Nevermoor: Chapters 10–14

He stood at the concierge desk, his hands stiffly behind his back, appraising the hotel foyer with undisguised contempt.

Jupiter approached the man and shook his hand amiably.

“Now, listen here, North. The Free State has strict border laws, and if you’re harboring an illegal refugee, you’re breaking about twenty-eight of them. You’re in a lot of trouble here, sonny. Illegals are a plague, and it’s my solemn duty to guard the borders of Nevermoor and protect its true citizens from Republic scum trying to weasel their way into the Free State.”

“You have no right to demand the papers of someone who falls under the jurisdiction of the Wundrous Society, Flintlock. We deal with our own lawbreakers.”

Article ninety-seven, clause F: ‘A child who is participating in the entrance trials for the Wundrous Society shall for all legal purposes be considered a member of the Wundrous Society for the duration of said trials or until he or she is removed from the trial process.’

Hawthorne especially loved the Smoking Parlor (chocolate smoke this afternoon: “to promote emotional well-being”), the Rain Room (though he hadn’t brought any galoshes and his trousers were now soaked to his knees), and the theater.

A thought still niggled at the back of Morrigan’s mind. Did her knack have something to do with the curse?

A tiny tendril of smoke coiled up from the smoldering edges of the page.

The book smoothed and whitened, uncurling its pages until they were once again pristine.

“Prime Minister Gideon Steed is a democratically elected steward of the Free State, a sentry who has been appointed by the people to protect the values, standards, and liberties that we hold dear.”

“Prime Minister Gideon Steed is a democratically elected steward of the Free State, a sentry who has been appointed by the people to protect the values, standards, and liberties that we hold dear.”

“Incorrect,” said Elder Wong. “Incendiary botanicals are extinct; any tree that appears to be an incendiary botanical is a tree that has merely been set on fire, and should be extinguished immediately.”

Sometimes Dame Chanda, who famously had six suitors (“one for each night of the week, except Sundays,” she explained nonchalantly), would enlist Morrigan’s help to choose her outfit for the evening.

Together they would dive through the thousands of beautiful gowns, shoes, and jewels in the soprano’s wardrobe (which was nearly as big as the hotel lobby) to find the perfect ensemble for dinner and dancing with the man Jupiter had dubbed Monsieur Monday, a stroll in the park with Sir Wednesday of the Midweek, or a night at the theater with the Honorable Lord Thursday.

Being accustomed to this reaction when meeting new people, Morrigan was less surprised by his disdain than by the black leather patch covering his left eye.

“Someone probably gouged it out with a hot fire poker,” said Hawthorne that night as he and Morrigan dragged out the board game chest in the Smoking Parlor (rose smoke tonight, hazy and pink: “to encourage sweetness of temper”). “Or stabbed it with a letter opener. Or put flesh-eating insects under his eyelid and they ate it all up. Something like that.”

The last thing she felt like doing was wandering around in the dark, looking for a giant ravenous shadow-wolf on her own, but what could she do?

She held the gauzy white curtains aside and stepped onto the balcony, into the bluish light of a full moon.

He was jolted out of his reverie.

“But I’ve just made up a victory song for when I vanquish it. I was gonna teach you the dance bit.”

Morrigan jabbed the button for her floor, still seething.

“I know what the rules say: You can’t ride a flying animal. There was some kerfuffle a few years back with a dragon and a pelican. Poor bird got burned to a cinder three seconds after takeoff. More of a pelican’t, in the end. Eh? Pelican’t?”

Any candidate found in breach of these rules will be instantly disqualified.

The successful candidate in this trial will show daring, tenacity, and an instinct for strategy.

“West Quarter, dummy,” came a languid voice.

Fenestra lay in a nearby patch of sunshine, licking her fur in long, listless strokes.

She really was beautiful, Morrigan thought grudgingly. In her own terrifying way.

“Do you two mind?” Fen asked, her voice oozing derision.

She pulled on a shirt and socks—all white, as the rules stipulated.

At the registration table, Morrigan and Jupiter both had to sign a waiver stating that if the Chase resulted in death or injury they wouldn’t sue the Society.

The Magnificat then swept off toward a throng of candidates milling around the registration table and proceeded to pace threateningly before them.

Noelle was dressed, like the other candidates, all in white—from her smart ivory jodhpurs to her leather saddle and riding crop.

Noelle gave an incredulous giggle. "Your patron doesn’t tell you anything, does he? It’s like he doesn’t even want you to win.”

She was certain Noelle would charm them, just as she’d charmed her simpering band of followers.

The clock hit zero and a deafening klaxon went off, and suddenly Morrigan’s world lurched into a chaotic melee of clattering, pounding footfalls and the roar of cheering patrons somewhere behind her.

Her long, black braid had fallen half-loose and wild, and she was shouting and pulling hard on the reins to no avail; she’d lost all control of her steed.

“Oh, stop your sniveling,” growled the Magnificat.

The Courage Square fountain was like the scene of some apocalyptic battle.

She couldn’t deny that, in fact, Cadence had been sitting in front of her, and that was why she was covered in gold dust. But that was ridiculous! A silly technicality couldn’t mean anything—it just couldn’t.

You have proven your tenacity and ambition and have won a place in the next round of trials for Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society. The Fright Trial will take place in Autumn of One at a date, time, and location unspecified.