Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,111

of a closet. But the smell! The humidity! Simply dreadful.’

Martha wrung her hands. ‘Oh dear. And the lights in the Golden Lantern cocktail bar have been flickering for days. It’ll be the next to go.’

‘What in the Seven Pockets is happening to this place?’ asked Dame Chanda. ‘Jove, I fear the Deucalion is angry with us.’

‘It’s not angry,’ said Morrigan. ‘It’s upset. And maybe a bit confused.’

‘It’s BEING A BABY.’ Jupiter threw his head back and let his voice echo around the empty lobby. They all looked up, flinching as the black bird chandelier gave an ominous flicker and ruffled its light-filled wings.

It was nice, having one day when the Hollowpox wasn’t all the media was talking about. But by the time the Saturday evening papers came out, it was back to being front-page news, with two new attacks having occurred just that day. Jupiter left in the afternoon and was gone all night.

She’d finally told him about Squall’s offer that morning after breakfast, and was relieved by his response.

‘Squall is a liar,’ he’d told her vehemently. ‘You know that. He’s playing mind games again, trying to use your fears against you.’

‘Then … you don’t believe he created the Hollowpox?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I believe he created it. It’s precisely something he would do. But I don’t believe he’ll be the one to cure it. Even if he did have a cure – which I very much doubt, because when has he bothered to clean up any of the mess he’s made in Nevermoor? – none of this is your responsibility, Mog. We’re not trading you in, no matter what he’s promising.’

‘But what if—’

‘Listen to me.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘We can’t stop him from entering Nevermoor on the Gossamer, but we must stop him from getting into your head. I don’t want you to give this a second thought, understand?’

Morrigan nodded and took a deep, steadying breath through her nose. ‘Jupiter, tell me the truth … do you really think Dr Bramble is going to find a cure?’

‘She’s getting closer every day,’ he’d said, and he was so convincing she’d almost believed him.

That evening, something very odd happened. Something that would change everything, although Morrigan didn’t fully understand it at first.

Jack had gone back to school for an orchestra rehearsal, but Morrigan, Martha and Charlie were sitting around the big fireplace in the empty lobby having a supper of fish and chips and mushy peas (the staff dining room had lost its heating just that day), when Dame Chanda returned from her weekly dinner date with the man they all called Suitor von Saturday.

‘My darlings, have you seen Kedgeree?’

‘I think he’s in the Smoking Parlour,’ said Charlie, ‘trying to fix the smoke flow. It has a bad cough.’

Morrigan peered over the soprano’s shoulder at a scruffy young man with a knapsack slung over one shoulder, gazing up in awe at the black bird chandelier.

‘Is that Suitor von Saturday?’ she asked in a gleeful whisper. ‘He’s so … um …’ She wasn’t sure how to describe him. Dishevelled? Unshaven? Inappropriately dressed to be having dinner with Nevermoor’s foremost soprano? ‘So … not what I was expecting?’

Martha giggled, but Dame Chanda looked perplexed.

‘Suitor von – who? No, darling, that’s not the Count of Sundara. I just met this gentleman outside on the forecourt. He says he’s here to service our gas stoves.’

‘Gas stoves? Our kitchens are fully Wundrous.’ Charlie looked up from splashing vinegar onto his supper, frowning, and called out, ‘What company are you from, mate?’

The man trotted over to join them, digging into his knapsack, but ignored Charlie’s question, instead asking, ‘You Morrigan?’

Morrigan licked a bit of green gloop off her finger. ‘Um, yes? Who are—’

CLICK.

The camera flash blinded them just long enough for the man to run out the front door while they sat blinking in confusion.

‘OI! Come back here!’ Charlie shook off his shock, jumped up and chased the man, but returned minutes later, empty-handed and bewildered.

It had been a strange, inexplicable thing at the time, but they couldn’t do much about it except agree to tell Jupiter as soon as he got home (whenever that might be). It wasn’t until the next morning that Morrigan understood.

WUNDERSMITH!

That was the headline. In big, bold letters right across the front page of the Sunday Post. It sat above perhaps the very worst photo of Morrigan that had ever been taken.

‘I have mushy peas on my face,’ she said miserably for the umpteenth time, still staring