Summer was dying, but it refused to go down without a fight. The last weeks of August brought a heat wave to Nevermoor, with blazing temperatures and blazing tempers to match.

“Can we please take this seriously?” Morrigan said irritably. “The second trial is only three days away.”

She’d been trying to talk to Jupiter for an hour, but his attention span had evaporated in the heat. He sat in a shady corner of the Palm Courtyard, drinking glasses of peach sangria and waving a handheld fan. Fenestra was sunbathing nearby, while Frank snored quietly under an enormous sombrero. Jupiter had given all staff the afternoon off. It was much too hot to work, and they’d been sniping among themselves all morning.

Jack, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen. Morrigan thought he was probably tucked away in his bedroom practicing the cello, which was where he’d spent most of the summer—at least, when he wasn’t kicking Morrigan out of the best spot in the Smoking Parlor, or criticizing her table manners during dinner, or scowling in her general direction. Morrigan couldn’t wait for him to go back to school so the Deucalion could feel like hers again. He’d reached heights of unbearable smugness when he’d been allowed to go to the Nevermoor Bazaar with his school friends. Morrigan had waited the whole summer for Jupiter to take her, but every week something more important would call him away. Now the bazaar was over for the year, and Morrigan had missed out. All things considered, she was happy to see the last days of summer… even if that meant it was time for her next nerve-racking trial.

“Do you think he’s okay under there?” Jupiter asked, cracking one sleepy eye open to look at Frank. “He’s not going to burn down to ashes, is he? I don’t know how dwarf vampires work.”

“Vampire dwarves,” Morrigan said. “And he’s fine. Can we please focus on the Chase Trial? I need a steed. And it can’t have more than four legs—that’s in the rules.”

“Right.”

“And I can’t fly.”

“You certainly cannot,” said Jupiter, taking a sip of sangria, “for you are Crow in name only.”

Morrigan huffed. “No, I mean—the rules say—”

“Lighten up, Mog,” Jupiter snorted. “I know what the rules say: You can’t ride a flying animal. There was some kerfuffle a few years back with a dragon and a pelican. Poor bird got burned to a cinder three seconds after takeoff. More of a pelican’t, in the end. Eh? Pelican’t?” He grinned lazily at Morrigan, but her sense of humor had also evaporated. “Anyway. They banned the whole bunch of them, and now everyone goes on the ground.”

The rules for the Chase Trial had arrived by messenger the day before, sending Morrigan into a spin. It shocked her to realize that all these weeks, she’d barely given the Chase a thought. Perhaps Jack’s annoying presence all summer had been a blessing as well as a curse. They’d been so busy arguing and getting in each other’s way, it hadn’t left any time for Morrigan to dwell on the upcoming trial.

“So,” she prompted Jupiter. “Steed. Four legs or less.”

“Fewer.”

“Four legs or fewer. Could Charlie teach me to ride a horse?”

“Not sure that’s the way to go, Mog,” said Jupiter. He waved away a buzzing insect. “I’ve never seen a Chase Trial myself, but I’ve heard they get pretty wild. You’ll need more of an all-terrain beast. Let me think on it.”

All-terrain beast. What in the world was an all-terrain beast? It was useless trying to get him to talk sense in this ridiculous heat. Morrigan vented her feelings by kicking at a tuft of grass growing out of the sandstone. “This is hopeless. What’s the point of the Chase Trial, anyway? Why do the Elders care who can win a race? It’s stupid.”

“Mmm, that’s the spirit,” said Jupiter distractedly.

She gave up and went to perch on the edge of a little pool, dipping her feet in as she pulled the Wundrous Society letter from her pocket and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

A map was enclosed. Roughly circular and surrounded by medieval stone walls, Old Town was the smaller original city from which the rest of Nevermoor had grown outward in organic, misshapen swells, like a fungus. (This was according to Dame Chanda, who said she took an interest in the city’s history because the Honorable Lord Thursday—an amateur historian himself—had given her a membership in the Nevermoor Historical Society two Christmases ago.)

There were four entrances to Old Town: through the enormous stone archways of the North Gate, South Gate, East Gate, and West Gate, like points on a compass.

The map showed Courage Square at the center of town. Morrigan had only whizzed through Courage Square on the speeding Brolly Rail, but she remembered a broad, bustling plaza surrounded by shops and cafés and filled with people.

The square sat at the intersection of two streets stretching the length and width of Old Town. Lightwing Parade ran from north to south, with Proudfoot House at the far northern end, and the Royal Lightwing Palace (home to the Free State monarch, Queen Caledonia II) to the south. Grand Boulevard ran from east (starting at the Temple of the Divine Thing) to west (ending at the Nevermoor Opera House).

The map highlighted other landmarks—Dredmalis Dungeons, the Houses of Parliament, the embassies, the Garden Belt (a ring of green spaces circling the middle of Old Town, just like a belt), the Gobleian Library, and perhaps a dozen more. Morrigan tried to memorize them, in case it turned out to be important.

“Dredmalis Dungeons,” she whispered, closing her eyes to test her memory. “East Quarter, Rifkin Road. Houses of Parliament: North Quarter, Flagstaff Walk. Gobleian Library: East Quarter—no, South Quarter—no, I mean—”

“West Quarter, dummy,” came a languid voice. Fenestra lay in a nearby patch of sunshine, licking her fur in long, listless strokes. “Mayhew Street. Do shut up.”

“Thanks,” Morrigan muttered.

She noticed Jupiter watching the Magnificat from the corner of his eye and turned to see what had him so fascinated. The combination of sunlight and saliva made Fen’s shabby gray fur look like molten silver. Her muscular legs juddered as she stretched out in a sudden, toothy yawn. She really was beautiful, Morrigan thought grudgingly. In her own terrifying way.

“Do you two mind?” Fen asked, her voice oozing derision. “I’m trying to have a bath. Perverts.”

Morrigan woke on the day of the Chase Trial feeling peaceful. For about five seconds, obviously, until she remembered what day it was and her peace turned to panic.

She still had no idea what creature of transport Jupiter had arranged for her. He’d spent the past three days having increasingly heated debates with the other staff on the merits of ponies versus camels, and whether a tortoise actually could win a race against a hare in real life and if they should try it just in case (Frank’s idea), and whether an ostrich counted as a flying animal even though it couldn’t fly, since it technically had wings. None of these arguments ended well, and none of them put Morrigan at ease.

As she dragged herself out of bed, the door swung open and Fenestra strutted in, tossing some clothes onto the chair with a shake of her massive head.

“Wear that,” she said. “New boots out in the hall. Martha’s bringing your breakfast. Be downstairs in five minutes, ready to go.”

And just like that, she was out the door without so much as a “Good morning.”

“Yes, I’m feeling super this morning, Fen, thanks for asking,” muttered Morrigan as she dressed in the white trousers Fen had left for her. “Nervous? Just a little.” She pulled on a shirt and socks—all white, as the rules stipulated. “Oh, thanks for the good wishes, Fen, you’re too kind. Yes, I’m sure the Chase will go just fine, and won’t at all end with me being trampled into the ground, arrested, and kicked out of Nevermoor.”

“Who are you talking to, Miss Morrigan?” Martha was standing in the doorway with a breakfast tray. Morrigan took a piece of toast and ran out the door, grabbing her boots on the way.

“Nobody, Martha,” she called. “Thanks for the toast.”

“Good luck, miss. Be careful!”

In the foyer, Jupiter and Fen inspected Morrigan for a long time before either of them spoke.

“She needs to tie her hair back,” said Jupiter.

“She needs to keep her mouth shut,” said Fen.

“She’s in the same room as you, so you needn’t speak about her as if she’s not here,” said Morrigan.

“See what I mean?” Fenestra growled. “I’ll not have her going on like that during the Chase. I’ll lose my concentration.” The Magnificat turned to Jupiter, her huge gray ears perking up hopefully. “Can we tape her mouth shut?”

“I rather think the Elders would frown on that sort of thing.”

Morrigan folded her arms, suddenly suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah,” said Jupiter, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “I’ve found you a noble steed.”

Morrigan, Jupiter, and Fen arrived at the West Gate at eleven o’clock to find a clamor of children, patrons, and animals. At the registration table, Morrigan and Jupiter both had to sign a waiver stating that if the Chase resulted in death or injury they wouldn’t sue the Society.

“Comforting,” muttered Morrigan as she scribbled her name. Her stomach did a funny little somersault.

She was surprised to see the steeds some candidates had chosen. Most were riding horses or ponies, but she also saw a lot of camels, a few zebras and llamas, an ostrich (so that answered that question), two haughty-looking unicorns, and one large, ugly pig. Morrigan gasped and grabbed Jupiter’s arm when she saw the unicorns, her terror momentarily giving way to delight, but Jupiter was unimpressed.

“Mind the pointy bit,” he said with a worried look at the magical creatures.

Fen was in a strange mood. She hadn’t made a single sarcastic remark all the way to the trial, and now she was pacing up and down the West Gate starting line, glaring at the competition. Jupiter approached her with caution.

“Fen?” She ignored him. He spoke up a little. “Fen? Fennie? Fenestra?”

Fen was muttering to herself in a constant low growl, her amber eyes narrowed. A large leathery-skinned rhinoceros had caught her attention.

“Fen?” prompted Jupiter again, gingerly tapping her on the shoulder.

“That one,” she said with a toss of her head. “That horned oaf with the funny ears. He’d better not get in my way. Better watch his big pointy nose, or I’ll let him have one.”

“One… one what?” asked Jupiter.

“Head-butt. Him and that little demon on his back.”

Jupiter and Morrigan exchanged a look. What had gotten into Fen?

“You… you do know that demon is a child?” said Jupiter carefully.

Fen snarled in response and pointed one paw at a small boy nervously clutching the reins of a pony. “And I’ll give him one, too, him and his hell-beast.”

Jupiter snorted into his hand, trying to cover it up as a cough. “Fen, that’s a pony. I think you’re—”

Fen shoved her face right up close to Jupiter’s and spoke in a low growl. “Him and his fat little half-horse come clip-clopping anywhere near me and they’re done for. Got it?”

The Magnificat then swept off toward a throng of candidates milling around the registration table and proceeded to pace threateningly before them.

Jupiter smiled uneasily at Morrigan, who was waiting for an explanation as to why Fen the Magnificat had transformed into Fen the prison-yard gangster. “She’s… competitive,” he offered. “Goes back to her days as a cage fighter.”

“A what?”

“Oh yeah. Fen was big on the Ultimate Cage Fighting circuit. Free State champion three years running, until she had to quit because of that scandal with the former prime minister’s son.”

“Scandal with the—”

“He started it. And he’s got a new nose now, so no harm, no foul. Oh, look—they’re calling you over.”

As she drew near the starting line, Morrigan wondered what sort of steed Nan Dawson had found for Hawthorne. (Last they’d spoken, he’d sworn his patron had a cheetah lined up.) She knew it was pointless searching for her friend in the crowd; he was in the South Gate group.

However, she did find someone else she knew—the one person she absolutely did not want to see.

“Honestly, they’ll let anything through these trials, won’t they?” Noelle Devereaux said loudly, leading a beautiful brown mare by the reins over to where Morrigan stood. She looked Morrigan up and down. “Is it still called the Wundrous Society? Or have they changed it to the Stupid, Ugly Society?”

Noelle’s friends laughed, and she flicked her hair over her shoulder, basking in their attention. She was flanked by her usual gaggle of followers, minus her friend with the long, dark braid—Morrigan wondered if the other girl had made it past the Book Trial.

“That would explain why you’re still here,” said Morrigan.

Noelle’s face turned a splotchy red. Her hand clenched tighter around the reins of her horse. “Or perhaps it’s called the Illegal Society now,” she snapped, glaring at Morrigan. “And that’s why you’re still here.”

Morrigan’s stomach did that funny little flip again. It was Noelle and her patron, the odious Baz Charlton, who had sent Inspector Flintlock to the Hotel Deucalion. She just knew it. In that moment Morrigan hated Noelle, really hated her, for making her feel so afraid and desperate. Had Noelle any idea of the trouble she and Baz had caused? That they were putting Morrigan’s life in danger if she went back to Jackalfax? She wanted to lash out, to shout at Noelle, but she couldn’t. Not here.

“You could be disqualified for that, you know,” she said instead, pointing at Noelle’s hair.

Noelle was dressed, like the other candidates, all in white—from her smart ivory jodhpurs to her leather saddle and riding crop. Everything except the tiny gold ribbon poking through her thick chestnut curls. Morrigan knew it was a petty thing to mention, but she couldn’t resist.

However, instead of looking worried or tucking it away, Noelle curled the ribbon around her finger and looked even more smug. She moved closer and spoke quietly so that only Morrigan could hear. “Oh, this? Just my little message to the Elders. It was Mr. Charlton’s idea. He says it shows that I’m serious about winning the Chase. I want the Elders to know that I’m going for gold and I’ll see them at the secret dinner.”

“Secret dinner,” said Morrigan, scowling. It sounded like Noelle was making things up now, just to mock her. “What secret dinner?”

Noelle gave an incredulous giggle. “Your patron doesn’t tell you anything, does he? It’s like he doesn’t even want you to win.”

Turning to leave, she called back over her shoulder, “By the way, is that your steed?” She pointed at the pig Morrigan had spotted earlier, which was now snuffling around the ground looking for food. “How nice—you have matching faces.”

At the West Gate, a Wundrous Society official climbed up on a platform to address the candidates.

“Over here, please! No, leave your steeds for the moment, thank you. Quiet, please. Quiet!” she shouted into a megaphone. “Now listen carefully, because you will only hear these instructions once.”

Morrigan’s heart beat so loudly she thought it would drown out the official’s voice.

“The Chase Trial is not a race,” said the woman, her voice booming. “Not exactly, anyway. It’s a game of strategy. You are not looking for a finish line; you are looking for a target.”

The woman signaled another official, who took his cue to unveil a large map of Old Town, propped up on a wooden easel. It was just like the map enclosed with Morrigan’s letter, but much bigger, and with dozens of colored targets marked all over, like rainbow sprinkles on a cake.

The targets were scattered across Old Town in nine very loose concentric rings, like the inside of a tree trunk, each ring a different color of the rainbow. Close to the outer stone walls, the first ring of purple targets circling the town was densely plotted—there must have been one every twenty or thirty yards. But the closer one got to the center of town, through sections of blue, teal, green, yellow, orange, pink, and red, the sparser the targets became, until finally in the last section—a golden circle that covered massive Courage Square—Morrigan counted only five golden targets, right in the middle of the square.

“This is your sole task,” the woman with the megaphone was saying. “Hit one target—and only one target—firmly, with the flat of your hand.” She demonstrated. “Once you hit a target, you’ve won. You’re through to the next trial.”

The candidates mumbled among themselves, looking unsure. It all seemed too easy. Morrigan waited for the catch.

“Now,” continued the woman, “the question is: Which target will you try to hit? There are three hundred candidates remaining, but only one hundred and fifty targets. Will you go for the first one you see, in the outer rings of Old Town? That makes sense—there are more targets there, and in nice, easy spots.”

Yes, thought Morrigan. Of course I’ll go for one of those! Get in, hit an easy target, and get through to the next trial. She could see from some of the other candidates’ confused faces that they were thinking the same—why wouldn’t they go for the easiest targets?

“Or,” said the woman, “you could challenge yourself.” She smiled widely, pointing to the center of the map. “Here, in Courage Square, there are five golden targets. Hit one of these and you will win not only your place in the third trial but also a ticket to a very private, very special event—the Elders’ secret dinner, inside the Proudfoot House Elders’ Hall itself.”

A shock of excitement rippled through the candidates. “Inside the Elders’ Hall?” whispered a boy standing near Morrigan. “Only Society members are allowed in there!”

Morrigan glanced at Noelle, who was near the front. So that was what she meant by going for gold. Noelle curled her gold ribbon around one finger again, looking unbearably smug. How had she known? Morrigan wondered. All the other candidates seemed just as surprised by the news as Morrigan. Why was awful Noelle the only one with insider information?

The Society official held up her hands for quiet. “In addition to these five golden targets, there are five more, scattered at random throughout Old Town. However, there’s a twist—these five will look like ordinary colored targets. It’s a lottery—you won’t know you’ve got a gold target until after you’ve hit it.”

“How will we know?” shouted a girl with red hair.

“You’ll know.”

A boy in the front put his hand up and called out, “Why’re we dressed in white?”

The Society officials smirked at each other. “You’ll see,” said the woman with the megaphone. “Only ten candidates—and their patrons—will attend the Elders’ secret dinner. This is a unique opportunity to meet the Elders personally before your third and fourth trials.”

Morrigan could see now why Noelle was so determined to hit a golden target. What an advantage it would be at the Show Trial, to have already met the Elders and made an impression. She was certain Noelle would charm them, just as she’d charmed her simpering band of followers. The thought of it made Morrigan queasy.

The Society official continued. “Remember, you can only hit one target. Will you bypass the colored targets for an uncertain chance at hitting gold and winning a special advantage? Or will you hit the very first target you see, to guarantee your spot in the next trial? Are you an ambitious risk taker? Or coolheaded and efficient? We’re about to find out. Please gather at the starting line. The Chase Trial will begin in precisely five minutes.”

Morrigan’s nerves were undercut by a twinge of annoyance that odious Baz Charlton’s odious candidate had known so much about the trial before she even arrived. Had Jupiter known too? And if so, why hadn’t he told her? Noelle’s words echoed in her head: It’s like he doesn’t even want you to win.

Jupiter and Fen approached, but there was no time for questions.

“Mog, listen,” Jupiter said in a low, urgent voice as he led her to the starting line. “Forget the secret dinner. It doesn’t matter. Just hit a target and get through to the next trial—don’t worry about anything else. Go straight past—Fen, are you listening too?—go straight past the purple and blue targets. They’ll be chaos; most candidates will go for the first targets they see, and you don’t want to get caught up in that mess. Better to make a beeline straight down Grand Boulevard, then turn left onto Mayhew Street—that’s where the green section starts. There’ll be fewer targets there, but much less competition if you get there quick enough. Yes?”

Morrigan nodded. Straight down Grand, left onto Mayhew. At that moment Jupiter was ushered away by a Society official. He looked back and mouthed the words Good luck, and though Morrigan couldn’t bring herself to open her own mouth just in case her heart fell out of it, she hoped a grim nod and a shaky thumbs-up would get the message across.

Nearby, Noelle was having a final word with her patron as well, but Morrigan could only make out the words gold and Roderick (Who’s Roderick? she wondered) before Fen sidled up close and spoke in her ear.

“You don’t need to do anything, understand? I’ll get us to the target, just be ready to hit it when I say so. You don’t steer, or brake—and if you kick me in the sides even once, I’ll hide raw sardines in your room. You’ll never find them, but the stench will seep deep into your skin and clothes and invade your dreams at night until you go mad. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Morrigan. A big clock above the West Gate was counting down: sixty seconds to go. It suddenly occurred to Morrigan that she had no idea how she was going to climb up on Fen’s enormous back. “Fen, how do I—”

Before she could finish, she felt Fen’s hot breath on her neck and the tickle of whiskers and fur as the Magnificat lifted Morrigan up with her sharp yellow teeth and tossed the girl effortlessly onto her back. Morrigan tried to adjust her position as if she were riding a horse—which, as she’d never ridden a horse, was mostly guesswork—and found she had no way to steady herself. She clutched two handfuls of soft gray fur.

As the final seconds counted down, she threw her head down onto Fen’s neck, feeling the sudden rise of panic.

“Fen, what if I fall off?”

“You’ll probably get trampled and die. So don’t fall off.”

Morrigan tightened her grip and swallowed a whimper.

Fenestra turned back and said, a little more kindly, “All right, dig your heels into my sides if you have to. It’ll help you balance. And whatever you do, don’t let go of my fur.”

“What if I accidentally rip some out?”

“As you can see, I have plenty. Now shut up, it’s time.”

The clock hit zero and a deafening klaxon went off, and suddenly Morrigan’s world lurched into a chaotic melee of clattering, pounding footfalls and the roar of cheering patrons somewhere behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut and held on tightly to Fen, who was keeping a good pace. Chancing an upward glance, Morrigan saw that Jupiter was right; straight ahead, on the marble steps of the Nevermoor Opera House, was a purple target about the size of Morrigan’s head, and half the candidates were barreling straight toward it. It was sure to end in a nasty collision, but Morrigan wouldn’t be there to witness it—Fenestra was taking a wide circle around the opera house and emerging onto Grand Boulevard. The commotion was already behind them.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Morrigan turned back to see purple targets exploding all over the place as candidates hit them. Each one blasted a cloud of brightly colored powder all over the candidate’s face and clothes, staining them purple. The air filled with dust and color and noise.

So that was what the white clothes were for. At the end of the trial there would be a rainbow of a hundred and fifty winning candidates… and a hundred and fifty sad kids still in pristine white.

Not me, thought Morrigan fiercely, leaning into Fen. I’ll be green.

They passed through the sea of purple and blue targets—some hanging from trees and street signs, some stuck on the sides of easy-to-reach buildings, some just sitting on the cobbled ground—and quickly made it to the teal section. The targets here were harder to spot but still scattered generously across the landscape.

Fen was so fast, they’d left half the crowd in their dust, but a number of tenacious souls were keeping up—including, Morrigan saw to her displeasure, Noelle Devereaux on her left and Fen’s apparent sworn enemies, the rhinoceros and its rider, on her right. Noelle’s brown mare flew like the wind.

Meanwhile, Fen had been right not to trust the rhinoceros. He was trouble. He charged wildly, veering left and right with no regard for whom he trampled, or for where his swinging head landed its dangerous horn. He wasn’t just trying to get a golden target; he wanted to knock out the rest of the competition before they reached Courage Square.

That was smart, Morrigan thought. Nasty, but smart. There’d be other candidates from the East, North, and South Gate groups headed for those five targets too, and probably reaching the square at the same moment. There weren’t enough golden targets for everyone; Courage Square would be a chaotic free-for-all. Morrigan was glad she and Fen were going for green.

But Fen didn’t slow down in the green section. They didn’t turn onto Mayhew Street, as Jupiter had instructed. They blew straight past, into the yellow section. The targets were getting fewer and farther between; if they didn’t hit one soon they might miss out. But Fen kept going, straight through the yellow targets, then the orange, showing no sign of stopping.

“Fen!” Morrigan finally shouted. “Fen, stop! Where are you going?”

“Courage Square,” Fen yelled back. “I’m getting you a gold target!”

Morrigan felt the blood drain from her face. What was Fenestra thinking? She’d gone mad; her cage-fighter competitive streak had taken over.

“No—Fen, Jupiter said—”

“Jupiter says lots of things. It’s all background noise to me. Hold tight.”

Fen went into turbo-gear, weaving and dodging through the candidates with a grace of which Morrigan hadn’t thought her capable. She leapt over three, four heads at a time, landed elegantly in the tiniest patches of ground, and without missing a beat, bounded off again. She was absolutely the “all-terrain beast” Jupiter had hoped for—launching from ground to trees, rebounding off the sides of buildings. Morrigan could only cling on for dear life.

She looked over her shoulder and saw, with no small amount of glee, that Noelle and her mare were gone—disappeared completely, as if they’d been swallowed back into the crowd or had shot off down a side street.

A tiny tendril of hope blossomed in Morrigan’s heart. Maybe Fen was right—maybe they could get a golden target!

But the stampeding rhino was gaining speed. Morrigan could see his rider properly now, and was surprised to find she recognized her—it was Noelle’s awful friend.

Only she wasn’t laughing like a hyena, as she’d done at the Wundrous Welcome. Nor was she smug and superior, as she’d been at the Book Trial. She looked… terrified. Her long, black braid had fallen half-loose and wild, and she was shouting and pulling hard on the reins to no avail; she’d lost all control of her steed. (Morrigan knew the feeling.)

The rhino, on the other hand, was fierce and determined. He had sussed out who his biggest competition was and was aiming right for them, horn first.

Morrigan tugged hard on Fen’s fur and yelled into the Magnificat’s ear the only words her brain could force out of her mouth: “Fen! Rhino!”