Hotel Deucalion staff had been buzzing about it.
From what Morrigan could gather, Golders Night was some sort of scavenger hunt. There were maps and riddles individualised to every citizen in Nevermoor, with routes perfectly tailored to steer everyone to designated ‘green zones’ – far away from any potential Project Scaly Sewer Beast spill-over – and prizes to guarantee high rates of participation.
There were only one hundred ‘treasures’ to be found by almost a whole city of participants, and the way people were talking about it, some of them would just about sell their own grandmother to find one. The treasure wasn’t gold or jewels or anything quite so tangible. It was something most people in Nevermoor considered even more valuable: a favour from the Wundrous Society.
‘Treasure, favours, whatever. It’s the same thing.’ Heloise hoisted herself up onto a guardrail, crossing her legs. ‘My point is, nobody’s coming. Trust me, I’ve done loads of these stupid Distractions, and they never put me anywhere anything interesting happens. Just shut up and get on with it.’
‘Ugh, why do you even want me to do it again?’ Morrigan snapped. ‘I burned you the first time. Is your memory that bad?’
‘You can’t do it, can you?’ Heloise’s face split in a malicious grin. She jumped down from the guardrail and moved closer, getting in Morrigan’s face. ‘You can’t do anything. Obviously. If the Wundrous Society really had an actual, proper Wundersmith – instead of a loser like you – they’d put them somewhere more important than out here in the middle of—’
The moment the fire blazed up from Morrigan’s chest and out of her throat, singeing a street sign above their heads, she knew she’d been played like a fiddle. Heloise gasped and seemed genuinely shocked. Then she shrieked with laughter.
‘Are you insane? We’re in public!’ she said, echoing Morrigan’s earlier objection in a high-pitched, mocking voice. ‘Not supposed to do that sort of thing outside the Society, are you? Wouldn’t want anyone to know YOU’RE A WUNDERSMITH.’
‘Shush, Heloise.’ Morrigan glanced around nervously.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell the Elders about this,’ Heloise continued, tapping the steel star against the side of her leg. ‘Or you could stand against that wall while I get a bit of throwing practice in? Promise I won’t aim for your head.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
The older girl turned suddenly serious. ‘It should have been you, you know. You should have been the one to lose your knack. Not Alfie.’
Morrigan swallowed, head spinning at the sudden change of gears. She’d often wondered about Heloise’s boyfriend, Alfie Swann, who she’d helped to rescue from the Ghastly Market. He’d once been able to breathe underwater, but his knack was stolen from him when he was kidnapped and put up for auction – nobody at Wunsoc seemed to know exactly how. Morrigan hadn’t seen him at school since. She wasn’t even sure if he was still a member of the Society.
‘Do you … still see him?’ she asked haltingly. ‘Is he still …’
Heloise’s eyes were suddenly red-rimmed, but she scowled, blinking fiercely.
‘Knackless?’ she snapped. There was a tiny catch in her voice. ‘Yeah. His mum reckons—’
But Morrigan didn’t find out what Alfie Swann’s mum reckoned, because Heloise was interrupted by a sudden bellowing sound from down the street, and both girls jumped about a metre.
Morrigan looked around for the source of the strange noise and, to her horror, saw a large figure ambling down the middle of the street, a few hundred metres away. Had they seen the fire and come towards it?
She bit down hard on her lip. Had they seen where it came from?
They watched in tense silence as the figure came close enough for them to see.
‘He’s from the Society!’ Morrigan said, a little louder than she’d intended. ‘It’s … Brutilus Brown, Thaddea’s wrestling coach.’
‘Oh! The bearwun,’ said Heloise. ‘Great. I’ll just go and tell him how the nasty Wundersmith set fire to a street sign—’
‘No – Heloise, WAIT!’ Morrigan grabbed the older girl’s arm and yanked her back against the station wall, into the shadows.
‘Ow, what are you—’
‘Shush. Look.’
There was something very wrong with Brutilus. He was behaving like a bear.
The last time Morrigan had seen him he was calmly telling Thaddea where she’d gone wrong in her last match. He’d been standing on his hind legs. Carrying a clipboard. Wearing lycra, for crying out loud.
Now he was tearing through rubbish bins, throwing their contents all over the ground, snorting and grunting like a rogue grizzly at a campsite.
‘Is