“His heir? What does that mean?”
“It means that he wishes for you to one day run Squall Industries in his place, to be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams, and to lead the greatest, most influential, and most profitable organization that has ever existed.”
Morrigan blinked. “I’m not even allowed to lick envelopes at home.”
Mr. Jones looked amused. “I don’t believe you’ll be licking envelopes at Squall Industries either.”
“What will I be doing?” Morrigan had no idea what would make her ask such a question. She tried to remember what she’d been planning to say earlier. Something about being cursed… Thank you for your time…
“You will be learning how to run an empire, Miss Crow. And you will be learning from the very best. Mr. Squall is a brilliant and talented man. He will teach you everything he knows, things he hasn’t taught another living soul.”
“Not even you?”
Mr. Jones laughed gently. “Especially not me. By the end of your apprenticeship you will be in command of Squall Industries’ mining, engineering, manufacturing, and technology sectors. Over one hundred thousand employees all over the Republic. All reporting to you.”
Morrigan’s eyes widened.
“Every citizen, every household in this country will owe you a debt of thanks. You will be their lifeline—the provider of their warmth, power, food, entertainment. Their every need, every want… all reliant on the use of Wunder, and all filled by the good people at Squall Industries. By you.”
His voice had become so soft it was almost a whisper. Morrigan leaned closer.
“Ezra Squall is the nation’s greatest hero,” he continued. “More than that—he is their benevolent god, the source of their every comfort and happiness. The only living person with the ability to harvest, distribute, and command Wunder. Our Republic relies on him totally.”
His eyes had taken on the unsettling gleam of a fanatic. One corner of his mouth curled into a strange little smile. Morrigan shrank back. She wondered if Mr. Jones loved Ezra Squall, or was afraid of him, or wanted to be him. Or all three.
“Imagine, Miss Crow,” he whispered. “Imagine how it must feel to be so beloved. So respected and needed. One day, if you work hard and do as Mr. Squall teaches… that will be you.”
She could imagine it. She had imagined, a hundred times over, how it would feel to be liked instead of feared. To see people smile instead of flinch when she walked into a room. It was one of her favorite daydreams.
But that was all it was, Morrigan told herself, shaking the cobwebs out of her head. A daydream. She sat up straight and took a deep breath, willing her voice not to tremble.
“I can’t accept, Mr. Jones. I’m on the Cursed Children’s Register. I’m going… I’m going to… well, you know. Th-thank you for your time and—”
“Open it,” said Mr. Jones, nodding at the envelope in her hand.
“What is it?”
“Your contract.”
Morrigan shook her head, confused. “M-my what?”
“It’s standard.” He gave a tiny shrug. One shoulder. “Every child commencing sponsored studies must sign a contract, and have a parent or guardian sign also.”
Well, there goes that, Morrigan thought. “My father will never sign this.”
“Let us worry about that.” He pulled out a silver pen from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. “All you have to do is sign. Mr. Squall will take care of everything.”
“But you don’t understand, I can’t—”
“I understand perfectly, Miss Crow.” Mr. Jones watched her closely, his dark eyes piercing her own. “But you needn’t worry about curses or registers or Eventide. You needn’t worry about anything, ever again. Not if you’re with Ezra Squall.”
“But—”
“Sign.” He nodded at the pen. “Sign, and I promise you: One day you will be able to buy and sell every person who has ever made you unhappy.”
His glittering eyes and calm, secretive smile made Morrigan believe—just for a second—that he and Ezra Squall could somehow see a future for her that she had never dreamed possible.
She reached for the pen, then hesitated. There was one last question burning inside her, the most important question of all. She looked up at Mr. Jones.
“Why me?”
There was a loud knock. The door swung open and the Lord Mayor stumbled in looking harassed.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Crow,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to his forehead. His suit bore sweat patches, and what was left of his hair stood on end. “Somebody appears to have played a horrible prank on you. On all of us.”
“P-prank?”
Corvus stalked in behind him, his mouth in a thin line. “There you are. We’re leaving.” He grabbed Morrigan’s arm, pulling her out of the room. Her chair tipped over and clattered to the floor.
“None of your so-called bidders have arrived,” said the Lord Mayor, trying to catch his breath as he followed them into the hallway. “I blame myself. I should have realized. Harmon Military whatsit, Devereaux Ladies’ thingy… nobody’s heard of them. Made up, you see.” He looked desperately from Morrigan to her father and back again. “Terribly sorry for putting you through it, Corvus, old friend. No hard feelings, I hope?”
Corvus glowered at the Lord Mayor.
“But wait—” began Morrigan.
“Don’t you understand?” said her father in a cold, angry voice. He snatched the envelopes from her. “I have been made a fool. It was all somebody’s idea of a joke. Humiliated! By my own constituency!”
Morrigan frowned. “You’re saying that my bidders—”
The Lord Mayor wrung his hands. “Never actually existed. That’s why none of them showed up. I’m sorry you had to wait.”
“But I’m trying to tell you, one of them did show up. Mr. Jones has come on behalf—” Morrigan stopped midsentence as she dashed back into the interview room.
His chair was empty. No pen, no contract. He’d disappeared. Morrigan gaped at the empty space. Had Mr. Jones slipped out while they’d been arguing? Did he change his mind? Or had he just been playing a prank on her as well?
Realization sank in swiftly, like a boot to the stomach.
Of course it was a joke. Why would the Republic’s most powerful and important businessman want her as his apprentice? His heir? The thought was positively ridiculous. Morrigan’s cheeks turned pink as a wave of belated embarrassment hit her. How could she have been so gullible?
“Enough of this nonsense,” said Corvus. He ripped the envelopes into tiny pieces, and Morrigan watched mournfully as they fluttered to the ground like snow.
The shiny black coach pulled away from Town Hall with Morrigan and her father inside it. Corvus was silent. He’d already turned his attention to the ever-present stack of paperwork in his leather case, trying to salvage what was left of the working day. As if the morning’s misadventure had never happened.
Morrigan turned to watch the crowd of excited children and parents spilling out of the building and into the street, chattering and waving their bid letters in the air. She felt a sharp pang of envy.