Morrigan thought perhaps that was why her father liked Ivy so much. She was nothing like the rest of them. Sitting in their dreary dining room, Ivy looked like an exotic artwork he’d brought back from a vacation.
“Left, any word from Camp 16 on the measles outbreak?”
“Contained, sir, but they’re still experiencing power outages.”
“How often?”
“Once a week, sometimes twice. There’s discontent in the border towns.”
“In Great Wolfacre? Are you certain?”
“Nothing like the rioting in Southlight’s slums, sir. Just low-level panic.”
“And they think it’s due to Wunder scarcity? Nonsense. We’re not having any problems here. Crow Manor has never functioned more smoothly. Look at those lights—bright as day. Our generators must be full to the brim.”
“Yes, sir,” said Left, looking uncomfortable. “That… hasn’t gone unnoticed by the public.”
“Oh, whine, whine, whine,” croaked a voice from the opposite end of the table. Grandmother was dressed formally for dinner as usual, in a long black dress with jewels around her neck and on her fingers. Her coarse, steel-gray hair was piled in a formidable bun atop her head. “I don’t believe there is a Wunder shortage. Just freeloaders who haven’t paid their energy bills. I wouldn’t blame that Ezra Squall if he cut them off.” She sliced her steak into tiny, bloody pieces as she spoke.
“Clear tomorrow’s schedule,” Corvus told his assistants. “I’ll pay the border towns a visit, do a bit of hand-shaking. That should shut them up.”
Grandmother gave a mean little laugh. “It’s their heads that need shaking. You have a spine, Corvus—why don’t you use it?”
Corvus’s face turned sour. Morrigan tried not to smile. She’d once heard a maid whisper that Grandmother was a “savage old bird of prey dressed up as a lady.” Morrigan privately agreed but found she rather enjoyed the savagery when it wasn’t aimed at her.
“It’s—it’s Bid Day tomorrow, sir,” said Left. “You’re expected to make a speech for the local eligible children.”
“Good lord, you’re right.” (Nope, thought Morrigan as she spooned carrots onto her plate. He’s Left.) “What a nuisance. I don’t suppose I can cancel again this year. Where and when?”
“Town Hall. Midday,” said Right. “Children from St. Christopher’s School, Mary Henwright Academy, and Jackalfax Prep will attend.”
“Fine.” Corvus sighed unhappily. “But call the Chronicle. Make sure they have someone covering it.”
Morrigan swallowed a mouthful of bread. “What’s Bid Day?”
As often happened when Morrigan spoke, everyone turned to face her with vague looks of surprise, as though she were a lamp that had suddenly grown legs and started tap-dancing across the room.
There was a moment of silence, and then—
“Perhaps we could invite the charity schools to Town Hall,” her father continued as though nobody had spoken. “Good publicity, doing things for the underclass.”
Grandmother groaned. “Corvus, for goodness’ sake, you only need one idiot child to pose for a photo, and you’ll have hundreds to choose from. Just pick the most photogenic one, shake its hand, and leave. There’s no need to complicate things.”
“Hmm,” he said, nodding. “Quite right, Mother. Pass the salt, would you, Left?”
Right cleared his throat timidly. “Actually, sir… perhaps it’s not such a bad idea to include the less privileged schools. It might get us a front page.”
“Your approval rating in the backwoods could do with a boost,” added Left as he scuttled down the table to fetch the salt.
“No need to be delicate, Left.” Corvus lifted an eyebrow and glanced sideways at his daughter. “My approval rating everywhere could do with a boost.”
Morrigan felt the tiniest tremor of guilt. She knew her father’s major challenge in life was trying to maintain his grip on the affections of Great Wolfacre’s voting public while his only child brought about their every misfortune. That he was enjoying his fifth year as state chancellor despite such a handicap was a daily miracle to Corvus Crow, and the question of whether he could sustain this implausible luck for another year was a daily anxiety.
“But Mother’s right, let’s not overcrowd the event,” he continued. “Find another way to get me a front page.”
“Is it an auction?” asked Morrigan.
“Auction?” Corvus snapped. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Bid Day.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” He made a noise of impatience and turned back to his papers. “Ivy. Explain.”
“Bid Day,” began Ivy, drawing herself up importantly, “is the day when children who’ve completed preparatory school will receive their educational bid, should they be lucky enough.”
“Or rich enough,” added Grandmother.
“Yes,” Ivy continued, looking mildly put out by the interruption. “If they are very bright, or talented, or if their parents are wealthy enough to bribe someone, then some respectable person from a fine scholarly institution will come to bid on them.”
“Does everyone get a bid?” Morrigan asked.
“Heavens, no!” Ivy laughed, glancing at the maid who’d come to place a tureen of gravy on the table. She added in an exaggerated whisper, “If everyone were educated, where would servants come from?”
“But that’s not fair,” Morrigan protested, frowning as she watched the maid scurry from the room, red-faced. “And I don’t understand. What are they bidding for?”
“For the privilege of overseeing the child’s education,” Corvus interrupted impatiently, waving a hand in front of his face as though trying to brush the conversation away. “The glory of shaping the young minds of tomorrow, and so on. Stop asking questions, it’s nothing to do with you. Left, what time is my meeting with the chairman of the farming commission on Thursday?”
“Three o’clock, sir.”
“Can I come?”
Corvus blinked repeatedly, a frown deepening the lines in his forehead.
“Why would you want to attend my meeting with the chairman of—”
“To Bid Day, I mean. Tomorrow. The ceremony at Town Hall.”
“You?” her stepmother said. “Go to a Bid Day ceremony? Whatever for?”
“I just—” Morrigan paused, suddenly unsure. “Well, it is my birthday this week. It could be my birthday present.” Her family continued to stare blankly, which confirmed Morrigan’s suspicions that they’d forgotten she was turning eleven the day after tomorrow. “I thought it might be fun…” She trailed off, looking down at her plate and dearly wishing she hadn’t opened her mouth at all.
“It’s not fun,” sneered Corvus. “It’s politics. And no, you may not. Out of the question. Ridiculous idea.”
Morrigan sank down in her chair, feeling deflated and foolish. Really, what had she expected? Corvus was right; it was a ridiculous idea.
The Crows ate their dinner in tense silence for several minutes, until—