Here it comes. Get ready to jump.”

Jupiter had decided they’d ride the Brolly Rail to the garden party so Morrigan could try out her birthday present. However, the problem with the Brolly Rail was that it never stopped or even slowed down to let passengers on and off. The circular steel frame hung from a cable that ran all over the city in a loop. You were supposed to jump on as it whizzed past the platform and hook your umbrella onto one of the metal rings suspended from the frame above, holding on for dear life, legs dangling in the air, until you reached your destination.

“Remember, Mog,” said Jupiter as they watched the circular frame speed toward them. “When it’s time to get off, just pull the lever to release your brolly. Oh, and when you land, try to aim for a soft bit of ground.” Morrigan’s apprehension must have shown, because Jupiter added, “You’ll be fine. I’ve only broken a leg on this thing once. Twice, max. Ready… Go!”

They leapt for the rail, Morrigan holding so tight to her umbrella she thought she might crush it. The bone-shaking terror she’d felt watching the platform speed toward her was washed away by a wave of adrenaline, and she let out a triumphant shout as they hooked onto the rail. Jupiter grinned, throwing his head back to enjoy the ride. They zoomed through the Deucalion’s neighborhood and into the cobbled streets of Old Town, crisp spring air biting at Morrigan’s face and stinging her eyes, and finally jumped off at their destination—both, miraculously, landing on their feet. Not a broken leg between them.

The Wundrous Society campus was surrounded by high brick walls. There was a stern security guard checking names against a list, but she recognized Jupiter immediately and waved the pair of them through, smiling.

Something changed when they stepped through the gates. It was as if everything were slightly different, as if the air itself had shifted. Morrigan breathed in deeply. The air smelled of honeysuckle and roses, and the sun felt warmer on her skin. It was strange, she thought. Outside the gates, the sky hadn’t looked quite as blue, and the flowers were still only tiny buds, the barest hint of spring’s arrival.

Jupiter said something that sounded like “one-sock weather.”

“One sock… Sorry, what?” asked Morrigan, puzzled.

“W-U-N-S-O-C: Wunsoc. Short for WUNdrous SOCiety—it’s what we call the campus. Inside the walls of Wunsoc, the weather’s a bit… more.”

“A bit more what?”

“Just a bit more. More of whatever it’s like in the rest of Nevermoor. Wunsoc lives in its own little climate bubble. Today it’s a bit warmer, a bit more sunny, a bit more springlike. Lucky us.” He nabbed a sprig of cherry blossom from a branch in passing and secured it in his buttonhole. “Double-edged sword, though. In winter it’s a bit more windy, a bit more frozen, and a bit more miserable.”

The driveway stretching up to the main building was lined with gas lamps and—out of place among the colorful flower beds and pink cherry blossoms—two rows of dead, starkly black trees, untouched by the Wunsoc weather phenomenon.

“What about those?” Morrigan asked, pointing.

“Nah, they haven’t flowered in Ages. Fireblossom trees—lovely once upon a time, but the whole species is extinct, and impossible to chop down. Bit of a sore spot with the gardeners, so don’t say anything—we all just pretend they’re very ugly statues.”

Patrons and their candidates hurried along, chatting and laughing as if they were off to a birthday party, while Morrigan was twisted up in one big, nervous knot.

She couldn’t have felt more distant from them if she’d been walking on the moon.

The main building on campus, signposted PROUDFOOT HOUSE, was five stories of cheerful red brick covered with climbing vines of ivy. Candidates weren’t allowed inside Proudfoot House today, but the gardens were glorious; the picture of a spring afternoon, filled with people in light linen suits and pastel dresses. Jupiter had allowed Morrigan to choose her own outfit—a black dress with silver buttons, which Dame Chanda declared “smart, but utterly lacking in spectacle.” Morrigan thought Jupiter’s lemon-yellow suit and lavender shoes provided enough spectacle for both of them.

A string quartet played on the steps of a sweeping terrace above the lawn. Inside a white tent there was a table piled high with cream cakes, pies, and towering, wobbly gelatin sculptures, but Morrigan couldn’t think of eating. It felt like mice were gnawing her stomach from the inside.

As they weaved through the crowd, Morrigan noticed people turning to look at them with expressions ranging from polite surprise to openmouthed shock.

“Why is everyone looking at us?”

“They’re looking at you because you’re with me.” He waved merrily at a pair of women who were staring. “And they’re looking at me because I’m very handsome.”

The candidates were mostly huddled in groups. Morrigan edged closer to Jupiter.

“They won’t bite,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Well, most of them won’t. Avoid the dog-faced boy over by that tree; he mightn’t have had all his shots yet.”

There was indeed a dog-faced boy loitering near one of the large ferns that dotted the lawn. There was also a boy with arms twice the length they ought to have been, and a girl with yards and yards of glossy black hair that she’d piled up in braids and was pulling behind her in a little wagon.

“I don’t think it’s the year for interesting physical features, unluckily for them,” Jupiter mused. “Nobody’s quite gotten over the girl with sledgehammer hands a few years back. Huge repair bill after she graduated. I believe she’s a professional wrestler now.”

Jupiter walked Morrigan around the garden paths, making comments under his breath.

“Baz Charlton,” he murmured, nodding discreetly toward a long-haired man in leather trousers and a wrinkled suit jacket. “Odious man. Avoid him like the pox.”

A group of girls stood near Baz Charlton. One of them, with thick chestnut hair and a sparkly blue dress, glanced at Morrigan and whispered to her friends. They turned to stare. Morrigan smiled forcefully, remembering what Dame Chanda had said about first impressions, and the girls laughed. Morrigan wondered if this was a good sign.

Jupiter took two glasses of purple punch from a passing waiter and handed one to her. She peeked inside; there were pink things floating in it. No—wriggling in it. There were pink, squishy, wriggling things in her purple punch.

“They’re supposed to wriggle,” said Jupiter, noticing her look of disgust. “Wriggly things taste better.”

Morrigan took a hesitant sip. It was delicious—an explosion of sweet, rosy light. She was about to admit as much when the man in leather trousers appeared. He slapped Jupiter on the back and threw a heavy arm around his shoulders.

“North! North, me old mate,” he slurred. “Lost the plot, have you, North? Hamish over there tells me you’ve gone and bid on a child. They not paying you enough at the League of Explorers? Or have you decided to hang up your compass and let someone else be the big adventurer? Quiet life now, is it?”

The man guffawed into his brandy. Jupiter grimaced, his nose crinkling unpleasantly.

“Afternoon, Baz,” he said, with a very small amount of forced politeness.

“This her, is it?” Baz Charlton squinted down at Morrigan. “Famous Jupiter North’s first-ever candidate. Won’t the tabloids be aflutter.”

He waited for Jupiter to introduce him, but Jupiter did not.

“Charlton. Baz Charlton,” the man said finally. He gestured grandly to himself, waiting for a spark of recognition from Morrigan. When no spark came, his face soured. “What’s your name, girl?”

Morrigan’s eyes met Jupiter’s. He nodded. “Morrigan Crow.”

“Bit miserable-looking, North, if you ask me,” Mr. Charlton whispered loudly into Jupiter’s ear, ignoring her altogether. Morrigan bristled. Was she supposed to walk around constantly smiling like an idiot? “She foreign? Where’d you find her?”

“Nunya.”

“Nunya? Never heard of it.” Baz leaned in close, his eyes gleaming, and whispered conspiratorially, “That in the Republic, is it? Smuggled her in, did you? Go on, tell your old friend Baz.”

“Yes,” said Jupiter. “A town called Nunya Business, in the Keep-Your-Nose-Out Republic.”

Baz Charlton chuckled humorlessly, looking disappointed. “Oh, very clever. What’s her knack, then?”

“Also nunya,” said Jupiter, extricating himself smoothly from the man’s grip.

“Playing that game, are we? Fine, fine. Makes no difference. You know me, I don’t push.” He looked Morrigan up and down. “Dancer? No, legs aren’t long enough. She’s not a brainiac either, not with that vacant look in her eyes.” He waved a hand in front of her face. Morrigan was tempted to slap it away. “One of the arcane arts, perhaps. Sorceress? Oracle?”

“I thought you said it made no difference,” said Jupiter. He sounded bored. “Where’s your parade of candidates? Big haul this year?”

“Only eight, North, only eight. Three girls,” Mr. Charlton said, waving vaguely toward the group that had laughed at Morrigan earlier. He sniffed and took a large swig of brandy. “And the boys are around somewhere. Small group, but not a loser among ’em. Terrific pickings this year. That one’s the real star, though. Noelle Devereaux. Don’t want to give too much away, but—voice of an angel. Never met a stronger candidate. She’ll rank number one, you mark my words.”

Morrigan watched the girl and her friends. Pretty, well-dressed Noelle was talking nonstop while the other girls listened avidly. She was poised and confident, with an easy smile. Morrigan couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. Why wouldn’t the Wundrous Society want someone like Noelle Devereaux?

“Congratulations,” Jupiter said blandly.

“But this one, North,” continued Mr. Charlton, waving a hand at Morrigan. “I don’t understand. What’s the appeal? I mean, those eyes, North, those awful black eyes. The Elders don’t go for the mean-looking ones. This one would as soon kill you as look at—”

He was cut off by a sharp look from Jupiter, his mouth left hanging open.

“Consider your next words carefully, Mr. Charlton,” Jupiter said in the low, cold voice that Morrigan had heard from him only once before, on Eventide at Crow Manor. She shivered.

Baz Charlton closed his mouth. Jupiter stepped aside, releasing the long-haired man from his gaze and allowing him to stumble away. He sighed as he smoothed down his yellow suit and gave Morrigan’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Told you. Odious man. Pay no attention.”

Morrigan took a sip of punch, Mr. Charlton’s words ringing in her ears. The Elders don’t go for the mean-looking ones.

“Baz is what we call a Spaghetti Patron,” Jupiter explained. He continued to guide Morrigan through the garden, waving to people here and there. “He scours the Free State for potential candidates every year and enters about a dozen into the trials, regardless of whether they’re truly ready, just to increase his chances of a placement. Like throwing strands of spaghetti against a wall and hoping one sticks, you see?”

“Does it work?” Morrigan asked.

“Maddeningly often.” He steered Morrigan left to avoid a boisterous group of teenagers who were trying to get his attention. “Ah, here’s young Nan.”

A towering, broad-shouldered woman approached and shook his hand. “Captain North, in the flesh! I’d heard rumors you were taking a candidate, but I never believed it. Jupiter North, I said—not on your nelly. Here you are, though, candidate and all. Hello there,” she finished with a smile at Morrigan.

“Nancy Dawson, meet Morrigan Crow.” Jupiter nodded at Morrigan, and she shook Nan’s proffered hand. She was younger than Jupiter, with an earnest, dimpled smile that made her burly frame less intimidating.

“Pleasure, Miss Crow. I’d like to introduce my own candidate, Hawthorne, but he disappeared soon’s we arrived. Probably setting something on fire.” Nan rolled her eyes, but she looked pleased. “It’s not his official knack, troublemaking, but it’s a close second.”

“What’s his official knack?” Morrigan asked. Jupiter’s gaze flickered to hers and his eyes narrowed slightly. She mumbled under her breath, “What? Is that a rude question?”

Nan chuckled. “I don’t mind. Don’t go for all that secret squirrel rubbish, me.” She drew herself up. “I’m proud as punch to tell you that Hawthorne Swift is, in my humble opinion, the finest dragonrider in Nevermoor’s junior league.”

“Ah, of course.” Jupiter grinned. “What else? A fine choice of candidate for the five-time Dragonriding Champion of the Free State.”

Nan’s smile faltered, but only for half a second. “Former champion,” she corrected. She tapped her right leg, and Morrigan was surprised to hear a hollow knock. “Won’t be competing again soon, not with this old thing.”

“Is that a false leg?” asked Morrigan. It took all her self-restraint not to reach out and tap it herself. Jupiter cleared his throat loudly, but Nan didn’t seem bothered.

“Aye. A marvel of modern medicine and engineering, that is: cedar, Wunder, and steel.” She lifted her trouser leg to reveal a limb of wood and metal that somehow, miraculously, seemed to move and flex almost like the muscles and tendons of a real leg, as though the wood itself were alive. “That’s good old-fashioned Wun ingenuity, Miss Crow. You wouldn’t believe the things they can do at the Wundrous Society Hospital. Proper miracle workers, them.”

“What happened to the real leg?”

“Chomped off and swallowed by my opponent’s dragon in the annual tournament two summers ago. Ugly, vicious thing he was.” She took a sip of wriggly punch. “His dragon weren’t very nice either.”

Morrigan and Jupiter laughed.

“Still, mustn’t grumble.” Nan’s face broke into a bright, sincere smile. “I’m coaching full-time for the junior league now. It’s steady work, and I couldn’t ask for a better student than young Swift. He’s been riding since he could walk, and he’ll make a first-rate competitor when he’s old enough to enter the tournament. If he decides to give up his lifelong commitment to being a boofhead.”

There was a sudden tinkling sound as patrons all around began gently flicking the rims of their glasses. The string quartet stopped playing. Three people—or rather, Morrigan noted with some confusion, one man, one woman, and one shaggy bull in a waistcoat—had assembled on the balcony.

“That’s our newest High Council of Elders,” Jupiter whispered to Morrigan. “At the end of every Age, the Society elects three members to guide and govern us for the next Age. They’re the best and most brilliant of us.”

“Okay, but why is one of them a bu—”

“Shh, listen.”

A reverent hush descended as one of the Elders approached a microphone stand. A thin, stooped woman with wispy gray hair, she seemed unbalanced by the enormous flowery hat on her head. Morrigan worried for a moment that she might topple over the balcony onto her face. One of the other Elders stepped forward to steady her, but the old woman slapped his hands away, clearing her throat imperiously.

“As many of you will know,” she began, “I am Elder Gregoria Quinn. Beside me are Elder Helix Wong and Elder Alioth Saga.” She gestured first to the man, and then the bull. “We, the High Council of Elders, would like to welcome you to Proudfoot House on this important day. I know that for all of you children this is your first real experience of the Wundrous Society. And for most of you, it will be your last.”

Morrigan winced at those stark words, and she wasn’t the only one. All around her, candidates shot furtive looks at their patrons, seeking reassurance. Could they possibly be as nervous as she was? Morrigan doubted it. What if it was her last time here? Jupiter still hadn’t said what would happen if she failed the trials.

“My esteemed colleagues and I,” Elder Quinn continued, “wish to thank you, young candidates, for your bravery, optimism, and trust. To face the challenges you are about to face, with no promise of a place in the Society at the end of it all… that takes no small amount of gumption. We applaud you.”

She paused to beam at the guests, and she and Elder Wong, a gray-bearded man with colorful tattoos covering his arms and neck, applauded enthusiastically. The bull, Elder Saga, stamped his hooves. Morrigan took a nervous sip of punch; her mouth had gone dry. “I’ve been told our candidates this year number more than five hundred! With so many talented young people in our midst, I feel certain we will find nine new Society members who will impress us, make us proud, and make us glad to know them for the rest of their lives.”

Morrigan looked at Jupiter, but he was watching the old lady with rapt attention.

Nine? They were only accepting nine new members? From more than five hundred candidates? Jupiter had failed to mention that small detail.

Her heart sank. She didn’t have a hope. How could she possibly compete with Noelle, who had the voice of an angel, or Hawthorne, who’d been riding dragons since he could walk? Even the dog-faced boy stood a better chance than she did. At least he had a gimmick! Morrigan didn’t know what she had, but she strongly suspected it was a big fat nothing.

“In the months to come you will be put to the test—physically and mentally—beginning with the Book Trial at the end of spring,” continued Elder Quinn. She paused to look sternly over her glasses. “We suggest you use your time not only to make new friends and form valuable alliances with your fellow candidates, but also to build strength of mind in preparation for what lies ahead.

“Joining the Wundrous Society is a privilege granted to the few and the special. Among our members are many of the Free State’s supreme thinkers, leaders, performers, explorers, inventors, scientists, sorcerers, artists, and athletes. We are the special ones. We are the great ones. And there are times when some of us are called upon to do great things, to protect these Seven Pockets against those who would do us harm. Against those who would seek to take away our freedom, and our lives.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A boy standing nearby whispered “The Wundersmith,” and the handful of children who were close enough to hear him all looked stricken.

The Wundersmith again, thought Morrigan. Whoever or whatever he was, it seemed that the specter of the Wundersmith loomed so large over Nevermoor that he needn’t even be mentioned by name to strike fear in people’s hearts. Perhaps it was because she was a Free State outsider, but Morrigan couldn’t help thinking it was a bit silly, given that Jupiter had said he hadn’t been seen for over a hundred years.

“But,” continued Elder Quinn more brightly, “it must be said that the benefits of joining our ranks rather outweigh the challenges.” There was a ripple of knowing laughter across the garden. Elder Quinn smiled and waited for silence before continuing. “Children, look at your patrons. Look around you, at the members of our Wundrous family, and your fellow candidates.

“You all have one thing in common. There is something in you that makes you different. A gift that separates you from your peers, from your friends. Even from your own family.”

Morrigan swallowed. There were hundreds of people hanging on Elder Quinn’s every word. But somehow, she felt the old woman was speaking only to her.

“I know from experience, that can be a lonely path to tread. Oh! How I wish we could fold each and every one of you under our wings. But to the nine of you who join us at the end of the year, I promise this: a place to belong. A family. And friendships to last a lifetime.

“From today, you are official participants in the trials for Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society. The road will be long and difficult, but perhaps—just perhaps—something wonderful awaits you at the end of it. Good luck.”

Morrigan clapped hard along with everyone else. Family. Belonging. Friendships to last a lifetime. Were Elder Quinn and Jupiter reading from the same brochure? Or had they peered into her heart and read a wish list she’d never known was there?

For the first time, the Wundrous Society felt real to Morrigan.

After a round of applause, most of the patrons and candidates returned to the dessert buffet. Jupiter hung back, leaning down to speak in Morrigan’s ear.

“I’m going to catch up with some old friends,” he said. “You should go make some new ones.”

He twirled her around and gave her a gentle shove toward a group of children wandering around the other side of Proudfoot House.

You can do this, Morrigan thought, galvanized by Elder Quinn’s extravagant promises. Family. Belonging. Friendship.

She lifted her chin in the air and followed the other children, practicing in her head what she would say. Was it best to start with a joke? Or perhaps a more direct approach? Could she simply say “My name’s Morrigan, would you like to be my friend?” Did people actually do that?

At the front of Proudfoot House the children were milling on the steps. Baz Charlton’s candidate, Noelle, was addressing a plump, sweet-faced girl with rosy cheeks.

“So you’re a nun, Anna?” said Noelle.

“No, I’m not a nun. I live with nuns—the Sisters of Serenity.” The girl’s cheeks turned even rosier. “And it’s Anah, not Anna.”

Noelle looked to her friends with barely stifled laughter. “Actual nuns? Nuns that dress like penguins?”

“No, no.” Anah shook her head, and golden ringlets danced around her face, settling prettily on her shoulders. Noelle twitched. Her hand shot straight up to her own lustrous, long hair, a lock of which she began curling feverishly around one finger. “They mostly wear normal clothes. Black-and-white habits are only for Sunday chapel.”

“Oh, they only dress like penguins on Sunday,” said Noelle. She laughed, looking around to see who else found her hilarious. A few others joined in, but the tall, wiry, dark-skinned girl standing next to her seemed to find it funniest. She was doubled over with giggles, covering her mouth with both hands, her long black braid flipped over one shoulder. “And the other days they just wear cheap, ugly dresses, like yours? Did the penguins give that dress to you when you became a nun?”

Anah’s blush had crept across her entire face. Morrigan cringed in sympathy. Had Anah been trying to make friends too? Had she approached Noelle, just as Morrigan had intended to do, only to be teased in front of a bunch of strangers? Risky business, this friend-making thing.

“I’m not a nun,” insisted Anah. Her chin wobbled. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a nun,” she added quietly.

Noelle cocked her head to one side, radiating false sympathy. “But that is something a nun would say, isn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up,” Morrigan snapped.

Everyone turned to look at her with mild surprise. She was a bit surprised herself.

Noelle’s top lip curled. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Morrigan said, raising her voice a little. “Leave her alone.”

“Are you from the convent too?” Noelle said, raising her eyebrows at Morrigan’s black dress. “Don’t you penguins have a curfew? Why don’t you waddle off?” Her friend snorted in a most unladylike fashion.

Morrigan was beginning to miss the old days in Jackalfax, when everybody had been terrified by her mere presence. She thought of Jupiter and drew back her shoulders, saying in a voice as low and cold as she could muster, “Consider your next words carefully.”

Silence. And then—

“Ha!” Noelle exploded with laughter, followed by her friend and all the other candidates surrounding her. As they fell over themselves laughing, Morrigan realized how utterly unterrifying she had become. She didn’t know if she was pleased or disappointed.

The laughter died down. Noelle glared at Morrigan. Anah, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity as a divine reprieve and disappeared. You’re welcome, Morrigan thought, feeling a tiny bit resentful.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop.” Noelle put her hands on her hips. “But I wouldn’t expect good manners from an illegal.”

“A what?”

“My patron says your patron smuggled you into the Free State. He says nobody’s ever heard of you before, so you must be from the Republic. Do you know that’s against the law? You belong in jail.”

Morrigan frowned. Was she in the Free State illegally? She wasn’t stupid… she knew Jupiter had done something funny at border control, that holding up a chocolate wrapper and a used tissue as their “papers” definitely wasn’t normal procedure.

But did that mean he’d smuggled her in? Were they criminals?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morrigan said, arranging her face into a convincing sneer. “And your patron is an odious man.”

Noelle faltered, blinking momentarily. “Is that your knack? Using big words? I thought it must be wearing horrible clothes or being as ugly as a gutter rat. You’re obviously very good at those two—ugh!”

An enormous green gelatin sculpture had fallen from the sky and plopped straight down onto Noelle’s head. The sticky green ooze trickled down her face and hair and sparkly dress. She looked like she’d been dunked in radioactive sewage.

“Want some dessert, Noelle?” called a voice from above. There was a boy dangling from a window by one hand. He held an empty platter in the other and waved it at the children below, grinning happily.

Noelle shook with anger. Her chest heaved in great gasping breaths.

“You—I’m—you’ll never—you are in so much—ugh! Mr. Charlton!” She stormed down the front steps in search of her patron, the other children close behind, her friend with the braided hair still giggling.

The boy landed with a thud next to Morrigan. He flicked his head back, pushing a mop of thick brown curls out of his eyes, and adjusted his oversized pullover—a huge blue knitted thing with a glittery cat picture on the front. The cat had a pink ribbon sewn onto its head and a jingling silver bell attached to the collar. Morrigan wondered what in the world had possessed him to wear it.

“I liked that thing you did too. You know, ‘consider your next words carefully’ and all that,” he said, mimicking her low, angry voice. “But I reckon the only language some people understand is the language of the surprise dessert attack.”

She didn’t know how to respond to this unusual advice. The boy nodded sagely and they stood in silence for a few moments. Morrigan couldn’t stop staring at his sweater.

“D’you like it?” he said, looking down at his chest. “My mom bet me I wouldn’t wear it today. She bought it from a catalog. She gets loads of them for me, it’s called the Ugly Sweater Company. She’s pretty funny.”

“What do you get?”

“For what?”

“For winning the bet.”

“I get to wear the sweater.” He frowned, looking genuinely confused for a moment until his face lit up with some new idea. “Hey—could you help me with something?”

Twenty minutes later they returned to the garden party, deep in conversation and carrying a heavy wooden barrel between them. They’d dragged it from an empty corner of the grounds all the way around Proudfoot House to the back lawn.

The boy was pretty strong for somebody so gangly, Morrigan thought. Despite his knobbly legs and skinny arms, he was carrying most of the weight.

“It’s nice, yeah,” he puffed. “All the flowers and statues and stuff. But I’m telling you—massive vermin problem. My patron knows the groundskeeper. Reckons they get all sorts. Mice, rats, even snakes. They’ve just had a toad infestation. Only so many the Sorcery Department can use in one week, the groundskeeper says.”

“I don’t care,” said Morrigan, puffing with the effort of dragging the barrel up the steps, past the bemused players in the string quartet. “Proudfoot House is still the nicest place I’ve ever seen. Except for the Deucalion.”

“You’ve got to let me visit,” he said enthusiastically. He’d been excited to learn that Morrigan actually lived in a hotel. “Do you order room service every day? I would order room service every single day. Lobster for breakfast and cake for dinner. Do they leave chocolates on your pillow? My dad says all the fancy hotels leave chocolates on your pillow. Does it really have its own smoking parlor? And a dwarf vampire?”

“Vampire dwarf,” she corrected.

“Wow. Do you think I could come this weekend?”

“I’ll ask Jupiter. What’s in this, by the way? It’s so heavy.”

They’d reached the top of the steps and dropped the barrel at its final destination—the balcony railing.

The boy flicked his hair out of his eyes and grinned. He opened the barrel and, without a word, tipped it over the balcony. Dozens of slimy brown toads poured out like a disgusting waterfall and spilled in a wide arc across the pavement, croaking and leaping madly around the feet of the now-screaming party guests.

“Told you. Massive vermin problem.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened. She’d just helped to smuggle toads into a garden party. A slightly hysterical laugh escaped her; this probably wasn’t the sort of first impression Dame Chanda had in mind.

The garden below was in chaos. People were falling over each other in their desperation to get away from the toads. Somebody shouted for a servant. A table was knocked over and a punch bowl shattered on the ground, the purple liquid spilling out and splashing Elder Wong.

Morrigan and the boy sidled away from the crime scene, then broke into a run. They made it down the balcony steps and around the side of Proudfoot House before doubling over, breathless with laughter.

“That”—Morrigan panted and pressed one hand to a stitch in her side—“that was—”

“Outstanding. I know. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Morrigan,” she said, holding her hand out. “What’s—”

“Enjoying yourselves?” Jupiter wandered over with a placid smile, ignoring the stream of servants rushing past with nets and brooms.

Morrigan chewed the side of her mouth guiltily. “A bit.”

Nan Dawson ran up behind him. “Captain North, have you seen—” She stopped short at the sight of Morrigan’s new friend giggling helplessly. Her face turned red. “Hawthorne Swift!”

The boy gave his patron a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, Nan.” He did not sound remotely sorry. “Couldn’t waste a perfectly good barrel of toads.”

They took a carriage home, and there was silence for most of the journey. Finally, as they turned onto Humdinger Avenue, Jupiter spoke.

“You made a friend.”

“I think so.”

“Anything else of interest?”

Morrigan thought for a moment. “I think I made an enemy too.”

“I didn’t make my first proper enemy until I was twelve.” He sounded impressed.

“Maybe that’s my knack?”

Jupiter chuckled.

Instead of taking them to the Hotel Deucalion’s grand forecourt, the carriage stopped at the entrance to Caddisfly Alley. Jupiter paid the driver, and he and Morrigan made their way through the twisting narrow backstreet to the modest wooden door of the service entrance. Before he could open it, she put a hand on his arm.

“I’m here illegally, aren’t I?”

Jupiter chewed the side of his mouth. “A bit.”

“So… I don’t have a visa.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly, or not at all?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh.” Morrigan thought about that for a moment, trying to find the best way to ask her next question. “If I don’t… if they don’t let me in, you know, to the—to the Society…”

“Yes?” he prompted.

She drew in a deep breath. “Can I stay anyway? Here at the Deucalion, with you?” When Jupiter said nothing, she rushed ahead. “Not as a guest! I meant you could give me a job. You wouldn’t even have to pay me or anything. I could run errands for Kedgeree, or dust the silverware for Fen—”

Jupiter laughed loudly at that idea, pushing through the arched wooden door into the gaslit hallway with its faint smell of damp. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love working for cranky old Fen. But I suspect the Federation of Nevermoorian Hoteliers frowns on child labor.”

“Promise you’ll think about it?”

“Only if you promise you’ll stop thinking about not getting into the Society.”

“But if I don’t get in—”

“We’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it.”

Morrigan sighed. Just give me a straight answer, she thought. But she said no more.

Jupiter ushered Morrigan down the hall ahead of him. “Now. Tell me more about your resourceful new friend. Where in the Seven Pockets did he find a barrel full of toads?”