Nevermoor

Morrigan exhaled in a short, blunt oof, as though her father had just thrown a very large brick at her stomach. There it was. The truth she kept squashed down, something she could ignore but never forget. The truth that she and every cursed child knew deep in their bones, had tattooed on their hearts: I’m going to die on Eventide night. “I’m sure my friends in the Wintersea Party would agree with me,” Corvus continued, glaring at the caseworker, oblivious to Morrigan’s unease. “Particularly the ones who control the funding of your little department.” There was a long silence. The caseworker looked sideways at Morrigan and began to gather her belongings. Morrigan recognized the flash of pity that crossed the woman’s face, and she hated her for it. “Very well. I will inform the ROCC of your decision. Good day, Chancellor. Miss Crow.” The caseworker hurried out of the office without a backward glance. Corvus pressed a buzzer on the desk and called for his assistants. 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—”