But something in Wintersea’s steady, unflappable expression had her pinned to the floor.
‘Maud,’ the president said finally.
‘I … sorry, what?’
‘My name,’ she clarified. ‘Maud Lowry.’
‘I thought your surname was Wintersea.’
Maud laughed through her nose, just a little – short and sharp. ‘When I took the role, I inherited the title. I am Maud Lowry. My job is President Wintersea, leader of the Wintersea Party. Though the distinction rarely matters these days.’ She paused. ‘You might find the same thing happens to you, as you grow up. You are Morrigan Crow, but your title is Wundersmith. People will begin to confuse the two. You may even begin to confuse them yourself.’
Morrigan, frozen somewhere between fear and curiosity, didn’t respond. She wondered whether the woman was subtly prodding for confirmation that she was, indeed, a Wundersmith.
Maud finished removing the wig with a sigh of relief and placed it on the dressing table. She closed her eyes, massaging her scalp and ruffling her hair a little. It was maybe a couple of inches long, and a deep, rich auburn colour, messy and matted with sweat, plastered in uneven tufts against her skull. She took a handful of translucent powder from a small glass dish, sprinkled it over her head and rubbed it in vigorously, drying and smoothing her hair until it looked, if not immaculate, at least presentable.
The transformation was instant and profound. Without her white wig, she was almost ordinary. She looked like somebody’s mum. She looked like a Maud.
She began divesting herself of the President Wintersea costume, carefully, piece by piece – removing the golden chain from around her neck and locking it away in a wooden box, arranging the Chancery robes over a wooden mannequin in the corner. Beneath the endless folds of black fabric, she wore a pair of grey trousers and a pale blue jumper, soft and expensive looking. As she rolled up the sleeves, Morrigan spotted a tiny hole in one of them.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I’m the president,’ Maud said again, sounding mildly exasperated. She returned to the dressing table and scooped up a blob of white face cream from a small glass jar. She began to massage it roughly into her skin, speaking to Morrigan through the mirror while smearing away black eye makeup. ‘I have an entire government department dedicated to finding out interesting things. I know who you are and that you escaped to the Free State. I know you’re here on the Gossamer Line. I know you’re a member of the Wundrous Society. A Wundersmith. I know you brought the fireblossoms back to life and, frankly, I suspect I know precisely why you’re here.’
Morrigan swallowed. Could she possibly know about Squall’s offer?
‘The Hollowpox,’ said Maud, wiping away the face cream with a flannel until her skin was pink and clean, every trace of makeup gone. ‘You’ve come to ask for my help.’
‘I – no,’ Morrigan began haltingly, and Maud’s face snapped upwards. She spun around on the stool to look at her directly, eyes narrowed again with suspicion.
‘No? Then why are you here?’
‘No, I meant … yes. That’s why I’m here.’ What else could she say? ‘I’ve come to ask for your help. Er, please.’
‘Awful business,’ Maud said quietly. A line creased her forehead. ‘We didn’t call it the Hollowpox, of course. We didn’t really call it anything at all. The Wunimals have always just got on with things, you see. Kept themselves to themselves. When they finally reached out, well …’ She pursed her lips, looking away. ‘I’ll only say that if they’d involved us sooner, we could have done more. The cure came too late for too many.’
‘Cure?’ Morrigan felt her heart leap into her throat. ‘You have a cure?’
‘Of course. We’re the Wintersea Party. We have the greatest scientists and innovators and thinkers in the realm at our disposal.’ Maud threw the flannel into a laundry basket.
A cure. The Wintersea Party had an actual cure for the Hollowpox, and it came without any of Squall’s strings attached. Had the Gossamer Line known that, somehow? Was that why it had brought her here instead, and allowed Maud to see her? Morrigan felt she could burst into song.
‘Thank you, President Wintersea,’ she effused, unable to keep the relief from showing on her face. ‘I can’t tell you how this is—’
‘Morrigan—’
‘Honestly, I don’t know how to thank you. This means—’
‘Morrigan, stop. Stop. STOP.’ Maud stood, holding her palms up to stem the flow of gratitude. ‘This means nothing. I can’t just