“Actually, sir,” said Right in a tentative voice. Corvus’s cutlery clattered onto his plate. He fixed his assistant with a menacing stare.
“What?”
“W-well… if you were—and I’m not saying you should, but if you were—to take your daughter along, it might help to, er, soften your image. To a degree.”
Left wrung his hands. “Sir, I think Right is… um, right.” Corvus glowered, and Left rushed on nervously. “Wh-what I mean is, according to polls, the people of Great Wolfacre see you as a bit… er, remote.”
“Aloof,” interjected Right.
“It couldn’t hurt your approval rating to remind them that you’re about to become a… a g-grieving father. From a journalistic point of view, it might give the event a unique, er, point of interest.”
“How unique?”
“Front-page unique.”
Corvus was silent. Morrigan thought she saw his left eye twitch.
CHAPTER TWO
BID DAY
Do not speak to anyone, Morrigan,” her father muttered for the hundredth time that morning, hurrying up the stone steps of Town Hall in great strides she struggled to match. “You will be sitting on the stage with me, where everyone can see you. Understand? Don’t you dare make anything… happen. No broken hips or—or swarms of wasps, or falling ladders, or…”
“Shark attacks?” offered Morrigan.
Corvus rounded on her, his face blooming scarlet patches all over. “Do you think this is funny? Everyone in Town Hall will be watching to see what you do and how it will reflect on me. Are you actively trying to ruin my career?”
“No,” said Morrigan, wiping a bit of angry spit from her face. “Not actively.”
Morrigan had been to Town Hall on several other occasions, usually when her father’s popularity was at its lowest ebb and he needed a public show of support from his family. Flanked by stone columns and sitting in the shadow of an enormous iron clock tower, the gloomy-looking Town Hall was Jackalfax’s most important building. But the clock tower—although Morrigan usually tried not to look at it—was much more interesting.
The Skyfaced Clock was no ordinary clock. There were no hands, and no lines to mark the hours. Only a round glass face, with an empty sky inside that changed with the passing of the Age—from the palest-pink dawn light of Morningtide, through the golden bright Basking, to the sunset-orange glow of Dwendelsun, and into the dusky, darkening blue of the Gloaming.
Today—like every day this year—they were in the Gloaming. Morrigan knew that meant it wasn’t long until the Skyfaced Clock would fade into the fifth and final color of its cycle: the inky, star-strewn blackness of Eventide. The last day of the Age.
But that was a year away. Shaking it out of her head, Morrigan followed her father up the steps.
There was an air of excitement in the normally somber, echoing hall. Several hundred children from all over Jackalfax had arrived wearing their Sunday best, the boys with their hair slicked down and the girls with pigtails and ribbons and hats. They sat straight-backed in rows of chairs under the familiar stern gaze of President Wintersea, whose portrait hung in every home, shop, and government building in the Republic—always watching, always looming large.
The riotous sound turned to a buzzing murmur as Morrigan and Corvus took their seats on the stage behind the podium. Everywhere Morrigan looked, eyes narrowed in her direction.
Corvus placed a hand on her shoulder in an awkward, unnatural gesture of paternal affection while some local reporters snapped photographs of them. Definitely front-page material, Morrigan thought—the doomed daughter and her soon-to-be-grieving father, a terrifically tragic pair. She tried to look extra forlorn, which wasn’t easy when she was being blinded by camera flashes.
After a triumphant chorus of the Wintersea Republic National Anthem (Onward! Upward! Forward! Huzzah!), Corvus opened the ceremony with a very dull speech, followed by various headmasters and local businesspeople who all had to chime in. Then, finally, the Lord Mayor of Jackalfax brought out a polished wooden box and began to read the bids. Morrigan sat up straight in her seat, feeling a flutter of excitement she couldn’t quite explain.
“‘Madam Honora Salvi of the Silklands Ballet Company,’” he read from the front of the first envelope he pulled out, “‘wishes to present her bid for Molly Jenkins.’”
There was a squeal of delight from the third row, and Molly Jenkins leapt from her seat, rushing to the stage to curtsy and collect the envelope that contained her bid letter. “Well done, Miss Jenkins. See one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony, dear, and they’ll direct you to your interview room.”
He retrieved another envelope. “‘Major Jacob Jackerley of the Poisonwood School of Warfare wishes to present his bid for Michael Salisbury.’”
Michael’s friends and family cheered as he accepted his bid.
“‘Mr. Henry Sniggle, owner and proprietor of Sniggle’s Snake Emporium, wishes to present his bid for Alice Carter for a herpetology apprenticeship’—dear me, how fascinating!”
The bidding carried on for almost an hour. The children in the hall watched anxiously as each new envelope was drawn from the box. Every announcement was met with shouts of joy from the recipient and his or her parents and a collective sigh of disappointment from everyone else.
Morrigan began to get fidgety. The novelty of Bid Day had worn off a bit, really. She’d thought it would be exciting. She hadn’t accounted for the dull, gnawing jealousy that settled in the pit of her stomach as she watched child after child snatch up his or her envelope, each one containing some shiny future she would never have for herself.
A cheer erupted from the front row when Cory Jameson was bid on by Mrs. Ginnifer O’Reilly from the prestigious Wintersea Academy, a government-sponsored school in the capital. It was his second bid of the day; the first was from a geology institute in Prosper, the richest state in the Republic, where they mined rubies and sapphires.
“My, my,” said the Lord Mayor, patting his fat stomach as Cory collected his second envelope and waved it over his head, to even louder cheers from his family in the audience. “Two bids! This is a turn-up for the books. The first double bid Jackalfax has seen in a good few years. Well done, lad, well done. You have a big decision to make. And now… ah, we have an anonymous bid for… for…”
The Lord Mayor paused, glancing at the VIP section and back to the letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. “For Miss Morrigan Crow.”
Silence fell. Morrigan blinked.
Had she imagined it? No—Corvus rose slightly from his seat, glaring at the Lord Mayor, who shrugged helplessly.
“Miss Crow?” he said, waving her forward.
A chorus of whispers arose from the audience at once, like a flock of birds startled into flight.
It’s a mistake, Morrigan thought. The bid is for somebody else.
She looked out across the rows of children; nothing but scowling faces and pointing fingers. Had Town Hall just grown twice as big? Twice as bright? It felt like a spotlight was shining directly on her head.
The Lord Mayor beckoned her again, looking fretful and impatient. Morrigan took a deep breath and forced her legs to stand and walk forward, each footstep echoing excruciatingly in the rafters. Taking the envelope in her trembling hand, she looked up at the Lord Mayor, waiting for him to laugh in her face and snatch it back. This isn’t for you! But he simply stared back at her, a deep line of worry between his eyebrows.