her fingers until it was entirely extinguished.
Or … not entirely.
Goldberry held out one finger and, leaning in close, Morrigan could see the tiniest, most minute, almost invisible spark of fire, hovering at the very edge of her skin.
‘Not dead. See?’ said Goldberry.
She crouched low and ran the length of the rooftop, brushing her fingertips across the ground and then upwards in a wide arc towards the sky, leaving a perfect trail of flames blazing in her wake.
‘Only need a spark,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Small sparks make big fires.’
Morrigan stared mutely as the fire, the Wundersmiths, and the whole ghostly hour faded before her eyes, leaving her alone on the rooftop again.
Small sparks make big fires.
The words bounced around her head as she watched the flames in her fingertips burn down to almost nothing. A tiny, minute, almost invisible spark.
Taking a long, deep breath, Morrigan grinned. She felt energised and buoyant and – for the first time in a long time – somehow certain that there was a way out of this mess Nevermoor was in.
She felt hopeful. And she couldn’t really say why, because nothing had changed.
Though that wasn’t altogether true. Something was changing. She was changing. She felt more like a real Wundersmith than ever before, and that knowledge made anything seem possible. It cleared her worried head just a little, and gently nudged her shoulders straight. For the first time in days, she felt … calm.
Then a sound from behind her brought on a rush of adrenaline.
Her heart drummed a warning before her brain even registered what it was.
Morrigan turned around slowly, while Ezra Squall hummed a song that felt like spiders crawling beneath her skin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Squall, the Monster
The bright day darkened. A pungent smell of wood smoke filled the air.
‘Is this the best they can do for you?’ A tiny smile curled one corner of Squall’s mouth. ‘Dead, irrelevant wisdom from dead, irrelevant Wundersmiths?’
Morrigan said nothing. She rubbed the tips of her fingers together and felt a tiny shock of heat. The spark was still there.
He looked just the same as ever, she noticed. Neat, contained, deliberate; like a portrait of a man frozen in time. The perfect parting of his feathery brown hair, with a hint of silver at the temples. The pallid, porcelain complexion like a death mask, marred only by the thin scar that split his left eyebrow. The eyes so dark they were nearly black.
Yet – if she narrowed her eyes until they were nearly closed – the faint, reassuring shimmer of the Gossamer surrounding him that told her it was his mind, not his body, that was in Nevermoor.
He shook his head. ‘Tell me, have you learned a single thing since last we met?’
Crouching low, Morrigan pressed her fingertips to the ground and ran the width of the rooftop, leaving a fiery trail behind her. With a triumphant shout, she swung her arm up into the air just as Goldberry had done, creating an arc of flames that burned out and left a lingering circle of smoke against the blue sky.
She turned back to Squall, lungs heaving and eyes blazing.
‘I’ve learned plenty, thanks.’
There was a low, rumbling growl, and Morrigan felt her throat grow dry as a pack of hounds emerged from the shadows. Of course. Wherever Squall went, the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow was sure to follow. They began to circle, fur black as pitch and eyes like embers. The smell of wood smoke filled Morrigan’s nostrils and made her eyes water.
He stared right back at her, unimpressed. ‘You are light-years away from where you ought to be. It might feel like the Wundrous Society is allowing you to fly, Miss Crow … but I’m afraid all I see is a sad little bird with clipped wings who cannot even comprehend the cage she’s in.’
‘Interesting,’ she replied. ‘All I see is a pathetic, lonely killer whose only friends are a bunch of smoky dogs. I’m not afraid of you, Squall.’
He smiled. ‘What a comforting affirmation that must be.’
The strangest thing was, Morrigan found it was true. Sort of. Mostly.
Squall’s presence on the rooftop had taken her by surprise, and she didn’t like surprises. But she wasn’t feeling the gut-deep terror she’d felt on the other occasions they’d met. Perhaps it was because she’d seen him as a child now, spent time with him in the ghostly hours.
Or perhaps she was simply getting used to him.
What a bizarre thought.
‘I’ve told you before. There is nobody at the Wundrous Society