rose from her chest up into her throat, grasping at her windpipe with cold, clammy hands. What was she supposed to do? Summon Wunder? Nobody but her and Jack would even see it. Weave a wonky flower? Not bold. Not exhilarating.
Could she really breathe fire in front of all these strangers? Should she?
What would Jupiter want her to do – and why wasn’t he here?
WUNDERSMITH.
WUNDERSMITH.
WUNDERSMITH.
Morrigan swallowed. She began to sing in a cracked voice that was barely more than a whisper. ‘Morningtide’s child is merry and—’
Faster than she thought physically possible, the enormous double doors swung closed in front of her, knocking the cameraman over and sending his equipment flying across the lobby floor. Morrigan stumbled backwards as the crowd disappeared behind the solid oak doors.
Then there came a sound like a dozen thunderclaps, one after the other. It started in the lobby and quickly spread to all ends of the hotel as heavy black shutters descended on every window, blocking out every bit of noise until the building was completely, oppressively silent.
Was this part of the Grand Sulk, she wondered? Or was it the Hotel Deucalion coming to her rescue? Room 85 was always so good at anticipating her needs, adjusting to her moods … but this was different. This wasn’t just her bedroom, it was the entire building, and it was … what? Defending her?
‘Thanks,’ she whispered, just in case.
In the absence of all ambient noise, the Deucalion felt like a mausoleum. Like a giant holding its breath.
A cold voice broke the silence.
‘I believe you have your answer, Holliday.’ Everyone turned to see Jupiter, who had just emerged from the service entrance, the glossy black door still swinging behind him. He looked up at the shutters in astonishment; evidently the Deucalion could still surprise even its proprietor.
He snatched the swinging door just in time, holding it open for their unwelcome guests. ‘Kindly leave.’
Morrigan woke the next morning with a start, her heart racing. She’d been dreaming of something strange and awful – broken glass and plumes of black smoke and a distant cry in the dark. Two button-black eyes shining at her from the shadows. A snatch of song she couldn’t quite remember. A feeling of something precious, slipping through her fingers.
But that wasn’t what woke her up.
She felt the new imprint before she’d even opened her eyes. Although she hadn’t been expecting it, she somehow knew it was there, on the tip of her left middle finger. She knew it in the same way that she knew she had a finger at all.
It had been irritating her for days, but so much else was happening, it had only been a vague background bother.
Now, though, it had her full attention.
Like the W imprint on her right index finger, it was small and tattoo-like, but not a tattoo. It hadn’t been inflicted; it had emerged. Pressed itself from the inside to the outside of her skin, like treasure floating up to the surface of a lake.
It was very early; the sun wasn’t up yet, but the dark blue sky outside Morrigan’s window was just beginning to lighten. She reached out, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp, and held her finger up to examine the new addition.
It was a small flame, bright orange and red with a tiny spark of blue in the centre.
‘Where’d you come from?’ she croaked sleepily, peering closely at it.
Would Hawthorne and Cadence and the other members of Unit 919 have one of these too, Morrigan wondered, or just her? They’d all received W imprints the morning after their inauguration into the Wundrous Society. What might they have done to earn—
Oh.
‘Inferno,’ she whispered. She sat up in bed, tingling with excitement. Was this because of the fireblossoms? Was this what happened when you finally got the hang of a Wundrous Art? And if it was only Morrigan who had the imprint … what did it do? What might it open?
The realisation hit her like a lightning bolt. She shot out of bed and ran to get dressed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Kindling in the Hearth
Morrigan half expected to find the service entrance shut down like the rest of the hotel, but she met no obstructions except an enormous, furry, snoring boulder guarding the door. Holding her breath, she tiptoed past Fenestra and down the shabby service hallway, burst through to Caddisfly Alley and pelted along the twisting backstreet all the way to the Brolly Rail station at the end of Humdinger Avenue.
Flying across a darkened Nevermoor skyline in