Morrigan remembered marching up the drive to Proudfoot House feeling a little nervous, perhaps, but not afraid. She remembered seeing the cloaked Wundrous Society members holding candles, perched high in the dead fireblossom trees that lined the drive, and feeling strangely comforted by their presence. She remembered thinking that the hard part was over. That she’d got through the trials and into the Society and everything was going to be easier from then onwards.
She’d been wrong, of course. But it wasn’t until now that she knew precisely how wrong she’d been.
Behind the nine new scholars, jumping down from the trees, the figures were not members of the Wundrous Society. They weren’t even human … just doing a good imitation of it.
‘What in the Seven Pockets are we watching?’ breathed Arch.
The figures seemed to unfold from their vaguely human facsimile, shifting into what must have been their true form: enormous vulture-like creatures, hunched and haunted-looking, with yellow eyes and great, hook-like talons.
Morrigan couldn’t believe she and the rest of the unit could have been so oblivious.
‘Run, for goodness’ sake,’ Arch whispered to the projected Unit 919, quite pointlessly. Morrigan understood the impulse. She wanted to shake her past self, to force that other Morrigan to turn around and see the danger.
Because it wasn’t just the things slithering out of the shadows and perching in the trees. There was more, so much more.
She’d believed – they had all believed – that the splendour and spectacle of their inauguration was meant to be a celebration of their success.
It wasn’t a celebration, she realised now. It was a distraction. A series of precise, choreographed distractions designed to direct their line of sight to exactly the right place so they missed everything else happening around them.
The marching musicians accompanying them up the path to Proudfoot House had distracted them from the human-sized vulture things crowding in behind them.
The sparkling, iridescent rainbow archway had blinded them to the fact that every window in Proudfoot House had begun to bleed – thick, oozing rivulets of red dripped down the brick walls like something out of a horror story.
The trumpeting elephant caught their attention at the bottom of the marble steps just as a team of Wunsoc members conducted a thousand-strong army of spiders to skitter across the shoes of Unit 919.
None of them had noticed a thing.
And when they’d looked up in awe to watch their nine names burning across the sky in dragon fire, they’d missed perhaps the most extraordinary sight of all: a platoon of trees at the edge of the Whinging Woods had drawn up their roots from the ground and were marching – slowly, very slowly – on Proudfoot House, like an ancient arboreal army of the damned.
It was ghastly to witness, and yet … it was extraordinary. Even through her horror, Morrigan couldn’t help feeling astonished at how she and the others had done exactly what they were supposed to do, without having the slightest idea they were supposed to do it. They’d looked just where they were guided to look, turned where they were meant to turn, at precisely the right moment for precisely the right amount of time. It was like watching herself perform and perfectly execute a ballet she’d never rehearsed for.
‘Whoever did this is twisted,’ said Mahir.
‘No.’ Morrigan shook her head. ‘Whoever did this is a genius.’
‘You have passed your fifth and final trial – the most important test of all, the test of loyalty – and are about to begin your second year as members of the Wundrous Society,’ Elder Quinn’s voice rang out again, over footage of the scholars following their patrons up the marble stairs. ‘In proving that you are worthy of our trust, you have opened the door to deeper knowledge and greater responsibility within our ranks.’
Morrigan grimaced. They’d passed their fifth trial only six weeks ago, and the memory was a sour one. The test of Unit 919’s loyalty to each other had come in the form of blackmail. They each had received an outrageous demand to fulfil, or their anonymous blackmailer would reveal to the rest of the Society that Morrigan was a Wundersmith – a secret the Elders had ordered Unit 919 to protect, or else face exile from Wunsoc for life. It had been Morrigan’s biggest source of misery all year long, and not only had it turned out to be a test … it was a test contrived by the Elders themselves.
The most diabolical thing – even now, she couldn’t think of it without grinding her teeth – was that in order to pass the test herself, Morrigan had to reveal herself as a Wundersmith. So now everyone in the Society knew the truth anyway.
Well, she thought bitterly. At least we passed.
On the projection, the doors of Proudfoot House closed behind Unit 919 and their patrons. The projection cut out. They were surrounded by darkness again.
Elder Quinn’s imperious voice continued, filling the room.
‘The first and most important of these new responsibilities is for you to witness the truth about our beloved city, and to see your rightful place within it.’
Morrigan felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle. She had an urge to say, No thank you. I’d rather not witness the truth about Nevermoor. Not today.
‘To understand your future in the Wundrous Society, you must know our past,’ continued Elder Quinn. ‘The Society was founded for a very particular purpose. Until just over one hundred years ago, our entire mission was to support the work of nine people. Those nine – elevated and exalted above all others – had a mission of their own: to serve, protect and improve the lives of the citizens of our realm.
‘They were the Wundersmiths. Nine human beings gifted beyond all others, chosen – many believed – by the Wundrous Divinities themselves, the ancient deities who were once said to have watched over our realm. In exchange for the powers they’d been blessed with, the Wundersmiths would dedicate the entirety of their lifetimes to mastering their craft, and using their power wholly in service to others. And when their lifetime was over, each of those original nine Wundrous souls was – so the story goes – reborn in another, who would take their place, serving the realm with the guidance and support of the Wundrous Society. On and on the cycle went, one generation replacing another, never forgetting who they were: human representatives of the nine Divinities, here to do their work.’
Was that true, Morrigan wondered. Was she just the latest version of one of those original nine Wundersmiths, reborn in the body of Morrigan Crow? A copy of a copy of a copy? It sounded made-up, the kind of fantastical detail you’d find in mythology books.
‘But eventually,’ Elder Quinn continued, ‘the Society failed in its mission.’
Morrigan felt a flicker of discomfort. Even in the darkness, she could feel eight pairs of eyes upon her.
‘The nine Wundersmiths became subjects of worship and devotion, even fanaticism. We allowed them to believe themselves divine, to set themselves above ordinary people, and so some of them became corrupt and careless. Dangerous. Power-hungry. Many would say evil.
‘Finally, one among them decided his time had come. And so, he toiled in secret to build an army of monsters, legions of his own vile creations, and he tried to lead his fellow Wundersmiths in a crusade against the crown.
‘He failed, of course. He was exiled for his crimes and became the man we know as the last Wundersmith. Ezra Squall tried to conquer and enslave our city. We have not forgotten. We will not forget.’