Morrigan turned the envelope over, her heart pounding, and there, in fancy handwriting—her name. Miss Morrigan Crow. It really was for her. Despite the growing tension in the hall, Morrigan felt lighter inside. She fought the urge to laugh.
“Well done, Miss Crow,” said the Lord Mayor with an unconvincing smile. “Take your seat now, and see one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony.”
“Gregory—” said Corvus in a warning undertone. The Lord Mayor shrugged again.
“It’s tradition, Corvus,” he whispered. “More than that—it’s the law.”
The ceremony continued and Morrigan, stunned and silent, sat down again. She didn’t dare open her bid. Her father was very still, glancing at the ivory-colored envelope every few seconds as if he wanted to seize it from her hands and set fire to it. Morrigan tucked it away in the pocket of her dress, just to be safe, and held it tightly as eight more children accepted their bids. She hoped the ceremony wouldn’t last much longer. Despite the Lord Mayor’s brave attempts to carry on as if nothing had happened, she could still feel several hundred eyes burning into her.
“‘Mrs. Ardith Asher of the Devereaux Ladies’ College’—never heard of it!—‘wishes to present her bid for… for…’” The Lord Mayor trailed off. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. “‘For Miss Morrigan Crow.’”
This time, the audience gasped. Morrigan moved as if in a dream to collect her second bid of the day. Without even looking to see if it was really her name on the front, she put the envelope—pink and sweet-smelling—in her pocket to join the other.
Just minutes later, Morrigan’s name was called a third time. She rushed forward to collect her bid from Colonel Van Leeuwenhoek of the Harmon Military Academy, hurrying back to her seat as swiftly as possible and staring determinedly at her shoes. She tried to ignore the swarm of butterflies holding a celebration in her stomach. It was hard not to grin.
A man in the third row stood up and shouted, “But she’s cursed! This isn’t right.” The man’s wife pulled at his arm, trying to shush him, but he wouldn’t be shushed. “Three bids? Never heard of such a thing!” A rumble of agreement spread through the audience.
Morrigan felt her happiness stutter like a dying gaslight. The man was right. She was cursed. What could a cursed child possibly do with three bids? She’d never be allowed to accept them.
The Lord Mayor held out his hands, appealing for quiet. “Sir, we must continue or we’ll be here all day. If everyone could please be quiet, I’ll get to the bottom of this most unusual turn of events after the ceremony.”
If the Lord Mayor was hoping for calm to be restored he was to be disappointed, for when he took out the next envelope, it read:
“‘Jupiter North wishes to present his bid for…’ Oh, I don’t believe it. ‘Morrigan Crow.’”
Town Hall erupted as children and parents alike leapt to their feet, shouting over each other, turning various shades of pink and purple and demanding to know the meaning of this madness. Four bids! Two was uncommon and three highly unusual, but four? Unheard of!
There were twelve more bids to announce. The Lord Mayor sped through them, his face dissolving into sweaty relief each time he read a name that wasn’t Morrigan’s. At last, his hand scrambled around the bottom of the box and came up empty.
“That was the final envelope,” said the Lord Mayor, closing his eyes in gratitude. His voice shook. “W-would all the children who received bids please move to the back of the hall, and, um, our aides will show you to the interview rooms where you can, er, meet your prospective patrons. Everyone else… I’m sure you’ll all… you know. Doesn’t mean you’re not all very capable and, er… well.” He waved vaguely at the audience, who took it as their cue to depart.
Corvus swore he would take action, he would sue, he would remove the Lord Mayor from office—but the Lord Mayor insisted on following protocol. Morrigan must be allowed to meet her bidders if she wished to.
She very much wished to.
Of course Morrigan knew she’d never be able to accept any of the bids. She knew, in fact, that once these mysterious strangers discovered they’d bid on a cursed child, they’d take it all back, and probably run very fast in the opposite direction. But it would be rude not to at least meet them, she reasoned. As they’d come all this way.
I’m sorry, Morrigan rehearsed in her head, but I’m on the Cursed Children’s Register. I’m going to die on Eventide. Thank you for your time and interest.
Yes. Polite and to the point.
She was ushered into a room with bare walls, a desk, and a chair on either side. It felt like an interrogation chamber… and in a way, Morrigan supposed it was. The idea of the meeting between patron and child was that the child could ask as many questions as he or she wished, and the patron had to answer honestly. It was one of the few things she’d picked up from her father’s boring Bid Day speech.
Not that she would be asking any questions, Morrigan reminded herself. Thank you for your time and interest, she repeated firmly in her head.
A man with feathery brown hair sat in one of the chairs, humming a little tune to himself. He wore a gray suit and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he pushed up on his nose with one pale, slender finger. He smiled calmly, waiting for Morrigan to sit.
“Miss Crow. My name is Mr. Jones. Thank you for seeing me.” The man spoke softly and in neat, clipped sentences. His voice sounded familiar. “I’ve come on behalf of my employer. He’d like to offer you an apprenticeship.”
Morrigan’s rehearsed speech tumbled out of her head. A little flutter returned to her stomach. One tiny, optimistic butterfly had just climbed out of its cocoon. “What… kind of apprenticeship?”
Mr. Jones smiled. Tiny lines wrinkled the corners of his dark, expressive eyes. “An apprenticeship in his company, Squall Industries.”
“Squall Industries?” she said, frowning. “That means you work for—”
“Ezra Squall. Yes. The most powerful person in the Republic.” He lowered his eyes to the table. “Second most powerful, I should say. After our great president.”
It suddenly struck Morrigan where she had heard that voice. He was the man on the radio talking about Wunder shortages.
He looked just the way he ought to, she thought—serious and neat. Tasteful. His white, spidery hands were clasped firmly in front of him, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He wasn’t terribly young. But he wasn’t old. There was nothing unruly about him, nothing to mar his immaculately groomed appearance but for a thin white scar that split his left eyebrow clean in half and a splash of silvery hair at his temples. Even his movements were precise and deliberate, as if he couldn’t spare the energy for any unnecessary gesture. A perfectly contained man.
Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “What could the second most powerful person in the Republic possibly want with me?”
“It’s not for me to say why Mr. Squall wants what he wants,” said Mr. Jones, briefly unclasping his hands to straighten his spectacles again. “I’m only his assistant. I carry out his wishes. Right now he wishes for you to become his student, Miss Crow… and his heir.”