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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Outside Creeps In

Winter of Three

Almost two weeks had passed in a dreamy, silver blur before the bubble popped very suddenly over breakfast one Saturday morning, with the arrival of a letter.

Morrigan Crow, you jumped-up little truant.

You can tell your rich aunt I don’t care how many silver-embossed, perfume-soaked notes she sends to excuse your inexcusable absences. This is the Wundrous Society, not an after-school shift at your local takeaway. You don’t get to skive off for two weeks just because someone was murdered. Get a grip.

Don’t even think about missing a third week. If you’re not back at school on Monday morning, I shall come to the Silver District and fetch you myself. And who knows who I’ll be by the time I get there.

Rook Rosenfeld

Scholar Mistress for the School of Wundrous Arts (In case you’d forgotten)

Morrigan gripped the letter in one hand and a butter knife in the other, a piece of cold toast lying forgotten on her plate. She had a sudden, horrible vision of Rook turning up at Darling House and transforming into Murgatroyd … or worse, Dearborn . She could feel the curious glances of her aunts and uncle around the table, even amid the noisy distraction of what she’d come to think of as ‘the Cousin Parade’.

Every morning during breakfast, the Darlings’ six collective children (ranging from baby Thomas to seven-year-old Marigold, who ruled the cousin army with her tiny iron fist) were brought to the dining room by a team of stalwart nannies. Their parents (and Aunt Modestine) would exclaim over them with great admiration, bestowing hugs and asking about their plans for the day, praising their charming manners and listening with genuine bright-eyed interest to a cacophony of stories and complaints and songs and interesting facts. This tornado of activity typically ended the moment a toddler became slightly rowdy, at which point the nannies would immediately usher the children away. The grown-ups would wave them off with a great show of reluctance, wishing them the most wonderful day, my angels, and the clamour would be silenced by the closing of the dining-room door. They would then return to their tea and toast and adult conversations and were unlikely to see the children again until the evening, during aperitifs, when they were trotted out for the pre-bedtime round.

Would this have been Morrigan’s childhood, she wondered uneasily, if she’d grown up at Darling House? Seeing her mother twice a day, to be hugged and kissed and adored for five minutes and then sent on her way? Five minutes, twice a day, every day for thirteen years … Morrigan couldn’t quite do the maths in her head, but she knew it was approximately one bajillion more minutes than she’d actually had with her mother.

‘Why does Morrigan get to stay?’ little Marigold whined, as a woman in a starched uniform steered her to the door.

‘One day you’ll be grown up like cousin Morrigan, and you’ll stay too,’ said Aunt Margot, bestowing one last kiss on her daughter’s golden head.

‘And have a wonderful day, my angel,’ added Uncle Tobias as he disappeared behind the newspaper, already returning to his half-finished crossword.

‘Is something the matter, Morrigan?’ asked Aunt Winifred, with a subtle glance at the letter still clutched in her hand.

‘Oh, um. My Scholar Mistress, Rook, has written to me.’ Morrigan blinked, still dazed from the realisation she’d been at Darling House almost two weeks . ‘She wants me back at school on Monday. And I suppose … I ought to get back to the Deucalion, too.’

Aunt Modestine gasped, dropping her teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Oh no ! You mustn’t go so soon . The festive season is about to begin!’

‘All the decorations will go up next week,’ said Aunt Miriam. ‘You must see them, Morrigan.’

Aunt Margot gave her sisters a reproving look. ‘ Really, girls. If Morrigan wishes to return to her patron’s hotel, that is entirely her decision.’ She paused, fiddling with the pearls around her neck, and added a little wistfully, ‘But it would be so lovely to have you home for the holidays, dear. To be with your family.’

‘This was Merry’s favourite time of year!’ said Aunt Modestine excitedly. ‘She loved seeing all the boats glittering with fairy lights on the canals—’

‘And the living statues in the park,’ added Aunt Miriam.

‘The holiday season officially starts tomorrow,’ Aunt Margot went on, ‘with the launch of the floating tribute—’

‘What’s a floating tribute?’ asked Morrigan.

‘—but of course that’s only the beginning! There are so many traditions we want to share with you.’

The aunts got carried away on a swelling tide of festive cheer, naming at least a dozen upcoming events that Morrigan simply must attend. Before she knew it, she’d agreed to spend the holidays at Darling House, and the whole table erupted with cheers.

Ignoring the kernel of guilt in her stomach and pushing all thoughts of the Hotel Deucalion at Christmas time from her mind, Morrigan looked down at her letter. Rook’s glowering face popped into her head.

‘But I really do have to go back to school.’

Sunday was unseasonably warm, for the first day of winter. Sunlight sparkled on the Splendid Canal, where hundreds had gathered for the launch of the festive season. The crowd was a sea of purple, in a hundred different shades. Until that morning, Morrigan would have expected everyone to be decked in red and green, to show their support of either Saint Nicholas or the Yule Queen. But it turned out the ‘festive season’ her aunts were so excited about encompassed more than a dozen different winter celebrations, since the aristocrats, as Uncle Tobias joked, ‘never met a holiday they wouldn’t throw a party for’. And while Christmas certainly made the list, it wasn’t number one by any stretch; that spot was reserved for an Ages-old, Silver-District-only tradition, which they were very passionate about.

‘Today we usher in a season of thanksgiving for the beauty, bounty and blessings bestowed upon us through the Ages,’ the amplified voice of Lord Hallewell boomed over the water. A cheerful, elderly man bedecked in lavender finery, he stood in the central portico of the largest bridge on the Splendid Canal, curiously named the Bridge of Weavers. Behind him were the heads of the other Greater Houses, including Aunt Margot, standing in for her mother. ‘A season of paying tribute to our most ancient and divine patron, and holding fast to the traditions that have guided us since the founding of our noble district. The Season of the Manyhands!’

Morrigan’s ears rang as cheers exploded on both sides of the Splendid Canal.

‘With today’s launching of the Manyhands tribute, festivities may officially begin. For three weeks, the glorious seasonal sculpture will float on our waterways for all to enjoy, before being carried into the Paramour Pleasure Gardens for the Night of the Good Feasting.

‘Now, before we begin our canal-side stroll to the launch site, my fellow Silver Council members and I,’ Lord Hallewell continued soberly, gesturing to the figures behind him, ‘wish to acknowledge the enduring generosity of the Rinaldi family, who have kindly sponsored this year’s spectacular tribute. Even in a time of immense personal difficulty, our friends and neighbours, the Rinaldis, never fail to astound us with their unmatched munificence for the public good. Bravo, Rinaldi House!’

More applause as Vincenzo and Olivia Rinaldi, along with their daughter Vesta, their son Cosimo, and Cosimo’s wife and baby, joined the Silver Council on the Bridge of Weavers. Morrigan couldn’t help noticing one of the council members didn’t raise her hands to clap. Lady Devereaux remained statue-still, though her nose wrinkled slightly, as if she’d caught a whiff of something horrid.

Bit suss, thought Morrigan.

‘And now,’ boomed Lord Hallewell, ‘let the march begin!’

A brass band struck up a jaunty tune and the crowd surged forward along the broad canal-side paths. The Darlings were buzzing with holiday cheer and the slightly manic energy of a group of unpractised parents who had (perhaps unwisely) given their nannies the day off as a launch-of-season treat.

‘All right children, hold tight to your grown-up’s hand!’ called Aunt Miriam, doing her umpteenth headcount of the day.

The cohesion of the group disintegrated almost immediately and Morrigan quickly fell behind, but she wasn’t worried. The atmosphere was joyful, and the winter sun was warm on her face, and it felt wonderful to know that, even now, Nevermoor could still surprise her with something brand new and utterly confusing like … whatever this Manyhands business was. She didn’t notice the man strolling next to her until a family of five walked right through his body.

‘Blessings of the Manyhands upon you and your house,’ Squall greeted her coolly. ‘Charming to see you in such good health. I’d begun to wonder if you were lying comatose somewhere, or had perhaps tumbled into a ravine and trapped your leg beneath a boulder, and thus had no choice but to decline two consecutive invitations. I was under the impression you wanted to learn the Wundrous Arts; was I mistaken?’ he asked in a pensive, mildly amused tone.

‘No, I just—’

‘I can’t unmake our agreement, Miss Crow. It’s fixed in the Gossamer. The existence of your apprenticeship is unalterable.’

‘I realise that.’

‘But I can’t compel you to participate in it, either.’

‘Wait, what ?’ Morrigan turned off the noisy Splendid Canal, forcing a path through the jostling crowd to a cool, shadowy side street. ‘You said the apprenticeship is unalterable—’

‘Its existence is a fact , yes,’ Squall agreed, strolling casually after her. ‘Much like the existence of my membership to the Ylvastad Public Library is a fact. I have a laminated card with my name on it. Doesn’t mean I have to use it.’

She blinked, taken aback. ‘You’re saying I could just … pretend the apprenticeship doesn’t exist? And nothing bad would happen?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that. But if you’d like to take your chances on the parasitic swarm of Wunder that will build around you while you remain a sitting duck, stagnant in your ability to control and command it … well. That’s your prerogative.’ He raised his eyebrows and mimed an explosion.

‘Of course I don’t want that,’ Morrigan muttered. ‘But there’s stuff happening all the time around here, and my aunts are always nearby. It’s hard to sneak off for unscheduled lessons at the drop of a hat.’

‘Oh, I do apologise. Shall I liaise with your social secretary? Perhaps we can find a spot between lawn bowls and hat shopping on Thursday?’ Squall made an irritated, careless gesture across the narrow waterway, like throwing bread to the ducks. The Gossamer bridge appeared and he began to cross, stopping halfway to glare back at her. ‘Do you require a handwritten invitation?’

She was about to snap that no, she didn’t, but a bit of notice might be nice, when—

‘Morrigan! HEY! Over here!’

Morrigan squinted into the sunlight and spotted a determined-looking Louis and Lottie St James, fighting their way through the fast-moving river of people towards her. She felt her stomach clench.

Taking three seconds to weigh up her options, Morrigan gave a frustrated groan and stepped onto the glowing Gossamer.