eyewitnesses! Hawthorne was there too, you can ask him if you don’t believe me.’
‘Of course we believe you, Mog,’ said Jupiter firmly, casting a pointed look at Dame Chanda, who still looked troubled.
‘Oh! Yes, darling, of course,’ she said hurriedly, reaching out to give Morrigan’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Of course I believe that you believe you saw—’
‘But why didn’t you tell me about this last night?’ Jupiter interrupted. ‘It sounds terrifying. Is Hawthorne’s sister all right?’
‘Oh, she’s fine,’ Morrigan replied with a shrug. ‘Baby Dave has the fortitude of an ox. I didn’t tell you because I forgot. It happened so quickly and … well, it wasn’t a big deal, honestly. Just a bit weird.’
‘Very weird,’ Jupiter agreed. ‘And very much the sort of thing Juvela’s doctors might need to know about. Perhaps it could help them understand what happened to her. But otherwise, Mog, I think we should keep this information to ourselves, all right?’
‘Why?’
Jupiter pressed his mouth into a line, and he and Dame Chanda shared a sombre look. ‘When it comes to Wunimals, some people already have certain … opinions. The tabloids love a story about Wunimals behaving badly, and a famous Wunimal, well … we just don’t want anyone forming a conclusion about what happened before we know what happened, that’s all. It wouldn’t be fair to Juvela.’
Morrigan agreed to keep it quiet, but privately thought that if this De Flimsé person was as famous as they said, the tabloids would know about it soon enough. The train car had been full of people, after all.
‘Right!’ Jupiter snatched up his coat. ‘Come on then, Dame Chanda. To the hospital!’
The soprano rose gracefully and headed for the parlour door, glancing back over her shoulder at him in a deeply dignified manner. ‘To the florist, Jove. Then to the hospital. We are not monsters.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rook
It was drizzling outside Morrigan’s bedroom window on the day she was to return to school. She grimaced at the sight of it, rubbing her eyes as she sat up in bed (a thin, too-firm mattress this morning and one uncomfortably lumpy pillow, as if it knew she’d need the extra push to get up). The rain didn’t bode well – drizzle in Nevermoor could mean a torrential downpour inside Wunsoc. Not an ideal start to the new term.
There was a soft knock on the door, but when she crossed the room to open it, nobody was there. She looked down; on the floor sat a breakfast tray with a pot of tea, a dish covered by a silver cloche and a handwritten note.
First day back, Mog! Huzzah!
Don’t forget your brolly.
–J.N.
Jupiter must have written this note days ago, she thought, and left it with Martha before heading off-realm. As a captain in the League of Explorers, he was regularly called away to travel into one of many mysterious other realms outside of their own. Morrigan didn’t know much about his work in the League, but she knew it was both very important and surprisingly dull. A lot of Jupiter’s missions seemed to be tedious diplomatic trips to attend coronations and summits and ceremonies.
Scowling at both the enthusiasm and the unnecessary advice in the note, she set it aside and carried the tray over to her slab-like prison bed. Underneath the cloche was a big bowl of steaming hot porridge swirled with honey, and she ate the whole thing in silence, staring out at the rain.
Morrigan knew she ought to be excited to go back to Wunsoc, but all she felt was a mild sense of underwhelm.
She had been practising Nocturne and Inferno every single night of the holidays without fail, and every morning too. The same thing, over and over: calling Wunder, lighting candles. Calling Wunder, lighting candles.
She wanted to do more, wanted to learn something new, but in truth she was too frightened to try it on her own. The act of lighting a candle made her feel formidable and in control. She didn’t want to risk going too far, creating something dangerous that she couldn’t contain. The memory of what had happened the first time she’d breathed fire – the way it had roared up from her lungs and set the canopy of Proudfoot Station ablaze, injuring the awful Heloise and getting Morrigan temporarily kicked out of Wunsoc in the process – was still painfully fresh. Safe to say she was hesitant to overextend herself.
What she needed was a teacher. Someone to give her lessons in the Wretched Arts, not the