be about what he would have wanted?’ Tears spilled freely down her pale cheeks.

‘Of course,’ Morrigan agreed, uncertain what else to say.

Modestine dropped into a velvet-upholstered chair, still hugging the bouquet. ‘Margot only cares about the way things look , never the way they really are . Never the way they feel. This isn’t for Dario or me at all, it’s just to show off and do the proper thing in the proper way. All she thinks about these days is the stupid Silver Assembly, even Tobias says so.’ The words Silver Assembly pinged something in Morrigan’s memory. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but Modestine was on a roll now, words pouring fast and loose through her tears. ‘And Mama is so unwell ! And … and that awful Mr Stirling is going to get away with murder and – and – oh, Morrigan, I don’t know what to do.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just so worried about Georgie!’

The barrage of twists in Modestine’s monologue had been hard to follow, but the landing really took Morrigan by surprise. ‘Sorry … Georgie?’

‘You know. Georgette.’ Her eyes went to the closed door again. ‘ Gigi Grand. You saw her at the wedding, remember?’

Morrigan’s heartbeat quickened. Gigi. Dario. The golden dragon boat …

Now she remembered where she’d heard that phrase! Dario said it to Gigi, on the night of the wedding. As soon as spring arrives and the Silver Assembly is done … we won’t have to hide anymore.

A tiny frown creased the top of Modestine’s perfect pink nose. ‘Morrigan, Georgie’s gone missing! She left the wedding before the band finished playing and … well, that’s not entirely unusual. She has an artist’s temperament, you know, they run hot-and-cold. But I don’t think she knows about Dario! She couldn’t possibly , or she’d be here with us. She’s our dearest friend. Sunny tried asking Lord and Lady Devereaux if they’d heard from her since the wedding, but they were ever so rude to him.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That they don’t know where she is, and they don’t care, and she isn’t their daughter anymore. Dreadful, hateful, horrid people! It’s no wonder Georgie ran away.’ Modestine wore an expression of savage loathing that was almost absurd on her doll-like face. When she spoke again, it was in a low, vicious growl that took Morrigan by surprise. ‘I hate Lord and Lady Devereaux. I hate them with a horrible hate , and I can’t wait for the Silver Assembly. The sooner we’re rid of that vile, wretched family, the better—’

‘What is the Silver Assembly?’ Morrigan jumped in, determined not to miss her chance this time.

Modestine looked vaguely surprised by the question. ‘Oh! Of course, I forget you’re not …’ She bit her lip, thinking for a moment, then sighed. ‘Well, it’s a sort of meeting, but a frightfully big and important one. They only happen once in every Age, always in the first spring of Basking, and every house in the district – Greater and Lesser – has to send someone to represent their family. I’ve never had to attend one, thank goodness, because they sound ever so dull. They go on for days, mostly talking about council taxes and boring things like that. But the most important part is when the attendees all vote on whether the twelve Greater Houses have done enough good for the district since the last Assembly and ought to stay as Greater Houses, or if they should decline to become Lesser … and if one of them does decline, then a Lesser House advances to replace them and everybody has to vote on that … and of course it almost never happens because it’s mostly old people at the meetings, you know, and old people are ever so frightened of change, aren’t they?’ Modestine finally paused her double-speed explanation to draw a breath, while Morrigan wondered how in the world she would remember all of this to write it down. ‘And of course the last Silver Assembly was nearly a disaster and we mustn’t talk about it, but this Silver Assembly is going to be a very rude awakening for a certain horrible house … and GOOD RIDDANCE, if you ask me, because if anybody deserves to decline from the Greater Circle, it’s the nasty old Dev—’

An ice-cold voice cut her off, swift as a guillotine blade.

‘ENOUGH.’