The white blanket of snow over Nevermoor turned to miserable gray slush in the days after Christmas. Rain battered the windows of the Hotel Deucalion and jolliness quickly turned to postholiday gloom, every hour of which brought Morrigan closer to the day she had been dreading all year long—the Show Trial.

But, unbelievably, the Show Trial was only her second-biggest problem now.

Morrigan had spent an agonizing two days since Christmas working up the courage to tell Jupiter what she’d learned about Ezra Squall and Mr. Jones. Every time she’d gone to knock on his office door, the picture of Squall clutched in her white-knuckled fist, her nerve had utterly failed her.

She desperately wanted to tell him. But how? What could she possibly say? Guess what, Jupiter? The evilest man who ever lived thought I’d make a great evil apprentice. Oh, and he’s been visiting me in Nevermoor for months. Oh, and I put the whole city in danger because I didn’t want to tell you.

More than anything, Morrigan wanted to talk to Hawthorne. Just when she thought the awful truth was going to bubble up and burst out of her like molten lava, her friend returned from the Highlands at last.

“Are you sure?” he said, squinting at the picture, a note of desperate hope in his voice. “It could be his grandfather?”

Exasperated, Morrigan groaned and rolled her eyes for approximately the hundredth time that afternoon. She’d barely slept a wink and was now wearing a groove in her bedroom floor from pacing back and forth (the bedroom seemed amused by this and kept stretching the walls farther apart so she had to walk longer distances each time).

“I’m telling you—it’s him. It’s the exact same man. He’s got the same scar, the same freckle above his lip, the same exact nose, the same everything. If this isn’t Mr. Jones, I’m not Morrigan Crow.”

“But why would he pretend to be his own assistant?”

“Maybe because he hasn’t aged a single day since this portrait was painted almost a hundred years ago.” Morrigan shoved the print an inch from his nose. “Look. You saw him on Hallowmas—just look.”

Hawthorne pursed his lips, pulling the picture back and squinting at it. He took a long, deep breath and finally nodded reluctantly. “It’s him. Has to be. That scar—”

“Exactly.”

He frowned. “But Dame Chanda said—”

“—that he’s banned from the Free State, I know,” Morrigan interrupted. “And Kedgeree said the city keeps him out with ancient magic.”

“Exactly. Plus, what about all those people guarding the borders? The Sky Force, the Royal Sorcery Council, the Magicians’ League, and all that? Nobody could get past all of them, not even the Wundersmith.”

Morrigan dropped into the armchair, hugging a cushion to her chest. “But Mr. Jones—Squall—he was here, Hawthorne. I saw him. We both saw him. It doesn’t make any sense.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rain pelt against the glass. It was nearing dusk.

Hawthorne sighed. “I have to go. I promised Dad I’d be home before dark. Show Trial’s tomorrow—don’t forget,” he added, half joking. As if either of them could forget their final trial for the Society. As if Morrigan could forget the day she’d been having nightmares about for months.

Hawthorne watched his friend for a long, solemn moment. “Morrigan, I think it’s time to—”

“I know,” she said quietly, turning to face the gloom outside her window. “I have to tell Jupiter.”

Morrigan knocked tentatively on the door to Jupiter’s study.

“What?” grumbled a voice that certainly didn’t belong to her patron. She pushed the door open to find Fenestra stretched out on a rug in front of the fireplace. The Magnificat yawned broadly and fixed her sleepy yellow eyes on Morrigan. “What do you want?”

“Where is he? I need to see him. It’s urgent.”

“Who?”

“Jupiter,” said Morrigan, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

“Not here.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She gestured to his empty study. “Where is he, the Smoking Parlor? The dining room? Fen, this is important.”

“He’s not. Here. He’s not at the hotel.”

“He—what?”

“He left.”

Morrigan’s heart leapt into her throat. “Left to go where?”

A shrug. A lick of her paw. “No idea.”

“When will he be back?”

“Didn’t say.”

“But—but it’s the last trial tomorrow,” Morrigan said, her voice pitching upward. “He’ll be back before then, won’t he?”

Fenestra rolled over and clawed at the rug, then rubbed her ears languorously.

Morrigan was suddenly terrified. When Jupiter left the Deucalion he was sometimes gone for hours, or sometimes for days, or sometimes for weeks at a time. Morrigan never knew when he’d be back, nobody ever knew, and the thought that he might not return in time for the Show Trial filled her with icy dread.

He’d promised her. He’d promised.

Just like he promised to take you to the Nevermoor Bazaar, said a little voice in the back of her head. And look how that turned out.

But this was different, Morrigan told herself. This was her trial. The big one—the one he’d sworn he’d take care of, the one he’d said she didn’t have to even think about. She’d done her very best not to think about it, but now what? She couldn’t do it on her own. She didn’t even know what her talent was supposed to be.

“Fenestra, please!” she yelled, and the cat turned to glare at her. “What’s he doing, where did he go?”

“He said he had something important to do. That’s all I know.”

Morrigan’s heart sank. More important than being there for the most important day of her life? More important than keeping his promise?

She felt wrong-footed. Seized by the sudden terror of her predicament, she entirely forgot why she’d been looking for him in the first place.

She was on her own. She would have to do her Show Trial without him. She was on her own.

Morrigan slumped down into one of the leather armchairs by the fire. Her whole body felt as if it were made of lead.

Fenestra stood up suddenly and appeared above Morrigan’s armchair, bringing her enormous squashed furry face down to the girl’s eye level. “Did he say he’d be here for your trial?”

Tears pricked Morrigan’s eyes. “Yes, but—”

“Did he tell you he’d take care of it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did he promise you everything would be all right?”

A few hot tears spilled down Morrigan’s face. “Yes, but—”

“That settles it, then.” With a placid blink of her huge amber eyes, Fen nodded once. “He’ll be here for your trial. He’ll take care of it. Everything will be all right.”

Morrigan sniffled and wiped her nose with her shirtsleeve. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “How do you know that?”

“He’s my friend. I know my friend.”

Fenestra was silent for a while, and Morrigan thought she’d fallen asleep standing up. Then she felt something warm, wet, and sandpapery lick the entire right side of her face. She sniffled again, and Fen’s big gray head rubbed her shoulder affectionately.

“Thanks, Fen,” Morrigan said quietly. She heard Fenestra padding softly to the door. “Fen?”

“Mmm?”

“Your saliva smells like sardines.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a cat.”

“Now my face smells like sardines.”

“I don’t care. I’m a cat.”

“Night, Fen.”

“Good night, Morrigan.”