Morrigan rose from her chair. She wanted to shout at her father, but instead her voice came out trembling and timid. “Should I…?”
“Do as you like,” Corvus snapped, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “Just don’t bother me.”
Dear Mrs. Malouf,
I’m sorry you don’t know how to ice-skate properly.
I’m sorry you thought it was a good idea to go ice-skating even though you’re a million years old and have brittle bones that could snap in a light breeze.
I’m sorry I broke your hip. I didn’t mean to. I hope you are recovering quickly. Please accept my apologies and get well soon.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Morrigan Crow
Sprawled on the floor of the second sitting room, Morrigan rewrote the last few sentences neatly on a fresh sheet of paper and tucked it into an envelope but didn’t seal it. Partly because Corvus would want to check the letter before it was sent, and partly on the off chance that her saliva had the power to cause sudden death or bankruptcy.
The click-clack of hurried footsteps in the hallway made Morrigan freeze. She looked at the clock on the wall. Midday. It could be Grandmother, home from morning tea with her friends. Or her stepmother, Ivy, looking for someone to blame for a scratch on the silverware or a tear in the drapes. The second sitting room was usually a good place to hide; it was the glummest room in the house, with hardly any sunshine. Nobody liked it except for Morrigan.
The footsteps faded. Morrigan let out the breath she’d been holding. Reaching over to the radio, she turned the little brass knob through squealing, static-filled airwaves until she found a station broadcasting the news.
“The annual winter dragon cull continues in the northwest corner of Great Wolfacre this week, with over forty rogue reptiles targeted by the Dangerous Wildlife Eradication Force. The DWEF has received increased reports of dragon encounters near Deepdown Falls Resort and Spa, a popular holiday destination for…” Morrigan let the newscaster’s posh, nasal voice drone in the background as she began her next letter.
Dear Pip,
I’m sorry you thought TREACLE was spelt with a K.
I’m sorry you’re an idiot.
I’m sorry to hear you lost your recent spelling bee because you’re an idiot. Please accept my deepest apologies for any trouble I may have caused you. I promise I’ll never wish you luck again you ungrateful little
Yours faithfully,
Morrigan Crow
There were now people on the news talking about the homes they’d lost in the Prosper floods, crying over pets and loved ones they’d seen washed away when the streets ran like rivers. Morrigan felt a stab of sadness and hoped Corvus was right about the weather not being her fault.
Dear Jackalfax Jam Society,
Sorry but don’t you think there are worse things in life than bad marmalade?
“Up next: Could Eventide be closer than we think?” asked the newscaster. Morrigan grew still. The E-word again. “While most experts agree we’ve one more year until the current Age ends, a small number of fringe chronologists believe we could be celebrating the night of Eventide much sooner than that. Have they cracked it, or are they just crackpots?” A tiny chill crept along the back of Morrigan’s neck, but she ignored it. Crackpots, she thought defiantly.
“But first: More unrest in the capital today as rumors of an imminent Wunder shortage continue to spread,” the nasal newscaster continued. “A spokesperson for Squall Industries publicly addressed concerns at a press conference this morning.”
A man’s voice spoke softly over the background hum of murmuring journalists. “There is no crisis at Squall Industries. Rumors of an energy shortage in the Republic are entirely false, I cannot stress that enough.”
“Speak up!” someone yelled in the background.
The man raised his voice a little. “The Republic is as full of Wunder as it ever has been, and we continue to reap the rewards of this abundant natural resource.”
“Mr. Jones,” a reporter called out, “will you respond to the reports of mass power outages and malfunctioning Wundrous technology in the states of Southlight and Far East Sang? Is Ezra Squall aware of these problems? Will he emerge from his reclusive lifestyle to address the problem publicly?”
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “Again, these are no more than silly rumors and fearmongering. Our state-of-the-art monitoring systems show no Wunder scarcity and no malfunction of Wundrous devices. The national rail network is operating perfectly, as are the power grid and the Wundrous Healthcare Service. As for Mr. Squall, he is well aware that as the nation’s sole provider of Wunder and its by-products, Squall Industries has a great responsibility. We are as committed as ever—”
“Mr. Jones, there’s been speculation as to whether the Wunder shortages could have anything to do with cursed children. Can you comment?”
Morrigan dropped her pen.
“I—I’m not sure… I’m not sure what you mean,” stammered Mr. Jones, sounding taken aback.
The reporter continued. “Well, Southlight and Far East Sang between them have three cursed children listed on their state registers—unlike the state of Prosper, which has no cursed children at present and has remained untouched by Wunder shortages. Great Wolfacre also has a registered cursed child, the daughter of prominent politician Corvus Crow; will it be the next state hit by this crisis?”
“Once again, there is no crisis—”
Morrigan groaned and turned off the radio. Now she was being blamed for something that hadn’t even happened yet. How many apology letters would she have to write next month? Her hand began to cramp at the thought.
She sighed and picked up her pen.
Dear Jackalfax Jam Society,
Sorry about the marmalade.
Yours,
M. Crow
Morrigan’s father was the chancellor of Great Wolfacre, the largest of four states that made up the Wintersea Republic. He was very busy and important, and usually still working even on the rare occasions when he was home for dinner. On his left and right would sit Left and Right, his ever-present assistants. Corvus was always firing his assistants and hiring new ones, so he’d given up learning their real names.
“Send a memo to General Wilson, Right,” he was saying when Morrigan sat at the table that evening. Across from her sat her stepmother, Ivy, and way down at the other end of the table was Grandmother. Nobody looked at Morrigan. “His office will need to submit a budget for the new field hospital by early spring at the latest.”
“Yes, Chancellor,” said Right, holding up blue fabric samples. “And for the new upholstery in your office?”
“The cerulean, I think. Talk to my wife about it. She’s the expert on that sort of thing, aren’t you, darling?”
Ivy smiled radiantly. “The periwinkle, dearest,” she said with a tinkling, breezy laugh. “To match your eyes.”
Morrigan’s stepmother didn’t look like she belonged at Crow Manor. Her spun-gold hair and sun-kissed skin (a souvenir from the summer she’d just spent “destressifying” on the glorious beaches of southeast Prosper) were out of place among the midnight-black hair and pale, sickly complexions of the Crow family. Crows never tanned.