Morrigan held her breath as the cat’s fist-sized amber eyes scanned her up and down. Finally, it turned and slunk back inside. Morrigan tried to retreat but Jupiter nudged her through the doorway. She looked up at him, panicked. Was it a trick? Had he saved her from the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow only to feed her to his giant cat?

“Very funny,” Jupiter said to the animal’s hulking backside as it led them down a long, narrow, dimly lit hallway. “I hope you’ve got my breakfast on, you matted old brute. How long have we got?”

“Six and a half minutes,” the cat called back to him. “You’re cutting it stupidly fine as usual. Do take those disgusting boots off before you go walking mud across the lobby, won’t you?”

Jupiter held one hand on Morrigan’s shoulder, steering her straight ahead. Gas lanterns in sconces on the wall were turned low. It was hard to see much, but the carpet looked shabby and worn and the wallpaper peeled in places. There was a faint smell of damp. They reached a steep wooden staircase and began to climb.

“This is the service entrance. Ghastly, I know—needs some fixing up,” said Jupiter, and Morrigan realized with a start that he was speaking to her. How did he know what she was thinking? “Any messages, Fen?”

The cat turned to look at him as they reached a set of glossy black double doors at the top of the landing, and Morrigan could have sworn it rolled its eyes. “How should I know? I’m not your secretary. I said take off those boots.” With a thrust of its big gray head, the cat pushed open the door and they stepped into the most magnificent room Morrigan had ever seen.

The lobby of the Hotel Deucalion was cavernous and bright—which came as a surprise after the dim, threadbare service entrance (although, as surprises go, it wasn’t quite in the same league as being greeted at the door by a large talking cat). The floor was made of checkerboard black-and-white marble, and from the ceiling hung an enormous rose-colored chandelier in the shape of a sailing ship, dripping with crystals and bursting with warm light. There were potted trees and elegant furniture all around. A grand staircase curved around the walls, up and up to thirteen floors (Morrigan counted them) in a dizzying spiral.

“You can’t tell me what to do. I pay your wages!” Jupiter grumbled, but he took off his traveling boots. A young man collected them and handed Jupiter a pair of polished black shoes, which he reluctantly put on.

Staff in pink-and-gold uniforms greeted Jupiter with a cheerful “Good Morningtide, sir” or “Happy New Age, Captain North” as they passed.

“Happy New Age to you, Martha,” he called in reply. “Happy New Age, Charlie. Good Morningtide, everyone! Up to the roof now, all of you, or you’ll miss everything. You three—no, four—come take the elevator. Yes, you too, Martha, there’s plenty of room.”

As a small handful of staff obediently shadowed Jupiter across the vast lobby, Morrigan realized—he didn’t just live in the hotel, he owned it. All of this—the marble floors and chandelier, the gleaming concierge desk, the grand piano in the corner, that resplendent staircase—it was his. These people were Jupiter’s employees, even the enormous cat that scolded and scowled at him. Morrigan tried not to feel daunted.

“See you up there,” said the cat, leaping onto the curved staircase. “Don’t dawdle.” She bounded up the steps four at a time.

Jupiter turned to Morrigan. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said for the second time that day. “Why do I let a Magnificat tell me what to do? Well, it’s simple—”

“That’s not a Magnificat,” Morrigan interrupted.

Jupiter breathed in sharply, arching his neck to watch the cat disappear up the stairs in a receding spiral. He listened to make sure it was well out of hearing distance before turning back to Morrigan and whispering, “What do you mean, that’s not a Magnificat? Of course she’s a Magnificat.”

“I’ve seen pictures of Magnificats in the newspaper, and they’re nothing like that. President Wintersea has six of them pulling a carriage. They’re black and shiny”—Jupiter held a finger to his lips to shush her, glancing anxiously up the staircase again—“and they wear studded collars and big nose rings, and they definitely don’t talk.”

“Do not let Fenestra hear you saying that,” he hissed.

“Fenestra?”

“Yes!” he said, indignant. “She has a name, you know. No offense, but your ideas about Magnificats are wildly askew and you’d best keep them to yourself if you ever want to have clean sheets around here. Fen’s head of housekeeping.”

Morrigan stared at him. She wondered, at that moment, if it was wise to have traveled through a clock to a strange city to live in a hotel with a madman. “How can a cat be a housekeeper?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said again. They’d reached a circular elevator of gold and glass. Jupiter pressed a button that said ROOFTOP. “No opposable thumbs. How does she do the dusting? To be honest, I’ve asked myself the same question, but I’m not letting it keep me up at night and you shouldn’t either. Ah—here’s Kedgeree.”

The elevator doors opened just as an ancient but sprightly man with snowy-white hair dashed over to join them. He wore rosy tartan trousers, a gray suit jacket, and a pink handkerchief tucked into his pocket, the letters HD monogrammed on it in gold.

“Morrigan, this is Mr. Kedgeree Burns, my concierge. When you get lost in the hotel—and you will get lost—call for Kedgeree. I suspect he knows this place better than I do. Any messages? I’ve been out of range.” Jupiter ushered everyone inside the elevator before the doors whooshed shut.

Kedgeree handed him a stack of notes. “Aye, sir—sixteen from the League, four from the Society, and one from the Lord Mayor’s office.”

“Marvelous. Everything running smoothly?”

“Right as rain, sir, right as rain,” the concierge continued in a thick brogue. “The gentlemen from Paranormal Services came in on Thursday to see about our wee haunting on the fifth floor; I’ve sent the invoice to accounting. The Nevermoor Transportation Authority sent a messenger yesterday—they’re after your advice, something about echoes on the Gossamer Line. Oh, and someone’s left four alpacas in the conservatory; shall I have the front desk make an announcement?”

“Alpacas! Golly. Do they seem happy enough?”

“Chewing through the hothouse orchids as we speak.”

“Then it can wait until after.” (After what? Morrigan wondered.) “Is the room ready?”

“It certainly is, sir. Housekeeping done. Furniture polished. Fresh as a daisy.”

The elevator climbed, lighting up floor numbers as outside the glass walls the foyer fell away beneath them. Morrigan’s stomach dropped. She pressed a hand to the glass to steady herself. Martha, the housemaid Jupiter had greeted, gave her a reassuring smile. She was young but capable-looking, her mousy brown hair fastened into a neat bun, her uniform immaculately pressed.

“It’s like that the first few times,” she whispered kindly. Her smile reached all the way to her big, hazel eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Brollies ready?” asked Jupiter, and there was a flurry of movement as the staff all held up umbrellas in response. “Oh! I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Morrigan.”

He reached over and produced a long, thin brown paper parcel from somewhere in the depths of the blue overcoat still draped over her shoulders. Morrigan carefully unwrapped the paper to find a black oilskin umbrella with a silver filigree handle. The tip was a little bird, carved from opal. Morrigan ran her fingertips over the tiny iridescent wings, feeling utterly lost for words. She’d never had anything so lovely.

Attached to the handle with string was a little note.

“Th-thank you,” Morrigan stammered, a lump forming in her throat. “I’ve never—nobody’s ever—”

But before she could finish, the elevator doors opened to a great roar of celebratory noise, and Morrigan felt as if she’d been thrust into the eye of a colorful hurricane.

The wide open-air rooftop swarmed with hundreds of party guests, shrieking and giggling, dancing wildly, their euphoric faces lit by rows of burning torches and festoon lights. A huge dragon puppet danced among them, carried by a dozen people underneath. Costumed acrobats twirled and somersaulted on scarily high platforms. Above their heads spun glittering mosaic mirror balls, suspended seemingly by magic, spraying kaleidoscopic light everywhere Morrigan looked. An older boy laughed as he ran past her, chasing after the dancing dragon.

In the center of everything was a frothing pink champagne fountain and a bandstand where a group of white-jacketed musicians played swing music. (One of them appeared to be a large, bright green lizard on the upright bass, but Morrigan thought perhaps she was hallucinating due to exhaustion.) Even Fenestra the Magnificat seemed to be enjoying herself, batting a mirror ball and glowering at any dancer who came too close.

Morrigan hung back, her eyes wide, her eardrums assaulted by the wall of noise. In her head, she counted the hazards, tallied up all the many things that might go wrong with this party now that she and her curse had arrived. She imagined tomorrow’s newspaper headlines: ACROBAT FALLS FROM PLATFORM AND BREAKS NECK; CURSED CHILD TO BLAME. CHAMPAGNE FOUNTAIN TURNS TO POISONOUS ACID, HUNDREDS DIE GROSSLY.

It was all too much. First the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow, then a giant mechanical spider, the fog-laden mystery of border control, and now this… this ridiculous party. On a hotel rooftop. In a wild, sprawling secret city she’d never even heard of. With a mad ginger man and a giant cat.

This endless night would surely be the death of somebody, even if it wasn’t Morrigan.

“Jupiter!” somebody shouted. “Look—it’s Jupiter North! He’s here!”

With a squawk of surprised saxophone, the music came to an abrupt end. An excited tremor ran through the party.

“Toast!” one woman cried out.

Others echoed her, applauding and whistling, stamping their feet. Morrigan watched, captivated, as hundreds of shining faces all turned to him like sunflowers to the sun.

“A toast to the New Age, Captain North!”

Jupiter leapt onto the bandstand and held up one hand, reaching out to swipe a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray with the other. The party fell silent.

“Friends, honored guests, and my dear Deucalion family.” His voice rang out clearly in the crisp early-morning air. “We have danced, we have dined, we have drunk our fill. We have bid a tender and triumphant farewell to the Olden Age, and now we must step boldly into the New. May it be a good and happy one. May it bring unexpected adventures.”

“To unexpected adventures,” the party guests echoed as one, downing their pink champagne.

Jupiter grinned straight at Morrigan through the crowd, and she smiled back, holding her umbrella tight. Everything about this night was an unexpected adventure.

“Now, if you have the courage, I invite you to join me in the Deucalion’s time-honored Morningtide tradition.” He pointed to the east. Far off on the horizon, a shimmering line of golden light was beginning to show. “Put out the torches. Dawn has come, and we will see ourselves by its light.”

One by one, the torches were extinguished. The festoon lights flickered out. Jupiter beckoned Morrigan over, and she followed him to the edge of the rooftop.

Nevermoor stretched out for miles in every direction. Morrigan imagined she was on a ship, sailing an ocean of buildings and streets and people and life.

A thrill crept down her neck, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. I’m alive, she thought, and the idea was so absurd and so wonderful that a laugh spilled from her mouth, cutting through the quiet. Morrigan didn’t care. She felt expansive, bursting with a new joy and temerity that could only come from having cheated death.

It’s a New Age, she thought with disbelief. And I’m alive.

A woman to Morrigan’s left climbed up on the balustrade. She held up the hem of her long, flowing silk gown and opened an umbrella above her head. All around, others followed suit, until the rail was packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder, holding their umbrellas high and staring into the sun.

“Step boldly!” the woman in the silk gown shouted. Then without hesitation, she leapt from the roof and floated down, down, down all thirteen stories. Morrigan turned to Jupiter with alarm, but he looked utterly untroubled. She waited for a cry of pain or a loud splat from below, but neither came. The woman landed on the ground, stumbled a bit, and gave a shout of triumph.

Impossible, thought Morrigan.

“Step boldly!” cried another guest, and then Kedgeree the concierge, then Martha the housemaid—“Step boldly!”—and another, and another, and soon the air was filled with a chorus of those two electrifying words. They stepped off the rail one by one, until Morrigan was looking down on a sea of umbrellas.

Then Jupiter, without a backward glance, stepped onto the rail and opened his umbrella. The boy she’d seen earlier climbed up on his other side. Together they cried, “Step boldly!” and leapt from the balustrade.

Morrigan watched them drift gently downward. It felt like an age passed before they reached the ground, but finally Jupiter and the boy landed safely on their feet, laughing and hugging, thumping each other on the back. Then Jupiter turned to look back up at her.

She waited for him to say something, but he was silent. No words of encouragement. No persuasion or reassurance. He simply watched, waiting to see what she would do.

Morrigan felt a swirl of panic and elation. This was her second chance; the beginning of a new life she never dreamed she’d have. Was she going to ruin it by breaking both her cursed legs? Or worse—splattering herself all over the ground? Had she cheated Death on Eventide, only to hand him an easy victory on Morningtide?

There was only one way to find out.

Morrigan let Jupiter’s overcoat fall in a pile at her feet. Climbing onto the balustrade, she opened her new oilskin umbrella with shaking hands. Don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down. The air felt thin.

“Step boldly,” Morrigan whispered.

Then she closed her eyes.

And jumped.

The wind caught her in its arms. Morrigan felt a powerful rush of adrenaline as she fell to the ground, the cold air whipping her hair around her face, and at last landed firmly on both feet. The impact sent a jolt up her legs and she stumbled, but somehow—miraculously—stayed upright.

Morrigan opened her eyes. All around, party guests were celebrating their triumph over gravity, jumping into the large marble fountain with loud splashes and drenching their party clothes. Only Jupiter stood still, watching Morrigan, his face a mixture of pride, relief, and admiration. Nobody in the world had ever looked at her that way.

She marched over to where he stood, unsure whether to throw her arms around him or push him into the fountain. In the end she did neither.

“Happy New Age” were the words Morrigan spoke.

But the words in her heart were I’m alive.