hooves towering above Dame Chanda, poised to land on her head.
Morrigan had thought to breathe a short, sharp burst of fire in Victor’s direction – just enough to surprise him, maybe to buy a moment or two so that someone could get Dame Chanda out of harm’s way.
But that wasn’t what happened. There was a short, sharp burst – that much worked, at least – but it didn’t stop there. With a sudden, terrifying whoosh, the curtain she was holding on to caught fire. It spread with alarming speed, like something alive and vengeful, and the theatre filled with screams – first from backstage, and then from the audience, who had finally realised this was not part of the opera.
Victor veered away from Dame Chanda at the last minute and, without missing a beat, began to run straight for the fire with a sudden fierce purpose.
The curtain came down like a wall of flame, bringing the rigging down with it in a tremendous crash. This only made the horsewun wilder and angrier – more than angry, he was savage, filled with a furious, frenzied energy that he seemed unable to control. Even amid Morrigan’s own panic, she could still recognise panic in another. Victor was throwing his body around like there was something inside him trying to get out. She could see the whites of his eyes; he was frightened of what was happening to him.
And then – there it was again. A dangerous flash of green light behind the horsewun’s eyes. Just like Juvela. Just like Brutilus. Before she even realised what she was doing, Morrigan had run out onto the stage after him.
The horsewun leapt from the stage like a possessed show horse, and the audience – who were already streaming towards the exits, away from the fire – scrambled to move aside as he galloped at full speed up the centre aisle of the theatre. The exit doors were closed, but Victor was like a freight train and smashed straight through them, leaving screams and shards of splintered wood in his wake.
Barely a second later the audience’s terror was renewed as a gigantic grey furball leapt from the box nearest the stage, jumped lightly over several rows of seats and landed in the aisle. Barely losing a second of momentum, Fenestra barrelled towards the broken doors and out of the opera house, in pursuit of the mad horsewun.
Jupiter swung himself over the balcony and jumped down onto the stage (rather less gracefully than Fenestra, but without breaking a limb, at least), making a beeline for Dame Chanda and yelling instructions to the opera house staff.
‘Get that fire out, now – don’t you have more extinguishers? Well, get them!’ He pointed at the stage manager. ‘You! Call for an ambulance. Get all these people out of the theatre and into the lobby. But don’t let anyone leave! The Stink – I mean, the police – will want eyewitness accounts. Chanda, no, don’t move – stay still, everything’s fine.’
The soprano stirred very slightly, mumbling and lifting a delicate hand to her head. Jupiter knelt beside her, looking up at Morrigan as he took off his velvet jacket and folded it into a pillow for Dame Chanda’s head.
‘You okay, Mog?’ he asked.
Morrigan looked from Jupiter to Dame Chanda to the burnt-out remains of the wooden scenery on stage, covered in white extinguisher foam and still smouldering in places.
She nodded, but she most certainly was not okay. None of this was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Wunimal Shock at Nevermoor
Opera Horse!’
‘Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary.’
Dame Chanda was propped up on a daybed surrounded by cushions, blankets and open newspapers, while clouds of golden smoke whorled around her. She ought to have been in her suite – the doctor had told her she mustn’t move from her bed for at least three days – but she’d grown bored by noon and insisted on being carried to the Smoking Parlour on her chaise longue like a queen in a litter. There were legions of devoted Deucalion staff who were only too happy to oblige, and the ensuing rush to be chosen for the honour nearly resulted in fisticuffs between one of the young groundskeepers and a sous chef.
‘What’s extraordinary?’ asked Morrigan, jumping up for the fifth time to plump Dame Chanda’s cushions. ‘Is that one of your reviews?’
‘Reviews?’ huffed the soprano. Even with a broken wrist and a bandage covering half her head, she looked every bit as regal as she had the night before, dressed as the elegant Euphoriana.