Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,24

be, then?’ Helena continued, grinning slyly at Dave. ‘How about—’

‘Farts Like a Draught Horse,’ said Cat in a stage whisper. Morrigan and Hawthorne went into fits of giggles at this, while Helena groaned, ‘Ugh, Mum! Gross.’

‘Oi – careful, Catriona Swift, or yours’ll be Makes All Her Own Cups of Tea From Now On,’ Dave replied indignantly, though he was trying not to laugh.

Hawthorne’s eyes lit up. ‘What about Homer?’

There was a moment’s silence. Morrigan looked from Hawthorne to Helena to Cat to Dave. She could practically see the gears in their brains turning as each tried to come up with the best zinger. But Homer was too quick – he’d already scrawled out a name on his blackboard, and he held it up for them to see.

Hopes He’s Adopted.

There was an eruption of laughter as they all applauded the clear winner of the unofficial dragon-naming competition. Homer speared the last marshmallow, looking quietly pleased with himself.

It was a cheerful ending to a brilliant Christmas Eve. But when Fenestra showed up to take her home, Morrigan was surprised to realise she felt a certain amount of relief.

She adored Hawthorne’s family. She really did. She loved the way that Cat and Dave teased each other. Homer made her laugh all the time, and even though she’d only just met Helena, she liked her already. She didn’t even mind being tyrannised by Baby Dave. And Hawthorne, well … he was her best friend.

But, although she would never have let it show, being around the Swifts all together like this made Morrigan feel a tiny bit … what was it? Not jealous, exactly. Just …

Well, yes. Jealous. If she was being honest with herself.

She couldn’t even articulate precisely what she was jealous of. It was something about their ease with one another, the natural way they all just seemed to … fit. They were a puzzle with no missing parts.

Morrigan’s family – her father, stepmother, grandmother and twin half-brothers – lived far away in the Wintersea Republic, and they didn’t have any missing parts either. They used to have an unwanted spare part, but now she lived in Nevermoor at the Hotel Deucalion.

It was just a small ache, coming from some deep and probably unimportant place inside, almost imperceptible if she didn’t pay too much attention to her feelings. (And Morrigan tried not to make a habit of paying too much attention to her feelings.)

But it was there, and she didn’t like it. The Swifts were good people. They were always kind to her, always made her feel welcome. It seemed ungrateful, somehow, to nurse this small resentment.

And yet on the way home, when Fenestra muttered, ‘Very obnoxious, that family,’ Morrigan felt a mean little laugh bubble up out of her chest before she could stop it.

Then the sting of instant regret. She dug her fingernails into her palms, leaving tiny red marks in the shape of crescent moons.

CHAPTER SIX

De Flimsé

Morrigan slept with her curtains open that night so that she would wake to the sight of a winter wonderland outside her windows, and when morning arrived she wasn’t disappointed. It looked as if the snow hadn’t stopped all night long, and it was impossible to see much of anything through the flurries of white still falling thick and fast.

Blinking groggily, she propped herself up in her bed. It had transformed while she was sleeping from a four-poster into something resembling an enormous replica of Saint Nick’s sleigh, filled with dozens of plump velvet cushions and soft woollen blankets.

‘Very nice,’ Morrigan said to her bedroom, in a voice still croaky from sleep. She’d recently decided to be more complimentary when it did something she really liked. A few weeks earlier she’d made a vague noise of distaste at a very modern, abstract painting that had shown up on her wall, and she swore it must have hurt the room’s feelings or something, because the next three nights her bed had turned into a dog kennel, then a hamster cage, then a large terracotta pot full of cactus plants. She’d been extra cautious ever since.

Saint Nicholas had once again delivered; a plump, overfilled stocking hung from the mantelpiece. Even more inviting, a pile of gifts sat on the end of the sleigh bed.

Martha had given her a wicker basket full of brightly coloured bubble baths and carved soaps. Kedgeree’s gift was a small, exquisite version of the bird chandelier in the lobby, handcrafted from glittering black beads and silver wire. Frank had given her a