They surrounded her in a tight circle, their faces eerily lit by candlelight.

Morrigan wanted to scream, to run, to yell for Hawthorne, but she was frozen with fear.

“We are the witches of Coven Thirteen. We are the eyes that have seen the unseen. We are the voices of those who don’t speak. We will distinguish the bold from the meek.”

They were seven but they spoke as one. A mix of young and old, with not a pointed black hat or warty nose among them. They wore long-sleeved black dresses buttoned all the way up to their necks with their hair pulled back tightly, and netted black veils over shadowed, cruel faces. This, Morrigan realized, must be what real witches looked like. She didn’t like them much anymore.

“What do you want?” She turned in a circle, scared to take her eyes off any one of them for too long.

“Two frights befall you this All Hallows’ Eve,” they said in unison. “One to be seen and one to believe. Flee if you must. Charge if you dare. Or follow the glow and you might have a prayer.”

One of the witches handed Morrigan a small ivory envelope. The card inside read:

“Fright Trial,” Morrigan whispered. She didn’t know whether she was relieved or terrified. On one hand, the witches evidently weren’t here to boil her in a cauldron or turn her into a newt. On the other hand… what had Jupiter called it? The Nervous Breakdown Trial? Some candidates never recovered. He’d been appalled to learn that the new High Council of Elders had reinstated it.

Morrigan swallowed. Coven Thirteen stared down at her with cold, dark eyes.

“We are the witches who’ll settle your fate,” they chanted. “We know the terrors and dread that await. Be wise and turn back, before it’s too late. Or if you dare—open the gate.”

The candles blew out, as if in a gust of wind, and the coven disappeared.

Two lights appeared in the darkness. To Morrigan’s right, the ladder had returned, illuminated by ambient street light from the open manhole above. Looking up, she heard the distant, celebratory noise of the Black Parade and longed to return to it.

“Hawthorne?” she called hesitantly. “Are you there?”

But her friend was gone. Morrigan’s stomach twisted. Had he gone to find Fen? Or was he somewhere else, in the midst of his own Fright Trial?

To her left, farther into the darkness, an arched wooden gate stood half-hidden in shadow. A single, melted-down candle stub burned dimly above it, inviting her inside. Follow the glow and you might have a prayer.

Morrigan desperately wanted to take the ladder.

But how could she quit the trials now? She thought of Jupiter, and Inspector Flintlock, and Hawthorne and the Hotel Deucalion, and most of all, she thought of having to face the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow again if she was kicked out of Nevermoor. Surely nothing in the Fright Trial could be more frightening than that.

Scrunching her hands into fists, Morrigan forced herself to push open the gate before she could change her mind.

Night air sent a chill down her neck. She was outside again.

But not in the alley.

A full moon shone over rolling hills covered with jagged tombstones, concrete angels, and hulking mausoleums. An engraved stone archway above Morrigan’s head read MORDEN CEMETERY.

This was no parade float, with cardboard headstones and crepe-paper trees. It was the real Morden Cemetery… wherever that might be.

That was the bad news.

The worse news was that, once again, Morrigan was not alone.

A groan rose from the ground beneath her feet. She was standing on a grave, and the grave had a corpse, and the corpse had a head, and the head was emerging from the sodden earth with an eerie, rasping moan.

Morrigan screamed. Struggling to free itself from the dirt, the corpse grabbed her ankle with one decaying skeletal hand. She fell and tried to crawl away on her hands and knees, but the hand kept its grip.

There were more—Morrigan could hear them all around, rising from their rest. She kicked hard and wildly, clawing at the grass to get away. With one wrenching kick, she dislodged the zombie’s arm from its body and sent its skull flying halfway across the cemetery. She stumbled to her feet and, feeling a wave of revulsion, pulled off the disembodied hand that still gripped her ankle.

“Ugh, disgusting,” she muttered, wiping remnants of glistening gray flesh from her hands.

There were dozens now, coming fast like a tidal wave, their hungry white eyes fixed on Morrigan. Skin and muscle hung loose, rotting on their bones. Burial clothes, all shredded and graying with age. These were nothing like the costumed zombies on the Black Parade float, with their artfully torn clothes and caked green makeup. These were the rising dead. And they were coming for her.

“Arrrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!”

A curly-haired, gangly-limbed storm of fist and flame tore through the horde, screaming itself hoarse. The corpses stumbled away, if not in fear, then at least in mild alarm.

“Take that, death-breath!”

Hawthorne’s clothes were torn, and he had leaves and bits of twigs tangled in his hair. He held a burning torch with both hands and swung it at the zombies in wild, haphazard blows. Morrigan had to duck to avoid getting a faceful of embers, but it seemed to keep the dead at bay.

“Where have you been?” She’d never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

“Me?” said Hawthorne. “Where have you been? I was shouting for you and I tried to climb down, and then the alley went dark, and these witches showed up—”

“Coven Thirteen!” said Morrigan. “I met them too, and they were awful, and they said we’re going to get—”

“Two frights each, I know.” His eyes wide as dinner plates, Hawthorne lunged forward and swept the torch back and forth like a sword. Whoosh, whoosh. The dead kept crawling from their graves like rats from a sewer.

Morrigan shuddered. “How do we get out?”

“No idea.” Whoosh.

“Well, how’d you get here?”

“Dunno. It’s like I was in a tunnel, and at one end I could see the Black Parade, and at the other end there was just this candle, and I knew if I went back to the parade”—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—“I’d be kicked out of the trials, so I just…”

“Followed the glow?” Morrigan gasped, grabbing his shoulder. “Hawthorne—the candle! Follow the glow, that’s what the witches said. I followed a candle through the gate and—”

“They’re getting closer!” Hawthorne shouted breathlessly, still swinging. Whoosh, whoosh. “Let’s make a run for it.” Whoosh.

“And how exactly—will you be careful!” Morrigan ducked again, narrowly missing a torch to the head. “Where’d you get that thing?”

“It was hanging outside a crypt. Up there, beneath…” Hawthorne trailed off, his eyes suddenly alight. Morrigan followed his gaze to a marble tomb, the biggest in the cemetery, at the top of a gently sloping hill. “…Beneath the angel. The angel statue—above the crypt—it was holding a candle, I’m sure it was.”

Morrigan’s heart leapt with a giddy mix of hope and fear as they bolted across the cemetery. Follow the glow and you might have a prayer. Angel—prayer—it was a clue! If there was any way out of this, she thought, it must be through that crypt. They were either about to escape this nightmare or be trapped inside a fancy marble box with an undead army battering down the door.

Hawthorne led the way, using the torch to beat a path through their attackers like an explorer hacking through thick jungle with a machete. The zombies ducked and stumbled, melting away from the fire in fear.

There was a flicker of light at the crest of the hill—a small, glowing beacon, drawing them onward. They were going to make it! The crypt was close, it was so close, it was—

“Locked,” puffed Hawthorne. He dropped the torch, pulling at the iron door with all his might. Morrigan joined in, but even with their combined strength the door wouldn’t budge.

A renewed chorus of groans rose up behind them, the rasping scrape of flesh and bone dragging across pebbled ground as the unhappy residents of Morden Cemetery closed in. Hawthorne snatched up the torch again and, in his panic, swung a bit too enthusiastically. With one last arcing whoosh through the air, the flame blew out.

That’s it, thought Morrigan. We’re done.

In despair, she lifted her face to the statue above the crypt. The angel looked down mockingly, a melted-down candle stub in its pudgy angel hand.

But…wait.

Morrigan blinked. The angel’s other hand, she saw, was pointing to the ground on their left. At a freshly dug, unfilled, open grave. A six-foot-deep hole in the ground.

A new variety of dread crept into Morrigan’s bones.

Hawthorne continued to swing his burned-out torch at the zombie horde, but without the threat of fire they didn’t seem that bothered. In a last, desperate attempt, he threw it at the head of a finely dressed corpse, succeeding only in knocking off its top hat. “Any other ideas?”

“Just one.” Morrigan grabbed Hawthorne’s arm and started inching toward the grave, one eye on the zombies.

“Is it a good one?”

“Yes,” she lied. It was a terrible idea. Truly awful. But it was the only one she had.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Nope.”

Morrigan jumped into the grave, pulling Hawthorne down with her. She braced for impact, for the moment she would land in the dirt at the bottom and realize she’d made a dreadful mistake and was about to have her brain chewed by zombies.

But that moment didn’t come. The two friends fell—screaming all the way—through the cold and dark, seemingly forever. When they finally landed, it was on soft, damp grass. They sat for a full minute, catching their breath and grinning stupidly with relief.

“How”—Hawthorne puffed—“did you know that would work?”

“Didn’t. Guessed.”

“Good guess.”

Morrigan got up and dusted herself off. They were in a garden courtyard, surrounded by twenty-foot-tall hedges. Tiny golden lights twinkled among the foliage. At one end of the courtyard, a pond burbled pleasantly. At the opposite end, an apple tree had dropped its mottled red harvest on the ground. To their left, a natural archway in the hedge led to a dark, foggy path. To their right, a wooden gate was ajar, shining a beam of pale, silvery light into the courtyard.

“Where are we?” Hawthorne asked.

The air was richly autumnal. It smelled of rain and chimney smoke and decomposing leaves. Of apples and beeswax. The moon seemed brighter and yellower here. It was as if someone had taken the autumn night and turned it up several notches. Everything was just a bit… more.

“Wunsoc weather,” murmured Morrigan. “Hawthorne, I think we’re in the Wundrous Society gardens.”

“Oh!” he said, surprised. “Is that it, then? Did we pass?”

“Not sure. Aren’t we supposed to have two frights?”

Hawthorne screwed up his face. “I was hoping the witches counted as one.”

Morrigan frowned. Was it really going to be that easy? The witches were creepy, and she’d be happy never to set foot inside Morden Cemetery again, but even so… she couldn’t see why anyone would call this the Nervous Breakdown Trial. Perhaps she had a higher threshold for scariness than most people.

It felt peaceful and safe in the courtyard. Morrigan was in no rush to leave. Maybe somebody was about to come and congratulate them, to tell them they’d gotten through to the final trial. Perhaps, Morrigan thought, I’ll just wait here awhile.…

She drifted as if in a dream, drawn by the pleasant tinkling sound of the pond. It felt like the water itself was beckoning her on, pulling her on a string.

Then she saw it. A golden light on the broken surface of the water. On a stone in the center of the pond sat a single candle, dripping tiny rivers of melted wax into the water. She opened her mouth to call for Hawthorne when—

“Morrigan, look!” he shouted from the opposite end of the courtyard. “I found it! I found the next candle!”

Morrigan ran to where he was standing beneath the tree, pointing up into the branches. Sure enough, right at the top of the uppermost branch sat a burned-down candle stub in a pool of molten wax. A quick investigation revealed a third candle melted onto the handle of the wooden gate, and a fourth dripping into the grass beneath the shadowy archway.

“Which are we supposed to follow?” said Morrigan.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Hawthorne, looking puzzled.

“The pond,” said Morrigan, at the exact same moment Hawthorne said, “The apple tree.”

“No, the pond,” she insisted. “Don’t you see, we’re supposed to jump in! How can you follow the glow when it’s stuck up a tree?”

“Climb it! Duh.”

“And what, break our legs on the way down?”

How could he possibly think they were supposed to follow the apple tree candle? It was obvious the pond candle was the right one. Morrigan could feel it, deep inside her bones. It called to her.

“We can’t stay here all night,” said Hawthorne. “Let’s draw straws.”

“We don’t have straws.”

“Paper-scissors-rock, then.”

Morrigan groaned, exasperated. “Fine.”

“Are you two completely stupid?” said a voice from the shadows.

They followed the sound to a dark-skinned girl sitting on the ground, leaning against the hedge, her legs stretched out. Her long, thick hair was in two braids, and she wore flannel pajamas, a bathrobe, and striped woolen socks. The witches of Coven Thirteen must have pulled her straight out of bed.

Morrigan felt an unpleasant jolt of recognition.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” said Cadence Blackburn, rolling her eyes. “Fright Trial. Same as you.”

Morrigan scowled. “You’re a cheat, Cadence.”

“You—” The girl’s sour expression faltered, and surprise flickered briefly across her face. “You remember me?”

“Of course I remember you,” said Morrigan, feeling her anger rise. “You stole my place in the Chase Trial, and my ticket to the Elders’ secret dinner.”

Cadence stared silently, her mouth slightly open. Morrigan wondered if she was going to apologize, but then she seemed to snap out of it. “So? You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Hope the dinner was worth cheating for,” Morrigan said resentfully. “S’pose you and Elder Quinn are best friends now, are you?”

“No, actually.” Cadence stood, pulling her bathrobe tight around her. It was streaked with dirt, and she had twigs and leaves in her hair. Morrigan wondered what her first fright had been, if she’d been chased by zombies too… but couldn’t bring herself to ask. “If you must know, it was lousy. Noelle wouldn’t shut up about herself. Nobody could get a word in. The Elders barely noticed I was there,” Cadence finished abruptly. Morrigan was surprised to hear her talk about her friend that way. The girl walked to the edge of the pond. “Anyway, have you figured it out yet, idiots?”

“Figured what out?” asked Hawthorne.

“You’re not supposed to pick the same one.” Cadence made a face as if it were obvious. “The others all just ran straight through the arch or climbed the stupid tree or whatever. You’re the only two idiots who’ve decided to draw straws.”

“Others?” said Hawthorne. “How many people have been through?”

“Loads. We all get dumped here and everyone goes gaga over one of the candles. It’s part of the test. You’re supposed to pick the one you’re drawn to. At least,” she said with an indifferent shrug, “that’s what I think.”

“Why haven’t you gone through, then, if you’re so brilliant?” asked Hawthorne. “You scared?”

Cadence made a face at him. “Course I’m not scared. I just—nobody’s jumped in the pond yet. They’ve all gone for the other three. I was waiting…”

Morrigan groaned. “Oh, of course—you were waiting to see what happens! You don’t want to jump in first yourself in case it’s something bad. You’re a cheat and a coward. Well, I don’t care, I’m not afraid,” Morrigan lied. She stepped to the edge of the pond, clutching the hem of her dress to stop her hands from shaking. “Hawthorne,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “You climb the tree. I’m jumping in the water.”

“Are you sure you don’t—”

“Count of three,” she continued, before he could talk her out of it. “One—”

“Three!” shouted Cadence, and pushed Morrigan from behind.

Morrigan splashed face-first into the pond and sank down, down, down until there was no more breath left in her lungs. She kicked and struggled upward, opening her eyes in the dark water. There was no candlelight above. Everything was black. Her lungs burned. She was going to drown, she was going to die, and then—

Still.

Dark.

Dry.

Land.

Morrigan gulped mouthfuls of sweet, cold air into her empty lungs.

The ground was bumpy and hard. She struggled to her knees, then stood, staggering slightly as she regained her balance.

All was quiet. A cool breeze brushed her neck.

Morrigan spotted a street sign; she was on the corner of Deacon Street and McLaskey Avenue. A single golden gaslight above her head beamed a circle of light around her onto the empty cobbled road, which earlier—what was it, hours ago? days?—had been filled with costumed revelers and silly parade floats.

Where was Fen? she wondered. Where was Hawthorne?

The street was empty of life.

“Hello?” she called softly, afraid of what she’d hear in reply. Afraid she’d hear nothing at all.

But there was something—a gentle fluttering.

Looking up, Morrigan saw a black thing, like a small bat or a large moth. It winged its way down through the glow of the gaslight, quivering on the breeze before landing precisely at her feet.

A black envelope with her name on it.

She bent to pick it up.

Inside, a note.

Morrigan felt all the muscles in her legs tighten, but somehow she couldn’t make them move. They are coming. The words echoed in her head.

It was over. She’d failed the Fright Trial. She’d outrun her curse all year long, and it had finally caught her.

The quiet was shattered by the bellow of a hunter’s horn. The clattering of hooves on cobblestones. The note fell from Morrigan’s hand, floating to the ground in slow motion and landing with the back facing up. It bore only one word:

But there was nowhere to run. The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow was suddenly all around her, creeping out of the darkness, swallowing the edges of her circle of light. It shrank, growing dimmer and dimmer…

An unexpected voice spoke, somewhere in the back of her head.

Shadows are shadows, Miss Crow.

They want to be dark.

“Light,” Morrigan whispered shakily. “Stay in the light.” She forced herself to look away from the glowing red eyes of the Hunt, to look up, to gaze into the golden lamp above her. She reached up, grabbing hold of the gaslight’s metal post, and began to climb. She might have failed the trials. She might be kicked out of Nevermoor. But she couldn’t let the Hunt take her now. She wouldn’t.

“Stay in the light,” she whispered again, feeling stronger, putting one hand in front of the other. Her foot slipped but she held on for dear life, wrapping her legs around and shinnying up. Drawing closer to the light. Blocking out the growling wolves below and the sounds of rifles being cocked. Closer to the light, closer and closer, one hand after the other, up one rung and then one more, to the top of the ladder… the ladder… toward the circular light from the manhole above. Out of the sewer, up, up, up, into the alley, and at last… at last… to safety.

Morrigan leaned against the alley wall, catching her breath and gazing out to the street beyond. There it was. All the life and color of the Black Parade, as if she’d never left it. The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow was nowhere to be seen. Her nightmare had ended. She sighed and closed her eyes.

It had all been part of the Fright Trial. She was so relieved she could have cried.

“I don’t need legs to fight you!” came Hawthorne’s frenzied voice. Morrigan opened her eyes to see him crawling up from the sewer, using only his upper body. “Come back here, you coward! I’ll fight you legless!”

“Hawthorne!” Morrigan yelled, jumping up to help him out of the manhole. “Hawthorne, it’s not real. The trial’s over. You’ve got legs!”

Hawthorne stopped flailing but still breathed heavily, his eyes darting left and right as if searching for his opponent. After a moment he looked down and seemed to come to himself, patting down his legs all the way to the toes. “I’ve got—I’ve got legs!” he shouted, jumping up with a gleeful laugh. “Ha! I’ve got legs!”

Morrigan laughed too. “What did you think happened to them?”

“Dragon bit ’em off.” He was smiling, but his face was still white, his hands still shaking as he ran them through his hair. “Big ugly thing.”

“So you were going to… fight a dragon?” she asked, grinning. “Legless?”

Before Hawthorne could respond, the night went dark and silent again, as if all the noise and light of the Black Parade had been swallowed up. As if the moon itself had gone out.

A match was struck in the darkness, and suddenly Morrigan and Hawthorne were surrounded by the veiled, candlelit faces of Coven Thirteen.

Hawthorne dug his fingernails into her arm. “I thought it was over?” he whispered.

“So did I,” she whispered back.

Their seven voices rose as one.

“We are the witches of Coven Thirteen. Abigail, Amity, Stella, Nadine. Zoe, Rosario, Sweet Mother Nell. (That’s the old bat who pretended she fell.) You have been chosen, young Swift and young Crow. You will proceed to the Trial of Show. Your courage and daring while facing a fright have served you both well on this Hallowmas night. So go with our blessing, go without fuss, and enjoy ten percent off at Cauldrons ‘R’ Us.”

The witches handed them each a voucher for a magic supplies shop and an ivory envelope, inside which was an invitation to the final trial—the Show Trial—to take place at the Trollosseum arena on the fifth Saturday in Winter of One.

Coven Thirteen blew out their candles and disappeared. The sights and sounds of the parade returned slowly, rising up around them as if someone were turning a dial, and finally—finally—the Fright Trial was truly over.

Morrigan’s legs had turned to jelly. She’d done it. She’d made it through the first three trials, as Jupiter had said she must. Now she only had to trust her patron to do as he’d promised: to get her past the Show Trial and into the Wundrous Society.

It sounded so easy in her head.

The parade was ending just as they got back, much to Hawthorne’s disappointment. He and Morrigan made their way through the dispersing crowd to find Fenestra, who was nowhere to be seen.

“She’s going to murder us,” groaned Morrigan. “Come on, let’s get to the Wunderground, maybe she’s looking for us there.”

“It’s not our fault, is it?” said Hawthorne, picking up the pace. “I can’t wait to tell my mom about the zombies, she’ll be so jealous.”

“I wonder if Cadence ever left the courtyard.”

“Who’s Cadence?”

“The girl who pushed me in the pond—that’s her name, Cadence Blackburn.” Morrigan ducked as a bat swooped overhead, its last hurrah for Hallowmas. “I wonder if she ever jumped in. Probably still sitting there, the chicken.”

Hawthorne looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“What happened after I left? Did you see her jump in, or—”

“See who jump in?”

“Very funny, Hawth—oof!” A woman in a pumpkin costume knocked into Morrigan and sent her sprawling to the ground, then hurried past without noticing.

“Dear me, how rude,” said a voice from above. “Are you all right? Let me help you.” Morrigan looked up, slightly dazed, to see a man in a gray overcoat with a silvery scarf wrapped around his neck and half his face. He made to reach out a gloved hand, but Hawthorne was already helping her up off the cobblestones.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, it’s you,” the man said, pulling down the scarf to reveal a familiar pale face and bemused smile. “Hello again, Miss Crow.”

“Mr. Jones!” said Morrigan, dusting off her hands and trousers. “What are you doing back in Nevermoor?”

He blinked. “Just visiting some old friends. They were in the parade, I thought I’d lend my support.”

“I haven’t seen you at the Hotel Deucalion. Are you staying somewhere else?”

Mr. Jones looked faintly surprised. “Goodness, no. I’d never stay anywhere but the Deucalion. I’m afraid my employer couldn’t spare me for long this time; I’m only here for the evening’s festivities.”

“It’s a long way to come just for one night. You must really love the Black Parade.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I do.”

“Well… Happy Hallowmas.” She looked over his shoulder toward the Wunderground station and thought she could see Fen’s fluffy gray ears poking up out of the crowd. “We should go. It was nice to—”

“Are you here with your patron?”

“No, my friend. This is Hawthorne.”

Mr. Jones turned to Hawthorne with an amiable nod, his eyes very slightly narrowed in appraisal. “How do you do?”

Hawthorne glanced up at him distractedly. “Thanks. I mean—you too. I mean, good. Morrigan, we’ve got to go, Fen’ll be mad.”

“Right. Nice to see you again, Mr. Jones.”

“Wait—I’ve been meaning to ask how your Society trials are going.”

“Good, actually!” Morrigan couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “We just finished one now—the Fright Trial.”

“And you made it through?”

“Just,” said Morrigan, grinning. Suddenly she remembered that strange moment when she’d heard Mr. Jones’s voice in her head as the Hunt was closing in. Shadows are shadows, Miss Crow. Would it be weird to tell him?

“Congratulations!” He returned her smile. “Three down, one to go. You should be very proud. And I presume you know by now what your knack is?”

Morrigan’s heart turned over. Her smile faltered, and she was about to admit that, no, actually she didn’t, when—

“Morrigan,” Hawthorne said pointedly. “Itching powder.”

“You should go, Miss Crow. I think your friend is in a hurry. Good luck at the Show Trial.” Mr. Jones tipped his hat. “Both of you.”

To Morrigan’s great surprise, Fen waved off their harried explanations and apologies with a careless flick of her tail. “I know, I know. Fright Trial. Jupiter said.”

“You knew?” said Hawthorne.

“Course I knew.” Fen rolled her eyes. “Why do you think I pretended to be distracted while you tiny reprobates scurried away? Now, hurry up. If we miss the last train you two are carrying me home.”

They were following Fen through the station’s stuffy, unfathomable maze of stairways and tunnels when Hawthorne finally turned to Morrigan asked, “Who was that weirdo in the gray coat?”

“Mr. Jones,” she said, pulling off her scarf and shoving it in her pocket. “He’s not a weirdo, he’s nice.”

“He asked eleventy billion questions. I thought he’d never leave. How d’you know him, anyway?”

“He offered me an apprenticeship on Bid Day.”

Hawthorne’s eyebrows shot upward. “You got two bids? I was excited to get one.”

“I got four,” said Morrigan, her face turning scarlet. She hurried on, “But two were fakes. It was a prank or something.”

Hawthorne’s face grew thoughtful, and he was silent until they got to their platform. The three of them ran for the last train and leapt on board just before the doors closed.

“Do you know what it is yet?” he asked Morrigan as they settled into the last two seats. Fenestra sat on her haunches nearby, giving the other passengers her trademark glower.

“What?” She knew exactly what he meant.

“Your knack. It must be a really good one. To get four bids.”

“Two bids,” she corrected him, staring resolutely at her shoes. “And it can’t be that good if I don’t even know what it is.”

They sat in silence through the remaining seven stops, although Morrigan knew Hawthorne was dying to ask more questions. When they emerged into the cool night air, he finally cracked.

“So,” he said, nudging Morrigan with his elbow, “what school did the gray weirdo come from?”

Morrigan frowned. “He’s not from a school, he’s from a company called Squall Industries. And don’t call him that.”

“He wanted you for an apprenticeship, this Jones guy?”

“No,” said Morrigan. “It was his boss who bid on me. Ezra Squall.”

“Ezra Squall,” repeated Hawthorne, his brow creasing deeply. “Where have I—”

“Will you two please stop dawdling?” Fen shouted from nearly a block ahead of them. They ran to catch up. “What were you whispering about back there?”

“Nothing,” puffed Morrigan, just as Hawthorne said, “Ezra Squall.”

“Ezra Squall?” Fen nearly choked. “Haven’t heard those two words in a long time. How do you two know the name Ezra Squall?”

“How do you know Ezra Squall?” asked Morrigan. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Fen looked deeply offended. “Is that supposed to be funny? No, the evilest man who ever lived isn’t a friend of mine, thanks very much,” she snapped.

“The evilest man who ever lived?” asked Morrigan. “What are you—”

“Just shut up about Ezra Squall, will you?” Fenestra said, lowering her voice and glancing around. She was more serious, more agitated than Morrigan had ever seen her. “It isn’t funny to joke about being friends with the Wundersmith. If anyone heard you—”

“The… the Wundersmith?” Morrigan stopped walking. “Ezra Squall—the Wundersmith?”

“I said shut up about him.” Fen stalked down Caddisfly Alley ahead of them, leaving Morrigan and Hawthorne stunned into silence.

Only when they’d reached Morrigan’s room and settled into bed (two hammocks tonight, swinging side by side) did the two friends finally speak.

“It might be a different Squall.”

Morrigan snorted. “Yeah. I bet there are loads of Ezra Squalls around.”

They were quiet for several minutes, and then—

“I’m an idiot,” said Morrigan quietly. “Mr. Jones told me—he said Ezra Squall was the only person alive who knew how to control Wunder. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what a Wundersmith is.”

“S’pose it must be.”

“Of course. I’m so stupid.” She sat up and hung her legs over the side of the hammock. “Why does the evilest man who ever lived want me as his apprentice? Does he think…” She paused to swallow. “Does he think I could be evil too?”

“Now you’re being stupid,” said Hawthorne, sitting up as well. “You’d be hopeless at being evil. You don’t have the stomach for it. I could be evil. My evil laugh is brilliant. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Shut up.”

“Mwwwaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha—” He broke off, spluttering. “Oh, that one hurt my throat a bit, actually. Mwa-ha-ha—”

“Hawthorne, shut up,” Morrigan snapped. “Do you… do you think I could be…”

“What, evil? You’re serious, aren’t you?” He leaned forward to look at her in the moonlight. “No! Morrigan, of course you’re not evil. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It has to do with the curse, I know it does. They were right.”

“Who?”

“Everyone. My father. Ivy. The Registry Office for Cursed Children—everyone, the whole Republic! I’m cursed, so maybe—”

“But you told me Jupiter said the curse wasn’t—”

Morrigan wasn’t listening. “—maybe that makes me evil.”

“You’re not evil!”

“Then why does the evilest man who ever lived want me for his apprentice?”

Hawthorne thought for a moment, chewing his lip, then said quietly, “Maybe Jupiter will know.”

“Jupiter.” Morrigan’s heartbeat quickened. “So you think… you think I should tell him?”

Hawthorne frowned at her. “Well—yeah. Yeah, of course you should. You’ve got to! It’s the Wundersmith.”

“But I haven’t even met him!” Morrigan protested. “I’ve only met his assistant. You heard Dame Chanda and Kedgeree—the Wundersmith himself can never come back to Nevermoor. The city won’t let him.”

“What if he finds a way?” asked Hawthorne. Morrigan hated the growing dread on her friend’s face. She hated that she was responsible for it. “What if that’s why Mr. Jones is here? This is serious, Morrigan.”

“I know it’s serious!” she said, swinging forward in her hammock so violently that it nearly tipped her out. “Didn’t you hear Fen? ‘It isn’t funny to joke about being friends with the Wundersmith.’ What if Jupiter thinks I’m friends with Ezra Squall? What if he doesn’t want to be my patron anymore? And if the Stink found out…” She paused, thinking of Inspector Flintlock. As if he needed another reason to ship her back to the Republic. “Hawthorne, if I don’t get into the Society, they’re going to kick me out of Nevermoor.” And the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow will be waiting, she thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

Hawthorne looked aghast. “Do you really think they’d… do you really think Jupiter would—”

“I don’t know,” said Morrigan honestly. Jupiter had chosen her, rescued her, and defended her, even though she was cursed. But if he knew that the evilest man who ever lived had chosen her too… would that finally be enough to change his mind? Morrigan didn’t want to find out.

Hawthorne stood up and began pacing the floor, a bundle of nervous energy. “We can’t let them kick you out. I won’t let them. But we need a plan.

“How about this: If you see Mr. Jones again, we’ll tell Jupiter everything. Everything. If not, we’ll just wait until after the last trial, once we’re both members of the Wundrous Society and nobody can possibly send you back to the Republic. Then we’ll tell him. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Morrigan. She felt guilty about keeping such a big, terrible secret from Jupiter, and even worse about dragging Hawthorne into it, but it was extremely comforting to hear her friend say we instead of you. She breathed deeply. “Okay, fine. And until then—”

“I won’t tell a soul.” Hawthorne stuck out his pinky finger, looking worried but determined, and Morrigan hooked it with her own. “Promise.”