No more moping, no more waiting for Steed to develop a spine. We’re not helping matters by sitting around being miserable. Fenestra, please take this dreadful nightmare device away and hide it from us.’ She tossed the radio to Fen, who caught it between her teeth and bounded up the spiral staircase.
Morrigan felt a wrench. ‘But what if—’
‘If anything good happens, we’ll know about it,’ Dame Chanda said firmly. ‘Jove will come home and tell us himself. Until then, I think there’s somebody else we need to start listening to.’
She looked around significantly. Morrigan and the others perked up, shaking off a news-induced stupor to notice their environment for the first time in hours.
The Deucalion had undergone perhaps its best – certainly its cosiest – transformation yet. Every surface was covered with cushions and draped with soft fabrics in soothing colours, so that the whole lobby resembled one big blanket fort. There were piles of books and boardgames in every corner, baskets full of woolly bed socks and hot water bottles. Squashy armchairs, beanbags, pillows, duvets and mattresses were clustered around the big roaring hearth. Comforting smells of clean linen, hot chocolate and buttery popcorn filled the air.
‘A slumber party!’ Kedgeree said warmly as he pulled on a pair of bed socks. ‘The dear old gal knew just what we needed.’
They all dashed off to change into pyjamas and dressing gowns. Jack and Morrigan raided the kitchen for marshmallows and made a huge pile of peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwiches for everyone. Frank finessed the ambiance with cheerful music and some artfully strung fairy lights. Dame Chanda braided Martha’s hair, and Frank painted Charlie’s nails, and Kedgeree read aloud from his favourite book of poems, and they played charades and boardgames all night long and if anyone thought about the terrible, frightening things that might be happening outside, nobody spoke of them aloud.
Morrigan woke from a nightmare in which she was being hunted by a pack of lions. The lions turned into foxes, and the foxes all wore Sofia’s face and Sofia’s burgundy jacket, and they all wanted to devour Morrigan whole.
She sat up in her beanbag, shaking a little, and pulled a knitted blanket close around her shoulders. The fire had burned down to embers, and everyone else was fast asleep. At some point in the night, Fenestra had evidently left the gigantic nest of bedding by the fireplace and curled up against the door to the service hallway instead. It was unclear whether she was waiting for Jupiter or standing guard, but the sound of her deep-sleep purring reverberating through the cavernous lobby was immensely comforting.
It should have been enough to send Morrigan back to sleep, but it wasn’t. Now she was awake, she had to know what was happening outside. She crept up to Jupiter’s study and flicked on his radio, turning the dial until she found what she was looking for.
‘—legislation which has been very well received by manufacturing unions in the Fourth Pocket,’ said a newsreader. ‘More on that later in the programme, but our lead story is of course the announcement made by the prime minister’s office just after midnight.’
Morrigan squeezed the arms of Jupiter’s desk chair, hardly daring to hope.
‘For the first time since Nevermoor closed its borders to the Republic many Ages ago,’ came the familiar, albeit rather tired-sounding voice of Gideon Steed, ‘the Wintersea Party has extended a hand of friendship towards us, and we have accepted it with a watchful but welcoming spirit. The Free State is an independent nation, a strong and proud nation – but we are not too proud to accept help where it is offered, especially when the lives of our citizens are at risk.’
He’d done it. Morrigan could have burst into song, or into tears, she was so relieved and happy. This was really happening! Steed had accepted Maud’s offer. Sofia was going to be all right – and Juvela, and Brutilus, and Colin and every other Wunimal in Nevermoor. They were going to be cured! She hugged the wireless radio tight to her chest, unable to contain a squeal of joy.
‘This morning at nine o’clock,’ Steed continued (Morrigan glanced reflexively at the clock on the wall – it was just after three), ‘history will be made in Nevermoor. We will temporarily, and on a very limited operational basis, open the border between us – the First Pocket of the Free State – and the Wintersea Republic.
‘On my invitation, President Wintersea will enter the