The only time she could open the circular seal on the door in her bedroom was when it was warm and gently pulsating with light.
She turned reluctantly to face their disappointment. Rook pressed her mouth into a line and said nothing, but Conall patted Morrigan consolingly on the shoulder.
‘Ah, well,’ he said in a bracing tone. ‘Never mind.’
‘Maybe I could … try again tomorrow?’ she suggested feebly.
‘We thought that would probably happen, Morrigan,’ Sofia added. ‘It’s quite all right.’
That was clearly a lie, and Morrigan knew it.
Rook said nothing.
CHAPTER NINE
The Book of Ghostly Hours
There were two notable additions to Morrigan’s timetable the next morning. The most exciting change was that all her previously blank periods had been filled in with four words: SUB-NINE ACADEMIC GROUP.
Morrigan smiled so much at the sight of those words, it made her face hurt. She couldn’t wait to begin her proper lessons. Rook had said it was okay to tell Unit 919 about the School of Wundrous Arts, because they were bound by unit loyalty to keep her secrets, and of course Morrigan’s conductor and patron had to know about her new classes, for practical reasons.
‘But try to keep it quiet around Proudfoot House,’ the Scholar Mistress had told her. ‘It probably won’t stay a secret forever, but the longer we can operate without everyone else nosing in, the better. So many busybodies in this place.’
The entire afternoon train trip home that day had been taken up with telling and retelling the story over and over. Miss Cheery and the rest of Unit 919 had been satisfyingly shocked and excited to learn that there was a third school at Wunsoc they hadn’t known about. In fact, the Hometrain journey seemed to take three times longer than usual, and Morrigan suspected Miss Cheery had taken them on a circuitous route so they could hear every tiny detail a second and third time.
‘And the classrooms are all empty?’ Anah asked with a little shudder. ‘Spooky.’
‘Do you think they’d let us come see Sub-Nine too?’ asked Mahir.
‘I can’t believe Dearborn and Murgatroyd had another one of them just hanging out in there this whole time!’ said Hawthorne.
‘If you’re not a whitesleeve any more,’ said Cadence, ‘or a greysleeve, then … what are you?’
Morrigan hadn’t had an answer for that, but Lam pointed silently at a poster hanging on the wall of Hometrain. It had been there since the first time they’d stepped on board a year ago, but she’d not given it a thought since that day, when Miss Cheery explained its meaning to them. It was an unevenly proportioned target sign made up of three concentric circles – the large grey outer ring represented the Mundane school (or greysleeves), she’d told them. The narrower white middle ring represented the Arcane school (whitesleeves). And in the centre was a much smaller black circle, which Miss Cheery had thought represented the Society as a whole, but …
‘Oh!’ cried the conductor as she stared at the poster. She looked lightning-struck. ‘Oh, I see!’
Morrigan saw it too. They all did. The existence of the School of Wundrous Arts had been right here, staring them in the face all this time.
(Disappointingly, though, when she’d entered her wardrobe that morning, her white Arcane shirt was waiting for her, pressed and starched. Morrigan supposed it wouldn’t do for her to start wearing a black shirt around Proudfoot House when she was supposed to be keeping the School of Wundrous Arts under wraps, but even so, she couldn’t help feeling a bit let down. She’d liked the idea of being a blacksleeve.)
Jupiter had also listened with rapt attention when she’d burst into his study after he arrived home the night before to declare that for once, she knew something he didn’t. (It really was so satisfying to know something he didn’t. She hoped it would happen again someday.)
Morrigan was staring at her new timetable for the hundredth time, so delighted by seeing the words SUB-NINE ACADEMIC GROUP that she didn’t notice the second addition.
‘What’s that smell?’ asked Hawthorne. Morrigan’s brow furrowed as she cautiously sniffed the air.
‘It’s Thaddea’s sweaty wrestling kit,’ said Anah, wrinkling her nose. ‘Is that still sitting there from yesterday? Honestly.’
‘Well, I’ve got wrestling again this morning, haven’t I?’ Thaddea fired back at her as she stuffed the kit into her satchel. ‘No sense washing it twice, is there?’
Anah looked exasperated. ‘There’s an awful lot of sense in doing that, Thaddea.’
‘I wasn’t talking about Thaddea’s stinky socks.’ Hawthorne held up his timetable,