looked nothing like her official portrait, which hung in homes and schools and government buildings all over the Republic. The painting made her look stern and powerful and forbidding, but in person she had quick eyes and a pleasant, curious face – despite its thick coat of stark white makeup. She watched Morrigan as one might watch a pigeon that had flown in through the open window and made itself at home.
‘Who are you?’ she asked simply.
‘Mor— uh, Mog.’ Morrigan had been about to say Morrigan Crow, but then she realised that in the Wintersea Republic, Morrigan Crow was a girl on the Cursed Children’s Register who had died right on schedule, two and a half years ago. President Wintersea might remember, given Morrigan’s father was the State Chancellor of Great Wolfacre.
The president narrowed her eyes. ‘Moramog? Strange name.’
‘Just … just Mog. Sorry.’
‘Mmmog,’ she echoed, with considered and deliberate enunciation. ‘Still strange.’
Morrigan didn’t really know what to say, though she quite agreed. ‘Um. Yes, it is. Sorry.’
‘Why do you keep apologising?’ asked President Wintersea. ‘Dreadful habit for girls to get into, you must break it at once.’
‘Oh. Sor— I mean. Nothing. Sorry.’ Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. Why was she making such a fool of herself?
But when the president spoke again, she sounded amused. ‘Oh, I’m afraid there’s no hope for you. You’ll be apologising for things you didn’t do all your life. At least you’re good at it. Mog – it really is an appalling name, but if you insist – Mog, what are you doing in my private chambers? This is highly unorthodox. Have you come to assassinate me?’
‘Wh-what?’ Morrigan just about choked in her haste to deny the accusation. ‘No! I wouldn’t even know h—’ But she stopped, seeing President Wintersea’s eyes twinkling. ‘You were joking.’
‘Of course I was joking. If I really thought you were here to kill me, don’t you think I’d have called for security by now?’ She tilted her head. ‘Why are you here?’
Morrigan tried to think fast. ‘I … came to talk to you.’
Wintersea raised her eyebrows. ‘People normally just send their angry letters to my office, you know. But fine. You may speak for as long as it takes me to deal with all of … this.’ She gestured vaguely at her wig, black robes, dramatic face paint and the heavy gold chain she wore around her neck – the ceremonial garb of the Chancery. Crossing the room to sit at the dresser, she kept an eye on Morrigan in the mirror. ‘Come on, then. What’s got your goat?’
This was not at all what Morrigan imagined the president of the Wintersea Republic would be like. The informality of it all had completely thrown her … not to mention the fact that she shouldn’t be there. It was Squall she needed to speak to.
‘I wanted to ask you some questions. About … about, um, Squall Industries,’ she finished, plucking a topic from the air.
‘Right,’ said Wintersea, deftly removing hairpins. ‘Fascinating. Squall Industries. How old are you, Mog?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Why in the world would a thirteen-year-old care about the machinations of the energy industry?’ As she removed the pins, she dropped them onto a ceramic tray, where one by one they landed with a clatter. Her eyes briefly met Morrigan’s in the mirror. ‘Shouldn’t you be … I don’t know. Skiving off school and setting things on fire?’
Morrigan felt a lurch in her stomach. She was skiving off school, sort of. She had been setting things on fire – quite recently, and quite publicly. Could Wintersea possibly know—
‘Unless – oh dear, you’re not one of those teenagers who cares about the state of the world? How dreadful. Help me with this, won’t you?’
Morrigan rushed forward to help her remove the heavy Chancery wig, but as she reached for the powdered white monstrosity, her hands went straight through it. She gasped. The Gossamer. How could she have forgotten? She looked up at the president, her black eyes widening in the mirror.
Wintersea’s gaze, however, was flatly unsurprised. Even expectant.
She’d laid the trap, and Morrigan had walked into it.
‘I am the president of the Wintersea Republic,’ she said, unsmilingly. ‘Don’t you think I know who you are, Morrigan Crow?’
Morrigan said nothing. She knew nothing could happen to her while she was here on the Gossamer, but still she couldn’t fight her rising panic.
She should just leave, she thought. She should think of her oilskin brolly, call for the Gossamer train and get out of there.