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“Ezra Squall is the nation’s greatest hero,” he continued. “More than that—he is their benevolent god, the source of their every comfort and happiness. The only living person with the ability to harvest, distribute, and command Wunder. Our Republic relies on him totally.” His
The bells were ringing for Eventide.
She’d been cheated. It was supposed to be a twelve-year Age. Everyone said so—Corvus, Grandmother, all Morrigan’s caseworkers, chronologists on the news. Twelve years of life was already too short, but eleven?
Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society wishes to present his bid for Miss Morrigan Crow. Again.
“The Wundrous Society,” Morrigan whispered.
it to your patron no later than the last day of Winter of Eleven. Entrance trials will begin in spring.
Regards, Elder G. Quinn Proudfoot House
Morrigan Crow. Morrigan’s night held only one possibility. Like every other child born precisely eleven years ago on the last Eventide, when the clock struck midnight she would die—the eleven short years of her doomed life complete; her curse finally fulfilled.
ever) and, emboldened, stood up from her seat. “Corvus and I are having a baby.”
child?” shouted Ivy, stamping her foot. “Doesn’t anybody care that I’m about to die?” Morrigan shouted in return. “Can we please talk about me for a minute?”
Ginger was an understatement, Morrigan thought, trying to hide her astonishment as the hat came off. Ginger of the Year or King Ginger or Big Gingery President of the Ginger Foundation for the Incurably Ginger would have been more
Then she’d thrown it on the fire.
“Oh, it’s a Wundrous contract.” He waved it around without care. “It creates identical copies of the original as soon as you sign it. That does explain the singed edges, though.”
name is Jupiter North.”
Morrigan, fumbling to take her hand. “For instance, I bet you didn’t expect your so-called death to arrive three hours early.”
a handful of silver dust
you could a bit, if you wanted to.” He winked at Morrigan, who felt a small, hysterical laugh working its way up out of her throat. Did they really believe that curtain was her, lying dead on the floor?
glowing red eyes,
“The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow.”
pointed look, “is called an arachnipod, and it is the
“Beautiful, isn’t she? Her name’s Octavia.
the clock tower.
“We’re going home, Morrigan Crow.”
With one final heave, the arachnipod pitched forward and tumbled through the clockface,
around them. Outside the window a giant eye—
Miss Crow has never heard of Barclaytown in the Seventh Pocket, thought Morrigan.
turned to Morrigan. “Welcome to Nevermoor.”
Local time 6:13 a.m. on the first day of Morningtide, Spring of One, Third Age of the Aristocrats. Weather: chilly but clear skies. Overall city mood: optimistic, sleepy, slightly drunk.’”
floated through a borough called Ogden-on-Juro that looked like it was sinking.
Everywhere Morrigan looked there were rolling green parks and tiny church gardens, cemeteries and courtyards and
Morrigan frowned. “Which one’s the Free State?” There were four states that made up the Republic: Southlight, Prosper, Far East Sang, and of course Great Wolfacre, outside of which Morrigan had never before ventured.
The one that’s actually free. State number five, the one your tutors never taught you about, because they didn’t know about it themselves. We’re not technically part
to die at midnight on Eventide.”
Not for you. Nevermoor is about nine hours ahead of Jackalfax. So you skipped right past midnight—out of one time zone and into another. You cheated death. Well done. Hungry?”
“They hunt cursed children. I suppose you
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Jupiter’s voice was light, but his face was troubled. He switched gears to navigate through a narrow cobbled street. “Perhaps they had a party to get to. Must be rubbish having to work on Eventide.”
And trolls,
zombies? Unicorns? It was hard
HOTEL DEUCALION in
cat. A giant cat. The biggest,
see you’ve brought my breakfast.”
Fen?”
“Happy New Age to you, Martha,”
live in the hotel, he owned it.
“Fenestra?”
monogrammed on it in gold. “Morrigan, this is Mr. Kedgeree Burns, my concierge.
hand to the glass to steady herself. Martha, the housemaid
overcoat still draped over her shoulders. Morrigan carefully unwrapped the paper to find a black oilskin umbrella with a silver filigree handle.
A huge dragon puppet danced among them, carried by a dozen people underneath.
In her head, she counted the hazards, tallied up all the many things that might go wrong with this party now that she and her curse had arrived.
