“I thought we’d agreed that extreme weather events could no longer be reliably attributed to my daughter,” said Corvus. “After that forest fire in Ulf turned out to be arson. Remember?”
“Yes, Chancellor. However, there’s a witness who has indicated that Morrigan is at fault in this case.”
“Who?” Corvus demanded.
“A man who works at the post office overheard Miss Crow remarking to her grandmother on the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying.” The caseworker looked at her notes. “The hail began four hours later.”
Corvus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shooting an irritated look at Morrigan. “Very well. Continue.”
Morrigan frowned. She had never in her life remarked on “the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying.” She did remember turning to Grandmother in the post office that day and saying, “Hot, isn’t it?” but that was hardly the same thing.
“A local man, Thomas Bratchett, died of a heart attack recently. He was—”
“Our gardener, I know,” Corvus interrupted. “Terrible shame. The hydrangeas have suffered. Morrigan, what did you do to the old man?”
“Nothing.”
Corvus looked skeptical. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”
She thought for a moment. “I told him the flower beds looked nice.”
“When?”
“About a year ago.”
Corvus and the caseworker exchanged a look. The woman sighed quietly. “His family is being extremely generous in the matter. They ask only that you pay his funeral expenses, put his grandchildren through college, and make a donation to his favorite charity.”
“How many grandchildren?”
“Five.”
“Tell them I’ll pay for two. Continue.”
“The headmaster at Jackalfax—ah!” The woman jumped as Morrigan leaned forward to take a cookie, but seemed to calm down when she realized there was no intention to make physical contact. “Um… yes. The headmaster at Jackalfax Preparatory School has finally sent us a bill for the fire damage. Two thousand kred ought to cover it.”
“It said in the newspaper that the lunch lady left the stove burner on overnight,” said Morrigan.
“Correct,” said the caseworker, her eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her. “It also said she’d passed Crow Manor the previous day and spotted you on the grounds.”
“So?”
“She said you made eye contact with her.”
“I did not.” Morrigan felt her blood begin to rise. That fire wasn’t her fault. She’d never made eye contact with anyone; she knew the rules. The lunch lady was fibbing to get herself out of trouble.
“It’s all in the police report.”
“She’s a liar.” Morrigan turned to her father, but he refused to meet her gaze. Did he really believe she was to blame? The lunch lady admitted she’d left the stove burner turned on! The unfairness of it made Morrigan’s stomach twist into knots. “She’s lying, I never—”
“That’s quite enough from you,” Corvus snapped. Morrigan slumped down in her chair, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her father cleared his throat again and nodded at the woman. “You may forward me the bill. Please, finish the list. I have a full day of meetings ahead.”
“Th-that’s all on the financial side of things,” she said, tracing a line down the page with a trembling finger. “There are only three apology letters for Miss Crow to write this month. One to a local woman, Mrs. Calpurnia Malouf, for her broken hip—”
“Far too old to be ice-skating,” Morrigan muttered.
“—one to the Jackalfax Jam Society for a ruined batch of marmalade, and one to a boy named Pip Gilchrest, who lost the Great Wolfacre State Spelling Championship last week.”
Morrigan’s eyes doubled in size. “All I did was wish him luck!”
“Precisely, Miss Crow,” the caseworker said as she handed the list over to Corvus. “You should have known better. Chancellor, I understand you’re on the hunt for another new tutor?”
Corvus sighed. “My assistants have spoken to every agency in Jackalfax and some as far as the capital. It would seem our great state is in the throes of a severe private tuition drought.” He raised one dubious eyebrow.
“What happened to Miss…” The caseworker consulted her notes. “Linford, was it? Last time we spoke you said she was working out nicely.”
“Feeble woman,” Corvus said with a sneer. “She barely lasted a week. Just left one afternoon and never returned, nobody knows why.”
That wasn’t true. Morrigan knew why.
Miss Linford’s fear of the curse prevented her from actually sharing the same room with her student. It was a strange and undignified thing, Morrigan felt, to have someone shout Grommish verb conjugations at you from the other side of a door. Morrigan had grown more and more annoyed until finally she’d stuck a broken pen through the keyhole, put her mouth over the end of it, and blown black ink all over Miss Linford’s face. She was prepared to admit it wasn’t her most sporting moment.
“At the Registry Office we have a short list of teachers who are amenable to working with cursed children. A very short list,” said the caseworker with a shrug, “but perhaps there will be someone who—”
Corvus held up a hand to stop her. “I see no need.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said yourself, it’s not long until Eventide.”
“Yes, but… it’s still a year away—”
“Nonetheless. Waste of time and money at this stage, isn’t it?”
Morrigan glanced up, feeling an unpleasant jolt at her father’s words. Even the caseworker looked surprised. “With respect, Chancellor—the Registry Office for Cursed Children doesn’t consider it a waste. We believe education is an important part of every childhood.”
Corvus narrowed his eyes. “Yet paying for an education seems rather pointless when this particular childhood is about to be cut short. Personally I think we should never have bothered in the first place. I’d be better off sending my hunting dogs to school; they’ve got a longer life expectancy and are much more useful to me.”
Morrigan exhaled in a short, blunt oof, as though her father had just thrown a very large brick at her stomach.
There it was. The truth she kept squashed down, something she could ignore but never forget. The truth that she and every cursed child knew deep in their bones, had tattooed on their hearts: I’m going to die on Eventide night.
“I’m sure my friends in the Wintersea Party would agree with me,” Corvus continued, glaring at the caseworker, oblivious to Morrigan’s unease. “Particularly the ones who control the funding of your little department.”
There was a long silence. The caseworker looked sideways at Morrigan and began to gather her belongings. Morrigan recognized the flash of pity that crossed the woman’s face, and she hated her for it.
“Very well. I will inform the ROCC of your decision. Good day, Chancellor. Miss Crow.” The caseworker hurried out of the office without a backward glance. Corvus pressed a buzzer on the desk and called for his assistants.