Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,91

food was emerging – Hawthorne’s stipulation).

‘He’s having a fight with his mum,’ said Jack, pointing to a young man scoffing canapés with abandon. ‘She thinks he’s not applying himself to his studies and he thinks she’s overbearing. The woman at the top of the staircase is cheating on her wife. Those two sitting by the fire are secretly in love, but each one believes it’s unrequited because they both think the other is too good for them.’

‘Ooh!’ said Hawthorne, clasping his hands delightedly. ‘Should we go and say something?’

‘Definitely not.’ Jack swiped a canapé from a passing waiter (Hawthorne took three). ‘They’ll either figure it out or they won’t, but Uncle Jove says nosing into people’s love lives is never helpful. He must have learned from experience, because we all know how much he loves nosing into things.’

A rather noisy group of guests arrived just then, and among them was a giraffewun, a Wunimal Minor. She was long of neck with a spotted pattern covering her skin, languid brown eyes and large ears a bit like a deer, but otherwise quite humanoid.

Morrigan glanced at Jack, who was watching the giraffewun carefully, but after a moment he shook his head. He’d been examining every Wunimal that came through the doors and monitoring them throughout the party, but so far none posed a threat. Frank had had the decency to look sheepish when the first Wunimals arrived (unexpectedly), but the rest of the staff agreed they couldn’t ask anyone to leave. It wouldn’t feel fair and would risk the Deucalion’s reputation being tarnished, even if it was for safety’s sake … but it had certainly put the staff on edge.

She knew Jack was trying to keep track of every Wunimal guest, because she was doing the same thing. The owlwun Major perched on the railing of the staircase. The wolfwun Minor howling with laughter at his own joke. The iguanawun Major playing on the bandstand. The fact that some of the human guests were giving the Wunimals a wide berth certainly made them easier to spot in a crowd.

‘She must be a celebrity among Wunimals,’ Jack whispered to Morrigan and the others. He gave a subtle nod towards an elegant dogwun with flowing silvery-white fur, wearing a black velvet bow above each ear and a string of black pearls around her neck.

‘How do you know?’ asked Morrigan.

‘Little synchronised flashes of light,’ Jack explained. ‘Like lightbulbs switching on above every other Wunimal’s head as they saw her come through the door.’

Morrigan was thrilled by the drama of this and was just wondering how she could get close enough to find out who the dogwun was, when another little flash of light went off nearby, and they all flinched at the sudden brightness. Hawthorne gasped.

‘I just – I saw the light!’ he cried. ‘Jack, does that mean I’m a Witness now, or—?’

‘That was a camera flash, genius,’ said Jack.

He was glaring at its source: a man carrying an enormous camera and following close behind the dogwun. He had a bag full of photography equipment slung over his shoulder, and Morrigan saw with alarm that the logo embroidered on it said Looking Glass.

Jack had spotted it, too.

‘We should tell Kedgeree,’ he murmured, with a meaningful look at Morrigan. ‘If Dame Chanda finds out a photographer from the Looking Glass was allowed in here after that “opera horse” article, she’ll never forgive Frank.’

A woman standing near the concierge desk made a noise of disgust. She carried a sunset-coloured cocktail in one hand and a beaded clutch in the other.

‘Utterly disgraceful.’ The woman wrinkled her nose as she watched the elegant dogwun and her pursuing photographer disappear into the crowd. Leaning in towards the man who was with her, she said in a loud whisper, ‘The Deucalion really is going to the dogs, if that’s the sort of riff-raff they’re letting in.’

The man nodded in agreement. ‘Hmm. Someone should call the pound and have that pooch taken away.’ The pair of them shared a smug little giggle.

‘She’s not a dog,’ Hawthorne said loudly. ‘She’s a dogwun.’

They turned as one to look down their noses at him. The man scoffed. ‘Dogwun. Rubbish. If it’s got four legs, a wet nose and a tail – it’s a dog. In my day, we called things by their real names and none of this horsewun, rabbitwun, lizardwun nonsense. I’m sick of having to be so respectful all the time. Dogwun,’ he finished, shaking his head and downing his cocktail in one.