Free State on a diplomatic mission, bringing with her one other representative of the Republic. This emissary from the Wintersea Republic is a philanthropist, an energy industry leader, and the creator of the only known cure for the Hollowpox.’ He paused, and Morrigan’s smile faltered as she felt her brain trip over those words. A frown creased her forehead.
Energy industry leader.
Gideon Steed’s voice seemed to fade away, and Maud Lowry’s rang inside her head. Why in the world would a thirteen-year-old care about the machinations of the energy industry?
A deeply unpleasant sensation crept upon her, like she was being squeezed from the inside. Heat rose from her neck all the way up to her hairline. The small room seemed to have lost all its air.
Squall was the energy industry leader. He was the emissary.
Steed was about to open the border to the Free State’s greatest enemy. How could the prime minister, of all people, not have realised that? He must know about Squall Industries – surely he could figure out who this ‘emissary’ must be, surely he’d put the facts together!
Morrigan turned off the radio. She tugged at the collar of her nightshirt, which suddenly felt as if it was choking her.
So that’s it, then, she thought, staring blankly at the wall. They would open the border and Squall would be welcomed back into Nevermoor. He’d found a way in, at last, and it was all her fault. Oh god, she felt sick. She felt unbelievably, unforgivably stupid.
She’d made this happen for him! Squall had manipulated her, he had choreographed this entire ridiculous routine, but she’d been fool enough to dance right into it. The Gossamer Line hadn’t taken her to the Chancery by accident at all – he’d meant for her to go there! He’d made the Hollowpox, not so that he could trick her into becoming his apprentice – his sights were set much higher than that. He’d been swindling his way back into Nevermoor all along.
Did President Wintersea know, Morrigan wondered. Was she in on the plan, or had she been manipulated too? The Wintersea Republic relied on Squall Industries and its dangerous figurehead. Wunder was scarcer there than in the Free State, and as their only living citizen able to gather, command and distribute it, Squall was the supplier of the Republic’s every comfort and practical need. If he wanted a favour in return, President Wintersea would surely have no choice but to grant it. Was she, like Morrigan, just another puppet in Squall’s show?
Should Morrigan warn her somehow? Her thoughts raced, pulse pounding in her neck.
Could Steed really open the border to Squall? Certainly he could stand down the Ground Force, the Sky Force, the Stink, the Stealth, the Royal Sorcery Council, the Paranormal League and every other organisation that watched over the borders.
But what about the ancient magic of Nevermoor that supposedly kept Squall out? Would it still matter, would it work without all that other help? Morrigan had no way of knowing.
She had to tell someone, she had to tell Jupiter! Had he figured it out already? He knew who Squall was. Surely he’d know what to do. Where was he – at Wunsoc? At the Houses of Parliament? She’d never been there, but it seemed a sensible place to start. She knew Jupiter. He would remain at the prime minister’s side until the job was done.
Morrigan sprinted to her bedroom to get dressed. As she frantically pulled on her boots, she pictured a map of Nevermoor in her head, trying to plot the fastest route from the Hotel Deucalion to Parliament. Snatching up her umbrella from the bony fingers of the skeleton hat stand, just in case, Morrigan ran out her door and down the dim, cold hallway of the fourth floor – and stopped.
There was a man in the hall.
He turned to face her, desperate and wild-eyed, his white face ghost-like. With his shirt half untucked and hair dishevelled, he was almost unrecognisable. But when he spoke, Morrigan could feel the lightning-crackle of his panic through the Gossamer.
‘Don’t let them open the border!’
It was Squall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Emissary
Morrigan stared at Squall, trying to make sense of him. She felt a frenzied little laugh bubble up from her chest like a water fountain, then stop quite abruptly, as if it was stuck in her throat.
‘Sorry – what?’
‘I’m the emissary,’ he said urgently, staggering down the hallway towards her and holding his chest like he’d just run a marathon. She could see the whites