twice – and watched her expectantly.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
The great dark eyes blinked again. ‘Have you come to the Hearth with no offering?’
The voice was tremendous – slow and heavy and ancient. Large enough to fill the space and make Morrigan’s hands shake a little. It hissed and crackled around the edges, like the sound of flames. But more extraordinary than all of that, it sounded … hurt. Disappointed.
Morrigan faltered. ‘Oh, I … I didn’t know I was meant to bring anything. Um.’ She thought for a moment. There was nothing in her pockets. She’d dropped her brolly outside the door to the Liminal Hall (not that she’d have given that away). ‘I can go away and come back, if you like. What sort of offering would you, er—’
‘The Kindling.’
‘I’m … sorry, what?’
‘You will please call the Kindling by its name.’ The flames grew higher, and the red eyes grew brighter, and Morrigan took these things to mean that it was displeased.
She nodded, suddenly understanding.
The Kindling. The Hearth. Inferno.
Could this be one of the Wundrous Divinities Elder Quinn had talked about, all those months ago when Unit 919 had first entered the Gathering Place? She’d said the Wundersmiths were gifted above all others, chosen by the Wundrous Divinities themselves, the ancient deities who watched over our realm. Morrigan had thought about these deities, but hadn’t ever imagined they were real people. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that one of them might be a large talking bonfire.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and gave an awkward sort of half-bow. ‘What sort of offering would the Kindling—’
‘You have the mark?’ it asked.
Morrigan nodded and held up her left hand to show the imprint on her fingertip.
The Kindling reached out with its own spindly hand, fully aflame. Before Morrigan could flinch away from the heat, its burning fingers brushed against hers, the Hearth instantly disappeared, and she was outside Proudfoot House.
Familiar images and sounds and feelings came to her in a blur, loud and unwelcome. Gracious Goldberry on the rooftop. Miss Cheery crying out in pain. A wave of fury, a taste of ash in her throat. Fire bursting from her lungs.
Candles. Hallowmas. The Angel Israfel, frozen high up in the air.
More candles, so many candles.
The Proudfoot House rooftop on a sunny autumn day.
Small sparks make big fires. The protest. Elder Saga. Lam. Do it. Now. Her hand pressed to the tree and that feeling, that feeling, that feeling.
That’s where the Kindling slowed down. Morrigan felt like it was flicking through her like the pages of a book, and had finally seen something of interest.
A glorious green canopy of ancient fire. Resurrection. Life. Power.
Morrigan opened her eyes – she hadn’t even noticed she’d closed them – and was surprised to find herself still standing in the Hearth. Those two huge ember eyes were watching her again, glowing bright and steady.
‘The Kindling accepts your offering.’
Their fingertips parted. Morrigan pulled her hand from the flame: pale, unburnt.
Her wonder turned to astonishment when she saw the imprint; it was moving. The tiny tattoo-like flame danced on her skin, flickering gently like a real, live fire. And she could feel it. Not the way she’d felt it when it first arrived, but in a much more insistent way that said I am here, and I won’t let you forget me. There was a pleasantly fierce warmth to it. It was part of her.
Elder Quinn was right. The Divinities had gifted the Wundersmiths above all others. This was a gift.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Are you … you’re one of the Divinities, aren’t you?’
The Kindling looked surprised. ‘Is this your first visit to the Liminal Hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m honoured. Inferno is rarely a Wundersmith’s first acquired art. But why are you so old?’
Morrigan felt a little put out by that. ‘I’m thirteen.’
‘Yes,’ it said. ‘Why have you taken so long?’
‘How old should I be?’
The Kindling appeared to consider the question. ‘Most Wundersmiths have made their third pilgrimage by your age. Perhaps fourth. Are you very inept? Do your teachers find you a slow learner?’
Morrigan thought of what Squall had said to her on the rooftop. You are light-years away from where you ought to be. Perhaps he hadn’t been lying about that after all. The realisation stung.
‘No,’ she said, and then added pointedly, ‘They’re happy I brought the fireblossoms back from one hundred years of extinction.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Who are the others?’ she asked. ‘The other Wundrous Divinities, like you? How will I get to see them, what should I do?’
The Kindling’s eyes turned dark as