Something woke Morrigan in the night. A sound—like the fluttering of wings or the riffling of pages. She lay awake, waiting for it to return, but the room was silent. Perhaps she’d been dreaming, of birds or books.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, but it never came. The patch of sky in her bedroom window lightened from darkest black to inky predawn blue, the stars extinguishing one by one.

Morrigan thought of the pink sailing ship, smashed on the checkerboard floor, its light gone out forever. Jupiter’s favorite thing, Martha had said. When Morrigan went to bed, Jupiter still hadn’t returned from the Transportation Authority. What would he say, she wondered, when he saw the gaping cavity in the ceiling where his favorite thing used to be?

Logically Morrigan knew she wasn’t responsible for a giant light fixture falling to its sparkly death—especially as she hadn’t even been in the room at the time. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d gotten away with a terrible crime.

But this hotel must be over a hundred years old, she thought. She rolled over and punched her pillow into a comfier lump, resenting her own accusation. Old things break! The chandelier probably had faulty wires that had worn away or—or the plaster in the ceiling was crumbling!

Morrigan sat up in bed, suddenly determined, and threw her blanket off. She’d examine the damage for herself. She’d see it wasn’t her fault. She’d go back to sleep and live happily ever after. The End.

Of course, the lobby was rather dark without the glow of the chandelier. The concierge desk was empty. It was spooky being down here all on her own in the small hours, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

This was stupid, Morrigan thought with a flash of regret. A stupid idea. The mess had all been cleared away anyway, and the lobby was so dimly lit that from where she stood, the hole in the ceiling was just a vague black smudge up high—she couldn’t see any worn-away wires. She wasn’t even certain they were still there.

Morrigan was ready to give up and go back to bed when she heard a sound.

Music. Humming?

Yes—somebody was there, in the shadows, humming.

It was a strange little tune. One she vaguely recognized… a nursery rhyme, or a song she’d heard on the radio. Her pulse quickened.

“Hello?” she said quietly—or she meant to say it quietly, but her voice resounded and bounced off the walls. The humming stopped. “Who’s there?”

“Don’t be afraid.”

She turned toward the voice. It was a man—sitting half in shadows, legs crossed, coat folded neatly across his lap. Morrigan stepped closer, trying to see his face. He was shrouded in darkness.

“I’m just waiting for the front desk to open,” he said. “My train was late, so I missed last check-in. Sorry if I frightened you.”

She knew that voice. Soft and clipped, all crisp Ts and sharp Ss.

“Haven’t we met before?” she asked.

“I don’t believe so,” the man said. “I’m not from here.” He squinted at her, leaning forward, and a beam of moonlight crossed his face.

“Mr. Jones?” There wasn’t much about him that was memorable—ash-brown hair, gray suit. But she recognized his voice and, looking closer, his dark eyes and the thin scar that sliced through one eyebrow. “You’re Ezra Squall’s assistant.”

“I—yes, how did you—Miss Crow?” He stood, taking two swift steps toward her, his mouth open in surprise. “Can it really be you? They told us—they said you were…” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “What in the world are you doing in the Free State?”

Uh-oh. “I… I’m just… well, actually…” Morrigan could have kicked herself. How could she explain all that had happened? Would he tell her family? She was scrambling for something to say when an odd thing occurred to her. “Wait… how do you know about the Free State?”

Mr. Jones looked slightly shamefaced. “Point taken. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours. Deal?”

“Deal.” Morrigan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Miss Crow, I don’t know how you came to be here, or even how it is you are still alive when every newspaper in the Republic reported your death yesterday.” Morrigan looked away. Mr. Jones seemed to sense her discomfort and chose his words with care. “But whatever your… circumstances… I can assure you my employer’s offer still stands. Mr. Squall was most disappointed to lose you as his apprentice. Most disappointed.”

“Oh. Um, thanks. But I already have a patron. Actually, I… I thought you were playing a prank on me. On Bid Day, I mean. You disappeared, and—”

“A prank?” He looked surprised and a little offended. “Absolutely not. Mr. Squall doesn’t play pranks. His offer was genuine.”

Morrigan was confused. “But I turned around and you were gone.”

“Ah. Yes. I must apologize for that.” He looked genuinely sorry. “Forgive me, I was thinking of Mr. Squall. If word got out that he was offering an apprenticeship, he’d have been inundated with parents trying to foist their children on him. That’s why he bid on you anonymously. I did intend to return and speak with you, but Eventide took me by surprise.”

“Me too.”

“I’m afraid I handled things rather poorly. I appreciate that you have another arrangement, but… I’m certain Mr. Squall would be thrilled if you were to consider changing your mind.”

“Oh.” Morrigan didn’t know what to say. “That’s… nice of him.”

Mr. Jones held up his hands, smiling. “Please, there’s no pressure. If you’re content, Mr. Squall will understand. Just know that the door is never closed.” He folded his coat neatly over one arm and sat down again, settling into an armchair. “Now, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but—why in heaven’s name are you roaming the lobby of the Hotel Deucalion at this hour?”

There was something about Mr. Jones that felt trustworthy and familiar. So instead of coming up with a story, Morrigan told the ridiculous truth. “I came to look at the chandelier.” She pointed to the ceiling. “What’s left of it.”

“Good lord,” said Mr. Jones, his eyes widening at the spot where the ship used to be. “I thought something wasn’t quite right. When did it happen?”

“Yesterday. It fell.”

“It fell?” He made a tutting noise. “Chandeliers don’t just fall. Certainly not at this hotel.”

“But it did.” Morrigan swallowed, looking sideways at Mr. Jones, trying to gauge his reaction. Trying not to sound too hopeful. “Unless—do you mean—do you think someone could have done it deliberately? Like maybe… someone cut the wires, or—”

“No, not at all. I think it grew out.”

She blinked. “Grew out?”

“Yes. Like a tooth. See that?” He pointed, and Morrigan squinted up into the darkness. “There—see the little glint of light? It’s growing back in, replacing itself with something brand-new.”

She could see it now. A tiny speck of light, blooming out of the shadows. She’d missed it before, but there was no mistaking the little thread of crystal and light curling downward from the ceiling. Her heart lifted. “Will it look just the same?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Mr. Jones said, sounding wistful. “I’m no expert on the inner workings of the Hotel Deucalion. But I have been coming here for many years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her wear the same dress twice.”

They stood in silence for several minutes, watching the newborn chandelier grow slowly, emerging from the safe cocoon of the ceiling just like an adult tooth from healthy pink gums. At this rate it would take weeks or maybe months to reach the size of the gigantic sailing ship, but Morrigan was so relieved, she could wait as long as it took. She wondered what it would look like in the end. Something even better than a sailing ship? An arachnipod, perhaps!

When Mr. Jones spoke again it was in a gentle, hesitant voice, as if he were worried he might offend her. “This patron of yours… I presume he or she has put you forward for the Wundrous Society?”

“How did you know?”

“Educated guess,” he said. “There aren’t many other reasons to bring a child all the way from the Wintersea Republic to Nevermoor. May I ask you something impertinent, Miss Crow?”

Morrigan felt her shoulders tense. She knew what he wanted to ask.

“I don’t know what my knack is,” she said quietly. “I don’t even know if I have one.”

He frowned, looking puzzled. “But… to get into the Wundrous Society—”

“I know.”

“Has your patron discussed—”

“No.”

He pressed his lips together. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

Morrigan turned her face upward. She watched the little stem of light on its glacial descent for a long, silent moment before answering.

“Yes. I do.”

Jupiter’s hand was still hovering in the air, mid-knock, when Morrigan threw open her bedroom door to greet him later that morning.

“What’s my knack?” she demanded.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Good morning,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. She’d been waiting for ages, pacing the floor as she brooded over her conversation with Mr. Jones. The curtains were thrown wide, and buckets of morning sunlight streamed in through a window that had grown from a small square into a floor-to-ceiling arch overnight. Which was weird—but not, Morrigan thought, their most pressing matter to discuss. “What’s my knack?”

“Mind if I nick a pastry? I’m famished.”

Martha had come ten minutes earlier with a breakfast tray. It sat untouched in the corner. “Help yourself. What’s my knack?”

Jupiter stuffed his mouth full of pastry while Morrigan watched him and fretted. “I don’t have one, do I? Because you’ve got the wrong person. You thought I was someone else, someone with some big talent—that’s how it works, isn’t it? That’s how you get into the Wundrous Society. You have to be talented, like Dame Chanda. You have to have a knack for something. And you thought I did, and now you know I don’t. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Jupiter swallowed. “Before I forget—my seamstress is coming to fit you for a new wardrobe this morning. What’s your favorite color?”

“Black. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Black’s not a color.”

She groaned. “Jupiter!”

“Oh, all right.” He leaned against the wall and slid all the way down to the floor, stretching his long legs out on the rug. “If you want to talk about boring things, we’ll talk about boring things.”

Jupiter’s long red hair, streaked with gold in the sunshine, was slightly tangled and fuzzy. It was the most disheveled she’d seen him. He was barefoot and wore a wrinkled, untucked white shirt over blue trousers with suspenders that hung down untidily against his hips. Morrigan realized they were the clothes he’d worn the day before. She wondered whether he’d slept in them, or hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were closed against the light, and he looked as if he’d happily sit there all day, letting the warmth soak into his bones.

“Here’s how it works. Are you listening?”

Finally, Morrigan thought. With a curious mixture of relief and dread, she sat on the edge of the wooden chair, ready for some answers at last, even if they weren’t good ones. “I’m listening.”

“All right. Now, don’t interrupt.” He reluctantly sat up straight, clearing his throat. “Every year, the Wundrous Society selects a new group of children to join us. Any child in the Free State can apply, so long as they’ve had their eleventh birthday before the first day of the year—you just scraped in, well done you—and provided they are selected by a patron, of course. The catch is… your patron can’t be just anyone. It’s not like other schools and apprenticeships, where anyone with more money than brains can sponsor your education. Your patron must be a member of the Wundrous Society. The Elders are very strict about it.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re rotten snobs. Don’t interrupt. Now, I’ll be honest, Mog—”

“Morrigan.”

“—I’ve chosen you for my candidate, but that’s just the beginning. Now you have to go through the entrance exams—we call them trials. There are four, spread out over the year. The trials are an elimination process, designed to separate the Society’s ideal candidates from those who are… not so ideal. It’s all very elitist and competitive, but it’s tradition, so there you have it.”

“What sort of trials?” Morrigan asked, chewing her fingernails.

“I’m getting there. Don’t interrupt.” He stood up and began pacing. “The first three are different every year. There are many kinds of trials, and the Elders like to switch them around to keep things interesting. We won’t know what each one will be until we’re told. Some of them aren’t too bad—the Speech Trial’s fairly straightforward, for example. You just have to give a speech in front of an audience.”

Morrigan swallowed. She could think of nothing worse. She’d rather face the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow again.

“…and the Treasure Hunt Trial is fun, but I won’t lie to you—some of them are horrendous. Be grateful they got rid of the Fright Trial two Ages ago.” He shuddered. “They should have called that one the Nervous Breakdown Trial—some candidates never recovered.

“But the fourth trial. That’s the one you’re concerned about. It’s rather dramatically called the Show Trial, but honestly, it’s very straightforward. Same thing every year. Each candidate who’s made it through the first three trials must stand before the High Council of Elders and show them something.”

Morrigan frowned. “Something…?”

“Something interesting. And useful. And good.”

“Interesting and useful and good… you mean a talent, don’t you?” She braced herself. “They want to see a talent.”

Jupiter shrugged. “A talent, a skill, a unique selling point… whatever you want to call it. We call it a knack. Silly Wundrous Society–speak, of course; it merely refers to the marvelous and unique gift you possess which the Elders will deem extraordinary enough to grant you a lifelong place in the Free State’s most elite and prestigious institution. That’s all.” He grinned through his ginger beard in what he obviously thought was a charming fashion.

“Oh, is that all?” Morrigan choked out a hysterical little laugh. “Well. I don’t have one, so—”

“That you know of.”

“And what do you know of?” There was an edge to her voice. What was he hiding?

“I know lots of things. I’m very clever.” It was infuriating, the way he talked in circles. “Really, Mog—”

“Morrigan.”

“—you needn’t worry. Just get through the first three trials. The Show Trial is my problem. I’ll take care of it.”

It all sounded… impossible. Morrigan slumped in her chair and sighed the deep, discontented sigh of someone who’d gotten quite a lot more than she’d bargained for. She cast Jupiter a sidelong look. “What if I don’t want to join the Society anymore? What if I’ve changed my mind?”

Morrigan expected him to be shocked or outraged, but he just nodded. Like he’d known she’d say that. “I know it’s scary, Mog,” he said quietly. “The Society asks a lot. The trials are hard, and they’re only the start.”

Terrific, she thought. It gets worse. “What happens after the trials?”

Jupiter took a deep breath. “It isn’t really like a normal school. Scholars in the Wundrous Society are never coddled. People think Society members are given a free ride, that once you get this little golden pin”—he tapped the W on his collar—“the world will smooth itself out for you, and your path will always be free and easy. And they’re sort of right—the old gold spikes certainly open doors. Respect, adventure, fame. Reserved seats on the Wunderground. Pin privilege, people call it.” He rolled his eyes. “But within Society walls you’re expected to earn that privilege. Not just in the trials, not just once, but over and over again, for the rest of your life, by proving that you’re worthy of it. Proving you’re special.”

He paused, looking at her seriously. “That’s the difference between the Wundrous Society and a normal school. Even when your studies are over, you’ll still be a part of the Society, and it will be a part of you. Forever, Mog. The Elders will hold you to account long after your years as a scholar, into adulthood and beyond.”

Morrigan’s face must have betrayed how deeply unappealing all of this sounded, because Jupiter hurried to mend the damage. “But I’m saying the worst bits first, Mog, because I want you to have the full picture.

“Look—the Wundrous Society is more than just a school. It’s a family. A family that will take care of you and provide for you your entire life. Yes, you’ll have a brilliant education, you’ll have opportunities and connections that people outside the Society could never dream of. But much more important than that—you’ll have your unit.

“The people who go through these four trials with you and come out victorious… they will become your brothers and sisters. People who will have your back until the day you die. Who will never turn you away, but will care for you as deeply as you care for them. People who would give their life for yours.” Jupiter blinked furiously and rubbed a fist against the side of his face, looking away from her. Morrigan was startled to realize that he was blinking back tears.

She’d never known someone could feel so strongly about his friends. Probably because she’d never had a friend. Not a real one. (Emmett the stuffed rabbit didn’t really count.)

An instant family. Brothers and sisters for life.

It made sense to her now. Jupiter carried himself like a king, like he was surrounded by an invisible bubble that protected him from all the bad things in life. He knew there were people in the world—somewhere out there—who loved him. Who would always love him. No matter what.

That was what he was offering her. Like a bowl of hot, meaty stew to a hungry pauper, he held in his hands the thing she most craved.

And suddenly Morrigan’s hunger burned. She wanted to join the Society. She wanted brothers and sisters. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything.

“How do I win?”

“You just need to trust me. Do you trust me?” Jupiter’s face was earnest and open. Morrigan nodded without hesitation. “Then let me worry about the Show Trial. I’ll tell you when you need to start worrying. I promise.”

It was an odd feeling to trust a stranger she’d met two days ago. But Morrigan felt somehow it was hard not to trust Jupiter. (He had, after all, saved her life.)

She took a fortifying breath before asking the question she dreaded to ask. “Jupiter. Is my talent… my knack… is it to do with… you know.”

He frowned. “Hmm?”

“Is being cursed my talent? Do I have a knack for… making things go wrong?”

Jupiter looked as if he were about to speak, then snapped his mouth shut. Thirty seconds passed during which he seemed to have a brief but lively argument inside his head.

“Before I answer that question—and, yes, I will answer it, don’t roll your eyes—I’m going to tell you about my talent,” he said finally. “I have a knack for seeing things.”

“What sort of things?”

“True things.” He shrugged. “Things that have happened, things that are happening right now. Feelings. Danger. Things that live in the Gossamer.”

“The Gossamer. What’s that?”

“Ah. Okay.” Morrigan could almost see Jupiter mentally backtracking as he remembered how little she knew of his world. He spoke rapidly. “The Gossamer is an invisible, intangible network that… hmm. Imagine a web. Imagine a vast and delicate spider’s web laid over the entire realm, like… no. You know what, forget the Gossamer, all you need to know is that I see things other people don’t.”

“Secrets?”

He smiled. “Sometimes.”

“The future?”

“No. I’m not a fortune-teller. I’m a Witness. That’s the name for it. I don’t see the way things will be, I see the way things are.”

Morrigan gave him a skeptical look. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“You’d be surprised.” He crossed the room in four enormous, lanky-legged strides and picked up the still-warm teapot from the breakfast tray. “This. Describe it to me.”

“It’s a teapot.”

“No, tell me everything you know about the teapot, just by looking at it.”

Morrigan frowned. “It’s a green teapot.” Jupiter nodded for her to continue. “It’s a mint-green teapot with little white leaves all over it. It has a big handle and a curvy spout.” Jupiter raised an eyebrow. “It has… matching teacups and saucers…”

“Good.” Jupiter poured tea and milk into two cups and handed one to Morrigan. “Very good. I think you’ve covered everything you can, which is to say virtually nothing. Shall I have a go?”

“Please,” said Morrigan, stirring a sugar cube into her cup.

He set the teapot down on the tray. “This teapot was made in a factory in Dusty Junction—that’s easy to know because most of the Free State’s ceramics are made in Dusty Junction, so it doesn’t really count, but I can see it anyway, the factory positively oozes out of it—and its first owner bought it seventy-six—no, seventy-seven years ago from a tea shop in Nevermoor’s market district. Most of its early years have faded a bit, but it remembers the factory and it remembers the lady in the market district.”

Morrigan screwed up her face. “How can a teapot remember something?”

“It’s not a memory like yours or mine. It’s more like… how shall I put this? There are… events and moments in the past that attach themselves to people and things, and cling to them through time simply because they have nowhere else to go. Maybe they eventually fade or get torn away or just die. But some things never die—the especially good memories or the especially bad ones can hang around forever.

“This teapot has soaked in some good memories. The old lady who owned it made tea every afternoon when her sister came to visit. They loved each other very much, the lady and her sister. That sort of thing rarely fades away completely.”

Morrigan eyed him suspiciously. “You couldn’t know all that just by looking at it. You must have known the old lady.”

Jupiter gave her a look of mock outrage. “Just how old do you think I am? Anyway, hush, I’m not finished. It’s been handled by four different people this morning—someone who made the tea, someone who moved the tray, someone who brought it to your room, and… oh, of course, me. The person who made the tea was cross about something, but the person who brought it upstairs was singing. Someone with a sweet voice; I can see the vibrations.”

He was right about that—Martha had been singing the Morningtide Refrain. But then, he might have spotted her on her way up. Morrigan shrugged, sipping her tea. “You could make up anything. How would I know the difference?”

“Good point, well made. Which brings me back to my own point.” Jupiter knelt on the floor in front of Morrigan, bringing his head level with hers. “Let me tell you about you, Morrigan Crow.”

His eyes drifted across her face, darting here and there and back again. He studied her as if he were lost in the wilderness and her face was a map that would show him the way home.

“What?” she said, leaning backward. “What are you staring at?”

“That haircut.” He smirked. “The one your stepmother made you get last year.”

“How did you know—?”

“You hated it, didn’t you? It was too short and too modern and you grew it out as fast as you could… but you hated it with such a passion that it’s still hanging around, I can see it.”

Morrigan smoothed her hair down. Jupiter couldn’t possibly still see the asymmetrical pixielike bob with the jagged bangs that Ivy had insisted Morrigan get because her limp, boring, unfashionable hairstyle was “an embarrassment.” She’d hated that haircut, but it had grown out. Now it was limp and boring again, and down past her shoulders.

“You know what else I can see?” he continued, grinning as he picked up her hands and gave them a little shake. “I can see the pinpricks in your fingers from when you cut up her favorite dress in revenge, sewed the pieces together, and hung them as curtains in the living room.” He closed his eyes, and a deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “Which is brilliant, by the way.”

Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. She was proud of those curtains. “Okay. I believe you. You see things.”

“I see you, Morrigan Crow.” He leaned forward. “And I’ll tell you this: Your stepmother was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” asked Morrigan, but she knew the answer. Her stomach did a little flip.

“She said you were a curse.” Jupiter swallowed and shook his head. “She said it in anger. She didn’t mean it.”

“Of course she meant it.”

He paused, considering that. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it true. It doesn’t make her right.”

Morrigan felt her face color and looked away, reaching casually for a pastry from the breakfast tray. She ripped a piece off but didn’t eat it. “Forget it.”

“You forget it,” he said. “You forget it, from this moment on. Do you understand? You are not a curse.”

“Yeah, okay.” Morrigan rolled her eyes and tried to turn away, but Jupiter took her face in his hands and held on fast.

“No, listen to me.” His wide blue eyes burned into her black ones. Righteous anger rolled off him like heat from the sidewalk in summer. “You asked me if your talent is being cursed? If you have a knack for ruining things? Hear me when I tell you this: You are not a curse on anyone, Morrigan Crow. You never have been. And I think you’ve known that all along.”

Tears stung Morrigan’s eyes, threatening to drop. She steeled herself to ask one final question. “What if I don’t get in?”

“You will.”

“But say I don’t,” she persisted. “What then? Will I have to return to the Republic? Will they… will they be waiting for me?” Morrigan knew Jupiter understood that she didn’t mean her family, but the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow. If she closed her eyes, she could still see them—fiery red eyes in dark, swirling shadow.

“You are going to join the Wundrous Society, Mog,” Jupiter whispered. “I promise you that I will see it done. And I never want to hear a word about this curse nonsense ever again. Promise me.”

She promised.

She believed him.

She felt braver, knowing that he was so staunchly on her side.

But still. Later that day, when Morrigan tried to count all the questions Jupiter had so far avoided answering, she would run out of fingers.