At first, Morrigan thought she had gone blind.

“I said slowly,” said Jupiter. She felt him release her shoulders, heard him take a step backward. “Open your eyes slowly.”

She knew she was in the Deucalion, knew she was standing in Jupiter’s office, but… it could have been the surface of the sun. The world had washed out. Everything was a brilliant sun-bleached white, dazzling and bright. If she squinted, she could just make out her silhouette in the mirror. Was this really what he saw every time he looked at her?

“Don’t look too long,” Jupiter warned.

The brightness didn’t come from one big light. It came from thousands and thousands—maybe millions—maybe billions—of tiny pinpricks of the same golden-white light she’d seen at Crow Manor. They gathered around her like microscopic particles of dust, catching the light of a sunbeam. No, not like dust—like something living. Moths gathering to a flame.

“Is that…?”

“Wunder. Nice, isn’t it?”

Nice was not the right word. It was beautiful, but it was not nice. There was something about it that was the opposite of nice. It made Morrigan feel some combination of awe and expectation and panic and joy and very large and very small and screaming and whispering and something else.

“What’s it doing?” Morrigan asked.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

“Waiting for me to do what?”

Jupiter was quiet for a long moment, and then—“I guess we’ll see.”

He took her shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers a second time, just as he’d done to the Elders at the Show Trial. Morrigan hadn’t realized at the time what was happening—that he was able to share the gift of his sight with other people. To show them how he saw the world, if only fleetingly.

To Morrigan’s great disappointment and relief, the world went dull again.

The girl in the mirror—black-haired, dark-eyed, crooked-nosed—looked normal. Ordinary.

“He said I’m like him.” It was the first time she’d voiced her fear aloud. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what the gathering is—it’s this. Wunder, gathering around me. It means I’m a… a Wundersmith.” She swallowed. She could almost taste the word in her mouth.

“Yes,” Jupiter said gravely. “But try to understand—the word Wundersmith didn’t always mean something bad or evil, Mog.”

“It didn’t?”

“Heavens, no. There was a time in Nevermoor, long ago, when to be a Wundersmith was a celebrated honor.”

“Like being in the Wundrous Society?”

“Even greater than that. Wundersmiths were wish granters and protectors. They used their powers to bring good things to the world. Wundersmith doesn’t mean monster or murderer—Squall made it mean those things. He did something unforgivable. He betrayed his people and his city. Abused his power. He made Wundersmith a dark and terrible word, but it wasn’t always. You can change its meaning again, Mog.” He beamed at her. “And you will. I know you will. I meant it when I said you don’t have a knack. What you have is so much more than that. You have a gift. A calling. And you get to decide what that means. Nobody else.”

As Morrigan’s sight adjusted, Jupiter’s study slowly swam back into focus—the photographs on the walls, the books on the shelves. Jupiter’s face, all shining blue eyes and bright copper tangle of beard. Morrigan dropped into a leather armchair, crossing her ankles on the footrest.

“You knew all along what I was, didn’t you?”

Jupiter nodded.

“And Squall? You knew he bid on me, too?”

“Yes.”

Morrigan sighed. All that time she’d wasted, worrying whether she should tell Jupiter about Squall. She felt stupid. “So why did you make me go through the trials?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just tell the Elders?”

“You’re supposing that being a Wundersmith is the most important thing about you.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not at all. If it were the most important thing, Mog, wouldn’t we hold the Show Trial first? Think about it. We had the Book Trial, to see who was honest and quick-thinking. The Chase Trial, to see who was tenacious and strategic. The Fright Trial, to see who was brave and resourceful. Don’t you think there might have been some fascinating knacks that we lost in those first three trials? Of course there were! Who knows, maybe the most talented people of all were weeded out before the Show Trial even arrived.

“The point is—as far as the Society is concerned—if you are not honest, and determined, and brave, then it doesn’t matter how talented you are. You had to go through all four trials, because I needed the Elders to know what sort of person you are, in the hope…” He paused, swallowing, and then quietly finished, “In the hope they’ll continue to see you as a person first, and a Wundersmith second.”

“You told me the Wundersmith was fairy tale and superstition.”

Jupiter nodded. “I know. I’m sorry I lied. Although it is sort of true… Wundersmith history is so bound up in myth and nonsense, for most people it’s hard to tell the difference. It was only half a lie, but still. I’m sorry.”

“Why’d you lie?”

“Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn’t want you thinking too much about the Wundersmith. Just one more thing to worry about, isn’t it? Thought it was best to get you into the Society first, then deal with it later.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

“Three others registered… you were talking about the Cursed Children’s Register, weren’t you? Are they Wundersmiths too?”

“No.”

She waited for Jupiter to say more, but he was a closed book. “What happened to them?” she prompted. “Did you save them too, or…?”

He relented a little. “They’re fine. They’re far away, safe and sound, blissfully unaware of Ezra Squall and his Hunt of Smoke and Shadow.”

Lucky them, Morrigan thought.

The last two days since her encounter with Squall had been utterly draining. The train had returned Morrigan to the Gossamer Line platform just as Fen and Jack and Hawthorne had arrived, breathless and panicked, having figured out where she’d disappeared to and run to fetch Jupiter.

Jack reached her first, white-faced and speechless with relief. Jupiter swept her up in a tight squeeze that nearly choked her, and Fen licked her hair until it could practically stand up on its own. Hawthorne begged her to tell the whole story again at least twelve times, gasping and cheering at all the right moments with each retelling.

The tale of Morrigan’s close call with the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow went around the Deucalion, but Jupiter made Fen, Jack, Morrigan, and Hawthorne swear to keep the Wundersmith bit a secret. Jack had responded indignantly, “I already promised, didn’t I?”

That hadn’t made any sense to Morrigan until just now. She suddenly remembered that night before Christmas, when Jack had stared at her in horror and wonder.

“Jack knew, didn’t he?” she said, realization dawning. “He’s known since Christmas. Because he’s like you. He’s a—what do you call it?”

“A Witness,” said Jupiter, taking the chair opposite. “Yes. He hates it.”

“Why would he hate it?” Morrigan asked, astounded. “It would be like knowing everything. I thought that was Jack’s favorite thing.”

Jupiter chuckled at that. His face grew thoughtful as he looked at her. “It is a bit like that sometimes, I s’pose. But not always. Sometimes even the Gossamer can hide things.”

“I’d love to be a Witness.”

“I’m not sure you would,” said Jupiter, wincing. “Seeing all those hidden things? All the time? Every time somebody lies, it’s there on their face like a black smudge. Every time somebody’s miserable, it hangs around them like flies on a corpse. Pain, anger, betrayal—it’s all there, everywhere around us, all the time. Most Witnesses can’t ever live in a place like this; it would drive them to insanity.”

“You mean a place like the Deucalion?”

“I mean Nevermoor. Or any place where millions of people converge every day, leaving invisible trails that crisscross each other in a million billion trillion threads of a mad tapestry. People leave pieces of themselves everywhere, Morrigan—all the fights they’ve had, all the hurts they’ve suffered, the love and joy they’ve felt, the good things and the bad things they’ve done.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “I’ve learned to filter it, to only see the things that are important. I can pull apart all the different layers and threads and make sense of the madness.

“But that took me years, Mog, years and years of training. Jack isn’t there yet. He won’t be for some time. For now, the patch acts like a filter. It disrupts his sight, so he only sees what you or anyone else would see. Otherwise he’d go mad.”

It hadn’t occurred to Morrigan that having a talent like Jupiter’s might have a downside. Perhaps that was why Jack was so bad-tempered.

“Why didn’t he just say so?” she asked.

Jupiter looked down at his hands and shrugged. “I think he’s embarrassed. People tend not to like Witnesses. It’s hard to be friends with someone who can see your secrets.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” said Morrigan, thinking of Jupiter’s many friends and admirers. “Everyone in the whole world likes you.”

Jupiter laughed—loudly, joyfully—until there were tears in his eyes. “Your view of the whole world is radically out of kilter, Morrigan Crow, and that’s one of the many things I like about you.

“That reminds me—something arrived for you today.” He stood up and beckoned Morrigan to follow. Unlocking his desk drawer, Jupiter took out a small wooden box and gave it to her. “I’m not supposed to give you this until your inauguration day. But it’s been a rubbish week, and I think in light of that you probably deserve to open it now.”

Inside the box, on a red velvet cushion, rested a small golden pin in the shape of a W.

Morrigan gasped. “My pin! Does this mean—did you get it? The last signature for that… that safeguard thing?”

Jupiter’s face fell a little. “Not… quite. No. But I’ll sort it out. I promise.” He fastened the pin to her collar. “There you are. Your ticket to a reserved seat on the Wunderground. Hope it was worth it.”

Morrigan laughed. It seemed insane to have gone through everything she had this year—cheating death, competing in the trials, facing Flintlock and Squall and the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow and every other wretched thing she’d faced, just for a tiny thing like this pin.

But it wasn’t tiny. It was big—a very big promise. The promise of family, and belonging, and friendship.

The funny thing was, Morrigan thought, reflecting on the past week and her life at the Hotel Deucalion… it turned out she had those things already.

The chandelier had settled in its permanent form at last.

Frank won the betting pool. At least, he was the closest—it wasn’t a peacock, but it was a bird. A large black bird, shining iridescent from certain angles, its wingspan spread over the lobby as if protecting the Hotel Deucalion and its inhabitants. Or perhaps poised to swoop down on their heads. It depended on whom you asked.

Jupiter said he loved it even more than the pink sailing ship.

A few days later, Jupiter and Nan took their candidates for a belated celebration. They had lamb shanks and ginger beer in a cozy pub on Courage Square, toasting Morrigan’s and Hawthorne’s success.

The patrons spent hours telling them thrilling tales of their own first years as scholars in the Wundrous Society. Most of Nan’s stories involved dragonriding, and most of Jupiter’s involved such outrageous rule breaking that he finally had to change the subject when he saw Hawthorne taking notes.

On the way home Morrigan kicked flurries of snow up from the ground as she walked. Despite the bitter cold, she thought Nevermoor had taken on an extraordinary shine on this otherwise ordinary midwinter’s day. She felt different.

Everything felt different.

People in the street smiled at them as they passed. Morrigan was no longer the cursed Crow girl, waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. Waiting to take the blame. And yet there was something dark, something dreadful, lurking still in the back of her mind.

Jupiter nudged her as they reached the Brolly Rail platform. “What are you thinking about?”

“He’ll be back, won’t he?” she asked quietly. “Squall. He’ll come back. With his monsters.”

Jupiter’s face was grim. “I imagine he’ll try.”

Morrigan nodded. She clutched her umbrella tight, touching her fingertips absently to the little opal bird on top. “Then we’ll just have to be ready.”

A nearby group of children whispered to each other and craned their necks to watch as Morrigan and Jupiter reached out confidently with their hooked umbrella handles and were swept away by the passing Brolly Rail. They weren’t just looking at Jupiter but at the pair of them, with their golden W pins gleaming proudly on their coats.

Patron and candidate. The mad ginger and the strange little girl with black eyes.