Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,17
no doubt quietly relieved) when the last-minute change of theme resulted in the Deucalion’s most successful Christmas party ever. The society pages in all Nevermoor’s major newspapers the next day were plastered with full-colour photos of celebrities and aristocracy throwing back candy cane cocktails and cooing over the sweet woodland unnimals (while Frank bared his fangs broodingly in the background).
It had been such a very silly season so far, and there was still nearly a week to go.
On Christmas Eve, in the sanctuary of her bedroom, Morrigan was practising. Just as she had done every night that week, and the week before that, and in all the weeks that had passed since the night she’d shut down the Ghastly Market. She had started the nightly ritual at Jupiter’s suggestion, to manage the ever-growing volume of Wunder that was drawn irresistibly to her as a Wundersmith. That energy was constantly swarming around her, invisible and undetectable but nonetheless there, waiting impatiently for her to do something with it. But only an accomplished Wundersmith could wield it, and while Morrigan had picked up a couple of new skills in the past year, she was nowhere near accomplished.
She knew now what a dangerous position it had put her in, that great yawning chasm between her potential as a Wundersmith and her actual ability. It was this gathering of Wunder – this critical mass, as Ezra Squall had called it – that had allowed him to take control of her power and use it for his own purposes.
Most people in Nevermoor knew Squall as ‘the last Wundersmith’, and spoke about him only in hushed, fearful tones, as if he were some imaginary bogeyman. Morrigan, however, knew that he was very much a real, living threat.
Not that she was about to share that with anyone, outside of her closest friends. It was bad enough that everyone at Wunsoc now knew she was a Wundersmith too. If they knew she’d also met Nevermoor’s greatest enemy several times – had even reluctantly learned from him – she’d likely be driven out of town with torches and pitchforks.
Morrigan didn’t know if or when Squall would return. Though the ancient magic of the city prevented him from physically entering Nevermoor, nothing could stop him travelling there incorporeally on the Gossamer – the invisible web of energy that connected everything in the realm. If Morrigan allowed too much Wunder to gather around her unchecked, Squall could use it to ‘lean’ through the Gossamer and manipulate her powers, making her his puppet. Summoning Wunder and using it was the only way Morrigan could keep the city she now called home safe.
‘Morningtide’s child is merry and mild,’ she sang quietly. The tingling feeling came to her fingertips with barely any coaxing. She was getting better at this. Even if her voice was still a tiny bit wobbly. ‘Eventide’s child is wicked and wild.’
To her endless frustration, Morrigan still knew very little about the Wretched Arts. But the knowledge she had, she treasured.
The Wretched Art of Nocturne. The summoning of Wunder. Singing to make it so.
And the Wretched Art of Inferno. The creation and manipulation of fire.
Those were the two things Squall had taught her.
She raked over this meagre knowledge again and again, every night, polishing and perfecting her technique. Hoping the next steps in her journey to becoming an accomplished Wundersmith might just one day be miraculously laid out for her.
‘Morningtide’s child arrives with the dawn. Eventide’s child brings gale and storm.’ Morrigan smiled to herself, eyes closed. She could feel the gentle yet insistent hum of energy swimming around her, pooling contentedly in her upturned palms. ‘Where are you going, o son of the morning? Up with the sun where the winds are warming.’
She didn’t really understand why singing should be the signal to Wunder that you were ready to put it to use … but then, there were lots of things she didn’t understand yet about being a Wundersmith.
Most of it, really.
Almost all of it.
‘Where are you going, o daughter of night?’ Morrigan opened her eyes cautiously and saw that her bedroom was bathed in a now familiar white-gold light.
This was at least one thing she could understand: she had called Wunder, and Wunder had come. It danced all around, throwing speckled patterns across the floor and pulsating as if to say that it was happy to see her.
Morrigan grinned. She didn’t even need to finish the song.