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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Good Feasting

If the Glade was a romantic, glittering fairyland for Modestine and Dario’s wedding, for the Feast of the Manyhands it was its dark counterpart. The wisteria that had cocooned the trellised tunnel entrances was gone, replaced with deep green winter foliage and twisting black vines. Torches and braziers, and even a couple of bonfires, provided light and heat. There were roving fire-eaters and incense-twirlers and musicians, and the whole Glade was filled with a steady, primal drumbeat.

Looming above it all was the great floral tribute to the Manyhands. Morrigan had caught glimpses of it from a distance over the past weeks as it wound through the Silver District canals, but seeing it up close, she felt slightly perplexed. It looked a bit like a jellyfish, and a bit like a hot-air balloon without a basket, she thought – an enormous, floating black dome with a round, benevolent face, smiling down upon the Glade. A device directly underneath shot flames upwards intermittently to keep it suspended in the air, while long ropes twined with fairy lights and flowers and vines fanned out from its base, secured with iron pegs in the ground so it didn’t float away. Aunt Miriam said they were meant to represent the weaving arms of the Manyhands.

The face was made of flowers, all in shades of purple – freesias, heliotropes, irises, hydrangeas. It smiled beatifically with hyacinth lips, and its lavender-lashed eyes were closed, as if it was sleeping. It was beautiful and elegant, and Morrigan was confident it bore only the most tenuous resemblance to the real Manyhands … unlike the Guiltghast. (Hani Nakamura, after all, had actually seen the Manyhands with her own eyes before creating her monstrous tribute.)

Twelve long tables were set up at one end of the Glade – one for each of the Greater Houses – and at the other end were dozens more round tables for the Lesser Houses. They all held black and purple taper candles in silver holders, and platters overflowing with all the season’s traditional foods.

The feast was unlike anything Morrigan had experienced in the Silver District so far. All dishes were brought out at once, with seemingly no thought to logic or order: oysters on ice and whole suckling pigs and barrels of cherries and dragonfruit and pomegranates and great wheels of oozing soft cheese and Black Forest cakes and chewy gelatinous chicken feet and crab claws and enormous octopus tentacles stabbed with huge metal forks and thrust into the braziers to be cooked tableside. There was a carousing, communal – almost bacchanalian – atmosphere, nothing like the dainty teas and formal twelve-course suppers they usually favoured.

The real surprise, however, was learning that the Silverborn traditionally ate the feast with their hands, taking little care not to spoil their fancy clothes.

‘It’s meant to honour the Manyhands themself,’ Uncle Tobias explained quietly, noticing her look of surprise when he tore a whole roasted quail apart with his fingers. ‘And to represent industry and agility, and the noble art of working with one’s hands to make beautiful and functional things for the world to enjoy.’

‘Oh,’ said Morrigan, frowning. ‘Okay.’

The sentiment felt odd to her, coming from a group of people who seemed embarrassed by the very idea of having a job. The only acceptable occupations for the Silverborn seemed to be owning dragons, riding dragons and playing at politics – and even those, they called hobbies. None of them actually made anything. They hadn’t even made the feast themselves; they were only eating it!

Morrigan didn’t voice these observations aloud, but Uncle Tobias who, after all, hadn’t grown up in the district either, seemed to guess what she was thinking.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said with a knowing chuckle. ‘When the Grand Old Houses can’t abide working for money. I had to hand the running of my family business over to my incompetent younger brothers before I was permitted to marry your aunt. I had to stop making beautiful and functional things, for the sake of love.’ He smiled down the table at Aunt Margot, his eyes warm with adoration as she threw back her head and laughed at something Aunt Miriam was saying. ‘Of course, I’d do it again a hundred times. Though I admit I do miss feeling … industrious, ’ he finished in a conspiratorial whisper, widening his eyes as if he’d said a bad word. Morrigan laughed.

On her other side was Vesta Rinaldi, Dario’s little sister. The Rinaldis had been invited to sit at the Darlings’ table even though they were a Lesser House, which raised a few eyebrows and drew outright hostile glares from the Devereaux table. But the aunts were adamant that the Rinaldis were their family now, and it was important for people to see that.

Aunt Margot was probably hoping Vesta might come out of her shell with someone close to her own age. So far the younger girl had ignored all Morrigan’s attempts at small talk, which was fine by her as it meant she could listen in on the conversations happening around them. With the Rinaldis present, talk inevitably turned to the Winter Trials.

‘Nearly at the pointy end, aren’t we?’ said Uncle Tobias. ‘Only a few weeks until closing flights.’

‘I don’t know much about dragonriding, but I rather thought you’d have confirmed a new rider by now, Cosimo,’ said Aunt Winifred, picking up a charred tentacle with grease-covered fingers. ‘How many people have trialled with Alights ?’

Cosimo dabbed his mouth with a napkin, looking uncomfortable. ‘There’s been a lot of interest, of course, but these things can’t be—’

‘Thirty-eight!’ boomed Vincenzo, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Thirty-eight perfectly able, experienced riders, and this one wants to keep looking.’ He jerked his head towards his son.

‘It’s a delicate process,’ Cosimo said quietly. ‘ Alights on the Water is grieving, Papa, just like the rest of us. You saw what happened on her first flight. She’s climbing back up the ranks slowly but surely, and her performances have been solid since then. But if we pair her with the wrong rider, she’ll plummet again. We have to be careful—’

‘Bah! She’s a reptile, not a person. You’re being too particular as usual. If you don’t register her rider’s name soon, she won’t rank at all!’ Vincenzo spat, his face reddening. ‘And what then? Goodbye, summer tournament! Goodbye, Rinaldi legacy! Cosimo, it’s time to admit we’ll never find another rider like your brother. Choose the next best option, my son – there are plenty begging for the job. Maybe we take a hit on the Winter Trials ranking, but we’ll train them up for the summer tournament and be back where we started! I have faith in our coaches.’

Cosimo took a swig of wine and said nothing, but Morrigan saw the muscles in his jaw working furiously.

‘What about whoever it was riding Alights at the wedding?’ asked Aunt Winifred, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and leaving a trail of reddish sauce. ‘Or are they already paired up with another dragon?’

The table fell silent for a moment, and the two Rinaldi men exchanged a glowering look. Aunt Winifred froze, seeming to realise she’d put her foot in it.

‘I believe that rider’s identity is unknown,’ Uncle Tobias murmured in her ear. ‘It was supposed to be Dario flying her that night.’

Aunt Winifred’s eyes widened slightly, as she realised the implication. ‘Oh. Of course. Does that mean … Do you think they had something to do with Dario’s … ?’

More silence.

‘What about that Frost girl?’ Tobias finally suggested, breaking the tension. ‘Quincy. She’s new to the circuit, but perhaps it’s time for the Rinaldi Stables to give some burgeoning young talent a chance.’

Morrigan thought she heard a quiet scoff beside her. She turned to look at Vesta, who was tearing her bread into pieces.

Vincenzo thumped the table again in agreement. ‘Time to register a name, Cosimo. Any name! Frost, Gundry, Abdullahi—’

‘Swift?’ Morrigan suggested, seizing the opportunity. If they were looking for burgeoning young talent, surely they couldn’t do any better than Hawthorne.

The Rinaldis, Uncle Tobias and Aunt Winifred all turned to her, looking confused.

‘Hawthorne Swift,’ she clarified. ‘You might have seen him? He was one of the seven exhibition riders on the opening day of the Winter Trials, flying on a dragon called Burns With the Fire of a Thousand Wood-Burning Stoves. ’

‘We didn’t see the opening flights,’ said Cosimo.

Morrigan cringed inwardly. Of course the Rinaldis hadn’t seen the opening flights. Dario had been murdered only hours before.

‘Hawthorne’s the best dragonrider I’ve ever seen,’ she forged on, trying to cover the awkward moment. ‘Nan says he’s going to be a champion when he enters the tournament.’

‘Your nan’s a dragonriding expert, is she?’ Cosimo asked dubiously.

‘Not my nan. Nan Dawson, his patron in the Wundrous Society.’

‘ Nancy Dawson is his patron?’ asked Vincenzo, glancing at his son with slightly raised eyebrows. ‘Five-time Free State Champion, Nancy Dawson?’

‘Yes, she’s been coaching him for years.’

Uncle Tobias sat up with interest. ‘I do remember him! Pulled off a triple Tremaine Tornado into a Boxwood Special, yes? Impressive stuff for a thirteen-year-old.’

‘ Thirteen? ’ said Vesta incredulously. Morrigan almost jumped out of her chair in surprise; it was the first thing the Rinaldi girl had said all night. ‘That’s much too young! Isn’t it, Cosimo? Shouldn’t a dragon as valuable as Alights only be flown by someone with experience ?’

‘Hush, my princess. You let your brother and me worry about these things,’ said Vincenzo, with an indulgent chuckle. Vesta scowled and went back to shredding bread rolls.

The seating arrangements loosened throughout the evening as people moved around the Glade to visit friends. Aunt Modestine was the first to disappear, making a beeline for the Ghoshal table. Aunt Margot seemed annoyed at this and looked as if she wanted to go after her sister and bring her back, but the empty seat was soon taken by her friend Lady Prisha of Mahapatra House.

‘Good Feasting, noble neighbours.’ Lady Prisha beamed and clinked glasses with everyone she could reach. Leaning close to Aunt Margot, she said in a loud whisper, ‘Have you seen the rabble on the Beauregard – pardon me, the Smithereens table? Who are all those people? They look like they’ve come straight from one of his factory floors.’

Aunt Margot followed Lady Prisha’s gaze to the Vulture’s long table, her expression tightening in disapproval. ‘I suppose he thinks it will provoke us to rudeness, but I’m afraid all I feel is pity. The man clearly has no friends or family.’

Morrigan was trying to pretend she wasn’t listening in on their conversation, but she couldn’t help glancing over there herself. The Vulture sat at one end of the long table with his feet propped up next to a platter of oysters on ice, casually throwing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth. For once, he hadn’t come alone: his table was filled with a motley assortment of guests, many of whom were indeed wearing bottle-green boilersuits with Smithereens & Co. embroidered on the back in large, gold letters. They all seemed to be having a splendid time, singing raucous songs and toasting each other, passing platters around and laughing uproariously.

All except the Vulture himself, who looked bored. His attention flitted around the Glade, never landing for long. Morrigan didn’t realise she was staring at him until his wandering attention landed on her, where it stopped for ten disconcerting seconds before sliding away again. She pulled up the collar of her coat, feeling a sudden chill on the back of her neck, and sank down low in her seat.

Why was he always so creepy ?

‘… almost a certainty that Basking will arrive in the spring, and you know what that means.’

The mention of ‘Basking’ pricked Morrigan’s ears, bringing her attention back to her own table.

‘The Silver Assembly is almost upon us, Margot, and for what it’s worth,’ Lady Prisha continued in a low voice, ‘if the Rinaldis were to be nominated for advancement, I don’t believe anyone in my family would oppose it. The Mahapatras are traditionalists, but even we agree the Greater Circle could do with some new blood. The right sort of blood, I mean,’ she added, with another scathing glance at the Vulture.

‘I quite agree that if any family deserves to advance, it’s the Rinaldis, who after all are such generous benefactors to the district and have suffered so tremendously with the loss of Dario,’ murmured Aunt Margot, adding in a carefully diplomatic tone, ‘Of course … that would mean one of our noble neighbours must decline. I’m sure I can’t think of any Greater House deserving of that .’

‘I’m sure I can,’ said Lady Prisha, smirking as she made eye contact with Lady Devereaux two tables over and raised a glass in greeting. Lady Devereaux tried to smile back, but it looked more like she was trying not to be sick.

Morrigan couldn’t help noticing the stark difference between their tables. With all the Darlings, their children, the nanny brigade, plus Morrigan and the Rinaldis, they’d had to bring in extra chairs to fit everyone. By comparison, the Devereaux table was practically empty, with only Lord and Lady Devereaux, an elderly woman Morrigan assumed was Noelle’s grandmother, and Noelle herself. None of them looked happy to be there.

‘I know your noble family is much too dignified for revenge, Margot,’ Lady Prisha whispered, ‘but really, after what Devereaux House tried to pull at the last Silver Assembly … Wouldn’t it be the most delicious karma?’

Morrigan kept her gaze firmly on her plate in front of her, pretending to be absorbed in a crab leg. But she was burning with curiosity, straining to hear and remember every word.

‘Well. I daren’t comment on that . ’ Aunt Margot cleared her throat. Morrigan could hear the smile in her voice. ‘But it’s a great comfort to know we would have the support of your noble family at the next Silver Assembly … should it happen to come to a vote again.’

‘You would indeed,’ agreed Lady Prisha.

Morrigan had spotted Louis and Lottie from a distance during dinner earlier, but with the threat of reform school looming, they couldn’t risk talking to her with their parents around. Once the last remnants of the feast had been taken away, however, the twins descended on the Darling table, beckoning Morrigan towards a grassy makeshift dance floor where the band was playing a thrumming, celebratory song.

‘Mother and Father have gone home,’ Louis explained.

‘Our little sister Clotilde ate too many cherries and vomited all over Father’s shoes!’ Lottie shouted gleefully over the music.

‘Bravo, Clotilde!’ Morrigan shouted back, and the twins roared with laughter.

The heat from the torches warmed her face and the drumbeat pulsed through her feet, and after a while Morrigan was sweaty, red-faced and in need of refreshment. She left the twins bellowing along to a traditional folk song everyone seemed to know and went to queue at the punch table behind Vesta.

Morrigan was trying to think of a way to strike up conversation with the youngest and quietest Rinaldi, when the Vulture wandered past with some of his guests. Angry muttering rumbled all along the refreshments queue – Morrigan heard words like uncouth and audacious and ruining the whole district – but Vesta beamed, waving at him.

‘Good Feasting, Mr Smithereens,’ she called out. Morrigan blinked in surprise at this familiarity, and was even more shocked when the Vulture acknowledged Vesta in return, casually tipping his wide-brimmed hat as he passed by.

‘He’s not so bad,’ said the younger girl, correctly interpreting Morrigan’s look of confusion. ‘Most people are frightened of him, but he’s really very kind. He made my chair for me.’

‘He made it?’ She looked at Vesta’s chair properly for the first time, taking in the complexity and beauty of its design.

‘Well, his company did. Smithereens & Co. They make all sorts of things. Travelling chairs and flying spy cameras and unbreakable glass. Booby traps for bank vaults and prosthetic limbs and mechanical dog butlers that follow your real dog around and clean up after them. That’s how he made his fortune. Dario told me about it. He was always fascinated with things like that.’

Morrigan’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Did Dario … know Mr Smithereens very well?’

She tried to keep her voice casual, as though she hadn’t just discovered a potential connection between the murder victim and their most mysterious suspect.

‘I don’t think anybody knows him very well.’ Vesta shrugged. ‘A few years ago – not long after Mr Smithereens bought the Beauregard House – we saw him one morning during a promenade, and he stopped my parents to ask about my chair. I used to have one on wheels, you know. A genuine Royal Lightwing antique, with a golden frame and diamond-encrusted spokes and mother-of-pearl inlay and pink velvet upholstery.’ Vesta sighed dreamily. ‘ Very beautiful, but not very practical. Mr Smithereens said he’d noticed it was difficult for me to travel on the canals with it, and he said it was a stupid design because gold isn’t strong and velvet isn’t weather-proof. He kept ranting and raving about all the things he thought it should be able to do – very silly things, you know, like climbing up walls and opening doors and tripping people over. He offered to draw up some designs, but my parents said no thank you, of course. Mama thought he was being rude, and Papa said he couldn’t be trusted. But Dario and I thought it was an excellent proposal, so he went to talk to Mr Smithereens about it and share some of his own ideas. And the very next week, Spiderlily was delivered to our house.’

‘Spiderlily?’ asked Morrigan.

‘That’s what I named her.’ She patted the gleaming chair with affection, and Spiderlily flexed her eight jointed legs, bouncing Vesta gently in response. ‘We can go anywhere together, step in and out of any boat, climb walls and … all sorts of things.’ Vesta paused for a moment and sighed. ‘I don’t have her trip people over, obviously, but it’s nice to have the option. It was very kind of him, don’t you think?’

‘Very kind,’ Morrigan agreed bemusedly, glancing over to see the Vulture leaving the Glade with his guests.

‘And he refused to take any payment for it,’ Vesta added, answering Morrigan’s next question before she could ask it. ‘He wouldn’t even accept Dario’s invitation to supper. Strange man.’

‘Very strange,’ she agreed again.

Minutes later, three glasses of fruit punch in hand and trying to commit all she’d learned that night to memory to tell Cadence, Morrigan made her way back to the dance floor. Lottie and Louis were bouncing madly with some of the other lintel-hoppers, waving her over.

As she neared one of the exits, however, a hand grabbed her wrist and wrenched her from the warmth and light of the Glade into the cool, dark gardens beyond. The three glasses tumbled to the ground, splashing her dress with bright red punch.

‘ Ow. Let go of me!’ cried Morrigan, momentarily too shocked to do anything except protest as she was dragged along at speed by her assailant, who wore a hooded purple cloak and had a surprisingly strong grip.

Before she knew it, the slight figure had pulled her underneath a willow tree, cocooning them both within its weeping fairy-lit branches. Morrigan reached up and pulled back the hood to reveal a familiar face, pale and furious, framed by thick glossy curls.

She stumbled backwards in surprise. Her attacker yanked her closer and spoke in a savage whisper.

‘Are you planning to take everything from me?’