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Chapter Text

"I did not mean to be cruel. I swear, I am good. I am good, I am kind, I have love inside of me. Some place far, far away."

...

The kitchen cat was dead, and somehow that meant Morrigan and Rigel were to blame.

Neither of the twins knew how it had happened, but Rigel wasn't particularly pleased. He'd liked that cat, even though Cook complained that he was always jumping onto the counter, and the dead gardener complained that if he went to close to him while he was napping he started hissing at him. Not to mention if ever Rigel attempted to pick him up he would wrap his body around Rigel's arm and start biting and clawing, Rigel had never particularly minded though. If anything, he found it endearing. Viciously endearing.

Neither knew how it had happened, or when. Perhaps he'd eaten something poisonous overnight? There were no injuries to suggest a fox or dog attack. Apart from a bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, he looked like he was sleeping, but he was cold and stiff.

When they found his body in the weak winter morning light after a nice garden stroll, Morrigan crouched down beside him in the dirt, a frown creasing her forehead. She stroked his black pelt from the top of his head to the tip of his bushy tail.

"Sorry, kitchen cat," she murmured. Rigel frowned, crouching down to pull his eyelids shut, an unusually glum expression on the typically guarded boy's features.

The twins had debated where best to bury him, before Rigel settled on his napping spot in the garden, the place he always liked to rest under the half dead willow tree, purring and hissing in a (cruel but funny) attempt to startle the birds. Morrigan had suggested that they ask Grandmother for some nice linen, but Rigel had dismissed it, insisting he chould be wrapped in Rigel's old quilt, the one he used to curl up on and claw at softly while cuddled up to him. A decision, Morrigan was most angry at him for and had completely forbidden him, it was after all one of the last tethers the twins had to their deceased mother, something that Rigel himself was bitter about.

Their father had never liked either of the twins, but he always seemed to hate Rigel a little more. At least Morrigan knew their mother's name, their father had forbidden her to tell him. Rigel hated their father bitterly, he found him cruel and uncaring and oh-so-cold-hearted, which was ridiculous—because for somebody so closed off he had this intense loathing for people he found lacking in empathy.

Still, he settled for wrapping him in one of his finer scarves and humming to him softly—it was the closest he would ever get to singing any more, he'd always had a good singing voice, Morrigan wasn't particularly affected by it, but one time a neighbour girl had been walking down the road and heard him singing, she'd gotten caught in a right daze and for the next three weeks Rigel would receive terribly written poems and sonnets and plea's for him to sing to her just once more.

They'd definitely made him prouder of his own poetry.

Then the parents had gotten mad, accused Rigel of placing a hex on her, and demanded compensation form their father. Now, his father had forbidden him from singing, Ivy's idea. He hated her for it, he hated her for a lot of things really. 

Especially the result of said ban.

Morrigan had begged him to sing again, just one more time. She missed his voice, not in the way others did, in the way a sister who felt sorrowful for her brother did. After the ban had... well, he'd grown to resent singing and shoved it deep down into the darkest parts of him, with those broken, bleeding pieces of that within him that he hadn't quite managed to cut out. Those last bits of that weeping, broken child inside him he could never quite erase.

Cook opened the back door to give yesterday's scraps to the dogs and was so startled by the twins' presence, she nearly dropped her bucket. The old woman peered down at the dead cat and set her mouth in a line.

"Better his woe than mine, praise be to the Divine," she muttered, knocking on the wooden doorframe and kissing the pendant she wore around her neck. She glanced sideways at Morrigan and Rigel. "I liked that cat."

"No, you didn't," Rigel narrowed his eyes sharply, as he spoke in his usual emotionless tone," The only thing you liked about that cat was insulting it and kicking him in the side."

"So did I," said Morrigan, elbowing her brother to shut up. He was going to get beat by their father again at this rate.

"Oh yes, I can see that." There was a bitter note in her voice, and Morrigan noticed she was backing away, inch by wary inch. She'd be angry, or indignant (like how Rigel looked) but honestly, she was too busy being relieved the cook had opted to ignore Rigel's snarky retort. "Go on now, inside. They're waiting for you in his office."

Morrigan hurried into the house, hovering for a moment near the door from the kitchen to the hallway. She watched Cook take a piece of chalk and write KICHIN CAT—DEAD on the blackboard, at the end of a long list that most recently included SPOYLED FISH, OLD TOM'S HEART ATACK, FLOODS IN NORTH PROSPER, and GRAVY STAYNES ON BEST TABELCLOTH.

Rigel scoffed, giving a bitter whisper to Morrigan," No wonder she works for the help," he whispered disdainfully," She can't even spell properly."

Morrigan bit back a giggle, funny as it was to listen to her brother mock the old coot, it wasn't funny to listen to him be pompous and rude," You sound like Ivy."

"Take that back." He sneered, furious.

"You're right, I'm sorry," Morrigan held up her arms in surrender," You sound like our father."

Rigel's expression faltered, lips parting in horror, hurt and terror for a moment looking torn between anger and tears. Finally, he schooled his expression, lips curling into a snarl.

"I'm nothing like him," Rigel snapped, storming off. Morrigan winced, maybe she'd gone a little too far? He really hated their father. Still, she had to keep him in line somehow. She didn't want him to end up a spoiled brat.

...

"I can recommend several excellent child psychologists in the Greater Jackalfax area."

The new caseworker hadn't touched her tea and biscuits. She'd travelled two and a half hours from the capital by rail that morning and walked from the train station to Crow Manor in a wretched drizzle. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, her coat soaked through. Morrigan was struggling to think of a better remedy for this misery than tea and biscuits, but the woman seemed almost as uninterested in her food as Rigel—who was still giving his sister the silent treatment—was in interacting with any body in this room.

"I didn't make the tea," said Morrigan. "If that's what you're worried about."

Rigel gave a small scoff, turning his body impossibly farther away from her and rolling his eyes. Not everything revolved around them. Morrigan responded with her own eye roll, her brother was as petty and petulant as ever, she resolved to have cook make some custard tarts later. Maybe then he'd stop being such a twat. 

He was always rather hostile and defensive, but he'd been in a right form since the cat had died. He wasn't usually this angry, rather just... numb to the world around him.

The woman ignored her. "Dr. Fielding is famous for his work with cursed children. I'm sure you've heard of him. Dr. Llewellyn is also highly regarded, if you like a gentler, more maternal approach."

Rigel scoffed once more, this time audibly so. Their father shot him a scathing glare, clearly a message to get his act together. Rigel rolled his eyes, and her father's hand twitched like he wanted to backhand him right there. Morrigan didn't think that would be a good idea, Rigel tolerated a lot from their father, but he'd been real grumpy recently. He wouldn't fight a beating, but he'd definitely get some creative and humiliating revenge on the man if he tried anything at the moment. His glare worsened, Rigel responded with a withering, hateful look Morrigan had only seen on his face twice times in their entire life. She swallowed glancing away in discomfort.

Morrigan's father cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That won't be necessary."

Corvus had developed a subtle twitch in his left eye—the same one Rigel got, which he hated Morrigan acknowledging because he hated anything about him that even remotely resembled their father, which, unfortunately for him, was a lot, hence why he stuck to styling his features so differently from the man—that appeared only during these mandatory monthly meetings, which signalled to the twins that he hated them as much as they did. Arguably one of the only things Rigel had in common with the man that he didn't try to fight.

"Morrigan has no need of counselling," he continued. "She's a sensible enough child. She is well acquainted with her situation. And Rigel will be fine too, they have each other. That's all they need."

Rigel scoffed at the way their father added him, like an afterthought. Then again, he supposed he was an afterthought.

(He'd always been an afterthought.)

Were it coming from any one else, Rigel would find the words endearing, a point of pride—he and Morrigan were scarcely aware of each other's emotional state, Morrigan having grown tired of Rigel's defensive attitude and Rigel resentful towards her for a multitude of (admittedly unfair) reasons, so having somebody view their bond as one of fondness inspired a bittersweet nostalgia in the boy.

But coming from his father they just seemed callous and dismissive. Rigel swallowed thickly, their father's words were uncaring as ever. Once more, Rigel was an afterthought. Whatever leftover anger he had at Morrigan was overcome by a fresh wave of resentment towards their father as he locked eyes with his twin, the pair traded eye rolls. 

Morrigan was pleased to note the ghost of a smile that flickered across his expression before he snuffed it down.

The caseworker chanced a fleeting look at Morrigan, who was sitting beside her on the sofa and trying not to fidget. These visits always dragged. "Chancellor, without wishing to be indelicate... time is short. Experts all agree we're entering the final year of this Age. The final year before Eventide." Rigel's jaw clenched, he swallowed thickly as he glanced at the window, as he usually did when the E-word was mentioned, and he was subsequently reminded of their impending death. "You must realize this is an important transitional period for—"

"Have you the list?" Corvus said, with a hint of impatience. He looked pointedly at the clock on his office wall.

"Of—of course." She drew a piece of paper from her folder, trembling only slightly. Rigel rolled his eyes, how utterly pathetic. 

The woman was doing rather well, Morrigan thought, considering this was just her second visit. The last caseworker barely spoke above a whisper and would have considered it an invitation to disaster to sit on the same piece of furniture as either of the twins, let alone between them. "Shall I read it aloud? It's quite short this month—well done, Mister and Miss Crow," she said stiffly.

Rigel rolled his eyes once more—he hadn't actually done anything to be congratulated for. 

"We'll start with the incidents requiring compensation: The Jackalfax Town Council has requested seven hundred kred for damage to a gazebo during a hailstorm."

"I thought we'd agreed that extreme weather events could no longer be reliably attributed to my children," said Corvus. "After that forest fire in Ulf turned out to be arson. Remember?"

"Yes, Chancellor. However, there's a witness who has indicated that Morrigan is at fault in this case."

"Who?" Corvus demanded.

"A man who works at the post office overheard Miss Crow remarking to her grandmother on the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying." The caseworker looked at her notes. "The hail began four hours later."

Corvus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shooting an irritated look at Morrigan. "Very well. Continue."

Rigel frowned. In their entire life, neither had ever remarked on "the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying." He did remember Morrigan turning to Grandmother in the post office that day and saying, "Hot, isn't it?", to which he had responded "Sweltering." but that was hardly the same thing. 

"A local man, Thomas Bratchett, died of a heart attack recently. He was—"

"Our gardener, I know," Corvus interrupted. "Terrible shame. The hydrangeas have suffered. Morrigan, Rigel, what did you do to the old man?"

"Nothing."

Corvus looked sceptical. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

She thought for a moment. "I told him the flower beds looked nice."

"When?"

"About a year ago."

"Rigel?"

"I placed a hex on him a week ago," The boy responded drily," Terrible shame I got caught."

Morrigan stifled a giggle at their father's eye twitch worsened. She sobered, Rigel was going to be in so much trouble once their case worker left, she'd best make sure his first aid kit was ready. She wasn't particularly good at helping treat his wounds, but he was usually able to manage them himself—dismissing her in some stupidly noble effort to protect her innocence or whatever—and on the off chance he couldn't, he guided her through the process with a foreign sort of gentleness that she rarely glimpsed from him any more.

Corvus and the caseworker exchanged a look. The woman sighed quietly. "His family is being extremely generous in the matter. They ask only that you pay his funeral expenses, put his grandchildren through college, and make a donation to his favourite charity."

"How many grandchildren?"

"Five."

"Tell them I'll pay for two. Continue."

"The headmaster at Jackalfax—ah!" The woman jumped as Morrigan leaned forward to take a cookie, but seemed to calm down when she realized there was no intention to make physical contact. "Um... yes. The headmaster at Jackalfax Preparatory School has finally sent us a bill for the fire damage. Two thousand kred ought to cover it."

"It said in the newspaper that the lunch lady left the stove burner on overnight," said Morrigan.

"Correct," said the caseworker, her eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her. "It also said she'd passed Crow Manor the previous day and spotted you on the grounds."

"So?"

"She said Rigel made eye contact with her."

"I did not." The boy squawked indignantly," I was bedridden at the time! Ask Morrigan, I spent the next day complaining to her that I missed out on my daily stroll."

Morrigan felt her blood begin to rise. That fire wasn't her brother's fault. Neither ever made eye contact with any one; The knew the rules, plus, eye contact made Rigel uncomfortable, he tried his best to avoid it. The lunch lady was fibbing to get herself out of trouble.

"It's all in the police report."

"She's a liar." Morrigan turned to her father, but he refused to meet her gaze. Did he really believe he was to blame? The lunch lady admitted she'd left the stove burner turned on! The unfairness of it made Morrigan's stomach twist into knots. "She's lying, Rigel never—"

"That's quite enough from you," Corvus snapped. Morrigan slumped down in her chair, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her father cleared his throat again and nodded at the woman. "You may forward me the bill. Please, finish the list. I have a full day of meetings ahead. Rigel, you and I will discuss this once the caseworker leaves."

Rigel swallowed thickly, dread sinking in the pit of his stomach. 

"Th-that's all on the financial side of things," she said, tracing a line down the page with a trembling finger. "There are only three apology letters for the twins to write this month. One to a local woman, Mrs. Calpurnia Malouf, for her broken hip—"

"Far too old to be ice-skating," Morrigan muttered.

"—one to the Jackalfax Jam Society for a ruined batch of marmalade, and one to a boy named Pip Gilchrest, who lost the Great Wolfacre State Spelling Championship last week."

Morrigan's eyes doubled in size. "All I did was wish him luck!"

"Precisely, Miss Crow," the caseworker said as she handed the list over to Corvus. "You should have known better. Chancellor, I understand you're on the hunt for another new tutor?"

"He should've known better than to spell Treacle with a K." Rigel drawled, choosing now to reach for a cookie and 'accidentally' brushing the caseworker's arm. She screamed, Rigel smirked cruelly. 

Corvus sighed, a hand darting up to rub the crease between his brows. "My assistants have spoken to every agency in Jackalfax and some as far as the capital. It would seem our great state is in the throes of a severe private tuition drought." He raised one dubious eyebrow.

"What happened to Miss..." The caseworker consulted her notes. "Linford, was it? Last time we spoke you said she was working out nicely."

"Feeble woman," Corvus said with a sneer. "She barely lasted a week. Just left one afternoon and never returned, nobody knows why."

That wasn't true. The twins knew why.

Miss Linford's fear of the curse prevented her from actually sharing the same room with her students. It was a strange and undignified thing, Rigel felt, to have someone shout Grommish verb conjugations at you from the other side of a door. His sister had grown more and more annoyed until finally she'd stuck a broken pen through the keyhole, put her mouth over the end of it, and blown black ink all over Miss Linford's face. 

She had later admitted to him that it wasn't her most sporting moment.

Following that, taking inspiration from his older sister's prank Rigel had attacked her form behind on the way to the restroom, wrapped her in a curtain, blindfolded her, tied her to chair—still blindfolded—and set up a fan in front of her face before telling her she was on one of his fathers commandeered helicopters, he'd spent the following hours rocking the chair back and forth tauntingly while debating the merits of pushing her out aloud and asking her how high they would have to "fly" for the fall to kill her.

After hours of listening to her screaming in a sound proof room, he'd finally dragged Morrigan to check out his work with a proud smile, clearly seeking her approval, but instead was met with a scandalised expression and insistence  that he release her right this instant! to which he'd pouted and responded that if she was going to hit him with a ruler, he was going to traumatise her. 

Though, he had eventually relented to Morrigan and released her, still blind-folded, in the woods behind the manor, but no longer tied up. The woman had left two days later, looking severely traumatised and jumping any time she heard the sound of a fan, and Morrigan hadn't spoken to him for a week until he'd huffed and laid down his pride, writing her an (incredibly rude, sarcastic and obviously insincere) apology letter.

Both twins had silently agreed not to tell their father about that  particular stunt. 

"At the Registry Office we have a short list of teachers who are amenable to working with cursed children. A very short list," said the caseworker with a shrug, "but perhaps there will be someone who—"

Corvus held up a hand to stop her. "I see no need."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said yourself, it's not long until Eventide."

"Yes, but... it's still a year away—"

"Nonetheless. Waste of time and money at this stage, isn't it?"

Morrigan glanced up, feeling an unpleasant jolt at her father's words. Even the caseworker looked surprised. "With respect, Chancellor—the Registry Office for Cursed Children doesn't consider it a waste. We believe education is an important part of every childhood."

Corvus narrowed his eyes. "Yet paying for an education seems rather pointless when these childhood's are about to be cut short. Personally I think we should never have bothered in the first place. I'd be better off sending my hunting dogs to school; they've got a longer life expectancy and are much more useful to me."

Rigel's glare faltered and he stared at their father in shock, his lips parted and he looked heartbreakingly broken for a moment as tears welled in his eyes, before he swallowed the burning feeling in the back of his throat back, a cruel glare setting onto is face as he clenched his fists, anger burning through his veins.

He scoffed at himself, it made no sense to be so ridiculously angry. It was the truth. The truth that he, Morrigan and every cursed child knew deep in their bones, they were going to die long before adulthood.

"I'm sure my friends in the Wintersea Party would agree with me," Corvus continued, glaring at the caseworker, oblivious to Rigel's own fury and Morrigan's unease. "Particularly the ones who control the funding of your little department."

There was a long silence. The caseworker looked sideways at both twins and began to gather her belongings. Rigel recognised the flash of pity that crossed the woman's face, and he hated her for it.

Rigel's jaw set in anger and silent fury. 

"Very well. I will inform the ROCC of your decision. Good day, Chancellor. Miss Crow." The caseworker hurried out of the office without a backward glance. Corvus pressed a buzzer on the desk and called for his assistants.

Rigel rose from his chair quietly, trying not to tremble. His hands tremored, but his handsalways tremored.

"Don't even think about it." Corvus snapped," Wait."

Out of the corner of his eye, Rigel noticed Morrigan rising from her chair angrily, clearly looking ready to shout at their father, and he gave the slightest shake of his head. The fight seemed to melt off her body and her voice came out trembling and timid. "Should I...?"

"Do as you like," Corvus snapped, shuffling through the papers on his desk. "Just don't bother us."

The twins swallowed thickly, and Rigel looked up at Morrigan, shaking his head silently. She swallowed and glanced away, before turning and exiting the room. 

 ...  

Dear Mrs. Malouf,

We'd like to extend our sincerest apologies that we broke your hip. We didn't mean to. We hope you are recovering quickly. Please accept our apologies and get well soon.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Morrigan Crow and Master Rigel Crow

Sprawled on the floor of the second sitting room, Morrigan rewrote the letter neatly on a fresh sheet of paper, mimicking her brother's handwriting on the final line, and tucked it into an envelope but didn't seal it. Partly because Corvus would want to check the letter before it was sent, and partly on the off chance that her saliva had the power to cause sudden death or bankruptcy.

Her mind wondered back to Rigel over and over, she hoped he was okay. It had been over an hour, but her father had been furious when she'd left. Her hands trembled and she glanced down at them, it was an odd thing, Rigel had been caned and smacked on his hands often enough that he had somewhat of a permanent tremble, always there, some days worse than the others. When it was particularly bad or painful, Morrigan's own hands tended to shake, even if she was nowhere near him. 

A part of her was thankful for it, annoying (and saddening) as it was, it at least let her know he was alive. She worried sometimes, when he was with their father too long. Worried that eventide would have no effect on him, because well...

She cut that train of thought off.

The click-clack of hurried footsteps in the hallway made Morrigan freeze. She looked at the clock on the wall. Midday. It could be Grandmother, home from morning tea with her friends. Or her stepmother, Ivy, looking for someone to blame for a scratch on the silverware or a tear in the drapes. Or it could be Rigel. The second sitting room was usually a good place to hide; it was the glummest room in the house, with hardly any sunshine. Nobody liked it except for Morrigan. Even Rigel found it hopelessly depressing, he claimed the "vibe was draining", but unlike the others he spent time there anyway.

Morrigan had never been able to pry the reason why from him. 

The door knob twisted, and she tensed as it opened to reveal her brother holding a cool compress to his eyes and limping slightly as he hunched.. Morrigan let out the breath she'd been holding and gestures to the first aid kit open in the corner. Reaching over to the radio, she turned the little brass knob to lower the volume before she walked over to her brother.

Bile coated the back of her throat as she noticed blood all along the back of his shirt, he winced and carefully lowered himself to the chaise and she was grateful she'd thought to put a towel down. Blood was dripping down his back, all over the chaise. He looked terrible.

"What do I—" Morrigan throat burned," Uh..."

Rigel, thankfully took pity on his twin and he guided her though the steps of cleaning the wound—Morrigan would've whacked him for the admittedly impressive string of curses that slipped form his mouth but she was far too concerned for him and to be honest they were all rather valid and accurate—disinfecting it, and wrapping it up. Anger boiled under her skin at the sight of the bleeding belt marks and she scowled, that was both going to bruise and scab.

She offered to treat his other wounds quietly but he shook his head, glaring at the wall bitterly as he bit back sobs of pain. Morrigan hoped her father drowned in a ditch. 

The two sat in tense silence for a moment, neither willing to speak, but Rigel was the one to break it," Morrigan?"

She glanced up, and he swallowed hesitantly," What was... What was our Mother's name?"

Morrigan faltered," I—I'm not supposed to tell you that."

He glanced at her disbelievingly," Father's not he—"

"And what if he finds out?" She snapped," Rigel, I'm not allowed to."

"But—" 

"Enough!" She snapped loudly," Drop it. Do not bring it up again, Rigel. I'm not allowed to tell you. You need to stop, okay? You need to not think of her, not mention her, no more trying to sneak glances into the portrait room. And No. More. Asking. This recurring conversation had recurred for the final time, I'd advise you to stop contemplating the topic completely, because you will never receive an answer from me. Clear?"

Terror gripped her, she wasn't just worried what their father would do to her if she told him, he'd never hit her and a small part of her did dread that one day he would, but she was also worried what would happen to Rigel.

He glared at her, nostrils flaring in anger. For a moment it seemed like he wanted to say something scathing or cruel, but he seemed to change his mind," Fine," He rose with a wince, storming out of the room," Coward."

Morrigan glanced up at the door, which had been left wide open. She sighed as she closed it before settling on the ground with a blank piece of paper to begin writing the next letter.

...

Rigel scowled bitterly, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his body as he stormed through the manor and up to his bedroom. Who did Morrigan think she was? It was their mother, not just hers. She had no right to keep her from him.

He huffed, he knew Morrigan was scared of their father, he couldn't fault her that. But... he really wanted his mother's identity, Morrigan had seen her portrait, knew her name, even had something that had belonged to her. 

All he had was a quilt she'd bought him a week before he was born when she found out they were twins and not just one child and access to a trust fund their father hadn't touched since their mother had died and had likely forgotten had even been set up for them. He traced the patterning on said quilt as he lowered himself onto his bed, trying not to cringe as the painful wounds on his back pressed against the mattress.

Rigel knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help but hate the women for abandoning them. It was stupid, he knew, she was dead, and it wasn't like she'd chosen that. He killed her, something his father never failed to remind him.  

He hated them both for being cursed children, but Morrigan was older. She had survived birthing Morrigan, it was Rigel that had killed her. He didn't just hate their mother, he hated their father too, and he hated Morrigan for refusing to tell him their mother's name, hated their grandmother for never standing up to her son for him, hated Ivy for pretending to love them. But honestly... he hated himself most of all.

There'd been a time he almost ran away, he'd stolen the card to his trust fund—something his father never actually touched and still hadn't noticed he never returned—packed his bags and almost left. But, he'd been halfway to the rail station, every step filling him with the guilty thoughts of leaving Morrigan behind before he'd turned back and stayed. He'd always hated himself for staying, but he probably would've hated himself eternally if he'd left his twin sister behind.

He sighed, rolling over (and wincing, and then cringing, and then whimpering, his eye must look horrendous because that bruise hurt and he would definitely be using colour corrector and makeup on it tomorrow) to the radio on his bedside table and turning the dial up until he found a station he liked. He hated far too many people. He hated himself for that too.

"The annual winter dragon cull continues in the northwest corner of Great Wolfacre this week, with over forty rogue reptiles targeted by the Dangerous Wildlife Eradication Force. The DWEF has received increased reports of dragon encounters near Deepdown Falls Resort and Spa, a popular holiday destination for..." Oh, joy. Killing more innocent creatures simply for the terrible crime of existing.

There were now people on the news talking about the homes they'd lost in the Prosper floods, crying over pets and loved ones they'd seen washed away when the streets ran like rivers. Rigel felt a stab of sadness and hoped Corvus was right about the weather not being her fault. He scowled and rolled over, stuffing that feeling down and squashing it with anger and indignation at their caseworker who had dared attempt to blame them. 

Anger was better than grief. Better than guilt. Better than tears.

"Up next: Could Eventide be closer than we think?" asked the newscaster. Rigel faltered, eyes flying open as he shot up, pain shot down his body and he gasped shakily and whimpered in agony, tears springing in his eyes as he breathed heavily. What were they talking about? "While most experts agree we've one more year until the current Age ends, a small number of fringe chronologists believe we could be celebrating the night of Eventide much sooner than that. Have they cracked it, or are they just crackpots?" A tiny chill crept along the back of Rigel's neck, anxiety and fear clawing at his chest, were they going to die soon?

"But first: More unrest in the capital today as rumours of an imminent Wunder shortage continue to spread," the nasal newscaster continued. "A spokesperson for Squall Industries publicly addressed concerns at a press conference this morning."

A man's voice spoke softly over the background hum of murmuring journalists. "There is no crisis at Squall Industries. Rumours of an energy shortage in the Republic are entirely false, I cannot stress that enough."

"Speak up!" someone yelled in the background.

The man raised his voice a little. "The Republic is as full of Wunder as it ever has been, and we continue to reap the rewards of this abundant natural resource."

"Mr. Jones," a reporter called out, "will you respond to the reports of mass power outages and malfunctioning Wundrous technology in the states of Southlight and Far East Sang? Is Ezra Squall aware of these problems? Will he emerge from his reclusive lifestyle to address the problem publicly?"

Mr. Jones cleared his throat. "Again, these are no more than silly rumors and fearmongering. Our state-of-the-art monitoring systems show no Wunder scarcity and no malfunction of Wundrous devices. The national rail network is operating perfectly, as are the power grid and the Wundrous Healthcare Service. As for Mr. Squall, he is well aware that as the nation's sole provider of Wunder and its by-products, Squall Industries has a great responsibility. We are as committed as ever—"

"Mr. Jones, there's been speculation as to whether the Wunder shortages could have anything to do with cursed children. Can you comment?"

Rigel rolled over, propping himself up on an arm as he stared at the radio, giving it his full undivided attention.

"I—I'm not sure... I'm not sure what you mean," stammered Mr. Jones, sounding taken aback.

The reporter continued. "Well, Southlight and Far East Sang between them have three cursed children listed on their state registers—unlike the state of Prosper, which has no cursed children at present and has remained untouched by Wunder shortages. Great Wolfacre also has two registered cursed children, the twin son and daughter of prominent politician Corvus Crow; will it be the next state hit by this crisis?"

"Once again, there is no crisis—"

"Oh for stars sake!" Rigel spat," Once again, something goes wrong and it's all our fault. Naturally."

He scowled, turning the volume down before inhaling deeply and pulling out a journal with trembling hands. Sighing he lowered himself gently to his desk, releasing a whimpering sob as several of his wounds pulled painfully. He inhaled shakily, tears of pain prickling his eyes. Ahh, Paternal Love.

He scowled as he flicked open to his list—several members of the staff had been acting odd the last few months, and he had kept an eye on the suspicious individuals, at one point he'd caught sight of a ginger hair on Cook's apron, which she had dismissed as one of the maids, only they had no ginger maids. 

Thus, he had pulled aside one of the more confident and respectful maids—a somewhat respectful individual who, despite never speaking up, he'd heard scoff under her breath several times when he'd eavesdropped on the help trading stories about the cursed children evil deeds. And on one occasion she'd caught him sneaking into the first aid stuff to top up his kit, rather than snitch, she'd taken it from him and shot him a pitiful(?) glare. The following morning he found the completely full medical kit on his desk. 

He'd never heard anything from his father or cook about it, so despite the gossip sessions about the cursed children, she'd never mentioned it. He sneered at the reminder—they were the help. They had no business judging him. 

Still, the maid, Mary, had been instructed to inform him if she noted anything odd among the staff. And when she'd received an anonymous note instructing her to meet under the old willow tree and give information on the Crow Twin's for two hundred kred, she'd immediately come to him. He'd given her a general script for how to respond to certain questions and informed her to attend, he would spy form afar. He'd made it very clear that she was to keep redirecting questions to him, whoever this stranger was, they didn't need to know a thing about Morrigan. What they needed was a warning not to interfere in Crow familial affairs.

Thus, he had plans for tonight. Big one's. With a smirk he jotted down one more name on the list, smug to note his hand writing was getting neater, even with his shaking hands.

He paused and flicked the page over, stopping to admire the gorgeous emerald green gown he had sketched out onto the paper. His trembling hands traced the outline of the design longingly, his father had made it clear he wasn't to see anymore, and even if he wanted to, the man's ensured he couldn't. His eyes burned, he would never be able to sew again, not with his hands like this, he'd take hours just to thread a needle and months to finish the project. Something wet tickled down his cheek. Surely, he'd be caught if he tried.

A tear landed on the page.

...

Morrigan and Rigel's father was the chancellor of Great Wolfacre, the largest of four states that made up the Wintersea Republic. He was ever-so-busy and important, and usually still working even on the rare occasions when he was home for dinner. On his left and right would sit Left and Right, his ever-present assistants. Corvus was always firing his assistants and hiring new ones, so he'd given up learning their real names. And if Corvus did like one (or both) of his assistant, Rigel took great pleasure in driving them away in the cruellest, most creative way possible. If there was one thing the vindictive, rage-filled boy enjoyed, it was making life difficult for his odious father, it was arguably his favourite past time.

And he'd taken more pride in it in recent years since his father had forbidden his singing, taking one of his only joys in his grievously short life away.

"Send a memo to General Wilson, Right," he was saying when the twins sat at the table that evening. Morrigan sat across form their stepmother, Ivy, and way down at the other end of the table was Grandmother. Rigel took a seat somewhere half-way between their grandmother and Ivy, avoiding people as was typical of him. Nobody glanced twice at either of them. "His office will need to submit a budget for the new field hospital by early spring at the latest."

"Yes, Chancellor," said Right, holding up blue fabric samples. "And for the new upholstery in your office?"

"The cerulean, I think. Talk to my wife about it. She's the expert on that sort of thing, aren't you, darling?"

Ivy smiled radiantly. "The periwinkle, dearest," she said with a tinkling, breezy laugh. "To match your eyes."

Rigel caught Morrigan's eyes and rolled his eyes, wrinkling his nose. The twins' stepmother didn't look like she belonged at Crow Manor. Her spun-gold hair and sun-kissed skin (a souvenir from the summer she'd just spent "destressifying" on the glorious beaches of southeast Prosper—what the pampered little princess had to stress about, Rigel didn't know. Maybe it was the fact she thought destressifying was even a word?—were out of place among the midnight-black hair and pale, sickly complexions of the Crow family. Crows never tanned. Rigel had tried all he could to harass her and drive her away since the day he met her, hating her even more than most. Everything about her screamed that it didn't belong anywhere near the Crow Estate, especially not as a part of their family.

Except the wretchedly positive woman had stuck around like a stubborn little bug, always slipping past his attempts to squash her spirit. Eventually, his father had hired a bodyguard for her and Rigel had finally given up. She was, most unfortunately, here to stay.

Morrigan thought perhaps that was why her father liked Ivy so much. She was nothing like the rest of them. Sitting in their dreary dining room, Ivy looked like an exotic artwork he'd brought back from a vacation. Rigel hated her. Had mentioned that already? Because he really, really hated her.

He'd tolerated her at the start, but then the wretched woman had said something about his hair which he'd been attempting to grow out to half-way down his neck, and when he'd refused to let her cut it, it had all been mysteriously shaved off in his sleep. The next morning, he'd picked the lock of his room, grabbed a picture of ivy and a pair of scissors, and stabbed the picture onto the door directly through her face. Needless to say, the woman returned his hatred.

"Left, any word from Camp 16 on the measles outbreak?"

"Contained, sir, but they're still experiencing power outages."

"How often?"

"Once a week, sometimes twice. There's discontent in the border towns."

"In Great Wolfacre? Are you certain?"

"Nothing like the rioting in Southlight's slums, sir. Just low-level panic."

"And they think it's due to Wunder scarcity? Nonsense. We're not having any problems here. Crow Manor has never functioned more smoothly. Look at those lights—bright as day. Our generators must be full to the brim."

"Yes, sir," said Left, looking uncomfortable. "That... hasn't gone unnoticed by the public."

"Oh, whine, whine, whine," croaked a voice from the opposite end of the table. Grandmother was dressed formally for dinner as usual, in a long black dress with jewels around her neck and on her fingers. Her coarse, steel-gray hair was piled in a formidable bun atop her head. "I don't believe there is a Wunder shortage. Just freeloaders who haven't paid their energy bills. I wouldn't blame that Ezra Squall if he cut them off." She sliced her steak into tiny, bloody pieces as she spoke.

"Clear tomorrow's schedule," Corvus told his assistants. "I'll pay the border towns a visit, do a bit of hand-shaking. That should shut them up."

Grandmother gave a mean little laugh. "It's their heads that need shaking. You have a spine, Corvus—why don't you use it?"

Rigel smirked, he hated everybody in this wretched house, aside form Morrigan, but his grandmother? Oh, he adored that woman's evil little soul.

Corvus's face turned sour. The twins tried not to smile. On more than one occasion, Rigel had heard a maid whisper that Grandmother was a savage old bird of prey dressed up as a lady she'd been fired, but she hadn't been wrong. He (and Morrigan) privately agreed but, only family was allowed to torment family, still, the twins found they rather enjoyed the savagery when it wasn't aimed at them.

"It's—it's Bid Day tomorrow, sir," said Left. "You're expected to make a speech for the local eligible children."

"Good lord, you're right." Actually, that was left—truly father you ought to show your employees more respect, they see more than they say—but nevertheless, continue," What a nuisance. I don't suppose I can cancel again this year. Where and when?"

"Town Hall. Midday," said Right. "Children from St. Christopher's School, Mary Henwright Academy, and Jackalfax Prep will attend."

"Fine." Corvus sighed unhappily. "But call the Chronicle. Make sure they have someone covering it."

Morrigan swallowed her food before speaking. "What's Bid Day?"

As often happened when either twin spoke, everyone turned to face Morrigan with vague looks of surprise, as though she had just magically appeared. Rigel frowned, the disrespect was heinously unseemly and horrifically undignified.

There was a moment of silence, and then—

"Perhaps we could invite the charity schools to Town Hall," Their father continued as though nobody had spoken. "Good publicity, doing things for the underclass."

Grandmother groaned. "Corvus, for goodness' sake, you only need one idiot child to pose for a photo, and you'll have hundreds to choose from. Just pick the most photogenic one, shake its hand, and leave. There's no need to complicate things."

"Hmm," he said, nodding. "Quite right, Mother. Pass the salt, would you, Left?"

Right cleared his throat timidly. "Actually, sir... perhaps it's not such a bad idea to include the less privileged schools. It might get us a front page."

"Your approval rating in the backwoods could do with a boost," added Left as he scuttled down the table to fetch the salt.

"No need to be delicate, Left." Corvus lifted an eyebrow and glanced sideways at his daughter. "My approval rating everywhere could do with a boost."

Rigel smirked, if there was one thing he adored, it was making their wretched father's life difficult. Morrigan shifted guiltily in her seat and he rolled his eyes. The twins were both well aware their father's major challenge in life was trying to maintain his grip on the affections of Great Wolfacre's voting public while his only children brought about their every misfortune. That he was enjoying his fifth year as state chancellor despite such a handicap was a daily miracle to Corvus Crow, and the question of whether he could sustain this implausible luck for another year was a daily anxiety.

Something Rigel adored triggering.

"But Mother's right, let's not overcrowd the event," he continued. "Find another way to get me a front page."

"Is it an auction?" asked Morrigan. Rigel shot her a shut up look, his hands trembled harshly and his stomach knotted in mounting anxiety. It was never a good thing to be noticed.

"Auction?" Corvus snapped. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"Bid Day."

"Oh, for goodness' sake." He made a noise of impatience and turned back to his papers. "Ivy. Explain."

"Bid Day," began Ivy, drawing herself up importantly—Rigel cringed, that dress was hideous, he made a mental note to commandeer it form her closet and burn it, "is the day when children who've completed preparatory school will receive their educational bid, should they be lucky enough."

"Or rich enough," added Grandmother.

"Yes," Ivy continued, looking mildly put out by the interruption—Rigel smirked, he ought to dye the Harlot's hair, she was forgetting her place. Thinking herself far more important than she was. Somebody ought to remind her," If they're very bright, or talented, or if their parents are wealthy enough to bribe someone, then some respectable person from a fine scholarly institution will come to bid on them."

"Does everyone get a bid?" Morrigan asked.

"Heavens, no!" Ivy laughed, glancing at the maid—Mary, Rigel shot her the slighted tilt of his head a curled his lips up tightly in approval—who'd come to place a tureen of gravy on the table. She added in an exaggerated whisper, "If everyone were educated, where would servants come from?"

That was it, Rigel was going to dye her hair the most hideous, unflattering, sickly chartreuse colour he could permanently. The help were his to torment, and Mary specifically was off limits to anybody.

"But that's not fair," Morrigan protested, frowning as she watched the maid scurry from the room, red-faced. "And I don't understand. What are they bidding for?"

"For the privilege of overseeing the child's education," Corvus interrupted impatiently, waving a hand in front of his face as though trying to brush the conversation away. "The glory of shaping the young minds of tomorrow, and so on. Stop asking questions, it's nothing to do with you. Left, what time is my meeting with the chairman of the farming commission on Thursday?"

"Three o'clock, sir."

"Can we come?"

Rigel and Corvus blinked repeatedly, a frown deepening the lines in their forehead's as identical expressions crossed their features in unison.

"Why would you want to attend my meeting with the chairman of—" In what world would Rigel want anything to do with something as disgustingly grotesque and undignified as farming? If Morrigan wanted to go, sure, but there was no need to drag him into it.

"To Bid Day, I mean. Tomorrow. The ceremony at Town Hall."

"You two?" her stepmother said. "Go to a Bid Day ceremony? Whatever for?"

Well, now Rigel wanted to go. But, he wasn't going to stake anything on this until he had something to gain of it.

"I just—" Morrigan faltered. "Well, it is our birthday this week. It could be our birthday present." Her family continued to stare blankly, which confirmed Morrigan's suspicions—something Rigel had already known—that they'd forgotten the twins were turning eleven the day after tomorrow. "I thought it might be fun..." She trailed off, looking down at her plate and dearly wishing she hadn't opened her mouth at all.

"It's not fun," sneered Corvus. "It's politics. And no, you may not. Out of the question. Ridiculous idea."

Morrigan sank down in her chair, feeling deflated and foolish. Really, what had she expected? Corvus was right; it was a ridiculous idea.

The Crows ate their dinner in tense silence for several minutes, until—

"Actually, sir," said Right in a tentative voice. Corvus's cutlery clattered onto his plate. He fixed his assistant with a menacing stare. Rigel raised a brow, interesting.

"What?"

"W-well... if you were—and I'm not saying you should, but if you were—to take your daughter along, it might help to, er, soften your image. To a degree."

Left wrung his hands and Rigel couldn't help the unimpressed look that flittered across his face. What spineless little worms. "Sir, I think Right is... um, right." Corvus glowered, and Left rushed on nervously, unaware that the little respect Rigel had for him was rapidly diminishing by the second."Wh-what I mean is, according to polls, the people of Great Wolfacre see you as a bit... er, remote."

"Aloof," interjected Right.

"It couldn't hurt your approval rating to remind them that you're about to become a... a g-grieving father. From a journalistic point of view, it might give the event a unique, er, point of interest."

"How unique?"

"Front-page unique."

Corvus was silent. His left eye twitched and Rigel lounged back in his chair. It seemed they were going to bid day, he sighed. Regretfully, he would have to wait to meet this mysterious ginger stranger poking around in his business.

If he was going be—eugh—socialising, he would need his beauty sleep. 

Chapter Text

"And sometimes, against all odds, against all logic, we hope."

 ...

"Do not speak to anyone, either of you," Their father muttered for the hundredth time that morning, hurrying up the stone steps of Town Hall in great strides Morrigan struggled to match. Rigel, naturally, had no such issues," You will be sitting on the stage with me, where everyone can see you. Understand? Don't you dare make anything... happen. No broken hips or—or swarms of wasps, or falling ladders, or..."

"Shark attacks?" offered Morrigan.

"Spider Infestations?" Rigel drawled. He did not smirk, but he was tempted to.

He'd woken to the sound of a woman's high pitched shrike and a tranquil smile had crossed his face as he'd melted into the bed, knowing it would be a good day. He'd grabbed his camera, ensuring there was film in it and rushed downstairs to see Ivy, chartreuse green hair and hot pink dress clashing terribly, whining to Corvus and giving dramatic, high pitched sobs into a handkerchief. The woman had spun around furiously when she'd heard his footsteps.

("Good Morning, Ivy," He commented unnervingly cheerily, grabbing a crumpet and slathering some butter on it—Jam was for hooligans," Did you... change something?  It's the nails, isn't it? Did you get a fresh manicure?"

Her eyes narrowed, face growing steadily redder, he was tempted to tell her that also clashed with her hair but refrained.

"You are looking... positively conspicuous! Superb, truly. Very demure." He purred with a smirk.

His grandmother snorted.

"You—You did this!" She shrieked. He snapped a picture.

"I didn't give you a manicure?" He titled his head," But I appreciate the confusion. Those French tips are to dye for."

"What did I do to deserve this?"

"Married such a lovely, wealthy, man." Rigel shrugged," One who can afford to indulge such wonderful luxuries, beachside vacations, brilliant manicures and... a lovely wig collecting hobby? My, my, what a... notable hair colour. Certainly not one I would've chosen, but you can pull of anything."

"Well," He lowered his voice to a stage whisper and leaned into his grandmother," Anything but that."

The woman barked out a wheezing laugh and he gave a shark like smile.

"Corvus!!" Ivy turned, stamping her heeled foot like a toddler," Fix it! I can't leave the house looking like—like—"

"A Princess?" Rigel grinned," Princess Fiona, perhaps."

"Rigel. Apologise."

"Over my dead body."

"Oh?" Ivy asked snidely," So in a year?"

"Enough!" The man roared," Rigel! Ivy has done nothing to invoke your cruelty."

"I don't know," Grandmother pointed out," She did humiliate that maid last night—and we all know the help is Rigel's to torment." 

"True." Corvus frowned," Ivy, sit down."

She gave a dramatic sob as she collapsed onto the table, wailing. Corvus cringed, clearly he wasn't prepared for his wife's dramatics this early in the morning. Should've left her a mistress. Rigel handed his Grandmother a picture.

"Here you are, Grandmother." He smirked.

"Wretched child." She murmured, a vicious smirk crossing her face.)

Corvus rounded on them, his face blooming scarlet patches all over. "Do you think this is funny? Everyone in Town Hall will be watching to see what you do and how it will reflect on me. Are you actively trying to ruin my career?"

"No," said Morrigan, wiping a bit of angry spit from her face at the same time as Rigel said," Not actively."

The twins had been to Town Hall on several other occasions, usually when their father's popularity was at its lowest ebb and he needed a public show of support from his family. Flanked by stone columns and sitting in the shadow of an enormous iron clock tower, the gloomy-looking Town Hall was Jackalfax's most important building. But the clock tower—although Morrigan usually tried not to look at it—was much more interesting.

The Skyfaced Clock was no ordinary clock. There were no hands, and no lines to mark the hours. Only a round glass face, with an empty sky inside that changed with the passing of the Age—from the palest-pink dawn light of Morningtide, through the golden bright Basking, to the sunset-orange glow of Dwendelsun, and into the dusky, darkening blue of the Gloaming.

Today—like every day this year—they were in the Gloaming, the final stage before the clock faded to an inky black night sky and the age reached Eventide, the final stage before Rigel and Morrigan would die. Rigel was careful never to say that aloud around Morrigan though, she knew the truth but she preferred when it was sugar-coated.

Several hundred children from all over Jackalfax had arrived wearing their Sunday best, the boys with their hair slicked down and the girls with pigtails and ribbons and hats. They sat straight-backed in rows of chairs under the familiar stern gaze of President Wintersea, whose portrait (rather creepily, in Rigel's opinion) hung in every home, shop, and government building in the republic—always watching, always looming large.

The riotous sound turned to a buzzing murmur as Rigel, Morrigan and Corvus took their seats on the stage behind the podium. Everywhere the twins looked, eyes narrowed in their direction. Corvus placed a hand on each of their shoulders in an awkward, unnatural gesture of paternal affection that Rigel tried not to flinch at while some local reporters snapped photographs of them. 

Definitely front-page material—the doomed twins and their soon-to-be-grieving father, a terrifically tragic trio.

She tried to look extra forlorn, which wasn't easy when she was being blinded by camera flashes. After a triumphant chorus of the Wintersea Republic National Anthem that Rigel only mouthed along to because he though the whole thing was stupid and cult-y and actually didn't have any national pride (Onward! Upward! Forward! Huzzah!), Corvus opened the ceremony with a very well written speech, followed by various headmasters and local businesspeople who all had to chime in. Then, finally, the Lord Mayor of Jackalfax brought out a polished wooden box and began to read the bids. Morrigan sat up straight in her seat, feeling a flutter of excitement she couldn't quite explain. 

Rigel meanwhile, remained utterly unimpressed as he pondered on why his sister insisted on tormenting herself. Truly, it seemed like something he would come up with, sticking a pair of soon-to-be-dead children in front of an entire crowd and listen to hundreds of them receive opportunities neither would ever be able to indulge in. There was something morbidly fascinating about it, almost cruelly ironic, about listening  to these children celebrate things they would be doing. Like "ooh i'm attending this academy", "i've been invited to this one", "well, we've been invited to rot six feet under the ground in a tacky coffin designed by our evil step-mother after we die on our birthday".

"'Madam Honora Salvi of the Silklands Ballet Company,'" he read from the front of the first envelope he pulled out, "'wishes to present her bid for Molly Jenkins.'" There was a squeal of delight from the third row, and Molly Jenkins leapt from her seat, rushing to the stage to curtsy and collect the envelope that contained her bid letter. "Well done, Miss Jenkins. See one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony, dear, and they'll direct you to your interview room." He retrieved another envelope.

"'Major Jacob Jackerley of the Poisonwood School of Warfare wishes to present his bid for Michael Salisbury.'" Michael's friends and family cheered as he accepted his bid. "'Mr. Henry Sniggle, owner and proprietor of Sniggle's Snake Emporium, wishes to present his bid for Alice Carter for a herpetology apprenticeship'—dear me, how fascinating!" The bidding carried on for almost an hour. The children in the hall watched anxiously as each new envelope was drawn from the box. Every announcement was met with shouts of joy from the recipient and his or her parents and a collective sigh of disappointment from everyone else. Morrigan began to get fidgety beside him, her leg bouncing up and down, apparently the novelty of Bid Day had worn off for her. Rigel didn't know what she'd expected, they were listening to children make plans to enter a new stage of their lives while all they would be doing was exiting the living realm, obviously it was going to be difficult.

Still, even he couldn't deny the gnawing jealousy as he watched child after child snatch up his or her envelope, each one containing some shiny future neither would ever have for themselves. A cheer erupted from the front row when Cory Jameson was bid on by Mrs. Ginnifer O'Reilly from the prestigious Wintersea Academy, a government-sponsored school in the capital. It was his second bid of the day; the first was from a geology institute in Prosper, the richest state in the Republic, where they mined rubies and sapphires.

"My, my," said the Lord Mayor, patting his fat stomach as Cory collected his second envelope and waved it over his head, to even louder cheers from his family in the audience. "Two bids! This is a turn-up for the books. The first double bid Jackalfax has seen in a good few years. Well done, lad, well done. You have a big decision to make. And now... ah, we have an anonymous bid for... for..." The Lord Mayor paused, glancing at the VIP section and back to the letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. "For a Miss Morrigan Crow and Master Rigel Crow."

Silence fell. Morrigan blinked. Had she imagined it? No—Corvus rose slightly from his seat, glaring at the Lord Mayor, who shrugged helplessly. Rigel blinked, straightening. This just got interesting.

"Miss Crow?" he said, waving her forward," Master Crow?"

A chorus of whispers arose from the audience at once, like a flock of birds startled into flight.

What on earth? Rigel thought, Why would any one bid on the cursed children? What use was educating a child to be dead in a year? 

Children glared and pointed at him and his sister and Rigel felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he narrowed his eyes at the crows, rising from his seat and straightening himself, allowing his expression to grow frosty, eyes narrowing into a sharp, icy glare, as they surveyed the room. The children squirmed any time his gaze landed on one of them and glanced away as he gripped Morrigan's wrist and pulled her behind him toward the stage.

The Lord Mayor beckoned them forward, looking fretful and impatient as his eyes darted to Rigel with each word. Wordlessly, Rigel gripped the envelope in his gloved hands and stepped to the side to allow Morrigan the same. Morrigan took a shaky breath, taking her own envelope in her trembling hand—and no, it actually wasn't because of Rigel, she looked up at the Lord Mayor, hesitantly. Rigel eyed the man warily, suspicion settling into the pit of his stomach as he intertwined fingers with his sister, icy gaze still locked on the trembling mayor.

Morrigan turned the envelope over, her heart pounding, so loud Rigel could practically hear it and there, in fancy handwriting—her name. Miss Morrigan Crow. It really was for her. Rigel gestured for her to lower the envelope when she turned to him.

"Well done, Master and Miss Crow," said the Lord Mayor with an unconvincing smile. "Take your seats now, and see one of the aides at the back of the hall after the ceremony."

"Gregory—" said Corvus in a warning undertone. The Lord Mayor shrugged again.

"It's tradition, Corvus," he whispered. "More than that—it's the law."

The ceremony continued and Morrigan, stunned and silent, sat down again. She didn't dare open her bid. Rigel didn't even allow his gaze to flicker to it as she slid it into the front pocked of his dress shirt. Her father was very still, glancing at the ivory-coloured envelope every few seconds as if he wanted to seize it from her hands and set fire to it. Morrigan tucked it away in the pocket of her dress, just to be safe, and held it tightly as eight more children accepted their bids. She hoped the ceremony wouldn't last much longer. Despite the Lord Mayor's brave attempts to carry on as if nothing had happened, she could still feel several hundred eyes burning into her.

"Colonel Van Leeuwenhoek of the... Harmon Military Academy wishes to present his bid for... Rigel Crow," The mayor called. Rigel refused to hesitate, straightening up and stalking towards the Lord-Mayor to retrieve his bed confidently, is face was impassive, shoulders straight and head held high as his gaze swept across the crowd, daring any one to say a thing. Nobody did.

"'Mrs. Ardith Asher of the Devereaux Ladies' College'—never heard of it!—'wishes to present her bid for... for...'" The Lord Mayor trailed off. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. "'For Miss Morrigan Crow.'"

This time, the audience gasped. Morrigan moved as if in a trance to collect her second bid of the day, Rigel raised a brow, utterly intrigued by this strange turn of events. Without even looking to see if it was really her name on the front, she put the envelope—pink and sweet smelling—in her pocket to join the other.

Just minutes later, Morrigan's name was called a third time. She rushed forward to collect her own bid from Colonel Van Leeuwenhoek of the Harmon Military Academy, hurrying back to her seat as swiftly as possible and staring determinedly at her shoes. Rigel smirked, he'd never heard of several of these places and he was half-convinced somebody was pulling a cruel joke on them.

A man in the third row stood up and shouted, "But they're cursed! This isn't right." The man's wife pulled at his arm, trying to shush him, but he wouldn't be shushed. "Three bids? Never heard of such a thing!" A rumble of agreement spread through the audience.

Morrigan's smile flickered off her face like a dying light and Rigel narrowed his eyes at the man, a sneer curling at his lips as he tilted his head forward ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as he hummed almost imperceptibly under his breath, the man's hands shivered, icy horror slowly entering him. He turned around wildly, opening his mouth to shout but he was cut off.

The Lord Mayor held out his hands, appealing for quiet. "Sir, we must continue or we'll be here all day. If everyone could please be quiet, I'll get to the bottom of this most unusual turn of events after the ceremony."

If the Lord Mayor was hoping for calm to be restored he was to be disappointed, for when he took out the next envelope, it read: "'Jupiter North wishes to present his bid for...' Oh, I don't believe it. 'Rigel and Morrigan Crow.'"

Town Hall erupted as children and parents alike leapt to their feet, shouting over each other, turning various shades of pink and purple and demanding to know the meaning of this madness. Four bids! Two was uncommon and three highly unusual, but four? Unheard of!

"'Conrad Featherstead of Greysmark Academy for Bright Young Men,'" The mayor read in confusion," 'wishes to present his bid to... Rigel Crow.'"

Silence spread along the hall, but no one said a word

There were twelve more bids to announce. The Lord Mayor sped through them, his face dissolving into sweaty relief each time he read a name that wasn't Morrigan's. At last, his hand scrambled around the bottom of the box and came up empty.

"That was the final envelope," said the Lord Mayor, closing his eyes in gratitude. His voice shook. "W-would all the children who received bids please move to the back of the hall, and, um, our aides will show you to the interview rooms where you can, er, meet your prospective patrons. Everyone else... I'm sure you'll all... you know. Doesn't mean you're not all very capable and, er... well." He waved vaguely at the audience, who took it as their cue to depart.

Corvus swore he would take action, he would sue, he would remove the Lord Mayor from office—but the Lord Mayor insisted on following protocol. The twins must be allowed to meet their bidders if they wished to. Morrigan very much wished to. Rigel wouldn't admit it, but he did too.

Of course they both knew they'd never be able to accept any of the bids. Rigel wasn't an idiot, any one who bid on them had to be utterly unaware of their status as cursed children. That was just a waste otherwise.

"Let me do the talking." Rigel ordered.

"What are you going to say?"

"Your time and interest is greatly appreciated, however we must, regretfully, decline as by the beginning of the school year we will be too dead to attend. We'd like to extend our sincerest apologies for any inconvenience caused by this miscommunication."

Morrigan nodded, Rigel had always been better at the professional sounding words than her.

The pair were ushered into a room with bare walls, a desk, and a chair on either side. It felt like an interrogation chamber... though, Rigel tried not to dwell on that thought.

A man with feathery brown hair sat in one of the chairs, humming a little tune to himself. He wore a grey suit and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he pushed up on his nose with one pale, slender finger. He smiled calmly, waiting for Morrigan to sit.

"Miss and Master Crow. My name is Mr. Jones. Thank you for seeing me." The man spoke softly and in neat, clipped sentences. His voice sounded familiar. "I've come on behalf of my employer. He'd like to offer you both an apprenticeship."

Morrigan's rehearsed speech tumbled out of her head. A little flutter returned to her stomach. One tiny, optimistic butterfly had just climbed out of its cocoon.

"What... kind of apprenticeship?" 

Rigel shot her a warning look. Mr. Jones smiled. Tiny lines wrinkled the corners of his dark, expressive eyes.

"An apprenticeship in his company, Squall Industries."

"Squall Industries?" Morrigan said, frowning. "That means you—"

Rigel cut her off," Your employer is Ezra—"

"Squall. Yes. The most powerful person in the Republic." Rigel frowned, rather out at being cut off. How rude. He lowered his eyes to the table. "Second most powerful, I should say. After our great president."

He narrowed his eyes, divine things above, he hated the utter reverence people held for the woman. It suddenly struck Rigel where he had heard that voice. He was the man on the radio talking about Wunder shortages.

He at least, looked elegant and dignified for somebody in is position, he supposed. Tasteful. His white, spidery hands were clasped firmly in front of him, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He wasn't terribly young. But he wasn't old. There was nothing unruly about him, nothing to mar his immaculately groomed appearance but for a thin white scar that split his left eyebrow clean in half and a splash of silvery hair at his temples.

Rigel focused on his suit though, a dreadfully dreary thing, the stitching in it had clearly not been tailored to him properly, but rather his measurements as there was an excess on fabric that made the waist bands of his slacks crinkle. The embroidery too, was a ridiculously outdated, highly unprofessional trend, where the colour was specifically clashing against the fabric to draw attention to the embroidery work. Something whoever designed said suit shouldn't have done, because it was a hard enough statement for a designer to pull off, least of all one with stitching so positively dreadful. 

Even his movements were precise and deliberate, as if he couldn't spare the energy for any unnecessary gesture. A perfectly contained man.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. "What could the second most powerful person in the Republic possibly want with us?"

"It's not for me to say why Mr. Squall wants what he wants," said Mr. Jones, briefly unclasping his hands to straighten his spectacles again. "I'm only his assistant. I carry out his wishes. Right now he wishes for you to become his students... and his heirs."

"His heir? What does that mean?"

Rigel sighed, he did so love the way his sister could agree to something he said and then totally ignore it. 

"It means that he wishes for you to one day run Squall Industries in his place, to be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams, and to lead the greatest, most influential, and most profitable organization that has ever existed."

Morrigan blinked. "I'm not even allowed to lick envelopes at home."

Rigel winced in embarrassment. Mr. Jones looked amused. "I don't believe you'll be licking envelopes at Squall Industries either."

"What will we be doing?" 

"You will be learning how to run an empire, Little Crow's. And you will be learning from the very best. Mr. Squall is a brilliant and talented man. He will teach you everything he knows, things he hasn't taught another living soul."

"Not even you?" Rigel asked, carefully eyeing the man's body language. Because if any of this was true, Rigel would later be able  to confirm or deny whatever Mr Jones's response was, and thus if he was lying he would know the man's tell.

Mr. Jones laughed gently, his bottom lip twitched outwards ever so slightly. "Especially not me. By the end of your apprenticeship, you will be in command of Squall Industries' mining, engineering, manufacturing, and technology sectors. Over one hundred thousand employees all over the Republic. All reporting to you."

Morrigan's eyes widened. Rigel was not so easily swayed.

"Every citizen, every household in this country will owe you a debt of thanks. You will be their lifeline—the provider of their warmth, power, food, entertainment. Their every need, every want... all reliant on the use of Wunder, and all filled by the good people at Squall Industries. By you."

His voice had become so soft it was almost a whisper. Morrigan leaned closer, her brother stared, utterly unimpressed.

"Ezra Squall is the nation's greatest hero," he continued. "More than that—he is their benevolent god, the source of their every comfort and happiness. The only living person with the ability to harvest, distribute, and command Wunder. Our Republic relies on him totally."

His eyes had taken on the unsettling gleam of a fanatic. One corner of his mouth curled into a strange little smile. He seemed to adore and revere the man, it was a strange, toxic combination.

"Imagine, Miss Crow," he whispered. "Imagine how it must feel to be so beloved. So respected and needed. One day, if you work hard and do as Mr. Squall teaches... that will be you."

She could imagine it. She had imagined, a hundred times over, how it would feel to be liked instead of feared. To see people smile instead of flinch when she walked into a room. It was one of her favourite daydreams, one Rigel frequently pulled her out of and back down to earth. Somebody had to keep his naïve sister in line.

But that was all it was, Morrigan told herself, shaking the cobwebs out of her head. A daydream. She sat up straight and took a deep breath, willing her voice not to tremble.

"I can't accept, Mr. Jones. I'm on the Cursed Children's Register. I'm going... I'm going to... well, you know. Th-thank you for your time and—"

"Open it," said Mr. Jones, nodding at the envelope in her hand.

"What is it?"

"Your contract."

Rigel raised an eyebrow, Morrigan shook her head in confusion. "M-my what?"

"It's standard." He gave a tiny shrug. One shoulder. "Every child commencing sponsored studies must sign a contract, and have a parent or guardian sign also."

Well, there goes that, Morrigan thought. "Our father will never sign these."

"Let us worry about that." He pulled out a silver pen from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. "All you have to do is sign. Mr. Squall will take care of everything."

"But you don't understand, I can't—"

"I understand perfectly, Miss Crow." Mr. Jones watched her closely, his dark eyes piercing her own. "But you needn't worry about curses or registers or Eventide. You needn't worry about anything, ever again. Not if you're with Ezra Squall."

"But—"

"Sign." He nodded at the pen. "Sign, and I promise you: One day you will be able to buy and sell every person who has ever made you unhappy."

Rigel froze, something about that line... unsettled him. He couldn't figure out why but something  about it reminded him of... something. Something unsettling, it set off alarm bells in his head, twisting his instincts into anxiety. 

His glittering eyes and calm, secretive smile did nothing to offer comfort to the boy.

He froze as Morrigan reached for the pen, then hesitated. She took a deep breath as she looked up at Mr. Jones and uttered the question burning inside both of them, the most important question of all.

"Why us?"

There was a loud knock. The door swung open and the Lord Mayor stumbled in looking harassed.

"I'm terribly sorry, Master and Miss Crow," he said, pressing a handkerchief to his forehead. His suit bore sweat patches, and what was left of his hair stood on end. "Somebody appears to have played a horrible prank on you. On all of us."

"P-prank?" Rigel glanced cautiously between his father and the Lord Mayor.

Corvus stalked in behind him, his mouth in a thin line. "There you are. We're leaving." He grabbed Rigel and Morrigan's wrists in each of his hands, clutching them tightly in a vice-like grip, pulling them out of the room. Her chair tipped over and clattered to the floor.

"None of your so-called bidders have arrived," said the Lord Mayor, trying to catch his breath as he followed them into the hallway. "I blame myself. I should have realized. Harmon Military whatsit, Devereaux Ladies' thingy... nobody's heard of them. Made up, you see." He looked desperately from Morrigan to her father and back again. "Terribly sorry for putting you through it, Corvus, old friend. No hard feelings, I hope?"

Corvus glowered at the Lord Mayor. Rigel sneered, how heinously distasteful.

"But wait—" began Morrigan.

"Don't you understand?" said their father in a cold, angry voice. He snatched the envelopes from them. "I have been made a fool. It was all somebody's idea of a joke. Humiliated! By my own constituency!"

Morrigan frowned. "You're saying that out bidders—"

The Lord Mayor wrung his hands. "Never actually existed. That's why none of them showed up. I'm sorry you had to wait."

"But I'm trying to tell you, one of them did show up. Mr. Jones has come on behalf—" Morrigan stopped midsentence as she dashed back into the interview room. Rigel sighed, silently praying for her to just drop it. But she didn't.

Realization sank in swiftly, like a boot to the stomach. Of course, it had all been some cruel joke. Anger roared in Rigel indignantly, white-hot fury coursing through his veins. Whoever was behind this would be found, and he would ruin them.

"Enough of this nonsense," said Corvus. He ripped the envelopes into tiny pieces, and Morrigan watched mournfully as they fluttered to the ground like snow. Rigel glared in hateful rage, he didn't even need his father to tear his envelopes, instead he ripped them himself and let them fall to the ground, a vindictive expression on his face.

The shiny black coach pulled away from Town Hall with the twins and their father inside it. Corvus was silent. He'd already turned his attention to the ever-present stack of paperwork in his leather case, trying to salvage what was left of the working day. As if the morning's misadventure had never happened.

Rigel ignored the people around him, settling into the familiar, comforting rage as he seethed silently.

The crowd didn't seem to be dispersing. In fact, so many people were gathering on the street that the carriage came to a complete stop. A stream of people hurried past, heading toward Town Hall and gazing up at something in the sky.

"Lowry," barked Corvus, knocking on the roof to alert the driver. "What's the holdup? Get those people out of the way."

"I'm trying, Chancellor, but—"

"It's here!" somebody shouted. "It's coming!" The crowd cheered in response. Rigel raised a brow. People embraced in the streets—not just the Bid Day children, but everyone, whistling and whooping and throwing their hats in the air.

"Why are they..." began Morrigan, then stopped, listening. "What are those bells ringing for?"

Rigel's head snapped up in shock, dread settling in his stomach and horror etching itself on his face. The eventide bells.

Corvus looked between them strangely. His papers slipped from his hand and scattered across the carriage floor as he pushed open the door and leapt out onto the street. Morrigan followed and, looking up, saw what everyone had been running toward. Rigel shakily leapt out of the carriage, staring up at the sky faced clock firmly.

The Skyfaced Clock was changing. The twins watched as the dusky twilight blue deepened to sapphire, to navy, and finally to a profound, unfathomable black. Like an inkpot in the sky. Like a black hole, come to swallow up the world.

The bells were ringing for Eventide.

... 

That night the twins lay awake in the darkness of their room, separated by only a wall as they stared up at the ceiling in resigned silence.


The bells had rung until midnight, when they were abruptly replaced by an oppressive silence. They'd been a warning, a signal to everyone that Eventide was coming... but after midnight, they didn't need to ring anymore. Eventide was here. The last day of the Age had begun.


Something ugly and cruel and painful twisted inside Rigel and he rolled over, ignoring the pain that jolted down his still heavily bandaged back as he turned and face the wall.


It was supposed to be a twelve year age, they were supposed to have another year. His nostrils flared and his lips twisted into an ugly frown, eyes fluttering lazily, too exhausted it hold them open any farther than necessary. His usually neatly combed hair was mussed, curls framing his face and lips twisted into an ugly twitching pout, like he was going to cry. His eyes burned. 

He rolled over once more.

Now that the Skyfaced Clock had turned black, the experts were all scrambling to say they'd long suspected, they'd read the signs, they'd been on the cusp of publicly announcing that in their opinion this year, this winter, was the last of the Age.

Never mind, they all said. We guess this one's an eleven-year Age. Everyone makes mistakes, and one year doesn't make much difference.

Except, of course, it made all the difference in the world.

Happy birthday to us, Rigel scoffed bitterly. He pulled his quilt around him tighter, cocooning it around him until it restricted all movement. Like a warm, soft hug, without the embarrassing human affection part. A tear slipped down his face and usually he would fight it, but it's not like there was anybody to see. The room was silent. 

But then there  was a noise. A very small noise that was barely a noise—like a tiny whisper or rush of air. He flicked on his lamp and the room flooded with soft light, with a groan he so red heavily as he painfully lifted himself off the bed.

He glanced towards the door, trying to see if it had been touched, but there was nothing there.

No. Not nothing.

Something.

A small white rectangle stood out against the dark wooden floorboards. Someone had slipped an envelope under her door. He gave a whimpering sob as he bent over agonisingly, before eventually just crouching down on his legs, and picked it up.

On the envelope, someone had written untidily in thick black ink:

Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society wishes to present his bid for Master Rigel Crow. Again.

"The commitment is appreciated at least," He murmured, tracing the envelope and quietly slipping it open. He frowned in though as he pulled out two pieces of papers one was a simple letter and the other a contract with two signatures on it.

𝙿𝙰𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙽: 𝓙𝓾𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓝𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱

The signature beneath 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃/𝙶𝚄𝙰𝚁𝙳𝙸𝙰𝙽 was one he didn't recognise, it was written in messy calligraphy, and the only defining feature was an O and a crow scribbled on top of the rest of the unreadable letters of the name.

 The third space—𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴—was blank. Waiting.

Rigel read the letter, utterly bewildered and highly intrigued.

Dear Master Crow,

We wish you the very best of luck.

Regards,
Elder G. Quinn,
Proudfoot House,
Nevermoor, FS

At the bottom of the page, in a hurried black scrawl, was a brief but puzzling message:

Be ready.
—J.N.

With a roll of his eyes, he, stupidly, allowed himself to hope. His lips quirked up just so as he picked up his calligraphy pen and signed his name with shaking hands, before throwing the contract into the fire. 

He eyed the bag in the corner of his room—the one he'd never unpacked after his attempt to run away—with a mild, bitter sense of amusement. Sure, it would never get used, but, well. It was nice to pretend, even if it was just for a few minutes. 

Chapter Text

"Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would be to have never been born at all."

... 

Rigel sneered bitterly as he glared out the window, in the distance dozens could be seen celebrating—streets bands played for coins at every other corner, colourfully painted  lanterns floated high in the sky, children shouted and scream, fireworks popped in the distance and the air was tinged with the smell of beer, burned sugars and barbecue all mixing to make a single unique, heavenly aroma.  

An uproarious celebration of Eventide night—one that even Jackalfax, a typically conservative and quiet town, couldn't escape from.

The cobbled stretch of Empire Road had swelled from a merry hum of good spirits in the morning to raucous, uncontainable revelry in the final hours before midnight.

The blackened Skyfaced Clock loomed above the celebrations. At midnight it would fade to the colour of Morningtide—a pale, promising pink—and Spring of One would bring a fresh beginning for everyone. The night was uncommon and crowded with possibility.

For everyone, that is, except Rigel and Morrigan Crow. Their night held only one possibility: Death. When the clock struck midnight they would die—the eleven short years of their doomed lives complete; their curse finally fulfilled.

And thank the stars for that, Rigel thought, Eleven years of this, was eleven years too much. 

("You've done well, Little Master" Mary whispered from the doorway," And it's unfair to you, but you'll be able to let go of that tonight."

"Thank the stars for that," Rigel answered cooly, staring in the mirror vacantly as he combed his messy curls and gelled them straight, unbidden sorrow laced his voice and tears sprung to his mind. His voice was hoarse and quiet, cokes with emotion as he whispered," Eleven years of this was eleven years too much."

"Any of this  was too much, for any one." The maid answered, walking over and sitting his tea cup on the vanity. His jaw clenched as his hands trembled, mussing the hair he was trying to comb flat. The maid quietly grasped the comb  from his hands and softly smoothed his hair down," Even you."

 Rigel's eyes burned with tears, Mary was arguably the closest he had ever had to a mother, having joined the household shortly after his mother's death, she was the most maternal love he'd ever received. 

How pathetic, he thought self-loathingly, the most love he'd ever received was from his maid.

"I heard cook and the butler talking earlier," She whispered, sneaking a glance at the door," I know it's not much: but cook says you have your mothers curls.")

Rigel wouldn't go so far as to say he was excited to die— he wasn't. He was just relieved he would no longer have to live. Relieved to not spend everyday clinging to anger, simply because it was better than that overwhelming numbness—or worse; sorrow.

The fact of the matter was simple: Rigel Crow didn't want to die, he'd just never wanted to live.

And now, he was finally going to be relieved of that burden, without having to leave behind the only person in this world he cared about. Because she'd be leaving too. 

The Crows were celebrating. Sort of.

It was a sombre affair in the house on the hill. Lights dimmed, curtains drawn. Dinner was Morrigan's favourite—lamb chops, roast parsnips, and minted peas—but a separate meal, was made for Rigel as he was vegetarian and he, like his father, held an unadulterated loathing for Parsnips. Corvus usually refused to allow the vegetable to be served when he was home for dinner, but he kept a grim silence as the maid spooned a huge mountain of them onto his plate. 

Rigel tried not to feel bitter about that, but, well, it spoke volumes.

The second she turned to him to offer Parsnips to go with his beans on toast—like a maniac—he shot her a scathing look," Ask and you'll find yourself unemployed."

The maid stuttered out a quick apology  and retreated to the kitchen. His grandmother let out a small huff of amusement and smirked cruelly from her seat at the table.

The room was quiet and morose but for the soft scratching of silverware against china. Each member of the family ate in a tense, sullen, silence, contemplating the upcoming events of the evening.

Rigel wondered what death would be like. He didn't really recall much about the lesson he and Morrigan had learned about the eventide curse, save for the caning he'd gotten for not paying attention—that was really bad, it was when his hand tremors became permanent. It had only made him resent their curse even more. Sue him for not paying attention or wishing to elegant about his impending death.  

What a wicked child.

Still though, he wondered what would happen afterward. Cook had taken great joy in regaling (read: tormenting) him and Morrigan with tales of the Divine thing and the Better place, and the Wicked Thing that dwelled in the Worst Place. Morrigan had been traumatised, She'd slept with the light on for a week and insisted Rigel stay in her room with her for the next three, something that, though Rigel would never admit, eight-year-old him had been rather grateful for it.

He hoped death was like the warm embrace of a soft blanket as you fell into bed, allowing your subconscious to be cradled by a dreamless slumber. He didn't know much of that feeling, usually he was unable to sleep, plagued by nightmares, or even waking, paralysed in the middle of the night to the strange sound of a man humming, which was ridiculous because Rigel was forbidden (and utterly unwilling) to sing, and Corvus loathed singing, it was after all, how Rigel has killed his grandfather.

Well, technically the man had taken his own life, but he digressed. Rigel's signing had still been the reason for it—or rather the lack thereof. After his father had forbidden his singing following the whole ordeal with the neighbour girl, his grandfather's already incredibly poor mental health had spiralled and he'd taken his own life at the absence of Rigel's voice. It was a shame, Rigel had adored his grandfather and the man had little relationship with Morrigan so she'd not even remotely understood his loss. He'd also been forbidden from telling her about it, so. Yeah.

The father had a tendency to keep secrets and encourage rifts between the twins, forbidden information dividing the pair. Rigel missed the days of laughter and giggling together, joined at the hip. Just them against the world. it somehow felt like it had been just yesterday and yet, an eternity ago still. It was unfair, the level of destruction time wrought. 

Yet another thing on the long list of hatred the bitter boy held.

It was a strange thing, he supposed, to be celebrating the night of their death. 

It didn't feel like a birthday. It didn't feel like a celebration at all. It was more like having their own pre-emptive requiem or antemortem wake.

Just as Rigel was wondering if anyone would say a few words about either of them, Corvus cleared his throat. Morrigan, Ivy, and Grandmother looked at him, their hands pausing halfway to their mouths with forks full of lamb and peas. Rigel's eyes flickered up in surprise, and he set his fork down. This should be good.

"I, er, just wanted to say," he began, and then seemed to lose momentum. "I wanted to say..."

Ivy's eyes misted over and she squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Go on, dear."

He wrinkled his nose.

"I just..." He tried again and cleared his throat loudly. "I wanted to say that... that the lamb is very good. Cooked to perfection. Nice and pink."

"Wow," Rigel muttered to his grandmother," What a touching sentiment."

The old bat snorted.

There were murmurs of agreement around the table, and then a clinking of cutlery as everyone carried on eating. That was probably as good as it was going to get, and while Rigel didn't eat lamb, his father—much as he loathed the man—had an exemplary culinary taste, and it did look well cooked, so he couldn't exactly disagree.

"Well, if nobody minds," said Ivy, dabbing her mouth prettily with her linen napkin. "I've not been a member of this family for very long—"

"You're not a member of this family," Rigel muttered under his breath.

"—but I thought it might be appropriate for me to say something tonight."

This'll be good, He thought cynically. Morrigan sat up straighter, looking ridiculously hopeful and dreamy. He wondered what exactly she had to say, it was an incredibly awkward thing to acknowledge, that much he could admit. What exactly was one supposed to say, Oh, I know we've been cruel  and uncaring our whole lives in regards to the two of you, but deep down we did have a little care in our cold, dead hearts and our abuse only stemmed form a place of pre-emotive heartache and we did in fact love you and feel great sorrow and requiem at your inevitable death! All my love, Step-mama? Rigel scoffed, he thought not. With a raised brow, he picked his cutlery back up and began digging into his dinner once more, his eyes still trained on Ivy.

"Corvus wasn't sure if I should say anything, but I know Rigel and Morrigan won't mind...."

"Go on," Morrigan said. "It's fine. Really, go ahead."

Ivy beamed at her (for the first time ever) and, emboldened, stood up from her seat. "Corvus and I are having a baby."

Rigel felt his cutlery slipping from his grasp and clattering onto his plate as he did his best impression of a living Rigel-statue. What in the name of the divine thing?

 The room fell silent; then a great smash came from the doorway as the maid dropped a platter. Corvus tried to smile at his young wife but it came out as a grimace.

"Well?" Ivy prompted them. "Aren't you going to congratulate us?"

Rigel opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it, utterly at a loss for words.

"Ivy, dear," Grandmother said, smiling icily at her daughter- in-law. "Perhaps your announcement might have been better received at a less sensitive time. For instance, the day after my only grandchildren are due to leave us tragically at the age of eleven."

Yes. Perhaps. You think?

Strangely, Morrigan perked up a little. Rigel could understand why: It was arguably the most sentimental thing they'd ever heard their Grandmother say. He felt his own unexpected rush of warmth toward the savage old bird of prey.

"But this is a good thing! Don't you see?" Ivy said, looking to Corvus for support. He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if warding off a migraine. "It's like... the circle of life. One life may be snuffed out, but another is being brought into the world. Why, it's practically a miracle!"

Grandmother groaned faintly. Rigel's eye twitched. A vein pulsed in his forehead.

Ivy was relentless. "You'll have a new grandchild—A new?? What were they, old dolls that needed replacing?—Ornella. Corvus will have a new daughter. Or a son! Wouldn't that be lovely? A little boy, Corvie, you said you'd always wanted another son. We can dress him in little black suits to match his daddy."

"I believe you misinterpreted what he meant, Ivy," Rigel drawled blandly," And yet somehow, you managed to meet his expectation. What he meant wasn't I want another son—Oh, I want a second son it was I want another firstborn because mine is a raging disappointment but congratulations. You met his expectations anyway."

Ivy huffed and turned to Corvus, slipping back into conversation with him. Rigel tuned out, vaguely aware of her and Morrigan bickering. His father was speaking when he finally returned to listening to the conversations," —we'll celebrate later."

"But... Rigel and Morrigan don't mind. Do they?" The gold-digging wench asked, a question Rigel didn't bother gracing with a response.

"Mind what?" Morrigan asked. "That Rigel and I are going to be blotted out of existence in a few hours and you're planning a wardrobe for our replacement? Not in the slightest." She shoved a forkful of parsnip into her mouth.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Grandmother hissed, glaring down the table at her son as she spared her unnoticed grandson a glance. "We weren't going to bring up the D-word."

"It wasn't me," Corvus protested.

"I didn't say 'dead,' Grandmother," said Morrigan. "I said 'blotted out of existence.'"

Rigel swallowed thickly, jaw clenched as he stared ahead blankly, pointedly ignoring the nauseous clenching in his gut.

"Well, just stop it. You're giving your father a headache."

"Ivy said 'snuffed.' That's much worse."

"Enough."

"Doesn't anybody care that I am with child?" shouted Ivy, stamping her foot.

"Doesn't anybody care that Rigel and I are about to die?" Morrigan shouted in return. "Can we please talk about us for a minute?"

"I told you not to say the D-word!" boomed Grandmother.

There were three loud knocks on the front door. Silence fell.

"Who on earth would visit at a time like this?" Ivy whispered. "Reporters? Already?" She smoothed down her hair and dress, picking up a spoon to check her reflection.

Rigel sneered at her," I assure you, if they were. They'd hardly wish to see you. There's no need to worry about your appearance, wench."

"Vultures. Trying to get the scoop, are they?" said Grandmother. She pointed at a maid—Rigel didn't recognise her, which was strange because much as he ridiculed the help, he actually knew all their names, so she must've been new, but she jumped slightly at the acknowledgment. He made a mental note to have grandmother keep an eye on her after they were gone, she seemed a timid little thing, "Send them away with your most contemptuous sneer."

Moments later they heard a brief, murmured conversation, followed by the fall of heavy boots coming up the hallway, the maid's timid protests echoing close behind.

Rigel raised a brow, intrigue growing with each footstep. Just who on earth both had the nerve to be barging into Crow Manor uninvited and why would they be doing it today of all days?

A man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by light.

He was tall and slender with wide shoulders. His face was half obscured by a thick woollen scarf, and the remaining half was made of freckles, watchful blue eyes, and a long, broad nose.

All six-plus feet of him were decked out in a long blue coat over a slim suit with mother-of-pearl buttons—stylish but slightly askew, as if he'd just come from a formal event and was in the process of undressing on his way home. Pinned to the lapel of his coat was a small golden W.

He stood with his feet wide apart and hands stuffed into trouser pockets, leaning casually against the doorframe as if he had spent half his life standing in that spot and couldn't think of a place he felt more at home—which was an incredibly unnerving sentiment, because Rigel didn't think any one same could possibly find comfort in Crow Manor. Hell, he and Morrigan had been raised in Crow Manor and even they walked on eggshells around the place. Yet, he seemed as if he himself owned Crow Manor and the Crows were merely his dinner guests.

His eyes locked onto Morrigan's and then darted to Rigel. He grinned. "Hello, you two."

The twins said nothing. There was silence but for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Sorry I'm late," he continued, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf. "Was at a party on a remote island in Jet-Jax-Jaida. Got chatting to the dearest old man, a trapeze swinger—fascinating chap, once swung over an active volcano for charity—and I forgot all about the time difference. Silly old me. Never mind, I'm here now. Got your things ready? I'm parked out front. Are those parsnips? Lovely."

Grandmother must have been in shock, for she didn't utter a word as the man swiped a large piece of roast parsnip straight from the platter and ate it, licking his fingers with relish. In fact, all the Crows seemed to have lost the capacity for speech, not least of all the twins. Rigel blinked and stared at the man blankly, just who was he and... how on did he get the nerve to just... barge into someone's  home unannounced and uninvited the day they were (supposedly) mourning the death of their only children and help himself to the food on one of the occupants plates—not least, Ornella Crow's supper specifically.

Several moments passed as their uninvited—and highly uncivilised, Rigel noted, glancing at the man's muddy boots, hat, coat and scarf still tucked over his mouth—guest rocked on his heels and waited, politely—at least he had some manners, despite the absurdity of his actions and their current situation—expectant, until something occurred to him.

"I'm still wearing my hat, aren't I? Goodness me. How rude." He arched an eyebrow at his dumbfounded audience. "Don't be alarmed; I'm ginger."

Ginger was an understatement, Rigel thought, but he did note that his hair was a rather... bright colour. Truly, he managed to pull it off though, then again, Rigel simply adored ginger hair. The the colour made him think of fire, of assertiveness and ambition. Still, as a far as ginger went, the term didn't seem quite as... vibrant enough to describe the man's hair. His mane of bright copper waves could probably have won awards. He unravelled the scarf from his head to reveal a beard that was only slightly less shocking in hue.

"Um," Morrigan said, with all the eloquence she could muster. "Who are you?"

"Yes," Rigel jumped in, looking at the man's ridiculing," Strange-Man-Who-Has-Helped-Himself-Into-Our-Home-And-to-Our-Grandmothers-Parsnips—"

The ginger snorted as he muttered," Strange thing to clarify but go ahead."

Rigel paid him no mind and did indeed, go ahead. Rather condescendingly, mind you," Who exactly are you?

"Jupiter." He looked around the room for signs of recognition. "Jupiter North? Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society? Your patron?"

Jupiter North. Their patron, Jupiter North. Their. Which meant Morrigan had also signed the contract.

He'd signed the contract. Of course he'd signed the contract, because it had been wonderful, glorious to pretend—just for five minutes—that it was all true. That there was really something called the Wundrous Society, and that they'd invited the cursed crow twins to join them

Of course he's signed that blank space at the bottom, in rather brilliant calligraphy for somebody with a permanent hand tremor if he did say so himself. And he did; oh, he most assuredly did.

Then he'd thrown it on the fire.

He hadn't for a second believed that any of it was real. Not in the slightest, because he wasn't an idiot.

Corvus at last found his voice. "Preposterous!"

"Bless you," said Jupiter as he renewed his attempts to usher the twins from the dining room to the hallway. "I'm afraid we really do have to hurry, Rigel, Morrigan. How many suitcases do you have?"

"Suitcases?" she echoed, feeling dim-witted and slow.

"Uhh—Ju—Just a bag."

"Dear me," he said. "You have packed, haven't you? Never mind, we'll pick you up a toothbrush when we get there. I trust you've already said your goodbyes, but we have time for a quick round of hugs and kisses before setting off."

Rigel would rather slit his own throat than offer physical affection to any one in his family, thank you very much. Or just any one in general. Maybe Morrigan, if she really, really needed it. 

Following that extraordinary suggestion (another first for the Crow household), Jupiter rushed around the table, squeezing each of the Crows in turn. Neither twins was sure whether to laugh or run away when he leaned in to plant a loud, wet kiss on her father's horror-struck face.

Rigel cringed—was this man an asylum escapee? Because he appeared utterly lacking in his wits.

 "That is quite enough!" spluttered Corvus, rising from his chair. It was one thing for a man to arrive unannounced at Crow Manor on Eventide, but quite another to bring the notion of physical affection with him. The nerve. "You are nobody's patron. Leave my house immediately, before I call for the town guard."

Jupiter smiled as if tickled by the threat. "I am somebody's patron, Chancellor Crow. I am the patron of these slow-moving but otherwise delightful children. It's all legal and above board, I can assure you. They signed their contracts. I have them right here."

He whipped out a wrinkled, fold-creased, shabby piece of paper that Rigel instantly recognised. Jupiter pointed at his signature, which he was rather disappointed it see looked much more like a shaky wreck than he recalled. Though, he took some amusement in the sight of a little black crow Morrigan had childishly doodled next to her own name. It was cute, very... adorable. Or. Whatever. 

But still, that was impossible.

"I don't understand," said Morrigan, shaking her head. "I watched it burn to ashes."

"As did I."

"Oh, it's a Wundrous contract." Wait, weren't those illegal? The Misuse of Wunder Act? He waved it around without care—as though he hadn't just confessed it was a highly illegal document. "It creates identical copies of the original as soon as you sign it. That does explain the singed edges, though."

"I never signed that," said Corvus.

Jupiter shrugged. "I never asked you to."

"I'm her father! That contract requires my signature."

 Actually, so long as an adult signed it at the time they were, even temporarily, entrusted with their care it was valid. So, if one of the maids signed it while on shift, it constitutes as an adult guardian's signature, Rigel's mind supplied rather unnecessarily.

"Actually, it only requires the signature of an adult guardian, and—"

"Wundrous contracts are illegal," said Grandmother, at last finding her voice, "under the Misuse of Wunder Act. We ought to have you arrested."

"Well, you'd best do it quickly, I've only got a few minutes," said Jupiter, sounding bored. He checked his watch. "Morrigan, Rigel, we really must go. Time is running out."

"I know time is running out," said Morrigan. "You've made a mistake, Mr. North. You can't be our patron. Today's our birthday."

"Of course! Happy birthday." He was distracted, moving to the windows to peek through the curtains. "Mind if we celebrate later, though? It's getting quite late and—"

"Uh, No," Rigel corrected," You seem to be... unacquainted with our situation. We're on the cursed children's register. Tonight is eventide. We're going to die at midnight."

Jupiter eyed him assuredly," My, aren't you a Negative Nelly?"

Rigel bristled, the beginning of a sneer curling at his lips.

"That's why I burned the contract. It's worthless. I'm sorry." Morrigan offered, shooting her seething brother a please-calm-down-and-don't-antagonise-the-crazy-ginger glance.

Jupiter was gazing anxiously out the window now, a frown creasing his forehead. "You did actually sign the contract before you burned it, though," he said without looking at them. "And who says you're going to die? You don't have to die if you don't want to."

Corvus slammed his fist on the table. "This is intolerable! Who do you think you are, waltzing into my home and upsetting my family with this nonsense?"

"I told you who I am." Jupiter spoke patiently, as if to a senseless child—Rigel did not like this man: he was very audacious and unpredictable and somehow both highly amused and offended Rigel. It was a very unappreciated mixture. "My name is Jupiter North."

"And I am Corvus Crow, the state chancellor of Great Wolfacre and a ranked member of the Wintersea Party," said Corvus, puffing up his chest. He was on a roll now. "I demand that you go at once, and allow me to mourn the death of my children in peace."

Rigel snorted derisively, there would be no mourning for them. Only celebration, relief, and preparation for their replacement. 

"Mourn the death of your children?" echoed Jupiter. He took two deliberate steps toward Corvus and paused, his eyes glittering. Rigel tensed, shrinking in fear as every alarm bell in his head went off, informing him—quite unnecessarily—that there was an angry man in his close vicinity. Jupiter's voice dropped an entire octave, and he spoke with a cold, quiet anger that was terrible to behold. Rigel flinched, curling in on himself. "Can you possibly mean the children standing right in front of you? The one's who are demonstrably, superbly, brilliantly alive?"

Corvus sputtered and pointed to the clock on the wall, his hand shaking with outrage. "Well, give it a few hours!"

Gee, Thanks dad. Rigel thought sarcastically—fear still shooting though his body, Gotta appreciate the unparalleled love and respect you have for us.

Still, something squeezed in his chest, and he wasn't quite sure why. They'd always known they were going to die on Eventide. Their father and grandmother had never kept it secret and Ivy had rubbed it into Rigel's face more than enough times. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Corvus was so resigned to her fate, but Rigel suddenly realised that to him, they might as well be dead already. In fact, they'd probably been dead for years.

"Morrigan, Rigel," said Jupiter, in a voice very different from the one he'd just used on their father, "don't you want to live?"

Rigel flinched. That was a... loaded question.

 "It doesn't matter what I want." Morrigan said softly. Rigel's heart panged for his twin and he swallowed a lump forming in the back of his throat, suppressing the instinct to run up and wrap her in a tight hug and tell how much he loved her and how no matter how much  they had fought or disagreed she would always be his sister. They weren't on close enough terms for that. They hadn't been for years. 

"It does," he insisted. "It matters so very, very much. Right now it's the only thing that matters."

Her eyes flicked from her father to her grandmother to her stepmother. They all watched her intently, uneasily, as if seeing her properly for the first time.

"I—" Rigel swallowed. No. No, he very much didn't, but he really didn't want to leave his sister behind or disappoint her. He'd broken her heart enough over the years—he didn't have it in him to do it one more time. Not like that. Not with the truth.

"Of course I want to live," Morrigan said quietly

"Good choice." Jupiter smiled; the cloud disappeared from his face as quickly as it had arrived. He turned back to the window. "Death is boring. Life is much more fun. Things happen in life all the time. Unexpected things. Things you couldn't possibly expect because they're so very... unexpected." He stepped backward, inching away from the window and reaching blindly for Morrigan, fumbling to take her hand. "For instance, I bet you didn't expect your so-called death to arrive three hours early."

Morrigan felt something powdery land on her face. Wiping it away, she looked up to see the light fixtures shaking and cracks appearing in the plaster. The lightbulbs stuttered and buzzed. The windows began to rattle. There was a faint smell of burning.

"What's that?" She squeezed his hand automatically. "What's happening?"

Jupiter leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Do you trust me?"

No!

She answered without thinking. "Yes."

He turned to Rigel, who hesitated, eyes darting between the strange man and the window he'd been staring out of grimly. He sighed," Fine."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Fine."

"You don't sound very sure."

"Well, I am sure. So, let's just get this over with."

"All right." He looked the twins in their eyes. The floor trembled beneath their feet. "I'm going to take that curtain down in a moment. But whatever you see out there, you mustn't be afraid. They can tell when you're afraid."

Morrigan swallowed. "They?"

Rigel paused, a resigned expression crossing his face," I'm probably going to regret asking this, but who exactly is they?"

"Just follow my lead and you'll be fine. Yes? No fear."

"No fear," repeated Morrigan, looking very fearful.

Meanwhile, fear and resignation had set up camp in Rigel's  stomach and were having a festival.  A travelling circus was stampeding through his abdomen. Galloping herds of fear somersaulted through his intestinal tract.

"What the devil are you talking about over there?" said Grandmother. "What's he saying to you two? I demand to—"

In a rush of sudden movement Jupiter pulled a handful of silver dust from his pocket and blew it toward Corvus, Ivy, and Grandmother like a cloudy, starry kiss, then leapt up to the window and ripped down the curtain, dropping it in a crumpled, messy pile in the middle of the floor.

"Oh my stars, you gave them cocaine! Morrigan the crazy man drugged our family! Morrigan!" Rigel panicked, shaking his sister," The crazy man drugged our family."

Morrigan stared, frozen and said crazy man bit  back a snicker before turning his gaze to his handiwork and shaking his head slowly, mournfully. "I am so sorry. How tragic to have lost them so young."

Corvus frowned and blinked, looking unsure. His eyes were glassy. "Tragic?"

Rigel gave a choked whimper, trying not to have an existential crisis.

"Mmm," said Jupiter. He threw an arm around Corvus's shoulders and led him closer to the pile of fabric. "Your dear, dear twins. So full of life. So much to share with the world. But taken! Taken too soon."

"Too soon." Corvus nodded in shell-shocked agreement. "Much too soon."

Rigel let out a disbelieving laugh at the utter absurdity of the whole situation.

Jupiter put his other arm around Ivy and drew her into his chest. "You mustn't blame yourselves. Although you could a bit, if you wanted to." He winked at the twins, Rigel felt a small, hysterical laugh working its way up out of his throat. His sister too, let out a shell-shocked disbelieving giggle. Did they really believe that curtain was them, lying dead on the floor? They were standing right in front of them!

"She looks so small." Ivy sniffed and drew her sleeve across her nose. "So small and thin."

"Yes," said Jupiter. "Almost as if she were... made of fabric."

Rigel and Morrigan snorted, but the Crows made no sign that they'd heard either of them. The fact Rigel had snorted inspired a wave of shock at himself, it really wasn't funny, but it really was.

"I'll leave you to make the necessary arrangements. You'll need to prepare a statement for the press, Chancellor. But before I go, may I suggest a closed casket for the funeral? Open caskets are so tacky."

"Yes," said Grandmother, gazing down at the curtain. "Indeed. Quite tacky."

"What did you do?" Morrigan whispered to the strange ginger. "What was that silver stuff?"

"Highly illegal. Pretend you didn't see it."

"I—" Rigel pinched the bridge of his nose," I'm pretty sure I did see it, just like I have seen you break several dozen laws in the span of the last... eight minutes..."

Jupiter shot him a crooked grin and a wink," Let's keep that between us," He offered merrily," Shall we?"

The light fixture swung violently, casting shadows across the room. An unmistakable smell of woodsmoke filled the air. The floor began to shake again, and in the distance Morrigan heard something like heavy rain or rolling thunder or—was it—hoofbeats?

The twins  turned to the window and Rigel felt fear prickle at his sondes, unease crawled down his spine.

He could see it. He could see their death coming.

Chapter Text

"I watched life and wanted to be a part of it, but found it painfully difficult."

... 

Through the sparse foliage and over the crest of the moonlit hill, a dark and shapeless form approached Crow Manor.

Rigel squinted as he tried to make out the shadowy silhouette, red pin pricks of light were scattered through the shadowy mass, and as they approached the boy realised with a pale face that it wasn't a swarm of bats or birds making their way home late, not a cluster of moths and locust—it was far too loud it be any of those things. The sound of hooves became deafening as the dark mass grew closer. Hundreds of specks of fiery red light, getting brighter by the second.

The nebulous cloud slowly began to take shape. Heads and faces and legs grew out of the swarm, and Rigel felt his stomach drop; the glowing red lights weren't lights at all. They were eyes. The eyes of men, the eyes of horses, and the eyes of hounds. He swallowed. 

Not individuals made of flesh. More like a single living shadow. They were darkness—a pure absence of light. And they moved with purpose.

They were hunting.

Rigel's voice caught in his throat and he was thankful to  his sister when she rasped out the question caught in the back of his throat. "What are they?"

"Not now," said Jupiter. "We have to run."

Rigel stepped back on shaky legs, but Morrigan's feet remained trap to their position. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her away from the window. Jupiter grasped each twin by the shoulder and knelt down, looking straight into Morrigan's eyes.

"No fear. Remember?" he said, before turning to Rigel. "Save it for later."

Jupiter led the twins away, into the hall, but Rigel couldn't help but sneak anxious glances to his family and the hunt growing closer to the window, something told him that the shadow-hunt wasn't here for them. Morrigan paused at the door and Rigel froze.

"Wait! What about them?" she said, looking back toward the Crows. They were still gathered around the curtain on the floor, oblivious to the sound and sight of a hundred ghostly hunters barrelling toward the house. "We can't just leave—"

"They'll be fine. The Hunt can't touch them. I promise. Come on."

"But—"

Jupiter pulled them onward. "It's you two they're hunting. You want to help your family? You need to get yourself far, far away from this house."

"Then why are we going upstairs?" Rigel narrowed his eyes.

Jupiter didn't answer. Instead he dragged them into Rigel's room and grabbed the boy's bag, before he ran to the nearest window and flung it wide open, sticking his head out. "This'll do. Ready? We're aiming for the skylight."

Rigel looked out the window at the strangest machine she'd ever seen.

As state chancellor, their father had been fetched from Crow Manor in all sorts of vehicles over the years. Corvus still favoured his old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage for daily use, but sometimes the Wintersea Party would send expensive dark-windowed coaches with rumbling mechanical engines, and once even a small piloted airship that needed a special permit to land on the roof. Neighbours had gathered to gawk at it and take pictures.

But Corvus had never, to either of their knowledge, travelled in a gleaming brass pod standing two stories high on eight spindly legs like an enormous metallic spider. It was certainly a... unique vehicle. He couldn't help but feel he recognised it from somewhere, but that was ridiculous. He'd definitely remember seeing a giant metal spider. He hoped.

"I didn't park close enough," said Jupiter. "We'll have to push off a bit when we jump."

Jump? Surely he didn't expect them to jump out of a third-story window?

Jupiter climbed onto the sill and levered his body so that he was mostly out of the window, then held out a hand to the twins. "On the count of three, okay?"

"No." She shook her head, backing away from the window. "Not okay. The opposite of okay."

"Very muchly not okay," Rigel agreed," In fact the farthest form okay, we have exited okay-town, travelled thousands of miles and dived into the farthest depth of very-much-absolutely-not-in-the-slightest-bit-okay town."

Jupiter looked amused," Morrigan, Rigel, I admire your instinct for self-preservation. I really do. But I think if you look over your shoulder, your instinct might tell you to jump out the window."

Rigel didn't want to look, if anything he wanted to avoid the sight entirely, but well, his siter turned and then he turned to her and then he caught a glimpse of something dark and creepy out of the corner of his eyes and then turned to that and then... well... he didn't scream, at least?

But he had a feeling that would definitely be contributing to his nightmares and sleep-paralysis if he survived it.

Dangerously close to the top of the staircase was a wolflike hound with glowing red eyes, its teeth bared in a low snarl. Its pack crept slowly up the last of the stairs behind him. At least a dozen, maybe more. They jostled for position, snapping their ferocious jaws and growling as they stalked the twins, frozen at the window.

"N-no fear," she whispered, shakily.

"Yes fear," Rigel countered," Lots of fear. A health dose of fear."

"Hey Rigel?" Morrigan waited for her twin's frozen body to shakily turn her way," Shut up!"

Jupiter snorted.

"Count of three." Jupiter took Morrigan's hand to guide her up onto the ledge and Rigel groaned as he was dragged along by his sister. He glanced between his options, a mad-man in a giant metal spider or a creepy shadow hunt who definitely seemed to want to kill him. Yeah, neither were particularly appealing but one had his idiot twin who he supposed he was definitely supposed to be helping keep alive. "One..."

Then again, just because the dogs seemed vicious didn't mean they were? He'd been taught never to judge a book by its cover, after all, he could be rather cold and cruel but he didn't actively try to kill people. Much.

The hound was joined on the landing by a second pack member, then a third, all with the same sharp yellow teeth and fiery eyes and the swirling, smoky fur as black as pitch. Their growls vibrated straight down Rigel's spine. Then again, maybe this was an exception. Although, they were pretty cute, he wondered if their fur was fluffy—

"Absolutely not," Morrigan narrowed her eyes at her brother, fully recognising that look," Rigel, you are not petting that killer shadow-dog."

"I wasn't going to." Rigel defended, looking at her like she was an idiot for even suggesting that, even though he was absolutely going to. Truly, did they absolutely know it was going to kill them? It looked really fluffy. Maybe if he give it the dog treats he got for Corvus's hunting hounds it'd loosen up.

"And people call me a madman." Jupiter spoke, looking at the boy like he was crazy, which Rigel personally felt was rather hypocritical for a man who invited himself into a stranger's house without even bothering to take off his coat," Two..."

Morrigan stepped backward, dragging her twin brother alongside her and scrambled for Jupiter's support as her foot touched nothing but air. He wrapped his arms around her chest and she felt him lean back, pulling her (and Rigel, who's wrist she was still clutching onto) with him. The hounds launched themselves at the twins.

Okay, so maybe they weren't friendly?

"Three!"

Cold, sharp air whipped around her ears as she fell. There was an almighty shattering of glass and then they landed hard—Jupiter's arms wrapped tightly around Morrigan, his body cushioning her fall and Rigel being dragged alongside them and landing atop both, he winced as it agitated the belt marks on his back, they would bruise tomorrow—on the floor inside the body of the giant brass spider. Above them, the hounds disappeared from the window.

"Ow," Jupiter moaned. "I'll regret that tomorrow. Off you get."

Same, Rigel thought, wincing as he picked himself up. That was gonna bruise, and probably set back the healing process a few days,

Jupiter rolled Morrigan onto the floor. Rigel narrowed his eyes as his sister winced, before glancing at the glass embedded in her hand. It looked fine, he had his first aid kit in his bag still, when they got away from this deranged man he'd swab it with an alcohol wipe and give her a Band-Aid.

"Where did they go?" Morrigan asked, utterly ignoring the open wound on her hand. Rigel narrowed his eyes, the man didn't even notice. 

"Dunno. But they won't be gone for long. Hold on to something," said Jupiter. Rigel didn't need to be told twice, he gripped the underside of a nearby bench as Jupiter ran to a control deck at the front of the vehicle and began pulling levers. The engine roared to life and the spider lurched forward, Rigel snickered as Morrigan crashed face-first into a wall. "The first bit's always bumpy. And the last bit. But don't worry; the middle bit's as smooth as silk. Sometimes. Depends, really."

Morrigan stumbled into the cramped cockpit and held on to the back of an old leather chair, where Jupiter sat at the controls. She picked the piece of glass out of her hand and threw it away, wiping the blood on her dress. Rigel cringed, pulling a band aid from his pocket and handing it to her with a sharp look that quickly silenced any protests. "What were they?"

"The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow." Jupiter looked darkly over his shoulder as the spider lumbered away from the house.

"The Hunt of..." Morrigan clamped a hand over her mouth suddenly, clearly trying not to puke. Rigel pulled out a stick of gum from his pocket in an attempt to quell his own nausea. "What do they want with us?"

Jupiter was a little too distracted, trying to steer and change gears and stay upright at the same time. "Strap yourself into the passenger seats," he said, jerking his head toward the battered-looking chairs on his left and right. Morrigan pulled herself over to it with some difficulty and clicked the seat belt into place across her chest. Rigel lowered himself to the ground, feeling much safer there than he did strapped to a chair that looked to be practically falling apart. 

Jupiter gave a resigned huff," It'll do. Ready? Hold tight." 

The spider climbed over the gates of Crow Manor in great staggering strides. The woods loomed ahead, but Jupiter steered in another direction, toward the centre of Jackalfax. On the smooth road, the movements of the mechanical spider evened out as it picked up downhill speed.

Jackalfax was awash with the light and noise of the early fireworks show, and a crowd had gathered to see the night ablaze with colour. The twins had never seen Empire Road so full of people.

The eight-legged machine scurried through the town centre, skirting the edges of the crowd. Even Rigel had to (grudgingly) admit that Jupiter had timed it rather well—the spectacle in the sky was a brilliant cover for their escape from The Hunt. Everyone was looking up, their ears filled with whistles and bangs.

"Shouldn't we be heading out of town, not into it?" asked Morrigan.

"Good question," Rigel nodded sarcastically.

"We're taking a shortcut," said Jupiter.

He was steering them straight toward Town Hall. The vehicle stood to full height with a grinding of its metal joints and stepped delicately through the crowd, looking for all the world as if it were walking on tiptoes.

"What is this thing?" Morrigan asked. "This spider thing?"

Rigel sputtered," This Spider Thing, as you've rather inadequately dubbed it is an Arachnipod, invented by a member of the elite Society of Innovation and happens to be one of two machines in the entire world," He retorted sharply," Which you would know if you spent your pocket money on something productive like books, or even utilised the family library instead of spending your time wondering around like an already-deceased spirit waiting for her opportunity to move on."

Jupiter nodded, although he did shoot Rigel a sharp look.

"Well, excuse me if I don't spend my time researching knowledge I never thought I'd get to use!" Morrigan snapped," It's not exactly like you went out of your way to spend time with me."

"Oh, of course," He scoffed," Because it's my job to ensure my older sister has her wits about her."

"Are you guys always like this?"

"Well, sorry for not being the older sister you wanted, but you know what? At least I don't spend my time in a corner with a dark glare like some creepy cryptid unnecessarily studying just so I can rub my intellect in other people's faces."

"You'd have to have a level of intellect to rub in people's faces for that," Rigel sneered," And unfortunately for you, your IQ is the equivalent of the room temperature."

"I'm going to take that as a yes." The ginger answered his own question.

"Wow! Room temperature? How generous."

"What can I say? I'm in a giving mood!"

A particularly loud firecracker shattered the night sky, interrupting the twins argument with a loud band and leaving a trail of flower-shaped smoke in its wake, the ghost of an explosion. The crowd made noises of delight.

Jupiter took the opportunity to try and steer the conversation into a more positive light," Beautiful, isn't she? Her name's Octavia, and yeah, you're brother's right, she's an Arachnipod. One of the only two ever invented. I knew the inventor. Pull that blue lever for me, will you? No, the other one. That's it."

The arachnipod shuddered to a halt. Jupiter frowned. He stood up and ran to the back of the pod, looking anxiously out of the domed glass walls.

"Is something wrong?"

"Interesting machines like this are out of fashion now, of course," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "But I'll never let go of old Occy. She's too reliable. Hoverships and automobiles, they're all very modern and flashy, but like I always say—you can't roll over a mountain, and you can't hover underwater. Octavia can go almost anywhere. Which is useful in moments like this. We appear to be rather cornered."

He returned to the control deck, reached up to the ceiling, and pulled down a screen with four split images. Each showed a different view from the arachnipod.

The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow had caught up with them. They were surrounded on all sides by the huntsmen on horseback and their slavering hounds.

"Oh, Divine Thing above." Rigel sighed under his breath.

To say Morrigan seemed panicked would be an understatement," How is any of that helpful in moments like this? I don't see any mountains or water!"

"No mountains, no," mused Jupiter. "But there is...that."

The twins followed his gaze to the top of the clock tower.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Rigel said as Jupiter's insane, highly idiotic plan clicked for him. 

"The really excellent thing about spiders," Jupiter said, strapping himself into the driver's seat with a grin, a mad gleam in his eyes, "is the way they crawl. Fasten your seat belt, Little Crow's. And whatever you do, don't close your eyes."

"I would really like to close my eyes." Rigel buried his face in the palms of his hands as he strapped himself to the other leather chair.

"What happens if I close my eyes?"

"You miss the fun."

"We're all going to die," He groaned," In this... exquisite masterpiece of a machine we are going to be torn apart limb-by-limp by a group of red-eyed-shadow-demon-monsters."

"Well, you're an optimistic one, aren't you?"

"Are all ginger's this deranged?"

"Just me, I'm afraid." The man chirped as the arachnipod suddenly reared back, throwing the twins against their chairs. Two great spindly metallic legs latched onto the eaves of Town Hall, and the pod heaved itself upward, lurching higher and higher toward the black, fathomless façade of the Skyfaced Clock. "It's not ideal, but as an improvised emergency gateway it's not my worst idea ever."

"We're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to die." Rigel whispered to himself. He let out a whimper," We're going to die a miserable death, torn apart by ultra fluffy demon-dogs and skeleton men because we had the bright idea to jump out of the window and into a giant metal spider with the crazy ginger man who drugged our family."

Jupiter and Morrigan ignored him. Or perhaps they just didn't hear him.

Morrigan herself looked just as panicked," Gateway to where?"

"You'll see."

"No! Nothing good ever comes from that statement," Rigel looked at the quite-possibly-deranged ginger like he was an idiot," Have you never seen a horror film? "You'll see" the only thing we're going to see at the end of this is a close up of the grim reaper's scythe before it tears our souls from our bodies and drags us to the gates of the Underrealm."

Morrigan ignored him and instead looked back through the glass dome. The ground swam yards below, and worse than that—the huge black-smoke hunters had dismounted and were climbing the tower.

"They're behind us!" cried Morrigan.

"Oh, joy." 

Jupiter grimaced but didn't look back. "Not for long. The Hunt can't follow where we're going."

"Where are we going?" To the other side!

They arrived at the top of the tower as the fireworks display reached its dramatic climax, explosions of red and gold and blue and purple lighting up the night sky.

"We're going home, Little Crow's." That sounded vaguely threatening.

"Is death a ginger?" Rigel muttered to himself.

The arachnipod put one spindly leg right through the clock. The glass didn't break—it didn't even crack. Another leg went through, gently rippling the clockface like a pebble on the surface of a deep black lake. The twins stared, open mouthed. One more impossible thing in a night of impossible things.

Rigel turned back. The huntsmen were so close their breath could have fogged up Octavia's glass dome. They reached out their skeletal arms as if to grab the pair through the back window and pull them downward to their death's. A part of him wanted to squeeze his eyes shut—but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

With one final heave, the arachnipod pitched forward and tumbled through the clockface, spinning over and over, throwing the twins into the unknown.

The sound of exploding firecrackers disappeared. The world had gone silent.

They landed with a thud. Outside the arachnipod, a thick white mist enveloped them. All was quiet and still, as if the chaos of Jackalfax's town square had simply ceased to exist. Rigel's stomach twisted anxiously and he hummed a few notes to calm himself, under his breath. Morrigan shot him a sharp look and he scoffed, scowling as he looked away, tears prickling behind his eyelids.

Was this, finally, their death? Had they died and crossed over to the Better Place? That was a shame—and highly unexpected, he'd always thought he'd go to the Worst Place. He had hoped death was better than that, but he'd never believed it. He'd hoped it was like falling asleep as a child and being carried to bed, like you could still hear the joy and laughter from another room.

He'd never had that either, but... he'd always imagined a hug or being taken care of by a parent to be this warm and fulfilling feeling. Like, all your anger melted away and you were just... peacefully content.

Still, taking stock of how he felt, Rigel highly doubted he was dead. His ears were ringing, he was nauseated, his lung burned, his eyelids were heavy, his back stung and ached, painfully stiff, and he wanted to curl into a ball and cry but also really really didn't because that sounded immensely painful. He peered out the window into the fog. 

There were no towering black gates, no molten pits of lava, no large charred black hands reaching to grab him. There was no evil, wretched thing like Cook had told him.

And yet; it definitely wasn't Jackalfax.

A soft groan broke the heavy silence and the twins turned to see Jupiter pushing himself up out of the pilot's seat with a pained grimace. "Sorry. Not as smooth as I'd hoped. You all right?"

"Fine." Rigel crossed his arm, hands trembling violently.

"I think so." Morrigan inhaled deeply, glancing around," Where are we? What's all this fog?"

Jupiter rolled his eyes. "Dramatic, isn't it? Border control," he said apologetically, as if that explained everything.

Rigel raised a brow. 

"State your name and affiliation," boomed an official-sounding voice, amplified through a speaker that neither twin could see. It seemed to come from everywhere.

Jupiter picked up a small silver device from the control deck and spoke into it. "Yes, hello! Captain Jupiter North of the Wundrous Society, the League of Explorers, and the Federation of Nevermoorian Hoteliers, and Master Rigel and Miss Morrigan Crow of... no affiliation. Yet." He winked at Morrigan, and she gave him a small, nervous smile in return.

A mechanical whirring sounded around them. Outside the window a giant eye—bigger than Jupiter's whole head—emerged from the white fog on a long mechanical arm. It blinked in at them, looking left to right, up and down, examining everything inside.

"You've entered from the Seventh Pocket of the Free State through the Mount Florien gateway, is that correct?" bellowed the disembodied voice. Morrigan flinched.

"Correct," Jupiter said into his little silver microphone.

"Did you have permission to travel to the Seventh Pocket?"

"I did, yes. Scholastic diplomacy visa," said Jupiter. He cleared his throat and flashed a look of warning at Morrigan. "And The Crow's are residents of Barclaytown in the Seventh Pocket."

The Crow's had never heard of Barclaytown in the Seventh Pocket.

Rigel watched Jupiter cautiously, mind running a million miles a minute. They were at some sort of border control? Were they entering another state? They didn't have passports or visa's! That was illegal! But Jupiter was unruffled. He answered the border guard's questions with gracious calm, merrily lying through his teeth.

"Do they have permission to enter the First Pocket?"

"Of course," Jupiter said smoothly. "Educational residency visa."

"Present your papers."

"Papers?" Jupiter's confidence faltered. "Right, course. Papers. Forgot about... papers.... Hang on, I'm sure I've got... something...."

Rigel held his breath as Jupiter fumbled through different compartments on the control deck, finally producing an empty chocolate bar wrapper and a used tissue. Smiling placidly at the twins, he pressed them up against the glass for the giant eye to examine. Like an actual madman.

Rigel edged away.

The moment stretched out in silence, and he braced himself for... something. Anything, really.

The microphone crackled and buzzed. The voice on the other end heaved a long-suffering sigh and whispered, "Honestly, you're not even trying...."

"Sorry, it's all I could find!" whispered Jupiter in return, looking into the giant eye and shrugging contritely.

Finally, the voice boomed, "You may proceed."

"Marvellous," said Jupiter, strapping himself into the old leather seat again. Rigel let out the breath he hadn't even noticed he'd been holding. "Cheers, Phil."

"Oh, for goodness' sake." There was a muffled sound from the speakers and a squeal of feedback, as though the microphone had been dropped, and then the voice whispered, "North, I've told you not to use my first name while I'm on duty."

"Sorry. Give Maisie my love."

"Drop round for dinner next week, you can give it to her yourself."

"Will do. Ra-ra!" Jupiter clipped the silver microphone back in its stand and turned to Morrigan.

"Welcome to Nevermoor."

The mist cleared, revealing an enormous stone archway with silvery gates that shimmered like heat from a stovetop.

Nevermoor. In all his maps and atlas's—and Rigel had a lot—he'd never heard of a city called Nevermoor. And yet, here they were. 

Jupiter put Octavia into gear as he read from a screen displaying notices. "'Local time 6:13 a.m. on the first day of Morningtide, Spring of One, Third Age of the Aristocrats. Weather: chilly but clear skies. Overall city mood: optimistic, sleepy, slightly drunk.'"

The gates groaned open and the arachnipod shuddered to life. Rigel inhaled deeply, hands trembling incessantly. He'd never been outside Jackalfax, not once in his whole life. He'd studied geography and maps excessively, highly passionate about the world and restless for a chance to explore it, a chance that by the time he was four he'd realised he would probably never have. Still, even the sights he'd imagined of the Wintersea Republic and the world outside of Jackalfax didn't hold a candle to this... Nevermoor place.

Both in and out of Jackalfax, everything had been neat and orderly and... normal. Homes sat side by side in uniform rows—identical brick houses on straight, clean streets, one after the other. It had always driven Rigel crazy, the lack of creativity and freedom had inspired poem after poem over the years.

Nevermoor was no Jackalfax.

"We're in the south," said Jupiter, pointing at a map of Nevermoor on the screen of his control panel. The arachnipod scuttled low through the darkened, mostly quiet streets, dodging the odd pedestrian here and there.

Evidence of the night's Eventide celebrations was strewn about the darkened streets. Balloons and streamers littered front yards and lampposts, and early-morning street sweepers collected discarded bottles in huge metal bins. Some people were still out celebrating in the bluish predawn light, including a group of young men crooning the poignant Morningtide Refrain as they stumbled out of a pub.

"Oh beeeeeee not weeeary, frieeeend of mine—"

"While saaaaailing o'er the tiiiiides of time—Pete, you're flat, that's—no, stop singing, you're flat—"

"The New Age greeeets us at the shore—"

"Just liiiike the Olden Age before—no it goes—it goes down at the end, not up—"

Octavia sped through cobbled lanes, narrow alleys, and sweeping boulevards, some neat and old-fashioned and others flamboyantly hectic. They floated through a borough called Ogden-on-Juro that looked like it was sinking. The streets there were made of water, and people rowed little boats through swirling mists that rose around them.

Everywhere Rigel looked there were rolling green parks and tiny church gardens, cemeteries—he made a mental note to visit, they were always so calm and quiet and so long as you were respectful to the spirits that rested there you rarely had to deal with bad luck, although, if it was a war cemetery he would definitely note the payment of entry—and courtyards and fountains and statues, illuminated by warm yellow gaslights and the occasional rogue firework.

Morrigan jumped from her seat, eagerly pressing her face against the glass as she practically ran from window to window, Rigel was much more hesitant but eventually he unbuckled himself and rose from his seat, quietly wandering over to one of the windows and staring out of it, rather than craning his neck like an idiot (or his sister, then again it could be the same thing, they weren't mutually exclusive) he simply let his gaze sweep through the streets. The only sign of the pleasure or excitement that crossed his face was the small, almost imperceptible, quirk of his lip.

"Hey, Mog, check that screen for me," said Jupiter, gesturing with his head as he steered Octavia through a mess of backstreets. Rigel's nose crinkled in distaste at the undignified nickname. "What time is sunrise?"

"It says... six thirty-six."

"We're running late. Show me some speed, Occy," Jupiter muttered, and the arachnipod's engine roared.

"Where are we?" asked Morrigan. Rigel raised a brow, that was a rather broad way to word a question towards a man who had evaded every attempt to retrieve answers from him. Granted, they had been in a life or death situation up until about ten minutes ago, but he digressed.

Jupiter laughed. "Have you been asleep? We're in Nevermoor, dear heart."

"Yes, but where is Nevermoor?"

"In the Free State."

Morrigan frowned. "Which one's the Free State?" 

Rigel paused, his geography was impeccable and he knew for absolute certainty that there was no such thing, even as a widely used nickname, as the 'free state'. There were four states that made up the Republic: Southlight, Prosper, Far East Sang, and of course Great Wolfacre, outside of which neither twin had ever ventured.

"This one," he said, steering Octavia into a side street. "The Free State is the free state. The one that's actually free. State number five, the one your tutors never taught you about, because they didn't know about it themselves. We're not technically part of the Republic." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "You can't get in without an invitation."

Rigel stared, a whole other state? His face remained impassive and he refused to betray the childish excitement and joy that warmed his body at the thought of learning about this whole new place, the small, bitter voice in the back of his mind that usually governed his actions with iron and stone whispered to be angry at the knowledge that had been denied to him, but he couldn't find it in himself to be. 

All he had was a dangerous sense of elation at the prospect of a whole new world, for him to research. He only allowed himself to get lost in adventurous daydreams and wild research for a moment before he forced himself back down to earth.  The thing about adventure and knowledge, was that it ignited an unparalleled level of adrenaline and passion in Rigel. And the problem with passion was that it made Rigel feel as though he was atop of the world, and that was a very, very, long way to fall.

"Is that why the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow stopped at the clock tower?" Morrigan asked, returning to the passenger seat as she cut him out of his thoughts. "Because they didn't have an invitation?"

"Yes." He paused. "Basically."

Rigel watched the exchange closely, closer even then his sister watched Jupiter's face for any sign of deceit as she spoke. "Could... could they follow us here?"

"You're safe, Morrigan." He kept his gaze on the road. "The both of you. I promise."

Rigel faltered, his tone seemed heavy, like he truly believed the weight of the, and yet... something about them felt hollow to Rigel. Like, for all the genuine belief Jupiter had in the words—they still weren't true. Something about them just felt, wrong. Rehearsed. Flat. Like he was trying to convince them just as much as himself.

"How—I mean..." Morrigan blinked. "I don't understand. We were supposed to die on Eventide."

That was true. That was so very true, it was the only truth Rigel had to cling to in his whole life. A fact he'd been taught before he could walk. The only level of certainty, and yet... apparently not. They were just words, rehearsed, repeated, but somehow... lies.

His father's own words echoed in his head, a stark reminder of all that defined him.

"I'd be better off sending my hunting dogs to school; they've got a longer life expectancy and are much more useful to me."

Useful. That was the only thing that had ever defined Rigel—how much use he was. Which begged the question: What about them was useful to Jupiter? What about them benefitted the man? What did he get out of helping them?

"No. To be precise, you were supposed to die at midnight on Eventide." He slammed his foot on the brakes, waited for a cat to cross the road, then hit the accelerator hard. Rigel pressed the heels of his shoes further into the ground, quivering hands clasped together behind his back as he gazed out the window still, facing away from both the other occupants of the arachnipod. Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and strode over to his seat, he did not fasten his seatbelt, simply crossing one leg over the other and clasping his shaking hands together atop his knee as he offered the peculiar man his attention. "But there was no midnight on Eventide. Not for you. Nevermoor is about nine hours ahead of Jackalfax. So you skipped right past midnight—out of one time zone and into another. You cheated death. Well done. Hungry?"

Rigel's eyes darted over the man's tense form, he was hiding something. Presumably what he gained from offering his aid. What indeed?

Morrigan shook her head. "The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow—why were they chasing us?"

"They weren't chasing us, they were chasing you two. And they weren't chasing you. They were hunting you. They hunt all the cursed children. That's how cursed children die. Good grief, I'm famished. Wish we had time to stop for breakfast."

Rigel stared, he had a feeling you weren't supposed to be telling 11-year-olds that a group of shadow monsters were hunting them down to kill them—especially not as a form of reassurance.

Note: Uses humour and callous deflection to make light of uncomfortable, disturbing, or triggering situations. Often deflects and avoids triggering topics rather than simply telling his conversationalist to drop it; fear of abandonment, highly possible. People-pleasing tendencies: yes. Discomfort and previous trauma associated with letting people past an aloof exterior crafted to prevent true portrayal of human emotion and empathy, leading to intense worry of unintentionally indifferent delineation and an overcompensation of emotional validation: undoubtedly.

Has likely led to more genuine long-term peer connection but also previous experiences of being used for others' benefit, leading to a hyper-awareness and recognition of emotionally draining environments encouraging kinship, which accompanies self-sacrificing tendencies in an effort to prevent others from being in those same environments — even if it means integrating himself into that environment in their stead.

Has a low value of himself and often feels guilt at looking to others for help, and thus may keep his own supportive efforts hidden in a well-intentioned but highly distrustful attempt to protect others from recognising the burden aiding them leads to on him and establishing their own sense of guilt in regards to it.

Morrigan paled. "They hunt children?"

"They hunt cursed children. I suppose you could call them specialists."

"But why?" She stuttered. "And who sends them? And if the curse says we're supposed to die at midnight—"

"I could murder a bacon sandwich."

"—then why did they come early?"

"Haven't the foggiest." Jupiter's voice was light, but his face was troubled. He switched gears to navigate through a narrow cobbled street. Rigel narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps they had a party to get to. Must be rubbish having to work on Eventide."

Uses humour to deflect as a coping mechanism.

...

"I know what you're thinking," said Jupiter as they locked Octavia up in a private parking garage. He pulled a chain next to the vast rolling door and it descended. The air was frosty, turning their breath to clouds of steam. "Nevermoor. If it's so great, why haven't you heard of it? Truth is, Little Crow's, this is the best place—the best place—in all the Unnamed Realm."

He paused to slip out of his tailored blue overcoat and drape it around Morrigan's shoulders. It was much too long for her, and her arms didn't quite reach the end of the sleeves, but she hugged it close, revelling in its warmth. Rigel nodded approvingly, unlike his sister he'd always been sensitive to the cold so he was always bundled up tight, whereas Morrigan preferred to make do with pyjama shorts and button up tees. 

Jupiter ran a hand through his wilting coppery updo before grasping each of the twins—or attempting to, Rigel pulled his hand away, unwilling to deal with the questions that would surely come about why it wouldn't stop shaking—and leading them along the chilly streets as the sky began to lighten.

"We've got great architecture," he continued. "Lovely restaurants. Reasonably reliable public transportation. The climate's great—cold in winter, not-cold in not-winter. Much as you'd expect. Oh, and the beaches! The beaches." He looked thoughtful. "The beaches are lousy, actually, but you can't have everything."

Morrigan was struggling to keep up, not just with Jupiter's rapid-fire monologue but also with his long, skinny legs, which were half skipping, half running down a street signposted HUMDINGER AVENUE, but Rigel was actually rather pleased to be able to walk in such fast strides instead of slowing down for others,

"Sorry," His sister panted, half hobbling and half limping in a way that made the cramping in her legs painfully obvious. "Could we... slow... down a bit?"

"Can't. It's almost time." Rigel narrowed his eyes, shooting the man a defiant glare as he slowed to match his sister's pace silently. His lips curled slightly, she was obvious struggling and in pain trying to keep up and it wasn't as though they'd get there any faster, they'd still have to wait for her to catch up. They could absolutely slow down.

"Time... for what?" Morrigan panted.

Jupiter gave an exasperated glance to Rigel out of the corner of his eyes—though whatever message he meant to convey was ruined by the twitching of his lips," You'll see. Where was I? Beaches: lousy. But if you want entertainment, we've got the Trollosseum. You'll love that. If you love violence. Troll fights every Saturday, centaur roller derby Tuesday nights, zombie paintball every second Friday, unicorn jousting at Christmas, and a dragonriding tournament in June."

Rigel raised a brow. He'd heard stories about a small centaur population in Far East Sang—and had researched their culture in great depth afterwards—and he knew there were dragons in the wild, but they were incredibly dangerous—no one had thought of riding one in centuries. Still, he tried his best to keep his face impassive and apathetic despite the fact he was clinging to every one of Jupiter's words attentively. 

They turned into a street called Caddisfly Alley—a name the paranoid boy noted purely for the sake of knowing their exact location, Morrigan and Jupiter were flat-out sprinting now down the twisting, maze like backstreet but Rigel still managed to be about half a pace ahead of Jupiter with his ridiculously long and fast strides. Just when he thought it would never end, they stopped outside a curved wooden door with a small sign reading HOTEL DEUCALION in faded gold lettering.

"You... live in... a hotel?" Morrigan puffed. Rigel shot her a chiding look and she blushed sheepishly.

But Jupiter didn't hear her. He was fumbling with a brass ring of keys when the door flew open and Rigel bit back a snicker as Morrigan nearly fell over backward.

Looming in the doorway was a cat. Not just a cat. A giant cat. The biggest, scariest, toothiest, shaggiest cat he'd ever seen in his life. Rigel looked up at the cat—the Magnificat, he never thought he'd meet a Magnificat!—in undisguised awe.

If he's been star-struck by its appearance, that was nothing to how he felt when it turned its enormous grey head toward Jupiter and spoke.

"I see you've brought my breakfast."

...

Rigel's lips parted ever-so-slightly as the cat's fist-sized amber eyes scanned he and his sister up and down. Finally, it turned and slunk back inside. Rigel barely supressed the enthusiastic grin that threatened to cross his face as Jupiter nudged him and a terrified Morrigan through the doorway. He'd never met a Magnificat at all, but he never ever thought he'd meet one that could speak—the boy had gotten a few bad beatings from Corvus for sneaking out to animal rights protests over this years but there was no abuse that made his blood boil quite as much as the way the captured Magnificat's noses were pierced and they had their tongues cut out so they couldn't talk.

"Oh my stars." He whispered almost imperceptibly. The cat spared him a mildly amused glance before turning around and walking down the hallway—clearly expecting them to follow," Oh my stars."

"Very funny," Jupiter said to the animal's 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 each of the twins shoulders, steering them straight ahead. Gas lanterns in sconces on the wall were turned low—Rigel took the time to ensure his expression was appropriately neutral. 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. The boy crinkled his nose, shuddering slightly. 

"This is the service entrance. Ghastly, I know—needs some fixing up," said Jupiter, which was very much an understatement. "Any messages, Fen?"

The Magnificat turned to look at him as they reached a set of glossy black double doors at the top of the landing and gave an exaggerated eyeroll. "How should I know? I'm not your secretary. I said take off those boots." With a majestic thrust of her big grey 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 talking Magnificat) an enormous rose-coloured chandelier in the shape of a sailing ship, dripping with crystals and bursting with warm light drew every eye in the room. There were potted trees and elegant furniture all around. A grand staircase curved around the walls, up and up to thirteen floors (obviously he counted them) in an elegant 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, Rigel realized, reluctantly impressed—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 utterly entrancing, glorious Magnificat. 

He tried not to let the bubbling anxiety in his gut show.

"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. Rigel blinked.

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."

Rigel scowled.

"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 Magnificat's are wildly askew and I would keep them to yourself if you don't want sardines in your sheets. Fen's head of housekeeping."

Morrigan stared at him blankly. "How can a cat be a housekeeper?"

Rigel's left eye twitched and he inhaled deeply, reminding himself that idiocy would not justify assault in the court of law. It was a valid question, regardless of how blunt and insolent it was.

"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 grey suit jacket, and a pink handkerchief tucked into his pocket, the letters HD monogrammed on it in gold.

"Morrigan, Rigel, 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."

"Marvellous. 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 alpaca—Rigel perked up— 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? "Are the room's ready?"

"They certainly are, 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. Rigel swallowed as his stomach dropped. He pressed a shaking hand to the glass behind him to steady himself, trying not be quite as obvious as Morrigan. Martha, the housemaid Jupiter had greeted, gave the twins—though mainly his sister—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 to Morrigan. Her smile reached all the way to her big, hazel eyes. "You'll get used to it."

Rigel squirmed, she reminded him of Mary—only Mary's smiles were smaller and softer, like a secret reserved only for him, and she had these big brown eyes that radiated warmth and shone with the light of everything-will-be-okay.

"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, you two."

He reached over and pulled out two long, slender brown paper parcels from the depths of the blue overcoat still draped over Morrigan's shoulders. Rigel froze, his fingers brushing lightly over the wrapping. No one had ever given him a gift before—not once in his life. He ran his hand slowly across the paper, mesmerized, before carefully unwrapping it to reveal a simple black umbrella. Its handle was made of polished dark wood, wrapped in smooth black leather with a small braid of brown leather on either side of the handgrip—a detail he found himself uncharacteristically unfazed by. At the tip sat a small bird, delicately carved from opal.

Attached to the handle wad a small note:

You'll need this  —J.N.

The boy froze, uncertain and speechless. Meanwhile, Morrigan carefully unwrapped the paper to find a black oilskin umbrella of her own 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. 

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

But before she could finish (and subsequently leave him to the awkward task of offering his own gratitude, something he'd literally only had to do with a single person in his life), the elevator doors opened to a great roar of celebratory noise, and Rigel felt as if he'd been thrust into the eye of a colourful hurricane. He cringed, shrinking back.

The rooftop was overwhelmingly alive—loud and bright and burning.

Hundreds of guests surged through the open air, shrieking, spinning, laughing with their heads thrown back like it was the easiest thing in the world. Torchlight flickered in rows overhead, casting long, rippling shadows across their faces. Strings of festoon bulbs glowed like stars. A dragon puppet danced through the crowd, carried by hidden hands, its paper body twisting, head lurching from side to side as a boy chased after it joyously, the echoes of his laughter haunting the air long after he'd run past.

Acrobats twirled above them on precariously narrow platforms, suspended so high it made his stomach clench to look. Mirror balls spun lazily over the rooftop, seemingly held up by magic as they scattered fractured rainbow light in every direction. There was nowhere to look that wasn't spinning or glowing or moving. It wasn't just the sounds and lights, the stench of alcohol clung to the air, only encouraging Rigel's tense demeanour and his back ached agonisingly.

Everything and everyone was nauseatingly loud, and bright and every time he twitched somebody brushed past him, somehow making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up impossibly higher. He was thankful at least, that he was bundled up so tight they weren't brushing against flesh.

Jupiter strode forward and Morrigan followed him slowly, still hanging back, but Rigel? He just stood there, frozen and terrified and uncertain. 

It was all too much. First the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow, then a giant mechanical spider-car-chase-thing, the fog-laden mystery of border control, and now this... this ridiculous party. On a hotel rooftop. In a wild, sprawling secret city neither of the twins had even heard of. With a mad ginger man and an (admittedly impressive) magnificat.

Still, something was wrong—everything was wrong—and his body knew it before his mind could catch up.

His chest seized up, tight and hot like something was crushing him from the inside. Like some kind of arm was twisting through his chest, writhing around in a way that made his skin crawl as it tangled his lungs and clenched around his heart in a vice-like grip. 

His breath came in short, ragged bursts. Too fast. Too shallow. Too heavy. Too hard. With each heave his heart pounded louder and more erratic in his ears, drowning out every other sound.

He stumbled through the nearest door on instinct, barely aware of where he was going. The stairwell swallowed him whole, the metal door slamming shut behind him with a jarring, yet somehow unnoticed clang that echoed in his ears. He flinched at the sound—but he didn't stop, still staggering forward blindly trailing his hand along the wall for some desperate of stability.

Panic attack, he recognised. He'd had these before, increasingly often but Mary was usually always there with some tea and breathing exercises to calm him down and this unspoken understanding to leave the second it was over without ever mentioning it. He tried to do something—anything—but—

He couldn't. It was like his brain was trapped in this... fright and flight response and try as he did, he couldn't seem to grasp control of his own body. Like he was just, floating above, utterly terrified. 

He was moving on instinct now, panic tearing through him like wildfire, blinding and breathless. His vision tunnelled—black edging in from the corners as each image warped irregularly, the stairwell spinning with each step—but he kept going, lurching forward, hand grazing the wall to stay upright.

The walls felt too close. The air too thin. Concrete pressed in on all sides, the stairwell steep and narrow, every step echoing underfoot like it might crack open the floor.

He didn't even know how far down he'd gone. One flight. Two. Everything blurred together. His lungs wouldn't open right. His hands tingled. His skin was cold and burning at the same time. His stomach rolled and he tasted bile in his throat but kept moving, like maybe if he just got away fast enough he could outrun the pressure building inside him.

At the bottom of the third stairwell, his foot slipped on the last step. His body pitched forward, too disoriented to catch himself. He hit the wooden landing hard—knees, hands, shoulder—pain lancing through him, up his already aching back, sharp and immediate.

And that was it.

That was the end of holding it together.

He collapsed against the wall, curling in on himself as he backed himself into a corner, gasping like he'd just been dragged out of deep water with no air left in his lungs. A strangled sob tore out of him, the first sound he'd made besides his heaving. And then another. And another.

The panic crashed over him in full force. And with each shaky breath he took in an attempt to calm himself he released several pain-filled sobs.

His chest heaved with rapid, useless breaths. His hands curled into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. His ears were ringing—high, sharp, relentless. His heart beat like it wanted to break free from his ribs. The lights above flickered dimly, casting shadows that swam across the walls and made everything feel even smaller.

Tears streamed down his face and he didn't bother to wipe them away. He couldn't. He was shaking too hard. Every part of him felt wrong—tight and frayed and burning at the edges. His throat clenched. His body trembled. His mind was screaming.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

It was... unbearable. Every second of it.

He lay there on the landing, curled up in a ball almost as tight as his clenched chest, as the panic wrung every last bit of control from his limbs. His breath hitched and broke, sobs catching in his throat even as he tried to stay silent.

And he cried.

He cried as the world shattered around him, like something inside him had cracked so suddenly it hadn't made a sound—just sliced clean through him.

The stairwell didn't care. The walls stood silent around him, still and cold and unmoving, his sobs echoing in the otherwise soundless stairwell.

He didn't know how long he sat there, no control in his body as he shuddered and heaved desperate, shaking cries. But he knew it was long enough for them to fade into near-silent tremors and broken, pathetic whimpers. Long enough for the panic to finally ease, leaving behind only the raw exhaustion—his vision heavy, blinking to stay open against the pull of darkness.

He tried to pull himself together, mentally at least. To steady his thoughts, remind himself who he was, where he was. But his hands trembled harder than ever now, as if the panic had rattled something loose deep inside. When he tried to move, to lift his head, flex his fingers, nothing obeyed.

His breath caught—not from panic, he was too exhausted and drained to panic anymore. There was jsut this fatigued resignation.

He was frozen.

His muscles locked tight, heavy and unyielding. Every signal from his mind felt lost, swallowed somewhere between thought and action.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt like this. It was like... like his sleep paralysis but awake, where he was too exhausted and caught in his panic response physically still, even after he'd escaped mentally.

He tried to calm himself, forcing himself to remember that just because he felt threatened, didn't mean he actually was. Mary's voice twisted through his head, warm and steady, her presence and posture as calm and authoritive as ever but with an underlying softness to it.

("Fear and anxiety are cousins, not siblings. Fear sees a threat, anxiety imagines one. Just because you're anxious, does not mean you're in danger.")

She thought he was dead. Mary.

Mary, who had always been there for him, who had never spoken of his panic attacks aloud, but who understood them without needing explanation, who'd kept all his little weaknesses from his father, who'd stood holding an umbrella over his head as he stared at his grandfather's coffin, the sky shedding tears when his eyes could no longer muster them. Good, kind, patient, Mary who had taught him to walk. To stand. To talk, years of silence and struggles to speak as she found new ways for him to communicate and helped him overcome his silent anxiety. Who had raised him.

And now she thought he was dead. The realisation set into him heavily, a horrifying weight of reality; he was dead to her. He hoped she didn't immortalise his memory, remember him as some one he wasn't, hoped she didn't describe him as an entirely different—better—person than he was.

He didn't want his memory to be made unflawed and inhumane. He wanted to be remembered for all of him, for his terrible closed off attitude, his inability to show how deeply he cared, his love for animals, his infuriating stubbornness, his overwhelming hatred and need to antagonise his father despite the pain it always ended in.

She'd always been there to help after his panic attack, always a silent but steady presence. Both in panic and pain—like the first time his father had locked him in the greenhouse with the nest of wasps he was deathly allergic too, and as soon as she'd heard another maid gossiping about it she'd all but run there with his EpiPen to let him out. She'd been there every time afterward.

No mater what, sick or healthy. She'd been there.

Now, alone on the cold wooden landing, he willed himself to push forward, to break free from the weight holding him down. But the trembling in his hands didn't stop—it was a constant reminder that his body was still raw, still healing from every surge of anger and panic that came before.

He was exhausted beyond words, it had been a long few days, longer than most.

("Just because you're anxious does not mean you're in danger.")

He clung to the words in the silence as he slowed his breathing, waiting for his body to unlock as he quietly pondered how strange it was that people could say the most offhand things—utterly unaware of the impact it could have on the people they said it to, on the way it stuck with them forever.

When he finally unfroze, it was slow. A twitch of muscle. A slight curl of his fingers. The kind of movement that didn't feel like his own at first, as though his body were cautiously testing the idea of motion again. Inch by inch, his limbs unlocked, sore and shaky, like stone thawing after frost. He didn't know how long it took before he was able to push himself upright, only that the wood was cold against his palms, and that standing felt more like surviving than recovering.

He wiped the lingering tears from his face with a sleeve, quick and practiced. Schooling his expression into something blank, or at least unreadable. He didn't look back up the stairwell—didn't need to. Stars know he had no intention of returning to that rooftop, or the party that had spilled onto it.

Hopefully no one would notice his red-rimmed eyes.

He moved slowly, careful not to draw attention. His legs ached in that boneless, hollow way that followed panic, like the air itself had weight. It took him longer than it should have to find the right corridor, the right staircase, the right door leading out into the front plaza of the hotel. He hadn't even realized how badly he needed fresh air, which was strange given that was exactly what he'd been seeking out, until it hit him—cool and sharp, filling his lungs like a shock.

And then he saw them.

The crowd from the rooftop, filtering down onto the plaza. Some already on the ground, others still drifting down, their open umbrellas catching the wind like parachutes. Dozens of different coloured and patterned canopies, elegant and eerie in the dim light, spiralling lazily toward the pavement, all working together to make a single bold mosaic. A few had already landed and were slowly folding their umbrellas shut in quiet synchronization.

He blinked, dazed and momentarily unsure if he was still dreaming. It felt surreal, like stepping into someone else's memory.

And then he saw it—through the slow unfurling of bodies and umbrellas, a flicker of coppery hair catching the lamplight. Familiar even at a distance. And beside it, barely reaching his ribs, a smaller figure with long, dark, raven-black hair.

His breath caught, quiet and unseen, and he stayed there—still, watching from afar—as the last of the umbrellas drifted gently down.

A part of him watched longingly, and desperately wanted to join the crowd. Yet, his legs remained frozen stiff as ever and he swallowed thickly before he turned on his heel and fled inside.

He made a mental note to lecture Morrigan about jumping off a roof later.

Chapter Text

"...God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubt."

...

Morrigan groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers further up over her head as she attempted to shut her eyes. A moment later they flew open and she sprang back.

"What the—" Rigel raised a brow at what was sure to be an interesting vocabulary choice and Morrigan wisely changed the course of her sentence. He nodded approvingly," Were you watching me sleep?"

"Yes."

"Why!?"

Rigel blinked," It's fraternal."

"It's creepy."

"It is not."

"I assure you, it definitely is! Stars, Rigel!" His twin groaned, pushing herself up from bed. Rigel pursed his lips, envying her. He, more often than not, had to wait several panic-filled minutes before he could move after waking up," What the heck?"

"Language."

"I said heck."

"Language."

"Ugh!" She scowled—he huffed, honestly. You'd think he was the older twin," What do you want?"

"Excuse me for coming to check on my idiot sister after she jumped off the roof of a fourteen story building with nothing but the clothes on her back and an umbrella," He drawled," Speaking of which: What in the name of the divine things above were you thinking?"

"Every one else was doing it!" She defended.

"That's not as good of an excuse as you think it is," He informed her dryly," if everyone else was jumping off a roof, would you? Oh, wait."

"You weren't even there!" Morrigan retorted," And by the way where were you?"

"I excused myself for a lovely stroll down the stair well," He responded drily," As I'm sure you can imagine given my general loup solitaire vibe, I'm not exactly a people-person."

"Gee, I hadn't noticed," Morrigan said wryly as she rose from her bed and walked over to the tray on the desk in the corner," It might be because you find watching people sleep endearing."

Rigel rolled his eyes," Tellement dramatique." 

"I heard that" Morrigan called," I don't know what it meant, but I heard it!"

"You were meant to," He answered," And, I was calling you a drama queen. Clearly I inherited your share of the braincells."

"Rude." Morrigan held up a note from the top of the tray.

Come to my study after breakfast, bring your brother.
Third floor, two doors down from the Music Salon.
—J.N.

"Give me that," Rigel snatched the note from her.

"And clearly I inherited your manners." 

"She says, as though last night she didn't try to humansplain to a Magnificat that it wasn't a Magnificat." He mocked absently as he flipped the note around, she rolled her eyes.

"It's one o'clock, so... do we go?"

Rigel ignored her, and instead kept flipping the note in his hands as though whatever he was trying to find written on it would magically appear," How dare he!"

"What?" Morrigan asked, digging into her food. Rigel helped himself to the lukewarm cup of tea on her plate.

On the back, Jupiter had drawn a little map with arrows pointing the way. Nothing else, not once had he referred to Rigel by name. 

"He called me your brother."

Morrigan shot him a look," Hate to break this to you: but, unfortunately, you are my brother."

"Regretfully." He nodded," But that's not what I meant. Listen "Come to my study after breakfast, bring your brother", then it just has instructions, not once did he refer to me by name."

"Seriously?" She shot towards him," You get insulted about the most trivial things and yet I'm the drama queen?"

"Yep."

"You literally comb your hair for dinner." She defended," So, when you think about it, is it possible that maybe you're the Télécommande magique?"

Rigel snorted.

"What?"

"Yes, I am absolutely a magic remote control."

Morrigan went red," I hate you."

"Is it because I always change the channel when you find a show you like?" He asked drily," Or... is it because of the volume thing? You know I'm hard of hearing."

"So much." She shot him a glare that would've mad a lesser man wither as she snatched the map from him and stalked out, all but running to Jupiter's study.

He sighed dramatically and trailed behind his sister at a much more leisured (which was still fairly quick, but much more casual for him) pace, catching up when she paused to catch her breath before knocking.

"Come in," called Jupiter. Rigel glowered as Morrigan opened the door to a small, sensible room with a fireplace and two worn leather armchairs, reaching the knob just before him. She shot him a smug look.

Jupiter stood behind a wooden desk, leaning over a mess of papers and maps. He looked up, smiling broadly. "Ah! There you two are. Excellent. I thought I might give you a little tour. Sleep well?"

"I never do." Rigel responded blandly. The mans seemed unnaturally cheery. It was repulsive. Morrigan shot him a look, presumably wondering just how long he'd watched her sleep for.

"Yes, thanks," said Morrigan. 

Jupiter blinked, momentarily taken aback. He turned to the boy," Insomniac?"

Rigel glared, the man remained unfazed, chuckling and shaking his head fondly before turning to Morrigan.

"And your rooms are all right?"

"Y-yes, of course!" she stammered. "At least it was when I left it. I swear."

Rigel blinked, he'd only been in his room a few hours before heading to Morrigan, having gotten to sleep around seven before waking at quarter ten and regaining control of his limbs several minutes later—still, when he'd left his room looked okay," I thought so, why?"

Jupiter looked between the two for a moment, his brow knotted in confusion. Then he closed his eyes and laughed as though they'd told a joke. "No—no, I meant... I meant do you like it? Is it all right... for you?"

"Oh." Morrigan felt her cheeks turn warm. "Yes, it's lovely. Thank you."

Rigel narrowed his eyes, people pleasing tendencies," It's fine."

Jupiter had the good grace to wipe away the last of his grin. "It's, uh... it's a bit boring, I know, but it's only just met you. You'll get acquainted. Things will change."

"Oh," Morrigan responded awkwardly, looking as confused as Rigel felt. "Okay."

"I see." Rigel did not in fact, see.

So, he settled for analysing Jupiter's study from the open doorway. The walls of Jupiter's study were lined with bookshelves and framed photographs, mostly of strange landscapes and people. Jupiter himself only popped up in a few of them—younger, gingerer, skinnier, less beardy. Standing on the wing of a biplane in mid-flight. Giving two thumbs-up as he rode on the shoulders of a bear—maybe Rigel didn't loathe the man. Dancing on the deck of a boat with a beautiful woman and, for some reason, a meerkat. He glanced away to hide the upturn of his lips.

Clearly, the man had a level of respect for animals, which meant Rigel had a (reluctant) respect for the man.

On his desk, the photograph in pride of place was one of Jupiter and a boy sitting together with their feet propped up on that same desk, arms folded, grinning from ear to ear. The boy had straight white teeth, warm brown skin, and a black patch over his left eye.

Rigel recognized him—it was the boy she'd seen at the Eventide party, running after the dancing dragon with an echoing laugh. He hadn't noticed his eye patch at the party. But then, he had rushed past them and Rigel had slipped away shortly thereafter.

"Who's that?" Morrigan asked, staring at the picture. Rigel tried not to look too much like he was paying attention.

"My nephew. Jack. There he is again—see? Last year's school photo." Jupiter pointed at a photo of a group of boys standing in uniform rows. Across the bottom it read: The Graysmark School for Bright Young Men. Winter of Eleven, Age of Southern Influence. The boys were dressed in black morning suits with white shirts and bow ties. Rigel furrowed his brows, he'd had a bid placed on him for a school named Graysmark, it must've been the same. Cool.

Morrigan read through the list of names beneath the photograph. "It says here his name is John."

"Mmm, John Arjuna Korrapati. We call him Jack."

Morrigan opened her mouth, presumably to inquire about the eyepatch. Rigel frowned, he thought she'd be more sensitive of things like that, given his gloves.

Jupiter responded before she had the chance to voice her question. "You'd best ask him yourself. Might have to wait until spring vacation, though, I doubt he'll be around much during first term. I wanted you to meet him today, but I'm afraid he's had to go back to school."

"Isn't today a holiday?"

Jupiter sighed with his whole body. "Not according to our Jack. He's just started third year and he insists that all his classmates will be back at campus over the Eventide break, already studying for their first exam. They keep them busy over at Graysmark." Jupiter led the twins into the hallway, shutting the study door behind them. "I'm hoping you'll be a bad influence on him. Shall we visit the Smoking Parlour?"

Rigel ignored Jupiter's troublemaking remark and nodded approvingly, strong work ethic then.

"So." Jupiter rocked on his heels, hands in pockets, as they waited for the elevator to arrive. "Morrigan... Rigel."

"Yes?" Morrigan asked, sounding perhaps more eager than intended.

Rigel glanced up, only half-feigning his disinterest. He wondered absently if Jupiter was going to tell them about the Wundrous Society, he doubted it." Hmm?"

He looked up. "Hmm?" Rigel crinkled his nose, making a mental note not to respond to comments with hmm? anytime in the near future. He also noted that either he and Jupiter were eerily similar (and wasn't that a terrifying thought) or Jupiter had some semblance of subconscious mimicry—maybe AuDHD? "Oh, just thinking about what we can do with names. You know, for a pair of nicknames. For Rigel I was thinking Ri-Ri? Rye-Rye? Ryj? Rygee? It'll come to me..."

"Absolutely not." Rigel narrowed his eyes. Morrigan snickered. Rigel death glared her.

Jupiter ignored him," But Morrigan... let's see... Morrie... Morro... No. Moz. Mozza. Mozzie?"

The elevator doors pinged open. Jupiter ushered them inside and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

"Definitely not," Morrigan said, bristling. "I don't want a nickname."

"Course you do, everyone wants—" He was interrupted by a squeal, a crackling sound, and the clearing of a throat coming from a horn-shaped amplifier mounted in the corner.

"Good morning, ladies, gentlemen, and Wunimals. Could the guest who left four alpacas in the conservatory please collect them at his or her earliest convenience? Please call for Kedgeree if you require assistance. Thank you."

"Everyone wants a nickname," Jupiter continued after the announcement. "Mine, for example, is the Great and Honourable Captain Sir Jupiter Amantius North, Esquire."

Sounds rather pretentious, but okay. Definitely too original to he made by any one other than him.

"Did you make that up yourself?" Morrigan asked.

"Bits of it."

"I could tell," The boy muttered imperceptibly.

"It's too long for a nickname," Morrigan said. "Nicknames are like Jim or Rusty. The Great and Honourable Captain Sir Thingy takes about a year to say."

Rigel supressed a snort.

"That's why everyone calls me Jupiter for short," he said. The elevator shuddered to a halt and they stepped out. "You're right, shorter is usually best. Let's see... Mo. Mor... Mog. Mog!"

"Mog?" She wrinkled her nose.

"Mog is a great nickname!" Jupiter insisted. He rolled the word around in his mouth as they walked down the long hallway. "Mog. Moggers. The Mogster. It's so... versatile."

"It sounds like the name of a fungus one would find growing inside dried nasal mucus."

Morrigan made a face. "Shut up, Ri-Ri—"I can and will defenestrate you."—It sounds like something an animal vomits up and leaves on your doorstep. Are you going to tell us about the Wundrous Society now?"

"Soon, Mog, but—"

"Morrigan."

"—first, the grand tour."

The Smoking Parlour wasn't a room where guests were allowed to smoke pipes and cigars, to both Morrigan and Rigel's relief—he'd have been rather displease if Jupiter had taken him and Morrigan in there if that were the case, but in fact a room that emitted great rolling clouds of coloured, scented smoke that seemed to pour from the walls themselves. This afternoon it was a murky green sage smoke ("to promote the art of philosophization," Jupiter told them. Rigel opted not to point out that wasn't a word), but a schedule on the door informed her that later that evening the smoke would change to honeysuckle ("for romance") and, late at night, to lavender ("to aid the sleepless").

Rigel made a mental note to come visit, he could use some sleep, then again... he really didn't want to. Ugh, on one hand, his body needed sleep to survive, on the other it always lead to night terrors and sleep paralysis—which only brought terror on the off chance he encountered The Humming Man. Rigel shuddered.

Sprawled dramatically on a love seat was a very small, very pale man dressed all in black, wrapped in a velvet cloak. His eyes were closed and thickly lined with kohl, his mouth downturned, and he had an air of gothic tragedy about him. Morrigan looked positively enthusiastic. Rigel couldn't deny his own intrigue.

"Afternoon, Frank."

"Ah, Jove," said the little man, cracking open one mournful eye, clearly trying (and failing, at least as far as Rigel was concerned) to feign disinterest. Rigel raised a brow, Jove? "There you are. I was just thinking about death."

Okay maybe Rigel liked this man, he wondered if he had an in depth opinion regarding a specific religion on the matter? Or was he atheist? Better yet, what personal philosophy did he have in regards to the subject of aging?

"Of course you were." Jupiter sounded unimpressed.

"And the songs I want to sing at the Hallowmas party this year."

Nevermind, Rigel thought, he wasn't pondering death, just experiencing a passing train of thought.

"It's almost a year away, and I said you could sing a song, singular, not songs, plural."

"And the scarcity of fresh towels in my room."

"You get a fresh towel every morning, Frank."

"But I want two fresh towels every morning," Frank said with a note of petulance—Rigel crinkled his nose in disdain. "I need one for my hair."

Morrigan did not stifle her giggle as well as she thought.

"Talk to Fenestra about it. Splendid job last night, by the way—our grandest Eventide yet." Jupiter leaned down to whisper to the twins. "Frank's my official party planner. Roof-Raiser-in-Chief. Best in the business, but we mustn't tell him that, or he'll look for a job someplace fancier."

Frank smirked drowsily. "I already know I'm the best, Jove. I'm still here because there is no place fancier—you're the only hotelier in the Free State who'd never impose a budget on my genius."

"I do impose a budget on your genius, Frank, but you always ignore it. Speaking of which, who approved the booking of Iguanarama?"

"You did."

"No, I said to book Lizamania, the Iguanarama tribute band. They're a quarter of the price."

"Naturally. They have a quarter of the talent," huffed Frank. "Why are you here, anyway? Can't you see I'm in recovery?"

"I've brought someone special to meet you. Or rather; two special someone's! Frank, meet"—Jupiter clapped one hand on Morrigan's shoulder, looking mildly put out when Rigel dodged the other—"Rigel and Morrigan Crow."

Frank sat up very suddenly, his eyes narrowing at the twins. "Ah. You've brought me a gift," he said. "Young blood. This pleases me." He snapped his teeth. 

Rigel was unimpressed, though he did wonder why the short pale theatre nerd was snapping his teeth at them.

"No, Frank." Jupiter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, between you and Fen... look, they're not for biting. No one in the Deucalion is for biting. We've been over this."

Frank closed his eyes and lay back down, looking sullen. "Then why bother me?"

"Thought you might like to meet my candidates, that's all." The man said with a forced casualness.

"Candidates for what?" asked Frank, yawning.

"For the Wundrous Society."

Frank's eyes flew open. He sat up, observing the twins with renewed interest. "Well. Isn't this a curious turn of events. Jupiter North, sworn lifelong non-patron. Taking not one, but two candidates at last." He rubbed his hands together, looking gleeful. "Oh, won't people talk."

"People do love to talk."

Morrigan looked from Jupiter to Frank and back again. "Talk about what?"

Jupiter ignored them. Rigel's mind darted to his previous psychoanalysis: May keep his own supportive efforts hidden in a well-intentioned but highly distrustful attempt to protect others from recognising the burden aiding them leads to on him and establishing their own sense of guilt in regards to it.

Had he really sworn never to become a patron? He couldn't help the strange mixture of smugness and pity that swelled within him. Jupiter North, apparently beloved and admired by all, had chosen Rigel and Morrigan as his first-ever candidates. Which was a shame, because, well, he was Rigel. Ask anyone he knew and they'd tell you that disappointing people was what he did best, and he doubted that was going to change any time soon.

Not even for the somewhat-less-repulsive-than-other-people ginger.

Frank was eyeing them suspiciously, as if he too had his doubts. "Delighted, Rigel, Morrigan. May I ask you a question?"

Jupiter stepped in. "No, you may not."

Protects others from recognising the burden aiding them leads to on him and establishing their own sense of guilt in regards to it.

What was Frank going to ask Jupiter that he thought would hurt the twins? What was Jupiter trying to protect them from?

"Oh, please, Jove, just one."

"Just none."

"Morrigan, Rigel, what's your—"

"You won't even get one fresh towel tomorrow if you keep this up."

"But I only want to know—"

"Lie down and enjoy the sage, Frank." The walls had started rolling out fresh clouds of green smoke. "Martha will be around soon with the tea cart." Frank harrumphed and, turning his back on them, threw himself down sulkily onto the love seat.

Jupiter guided the twins through the opaque fog to the door, speaking quietly into her ear. "Frank's a bit dramatic, but he's a good egg. Only dwarf vampire in Nevermoor, you know." He seemed proud to note that. Morrigan looked back at Frank through the greenish haze in alarm and Rigel couldn't fault her—had they really just been talking to a vampire? "Not very popular in the dwarf community or the vampire community, sadly, mostly on account of—"

"Vampire dwarf," Frank corrected him from the other side of the room. "There is a difference, you know. You might think about getting some sensitivity training if you're going to run a hotel."

Note: Uses over-dramatization and stereotypes to establish a clear sense of self. Will pry for information, not out of a desire to use it but an association of information with inclusion, which satiates his irrational fear of rejection and/or exclusion; fear of abandonment, highly probable. Narcissistic tendencies: yes. Discomfort and previous trauma associated with rejection among his own community and thus a lack of cultural understanding, which encourages a high level of sensitivity regarding correct terminology in relation to his heritage: undoubtedly.

Manifests in daily interaction as persistent involvement — he cannot be uninvolved. Will emotionally orbit others until invited in. Interjects with intensity, always walking the knife's edge between clear leadership and controlling tendencies. Tends to perform identity, emotion, and opinion with a theatrical clarity to establish himself as a firm and unforgettable presence in the room and discourage any sense of invisibility. Misreads passive disinterest as personal betrayal and often reacts with pre-emptive overcorrection or emotionally loaded humour, particularly in regards to cultural ties and correct terminology due to a lack of ties and understanding of his heritage and thus a particularly sentimental attachment to what cultural ties he does have.

 Socially, he oscillates between being perceived as charismatic and "a bit much," depending on the patience and perceptiveness of those around him. In friendships, prone to over-attachment under the guise of banter and "just checking in." Will absolutely overextend himself to maintain relevance, usually under the false pretext of helping.

Over time, these patterns produce emotional exhaustion, both in himself and others — though he's acutely more aware of the former and can very quickly spiral, which fosters a reputation of self-absorbed narcissism when in reality it's a self-deprecating egocentrism. A chronic sense of inadequacy develops, as no amount of inclusion ever feels truly secure, given that there is a clear divide between his internalised thought process and outward face to him that others don't pick up, in a way that exhibits symptoms aligning with those of Dissociative Identity Disorder, though not enough to actually identify with the psychological condition.

Shows clear struggle with depersonalisation or the feeling that his relationships are built on a fictionalised, performative version of himself — which he built, ironically, to make others more comfortable. And thus, overcompensates in an emotionally draining way that leads to internalised self-deprecative tendencies and increased self-expectation and pressure in an effort to prove his own worth to himself.

Likely to experience bouts of anxiety or depressive ideation tied to perceived social instability, even in secure environments. Distrusts praise, seeks reassurance through utility. May subconsciously self-sabotage through displays of emotional withdrawal that present themselves as oversensitivity and petulance when closeness is established, believing that abandonment is inevitable and that distancing first is a form of control. Carries a fundamental belief that his presence must always justify itself, or risk being erased.

"—mostly on account of his moodiness, I expect. Imagine being too moody for other vampires," Jupiter finished in a whisper, and then called over his shoulder, "Their loss, Frank. Their loss."

Outside the Smoking Parlour they passed Martha the maid pushing a cart full of tea things and delicious-looking treats. With a wink, she slipped a pink-iced cake into Morrigan's hand as she went by and Rigel shook his head in a polite decline of a small cheesecake sample—he truly despised the dish, Jupiter made a great show of pretending not to notice the interaction. 

Rigel had just been about to finally start interrogating Jupiter in a much more intelligent and subtly way to gather information regarding the wundrous society and the hunt of some and shadow when a young man in a driver's cap and uniform burst through the elevator doors. He had dark brown skin and wide, worried eyes.

"Captain North!" he shouted, running down the hall. The twins froze; an unhappy effect of their curse was that they both knew exactly what bad news looked like. "Kedgeree sent me,
sir. There's been another messenger from the Transportation Authority. They need you to come at once." The driver took off his cap and ran his fingers nervously along the brim.

Martha abandoned her cart and dashed over to join them, looking stricken. "Not another accident on the Wunderground?"

"Another—" Jupiter began, shaking his head. "What do you mean, another accident?"

"It was in the news this morning," Martha replied. "A train derailed on the Bedtime Line shortly after dawn and crashed into the side of a tunnel."

"Where?" demanded Jupiter.

"Somewhere between the Blackstock and Fox Street stations. They said dozens were injured." Martha stood perfectly still, clutching her throat, and added quietly, "No deaths, thank goodness."

Something twisted in Rigel's gut. Here it was—the catastrophe they'd been awaiting. Hello Nevermoor, he thought, The Crow twins have arrived.

The twins watched Jupiter warily, waiting for an accusation, for him to turn on them with suspicion.

But their patron only frowned. "The Wunderground doesn't derail. It's never derailed."

"Martha's right, sir," said the driver. "It's all over the papers, on the radio. Some people are saying... they're saying it could be the work of"—he stopped to swallow, dropping his voice to a whisper—"of the Wundersmith, but... but that's..."

"Nonsense."

"That's what I said, sir, but... it's such a nasty accident, people are bound to think—"

"Could it really be the Wundersmith?" Martha interrupted, her face draining of colour.

Jupiter scoffed. "Given that he's been gone for more than a hundred years, Martha, I rather think not. Don't let the scaremongers get to you."

"What's the Wundersmith?" Morrigan asked. 

Rigel watched Jupiter's face for any sign of hesitation or emotions, but he betrayed nothing. Could there be someone else to blame? Someone who wasn't them, for once? 

"Fairy tale and superstition," Jupiter told them with a resolute nod, and turned back to his driver. Rigel narrowed his eyes at the way his lips pursed before he spoke. He was hiding something. "Charlie, the Wunderground is self-propelling, it's self-maintaining. It's driven by Wunder, for goodness' sake, Wunder doesn't have accidents."

Charlie lifted one shoulder, looking equally baffled. "I know. The Transportation Authority wouldn't say what you're needed for, sir, but I've sent word to the coach house to fuel a motor. We can be ready to leave in four minutes."

Jupiter looked dismayed. "Very well, then." He turned to Morrigan while Charlie ran ahead. "Sorry about this, Mog, Riri—"Don't call me that."—rubbish timing. I didn't even get to show you the duck pond or the Things-in-Jars Room."

"What's the Things-in-Jars Room?" Morrigan asked. Rigel rolled his eyes, the answer was in the name.

"It's where I keep all my things in jars."

"You were going to tell us about the Wundrous Society..."

"I know, and I will, but it'll have to wait. Martha"—he waved the young maid closer—"could you give the twins a little tour? Just the highlights."

Martha brightened. "Of course, sir. I'll take them to meet Dame Chanda Kali, she's rehearsing in the Music Salon." She put one arm around Morrigan's shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze, Rigel dodged the other arm. She gave a small frown, but quickly wiped it off her face. "Then we'll go out to the stables and peek in on the ponies, how about that?"

"Perfect!" Jupiter said enthusiastically, running to where Charlie was holding the elevator doors. "Martha, you're a treasure. Ri—Rigel, Mog, I'll see you later."

Then the doors closed, and he was gone.

...

Dame Chanda was a woman with a powerful soprano voice that reminded Rigel eerily of his own and brought a highly uncomfortable scowl to his features, her skin was a deep reddish-brown colour, her hair a long, thick, glossy black with silver flecks and her eyes a wide, cinnamon brown framed by long thick lashes. 

She stood in the centre of the Music Salon, performing an aria for an unlikely audience: two dozen fluttering bluebirds, a mother fox with her two babies, and several bushy-tailed red squirrels, all of whom appeared to have wandered in through the wide-open windows and were gazing at the singer with deep adoration as she strolled around the room in a long, flowing, bright pink and orange, silk robe with tiny glittering beadwork all over it and Rigel couldn't help but pick every piece of embroidery that made it up apart.

"She was the first one to jump off the roof at the party," Morrigan whispered to him. He raised an unimpressed brow.

"I ought never to leave you alone again." He whispered back.

"Don't be so dramatic."

"I left you alone for five minutes and you jumped off of a rooftop." He hissed.

"Coward!"

"Suicidal Imbecile." He retorted. Martha giggled.

"Dame Chanda is a grand high soprano and Dame Commander of the Order of Woodland Whisperers," The maid whispered loudly to Morrigan over the music and birdsong. Rigel spied a golden W pin just like Jupiter's hidden among the beadwork of Dame Chanda's gown. "She's a member of the Wundrous Society herself, but she lives here at the Deucalion. She's performed in all the grand opera houses of the Free State, although some of them aren't very pleased when this lot turn up—they can make a dreadful mess," she said, indicating the woodland creatures who were apparently helplessly drawn to the sound of Dame Chanda's voice.

The music ended, and Martha and Morrigan burst into applause. Dame Chanda took a bow and smiled warmly, shooing the wildlife out the window. "Martha, my angel, I should have you perform all my introductions. You do it so charmingly."

The maid blushed. "Dame Chanda, this is Morrigan and Rigel Crow. They're—"

"Jupiter's candidates, yes, I've heard," said Dame Chanda, turning her dazzling gaze on the twins. Rigel tried not to be intimidated. "News travels fast at the Deucalion. Everybody's talking about you, Little Crow's. Is it true, then, Darlings? You're to take the trials?"

Rigel gave a curt nod, stepping slightly behind his sister. Morrigan nodded, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. 

"How extraordinary," the opera singer breathed. "Our Jupiter, a patron at last! I'm glad to know you both, for you must truly be somebody wonderful. Are you excited about your first trial, sweet birds?"

"Er. Yes?" Morrigan lied, unconvincingly. Rigel, once more, gave a curt nod, expression set in his usual grim look.

"Of course, you'll have the Wundrous Welcome first. Has Jupiter arranged a fitting?"

Morrigan looked at her blankly. "A... a fitting?"

What in the world was a Wundrous Welcome? An event of some kind? A social gathering? Oh, stars—please no. "Why would we need a fitting?"

"With his seamstress? You must have a new suit and dress, my dears. First impressions are important." She paused. "I think perhaps I'll have my own costumier see to this."

Martha beamed at the twins, wide-eyed, as if this were truly the greatest honour Dame Chanda could bestow, and not a mysterious, terrifying prospect. Rigel opted not to tell her there was no way in hell that was happening and if he had to wear something, he would be designing and sewing it himself.

"Naturally Jupiter gets away with his own... interesting sartorial choices, because he's so handsome," Dame Chanda continued, Rigel pursed his lips. The ginger was... good looking, but no one was good looking enough to pull off the clothes he wore. They were utterly heinous and truly ought to be considered a criminal offense. "But we cannot inflict his dreadful taste on you. Not for such an important event.

"The Wundrous Welcome isn't just a garden party, my dear. It is, most unfortunately, a garden full of people judging everything about you." The woman explained. Rigel felt his stomach funk, his chest clenching the all too familiar way it did just before a panic attack and dread sneak into his stomach. His hands trembled violently. "The other candidates and patrons will be sizing you up as their competition. It is very intense."

Rigel tried not to let his panic show, but terror gripped his chest ay the dies of such a large gathering of people all watching. Waiting. Judging. Jupiter's letter had mentioned that their entry into the Society wasn't guaranteed, and that they had to make it through the entrance trials.

But... Rigel had been prepared for tests, scavengers hunts, possibly near-death experiences and fatal trials. Those were all things he could handle with ease and dignity so long as he used a little bit of logic. Nobody had mentioned a very intense garden party. (He could think of several dozen disasters their curse could bring to a garden party, not even counting bumblebee stings and hay fever.)

Dame Chanda seemed to sense that she had hit a nerve. She affected a breezy air, waving off the topic as if it were a fly. "Oh, no need to worry, my dears. Just be yourself. Now, if I may ask... we're all dying to know"—she leaned in, her eyes twinkling, and spoke quietly to the pair—"what's your knack? What marvellous talent do each of you possess? Is it the same or different?"

Morrigan blinked. "My what?"

"Your knack's, child. Your clever little skills. Your talents."

Rigel swallowed—surely Jupiter couldn't know about his voice, and... certainly he didn't expect the boy to use it, right? Rigel didn't sing. Not anymore. The world was better off without his voice.

"Ah, but I bet our Jupiter has a dramatic reveal planned, doesn't he?" said Dame Chanda, touching a finger to her nose. "Say no more, my dears. Say no more."

... 

"What did she mean?" Morrigan asked Martha as they left the Music Salon and headed down the spiral staircase toward the lobby. "We don't have... knacks, or talents, or anything."

Martha laughed, not unkindly. "Course you've got a knack. You're candidates for the Wundrous Society. You're Jupiter North's candidates. He can't bid on you unless he's sure you've got one."

"He can't?" This was news to Morrigan. "But we don't—"

"You do. You just don't know what it is yet."

Morrigan said nothing. Rigel's mind wandered, there it was. This was how he was going to let Jupiter down. He'd known it was going to happen—it always happened.

Unbidden, his mind wandered to the night before—of the wonderful (though he would never admit it) moment when Jupiter had shown up at Crow Manor, the longing he'd felt to join in the festivities, a desire he hadn't had in years. A whole new world had opened for them—and for a moment he had been... hopeful. Hopeful that this could be a good opportunity. And yet, now he had to acknowledge what he'd been avoiding all morning—looking at his new life through a wall of unbreakable glass. 

There was no world where Rigel was anything more than just an outsider looking in. And there never would be. He would never have the strength to take the step forward, or to show vulnerability. 

Still there was a bitter irony to it, the universe had somehow managed to make the boy who had given up on all ideals of a good life—a life of love and belonging—hopeful. Only to dangle the opportunity in front of  his face and snatch it away the second it was within his grasp.

"You know, he's never had a candidate before," Martha said gently. "He should have by now. They're all supposed to, once they reach a certain age. And it's not as if he didn't have plenty of parents banging on his door, offering him money and favours of all sorts, if he'd only choose their little darlings. You should see the sad cases we get sniffing around here come Bid Day! But he's always said no. Nobody was ever special enough." She smiled brightly at the twin, reaching out to tuck a lock of black hair behind Morrigan's ear—she didn't bother trying to touch Rigel this time, something he appreciated more than he showed. Then again, his way of showing appreciation was lessening the scowl on his face just slightly. "Until now."

 "There's nothing special about us," Morrigan said, but it was a lie. Both twins knew it was a lie.

They knew what made them special. It was the same thing that made people in Jackalfax cross the street to avoid them. The thing that would have killed them on Eventide, if Jupiter hadn't shown up in his mechanical spider and swept her away to Nevermoor. And in Rigel's case, it was the same thing that killed their grandfather. 

The curse made them special.

Was being cursed a talent? Was that why Jupiter had bid on them? Because they had a knack for ruining everything? Rigel and Morrigan grimaced, both blatantly aware of their shared thought path. How depressing.

"Captain North is a little odd, miss, but he's no fool. He sees people the way they really are. If he chose you—and this goes for you to, Mister—that means—"

Neither twin found out what it meant, because Martha was interrupted by a deafening crash and the sound of shattering glass. A ghastly scream echoed all the way up the stairs. Rigel perked up—was something bad happening already? The curse certainly hadn't taken its time. How delightfully horrific.

Rigel strolled down to the sound leisurely, fully aware that form this far away if somebody had been hurt by that loud of a crash there would be crying and he would hear it, that didn't seem to matter to his companions though, as Martha and Morrigan ran the rest of the way down to the lobby and were met by a dreadful sight, one that Rigel himself pursed his lips too: the pink sailing ship chandelier had crashed down onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Glittering rays of shattered glass and crystals sprayed across the marble. Wires dangled from the ceiling like entrails from a carcass.

Well. That was unfortunate.

Rigel tried not to ponder too much, instead he focused on Jupiter's reaction. Would the man be angry? And if so, how bad of a beating could Rigel expect? His mind wandered with possibilities and he briefly considered the idea that Jupiter would kick them out—perhaps if he was luck the man would let him collect his bag? He had enough cash to bribe someone into a fake identity—which he could then use to set up a Nevermoorian back account to transfer the money in his trust fund to, that was one-million Kred. He thought, he'd have to double check. But, where to find someone that did a believable flaw identity for two people. He'd be better off getting fake citizenship papers and accepting that Cormac(?) man's bid for Greysmark.

He knew what Jupiter's nephew looked like from the photo on his desk so it would be ways to avoid him.

And it stood to reason that the Deveraux's lady's college was also a Nevermoorian school given it certainly wasn't in the other four states, so Morrigan could go there.

But, that still begged the question of how to get fake documentation? Perhaps they could establish identities using their real names as orphans in Barclaytown of the Seventh Pocket?

Guests and staff stood open-mouthed, staring at the giant mess.

Martha held both hands to her cheeks. "Oh... Captain North will be so upset. That ship's been there forever, it's his favourite thing. How could this happen?"

If Jupiter really liked that ship then it would do the twins well to have more than one contingency. He paused, it shouldn't be hard to lure a mugger into attempting to rob him—he knew enough self defence to be confident he could pin some low life against the wall with their own knife and threaten the names of the gang territories around out of them.

"I don't understand it," said Kedgeree, emerging from the concierge desk. "Maintenance only checked the old girl last week! She was fit as a fiddle."

—and then he could pull the same trick with some sort of a runner? Or pay somebody with combat training to do it for him and get the name and locations of where they got the fake documentation? Hmm...Rigel allowed his mind to wonder though contingency plan after contingency plan and only once he was sure he had enough (one for every letter of the alphabet) did he allow himself to refocus  on the conversation.

"And to happen on Morningtide, of all days!" Martha cried. "What awful luck."

"I'd say we've had splendid luck," said Kedgeree. "A lobby full of people, and not a soul hurt? We can thank our lucky stars."

They were both right, Rigel felt, though Martha more so. Fortunate as it was that nobody was injured, the fact it happened wasn't just bad luck. It was their curse.

 Martha gathered up some of the staff and began giving directions for the clean-up, while Kedgeree spoke to the guests, smoothly ushering them away from the mess.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize on behalf of the Deucalion for the terrible fright you've suffered," said the concierge. "If you'll make your way to the Golden Lantern cocktail bar on the sixth floor, a special happy hour will begin at once. Drinks on the house for the rest of the evening! Enjoy yourselves."

The dozen or so guests who'd witnessed the chandelier crash seemed happy to wander upstairs for their free drinks and forget it had ever happened. Rigel made a note to avoid that floor, drunk adults were best avoided. But Kedgeree, Martha, and the rest of the staff looked as troubled as the twins felt.

Morrigan edged around the scene of the disaster and Rigel winced, praying she wasn't about to offer both of their aid. His aid was not hers to offer. "Can we help?"

Then again, when had Morrigan ever cared about that?

"Oh! Don't you dare trouble yourself, Miss Morrigan," said Kedgeree, guiding the pair away. "In fact, I think it's best if you scuttle upstairs too—away from all this loose wiring and broken crystal. We don't want you two getting hurt."

Rigel forced himself not to make a dry comment about how if the bandages wrapped around his torso and the permanent nerve damage to his hand—that somehow nobody had noticed or bought up today, not that he was complaining—was any indicator, it was a bit too late for that. 

He had a feel it wouldn't go over too well.

"I won't get hurt," Morrigan protested, in that adorably childish and noble manner of hers that made Rigel want to bang his head against the wall—how was she the older twin? "I'll be careful."

"Why don't you two head up to the Smoking Parlour? I'll call ahead and have them pop on some chamomile smoke to soothe your wee little nerves. You've had a nasty shock." Kedgeree smiled as Rigel replaced his and with his own and began guiding Morrigan away, but his face flickered into a frown when he noticed Rigel's trembling, gloved hand. He wiped it off rather quickly though and shot the boy a grateful nod," There's a good lad, off you go now."

Morrigan paused at the landing, looking back to watch Kedgeree, Martha, and the other staff scurry to and fro, sweeping the remains of the chandelier into sad piles of sparkling rose-coloured dust. She turned to Rigel and the twins locked eyes, a silent understanding passing between them.

Nobody glared at them or muttered under their breath about the cursed children being to blame. None of them knew why this awful thing had happened.

But the twins knew why.

And it was the same reason for that train crash on the Wunderground: The curse had followed them. 

They'd survived eventide night, escaped their fate... then somehow brought it all the way to Nevermoor anyhow, smuggled it through border control, and given it a nice cosy home at the Hotel Deucalion.

And it was going to ruin everything. Rigel pressed his lips together grimly and a silent understanding passed between the twins. 

They needed to prove that this wasn't their fault.

Chapter Text

"I became bitter and untouchable. I craved affection, but even the mere thought of some one caring made my stomach turn." 

— (Stay away, but come closer.)

...

Rigel slept restlessly that night, and awoke to panic—actually that wasn't right, he awoke to the humming sound of a man echoing through his room, which was quickly followed by a level of panic.

His body was frozen, try as he did to move it, he couldn't muster anything beyond the permanent quivering of his hands. He shifted his gaze, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see him.

The humming man.

Dread sank into the pit of his stomach: he was back.

 The humming man had haunted him all throughout his childhood, and now... he had followed him to Nevermoor. Rigel lay there, deaad silent, breath caught nauseatingly in the back of his throat as he tried his best not to let the man notice he was awake. Still, he couldn't help the whimper that slipped from his throat as panic dug its claws into him.

The man faltered halfway through a note, the sound hanging in the air as he slowly turned to Rigel—his face was too far away to be anything more than a showy figure in his room, but his eyes. Rigel's frozen form didn't allowed him to do much more than move his gaze, but as he met the man's(?) eyes, he was certain.

It was the humming man. For where there should've been two eyeballs, there was instead simply a pair of glowing gold orbs.

He didn't know how long he sat there, frozen stiff as the man approached him, face still shrouded by shadow even as he stood as close to Rigel as possible, their eyes locked and as far as Rigel was concerned every second felt like an hour and every minute, an eternity. 

The humming man himself seemed utterly unconcerned with time as he stalked forward slowly, like a hunter stalking it's prey. Terror gripped Rigel's stomach and tied it tightly into a knot as though it was screaming at the boy to let his body move. And yet, still Rigel remained frozen.

Slowly, ever so slowly the man raised his hands, two claw-like fingers pressing against Rigel's eyelids and pulling them shut, as though one was laying a dead body to rest. The last thing Rigel saw was glowing golden eyes and the faint outline of a skin-crawling smirk as the man let out the final hummed note of his lullaby.

"Sweet dreams, Little Crowling." A cracked, hoarse whisper reached his ears and Rigel knew no more.

...

"That is a terrible idea," Rigel drawled, from where he was sprawled on the sunbed like a (in Morrigan's opinion) pretentious prat. She'd spent the last few hours filling him in about her encounter with Mr Jones, the offer from Ezra Squall and her uncertainty regarding Jupiter.

"No one asked you."

"You literally just did," He deadpanned, with a sigh he heaved himself up so he was leaning on his arms—utterly ignoring the pain that caused in his back, because, well, aesthetic," Let me put this into perspective: you want to deliberately confront—and quite possibly antagonize—the, utterly mad, man who took us in, one who mind you we know nothing about and has shown an utter disregard for the law, going so far as to fake our death—with little to no explanation on the how and why, by the way—meaning he could easily get away with murdering us and thus has no reason to hold back if he were to beat us; demand to know our knack and explain to him when he cannot tell us that clearly he got the wrong candidate's, so that he can... what? Send us back to Jackalfax to immediately get eaten alive by the hunt? Or perhaps beaten to death or murdered by our father who can do whatever he wants to us since we've been legally declared dead? Better yet; maybe Jupiter will dispose of us himself?  Perhaps he'll feed us to Fenestra or Frank? Or, maybe he'll take us to jump off of the roof again and cut holes in our umbrella's? Perhaps he'll poison our food? Maybe he'll—"

"Give us answers! Maybe he'll give us answers," Morrigan stared at him," Seriously, how long have you been pondering all the different ways Jupiter could murder us?"

"Since we met the man," Rigel confessed with the air of someone commenting on the weather," He seems almost as... disgustingly noble and reckless as you, but well... he's also insane, so I thought it would be safe to prepare for the worst."

"What, like him murdering us in our sleep?" Morrigan asked sarcastically, derailing from the route she'd been pacing for the last hour as she checked the peep hole from the door. Rigel didn't bother waiting for her to tell him he wasn't there, if he was she'd have burst open the door without even waiting for him to knock. She had this strange mixture of trust and idolization for the man they'd met when he literally kidnapped them, all of three days ago.

"Yes," Rigel admitted casually, pushing himself up from the sunchair and opting to take this as the best opportunity to casually mention the return of The Humming Man," Speaking of which, I believe it's best if you start wearing socks, lest somebody inject air into your blood stream between your toes while you sleep. And I'm not just talking about Jupiter."

The boy strolled towards the door, stomach clenching nervously as he fought to maintain a sense of nonchalance so as not to terrify Morrigan," The Humming Man is back."

Morrigan's eyes flew open, but he didn't wait for her to respond before he opened the door, revealing Jupiter, hand hovering in the air, mid-knock.

"We'll talk about this later," Morrigan shot him a look that made it very clear that wasn't an option before turning to Jupiter demandingly," What's our knack?"

"Good morning to you too." He craned his neck to peer into the room, looking every bit as nosy as Rigel would've pictured him to be," What are we talking about later?"

Morrigan's gaze flickered over to Rigel and the twins looked eyes for a moment, a silent message passing between them.

"Nothing." Morrigan's head snapped back to Jupiter," 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're our knacks?"

"Mind if I nick a pastry? I'm famished." Jupiter commented blithely.

Martha had come ten minutes earlier with a breakfast tray. It sat mostly untouched in the corner, Rigel's stomach had twisted too anxiously for him to bother helping himself to the tea, though he had grabbed a croissant and taken a bite out of it after strolling in unannounced. Receiving a flat look from Morrigan—who was secretly delighted to see her brother willingly eating food instead of just drinking tea—and a snarky comment of "Help yourself. Please."

He'd smirked blandly.

"Help yourself. What's our knack?"

Jupiter stuffed his mouth full of pastry while Morrigan watched him and fretted—Rigel's lips quirked upward at the sight of his sister's stress, anxiety wasn't a good colour on her. He pulled it off much better, with an air of casual indifference and side of nobody-even-cares-enough-to-bother-noticing. "We don't have any, do we? Because you've got the wrong people. You thought we were somebody else, someone with some great talents—well, Rigel's got his singing," The boy glowered as Jupiter's eyes darted to him in surprise and he offered the ginger a defensive glare as he leaned against the wall with crossed arms," but I doubt you knew about that given he refuses to use it. 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—one that you're actually willing to demonstrate. You have to have a knack for something. And you thought we did, and now you know we 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 favourite colour?"

Rigel glared.

"Black. Rigel's is grey." Rigel glared bitterly—tell everyone my personal business, why don't you? Morrigan took a deep breath," I'm right, aren't I?"

"Black's not a colour. Neither is grey."

He was right, grey was a shade. Rigel didn't care.

Morrigan 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 ginger hair, streaked with gold in the sunshine, was slightly tangled and fuzzy. It was the most dishevelled they'd seen him—which made sense given they'd known him for all of three days. He was barefoot and wore a wrinkled, untucked white shirt over blue trousers with suspenders that hung down untidily against his hips. Rigel noted they were the clothes he'd worn the day before. He didn't seem to have slept at all of the slight hunch of relief and tension to shoulders was any indication.

The sun soaked his face and his eyelids had fluttered shut—he looked exhausted. Rigel couldn't help but feel bad for him, understanding that not everyone was capable of operating forty-eight hour days on three fours of sleep. He tried to quench the pity brimming in him. The man was clearly trying hard not to let his shoulders relax and fall into a slumber, despite the fact he was dead exhausted.

He seemed content basking in the morning warmth, and looked as though he would remain there all day letting the sunlight soaking into his bones.

Rigel understood the feeling, more than he wished to. Overworked exhaustion was hardly foreign to him—their father expected perfection from him and anything less would face severe punishment. Sometimes the only way to really shut off his head after a long day, to stop it from twisting around memory after memory—more often negative than not. An unfortunate side effect of hyperthymesia—was to lay under the sky and let nature work it's magic.

"Here's how it works. Are you listening?" 

Rigel gave a short nod, trying to avoid talking. He wasn't... in the mood for that, right now. And honestly, if Jupiter's furrowed brows and creased forehead was any indication, his throbbing head would probably appreciate the silence.  

 "We're 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 two—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?" 

Exclusivity. Wonder. Restriction. Control. Propaganda. Indoctrination. Ambition. There were many answers Rigel could think of, but they were each rather easily summed up; if an organization full of individuals upholding the same set of values only allows admission to students vouched for by like-minded people, it made it easier to preserve the integrity of whatever they stood for and restrict and reshape those who did not share their views, whether positive or negative—it allowed them to control the education (and thus viewpoints) of individuals they deemed worth of their power at a core stage of their develop-mental maturation. 

It allowed them to control powerful people, lest they start developing their own idea's.

"Because they're rotten snobs—"

That too.

"—Don't interrupt. Now, I'll be honest, Ryj, Mog—"

"Morrigan." Rigel didn't bother to correct him, he doubted the man would actually listen.

"—I've chosen you two as my candidates, 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."

So, in other words Rigel had to spend the coming year playing hard-ball against an excessive number of eleven-year-olds and sucking up to different society members to gain approval, for what? A shiny gold badge? 

"What sort of trials?" Morrigan asked, chewing her fingernails. Rigel cringed, unconsciously examining his own neat cuticles. She was going to give herself a fungal infection.

"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."

Rigel cringed, that sounded like a form of torture. Public humiliation: how to have a panic attack in front of a crowd and totally ruin your reputation 101. He'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."

Rigel perked up, that sounded fun. 

Dangerously fun. 

"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 marvellous 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. It was not.

"Oh, is that all?" Morrigan choked out a hysterical little laugh. "Well. Unlike Rigel—who has no intention of ever using his again, I don't have one, so—"

"That you know of." Jupiter glanced at Rigel curiously out of the corner of his eye. Rigel glared. 

"And what do you know of?" There was an edge to her voice and Rigel could vaguely understand it. Jupiter apparently knew about some unknown talent Morrigan—and he, if the man's surprise every time Morrigan referenced his voice was any indicator—had and was going out of his way to avoid the question of what it was, which was rather suspicious when you thought about it. He was clearly hiding something.

But then again; weren't they all hiding things?

"I know lots of things. I'm very clever." Rigel could tell, he wouldn't be surprised if the man's 'knack' was talking in circles and avoiding questions. "Really, Mog—"

"Morrigan."

"—you needn't worry. And neither do you, Ri—" Rigel glared," Rigel. Just get through the first three trials. The Show Trial is my problem. I'll take care of it."

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. It was all rather dramatic, and Rigel had to stop himself from making a scathing sarcastic comment about it. He and Morrigan had been doing well over the last few days, a tentative sort of understanding brought about by Eventide's approach and their unprecedented arrival in Nevermoor. 

An understanding he wanted to keep as long as possible, he'd die before he admitted it—but, it was... nice to have his sister back. He'd missed her over the years. Rather dearly. Certainly more than he'd let on.

Said sister cast Jupiter a sidelong look.

"What if I don't want to join the Society anymore? What if I've changed my mind?"

Rigel could understand, it all sounded rather unnecessarily daunting, it might be a good idea to go over his other offers? Greysmark was still an option, and if Morrigan's words were true, so was Ezra Squall. Perhaps he should consider some of his other bids—

"I know it's scary, Mog," he said quietly. "The Society asks a lot. The trials are hard, and they're only the start. But, I did present a combined bid, something we're supposed to do with twins, so... if one of you doesn't participate, neither does the other. It's a... rule established to prevent separating twins since it often has a negative effect on the other's knack. It also means that during the show trial you're judged as one candidate by a single knack if only one of you has one, it's supposed to stop others from missing out on places in a unit, but it also means you're not allowed to be separated on entry. Either both or neither. You both have to pass the trials to be accepted. "

—Or perhaps not. No, definitely not. 

He glanced at Morrigan, for all her hesitation, this was something she wanted. Still, something bitter tugged inside him when she didn't even spare him a glance—as though expecting him to do this for her sake, or perhaps just not caring whether he intended to.

Regardless, her eyes remained locked on Jupiter. "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."

Rigel called it nepotism, but he was a child—so his opinion didn't matter.

("Children are best rarely seen and never heard.")

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, you two. The Elders will hold you to account long after your years as a scholar, into adulthood and beyond."

Rigel's face contorted into a strange mix of intrigue and uncertainty—which well, given it was Rigel only really betrayed itself as a slight furrow of his brows and lips pressed together with the slightest downturn.

"But I'm saying the worst bits first, Mog, because I want you to have the full picture." He paused and inhaled deeply," 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."

Rigel raised a brow.

"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 them—it took Rigel a moment to realize he was blinking back tears and he froze, feelings.

He'd never known someone could feel so strongly about their friends—then again he felt an overwhelming sadness anytime he saw an old picture of him and Morrigan, not that he could really count that towards anything.

Neither of the twins had ever really had friend, they'd never been allowed friends.

An instant family. Brothers and sisters for life. 

He shuddered, family's were horrendous. They were cruel, cold, expectant, vapid, uncaring and, over-sensitive fools. He had no desire to make his own—he and Morrigan had after all, just escaped theirs.

It made sense to him now though, the way 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. 

(If Rigel had a family of people like Morrigan and not Ivy and their father, he would be happy too.)

How disgustingly sentimental.

Rigel eyed his sister, he was offering Morrigan the one thing she'd always fantasized about. And, it seemed to work. She looked so heartbreakingly hopeful, and a little disbelieving, and Rigel hoped she wouldn't get her hopes up—even if they passed the trials (Rigel was going to hate every second of it, but it was Morrigan) there was no guarantee that their unit would be everything that Jupiter said they would be. That their experiences would be anything alike.

"How do we win?" Morrigan asked quietly.

"You just need to trust me. Do you trust me?" Jupiter's face was earnest and open. Morrigan nodded without hesitation, Rigel gave Jupiter a flat look. He sighed, "Look...just... let me worry about the Show Trial. I'll tell you when you need to start worrying. I promise."

Morrigan inhaled shakily before asking hesitantly. "Jupiter. Is our talent... are our knacks... are they to do with... you know."

He frowned. "Hmm?"

"Is being cursed our talent? Do we have a knack for... making things go wrong?"

Rigel felt like some body had knocked the wind out of him.

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?" Morrigan asked, Rigel narrowed his eyes. 

"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?" She asked.

"Ah. Okay." Rigel could almost see Jupiter mentally backtracking as he remembered how little they 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 sceptical look. "Doesn't everybody?"

Rigel scoffed, mind wandering back to all the times their father had called him an attention-seeking liar. Hardly.

"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," His eyes flickered over to Rigel," can hang around forever. The bad ones are much harder to discern, since most people don't like remembering those things. 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. Rigel narrowed his eyes, the hackles on the back of his neck rising.

"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."

Rigel froze, and slowly edged out of Jupiter's line of sight.

"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. Rigel recalled the asymmetrical pixie-like 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 Rigel had helped her style it to long somewhat... less hideous, until 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 favourite dress in revenge—not for that though, that was the tipping point. No, it was for something else— and 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 wasn't very good at sewing like Rigel (had been), but she'd been proud of those curtains. Still was. She'd been even more proud of getting revenge on Ivy after what she'd done to his brother.

"Okay. I believe you. You see things."

"I see you, Morrigan Crow, although, I try not to look too hard at Rigel, I didn't think he'd like that." He leaned forward. "And I'll tell you this: Your stepmother was wrong."

Rigel felt like he was an intruder, looking at something far too private and sentimental.

"Wrong about what?" Morrigan asked, but her face and tone suggested she already knew the answer. 

"She said you and Rigel were a curse." Jupiter swallowed and shook his head. "She said it in anger. She didn't mean it."

"Yes, she did." Rigel admitted blandly, staring out the window at the bustling street below.

"Of course she meant it."

Jupiter paused, considering that. "Maybe. But that doesn't make it true. It doesn't make her right."

Morrigan's face tinted pink as she looked away, grabbing a pastry and tearing a piece off, though, she 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. Neither of you are a curse."

"Sure," Rigel agreed flatly, not believing Jupiter in the slightest. Why wasn't he understanding this? Bad things happened because of them, the stubborn ginger was going to get himself hurt. Rigel couldn't handle that, he didn't... want to hurt the man.

"Yeah, okay." Morrigan rolled her eyes and tried to turn away, brushing off the words,  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, neither of you. You never have been. And I think you've known that all along."

Rigel turned, expression crumpling just for a moment until he was just some broken little boy. His gaze landed on his sister and he watched quietly, from afar as she asked with tears in her eyes. "What if we don't get in?"

"You will."

"But say we don't," she persisted. "What then? Will we have to return to the Republic? Will they... will they be waiting for us?" 

Rigel shuddered, the idea of The Hunt prowling the republic as they waited for the twins to return, well, it wasn't exactly appealing.

"You are going to join the Wundrous Society," 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 from either of you. Promise me."

The promise Rigel gave was emptier than the hollow look in his eyes and when Morrigan tried to reach out for his wrist after Jupiter left, he locked eyes with her and pulled his wrist from her grasp. Then, he fled.

(Like a coward.)

His mind whispering to him about all the questions Jupiter had avoided.

Chapter Text

"I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life."

...

"Here it comes. Get ready to jump."

Jupiter had decided they'd ride the Brolly Rail to the garden party so the twins could try out their birthday presents—an idea Rigel had not even bothered trying to express his distaste for, he was sure that as difficult as the witness found it to read him, he'd probably be able to pick that up for himself. 

Rigel normally wouldn't have a problem with a specific mode of transport, 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.

Because that seemed safe.

"Remember, you lot," 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."

Rigel wouldn't be surprised if he looked as apprehensive as Morrigan, despite his normally unreadable expression.

Jupiter must've noticed their scepticism though, "You'll be fine. I've only broken a leg on this thing once." Reassuring. "Twice, max. Ready... Go!"

They leapt for the rail, Rigel holding so tight to his umbrella that it dug into his palms painfully. Morrigan let out a triumphant shout as they hooked onto the brolly rail and Rigel features paled, face taking a greenish hue as his stomach performed a whole parkour routine of twist, turns and flips.  

Unlike Morrigan, the bone-shaking terror he'd felt watching the platform speed toward hem was not washed away by a wave of adrenaline, but rather replaced with the wonderful what-if scenario's flashing through his head of if he let go. He, understandably, held on tight. Jupiter grinned, throwing his head back to enjoy the ride—Rigel vaguely hoped the man wouldn't get his neck snapped, then banished the thought from his head. Jupiter was a grown man, if he wanted to get himself killed, let him. It wasn't Rigel's problem.

They zoomed through the Deucalion's neighbourhood and into the cobbled streets of Old Town, crisp spring air biting at Rigel's face and stinging his eyes, he squinted against the wind, and finally jumped off at their destination—each, miraculously, landing on their feet. Not a broken leg between them.

"Bet your glad I took ya'!" He said, mostly to Rigel. Morrigan nodded. Rigel glanced away, stomach still cart-wheeling as he released a grunt and walked ahead of the man, hands tucked in his pockets. He really didn't want to be here.

Jupiter's lips twitched as he turned to Morrigan and stage whispered in a sing-song voice," Somebody's grumpy this morning."

Rigel's eye twitched.

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 trio 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, and Rigel narrowed his eyes suspiciously as the sharp smell of honeysuckle and roses tickled his nose, the sun warmed on his skin. 

It was strange, he 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 really hadn't been kidding when Rigel had conversed with him late last night in the kitchen, he'd said that the weather inside was a bit more. More extreme. More, well, wundrous.

Jupiter said something that sounded like "one-sock weather."

"One sock... Sorry, what?" asked Morrigan, puzzled. 

Rigel glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, confused.

"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?" Morrigan asked, Rigel shook his head fondly and glanced away, hiding the way his permanent scowl lessened ever-so-slightly. 

He caught the eye of a reasonably tall man with snow-white hair and bright blue eyes, leaning on his cain with a pocket watch in hand, standing next to a foxwun. He was staring at Rigel as though in a trance and the foxwun was looking at her companion in concern. The man snapped himself out of his strange daze and shot him a smile, and Rigel schooled his expression into an impassive look, scowl returning to its usual depth and nodded at him before turning back to his idiots.

"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."

Rigel perked up, posture straightening as the ever-present scowl on his face lessened just slightly.

The driveway stretching up to the main building was lined with gas lamps and—out of place among the colourful 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."

Rigel snorted. Jupiter shot him a grin, his cheeks burned as he looked away.

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. Not a dead or even slightly wilted flower in sight, not a cloud nearby, not a single imperfection.

Rigel hated it. 

Jupiter had allowed the twins to choose their own outfits—Morrigan wore a black dress with silver buttons, and Rigel wore a simple dark teal suit with matching slacks, a grey vest and a long, collared white under-shirt, which Dame Chanda declared "smart, but utterly lacking in spectacle." 

He'd taken offense to the insult, naturally, and tucked a flower into the lapel of his coat. Dame Chanda had given an approving nod. Personally, he'd felt he looked rather dashing either way.

The twins felt Jupiter's lemon-yellow suit and lavender shoes provided enough spectacle for the group 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 gelatine sculptures, but Rigel couldn't be bothered eating. The familiar chest pain and burning in the back of his eyes and throat was rather hard to ignore and demanded all his attention, Rigel was trying so hard not to have a panic attack in front of all these people. Which, wasn't helping given that his problem was the abundance of people.

As they weaved through the crowd, Rigel was hyper-aware of the people turning to look at them with expressions ranging from polite surprise to open-mouthed shock. The world roared around him, every word and sound echoing around him. His vision warped, as though he was underwater.

"Why is everyone looking at us?" Morrigan turned to Jupiter and Rigel swallowed back the bile in his throat as he turned to focus on the man, who was glancing down at his sister on his left.

"They're looking at you two 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."

"They're looking at you because you have the fashion sense of a colourblind two-year old on crack." Rigel joked, impression and tone completely lacking in emotion.

Jupiter looked vaguely insulted, and somewhat surprised and doubtful at the fact Rigel had made a joke. Morrigan snorted.

The candidates were mostly huddled in groups. Morrigan edged closer to Jupiter and Rigel stepped slightly behind the man, the only sign of uncertainty he allowed, the rest of his posture was kept straight and expression impassive even as his breathing grew harder to manage.

"They won't bite," he reassured. "Well, most of them won't. Avoid the dog-faced boy over by that tree; he mightn't have had all his shots yet."

Rigel's scowl deepened, how rude.

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. But Rigel wasn't commenting on that, because commenting on physical appearances was rude.

"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 the twins around the garden paths, making comments under his breath. Rigel felt a bit too much like a show-horse being paraded around, or like what his father did when he needed a good PR stunt.

"Baz Charlton," he murmured, nodding discreetly toward a longhaired 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 the twins and whispered to her friends. They turned to stare. Morrigan smiled forcefully, clearly remembering what Dame Chanda had said about first impressions, but Rigel remained utterly unimpressed by their petulant attempts of ostracization—as though he cared about their opinions. He rolled his eyes, and the girls laughed. A few of them blushed and looked away. He scoffed and turned away, lips curling in distaste. 

Jupiter took two glasses of purple punch from a passing waiter and handed one to each of them. Rigel took it from him hesitantly, as he glanced down at its contents; there were pink things floating in it. No—wriggling in it. There were pink, squishy, wriggling things in his punch.

That didn't bother Rigel nearly as much as the violent way his hands shook, splashing a little punch out of the cups.

"They're supposed to wriggle," said Jupiter, noticing Morrigan's look of disgust. "Wriggly things taste better."

"I'll take your word for it," Rigel drawled, handing Jupiter the cup. It was the perfect opportunity to get rid of the cup without having to confess that he was going to spill it all over himself. He suspected Jupiter knew than and that's why he'd offered Rigel the opening, a suspicion that was only confirmed when Jupiter's cheer softened and he took the cup with a look that could only be described as seeing straight through him.

Morrigan took a hesitant sip. She opened her mouth to give her opinion, something Rigel shot her a look warning against, 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, well..." He shot Rigel an unimpressed look," Children I s'pose. Twins, he said. 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 and Rigel grimaced in synchronison, their nose's crinkling unpleasantly in perfect, utterly uncanny mirror's of each other. 

"Afternoon, Baz," he said, with a very small amount of forced politeness. Rigel gave a reluctant nod to the man, who puffed up in pride. He withheld a smirk, this was going to be fun.

"This them, is it?" Baz Charlton squinted down at Morrigan. "Famous Jupiter North's first-ever candidates. Won't the tabloids be aflutter."

He waited for Jupiter to introduce him, but Jupiter did not. Rigel tried his best to keep his amusement form crossing his features, wondering if the man knew how jealous and petty he sounded.

"Charlton. Baz Charlton," the man said finally. He gestured grandly to himself, waiting for a spark of recognition from the twins. As though he was somebody worth noticing or whatever. When no spark came, his face soured. "What's your name, girl? Boy?"

Morrigan's eyes flickered over to Jupiter, searching for approval.

"Morrigan Crow."

"Rigel Crow, sir." Charlton puffed up and Rigel tried so so hard not to grin. So hard. The man was giving him all the power over this interaction on a silver platter," Say, did you say Charlton?"

He puffed up even more," That's right."

Jupiter shot Rigel a what do you think you're doing look. Rigel ignored him," Like Charlton & Co garbage disposals?" He made the name up on the spot, Jupiter choked," Are you the owner?"

Charlton deflated," Ca-Can't say I've heard of that."

"Oh, it's nothing to be embarrassed about Mister Charlton," He said, a bright smile that was just a little too sharp at the edges crossing his features as he stepped forward eagerly. Morrigan glanced away with shaking shoulders. Hook," It's very impressive! I wanted to be a garbage man once! When I was three. Say, sir, between you and I, is that your, uh, knack then? Recognising trash?" Rigel's eyes flickered over to his group of candidates and Charlton's expression twisted defensively, cheeks burning in rage and embarrassment. Line," You must be very good at it for it to get you into the wundrous society. I mean, you're around Jupiter's age, I wouldn't be surprised if you were in the same unit. A witness and... a garbage man. What a diverse selection!"

Charlton puffed up defensively, locking eyes with Rigel who titled his head ever so slightly and narrowed his eyes, raising a brow. The man huffed, and back away, Sinker. He turned to Jupiter.

"You know, North," Mr. Charlton whispered loudly into Jupiter's ear, pointedly ignoring Rigel and Morrigan," They're a bit... miserable looking."

Morrigan bristled and Rigel shot her a be patient look.

"They foreign? Where'd you find 'em?"

"Nunya."

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

Rigel wrinkled his nose disdainfully, curling away from the alcoholic stench on the man's breath and trying to remind himself that this wasn't Crow Manor and his father hadn't had too much whiskey. His scowl deepened and he swallowed back bile, did this man realise how creepy he sounded?

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

Charlton chuckled humourlessly, looking disappointed. "Oh, very clever. What's their knacks, 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. "Dancers? No, legs aren't long enough. The girl's definitely no brainiac either, not with that vacant look in her eyes." He waved a hand in front of her face. Rigel grasped his wrist and shot him a deadly glare. He gulped and turned back to Jupiter, trying to play it off, "One of the arcane arts, perhaps. Sorcerers? Oracles? Oooh, are they two different knacks?"

"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."

You literally just gave everything away, you dumb, overly-pretentious clackbox.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Rigel could see Morrigan watching the girl and her friends with a poorly concealed mixture of envy, doubt and disappointment. The, admittedly well-dressed girl was talking nonstop while the other girls listened avidly. She was poised and confident, with an easy smile. It made sense, he supposed for Morrigan to be doubtful. Hesitantly, he lifted his gloved hand and hovered it over his twin's shoulder, frozen in indecision for  a moment. She turned towards Jupiter and he pulled it back, glancing away.

"Congratulations," Jupiter said blandly.

"But these two, 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. They'd as soon kill you as look at—"

Rigel straightened glaring the imbecile straight in the eyes, silently daring him to say another word about his sister," I would choose the ending to that sentence very carefully, sir." His lips curled into the most hateful sneer he could muster," That's my sister you're talking about."

Nobody spoke ill of his sister.

Charlton stumbled back in fear, as though struck before straightening himself in a poor, pathetic attempt to maintain some semblance fo dignity," And what'll you do about it, boy? You play big-shot real well for someone who can't even stop his hands from trembling. What's wrong with you, hmm? You one of those crippl—"

"Consider your next words carefully, Mr. Charlton," Jupiter said in the low, cold voice that the twins had heard from him only once before, on Eventide at Crow Manor. Morrigan shivered beside him, Rigel absently took off his coat and draped it around her, not even glancing her way, as though the movement was entirely on auto-pilot.

She gave a small, amused huff that he didn't care to take note of. He stared at a tree root, pursing his lips and trying not to let the tears in his eyes fall as he fidgeted with the hems of his gloves uncertainly. Jupiter might've cut the (barely a) man's sentence off, but it wasn't hard to figure out what word he was going to say, it was one he'd heard plenty of time before, muttered everywhere he went. Cripple.

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 Rigel's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Told you. Odious man. Pay no attention."

Rigel didn't acknowledge the words, still staring at the tree root like a lifeline.

"Ryj," Jupiter said softly," Don't listen to him. He doesn't know anything about you. He was wrong. You're not a... you're not, okay?"

"Yes, I am." He answered the ginger flatly," He may be an idiot and the word may be offensive but it's accurate, Jupiter. I am a cripple."

He walked away wordlessly, hands tucked in his pockets as he stared at the ground. 

...

Rigel wasn't really sure where he was going, just... away. Away from Jupiter, away from Morrigan, away from Charlton. His steps felt automatic, disconnected from thought. His legs moved, but his body felt far away, like he was watching himself from behind his own eyes.

He pulled his hands from his trouser pockets, meaning to shove them into his coat—only to pause.

Oh. His coat wasn't on.

That insignificant realization hit like a slap. Too much. Too sharp. Something twisted low in his stomach, and his breath caught halfway up his throat. The cold air burned inside his lungs, too tight, too fast.

He blinked. The world warped, just a little—like a huge heat haze, with his vision tunnelling around it. His heart was clenching painfully, like the was something digging into it and his internal organs seemed to be going on strike, his lungs heaved and contracted —yet, it didn't stop the painful feelings like his bones has crushed into them or someone was clenching their fist around him painfully, nails digging into them so hard they bled.

He turned a few more corners without thinking, stumbling slightly on a step he didn't see. His ears were ringing now—shrill and constant, like a kettle left boiling too long. At the same time, every sound around him felt distant, like he was underwater and the world had submerged without telling him. Someone laughed far away, and it made him flinch.

Eventually he found himself behind Proudfoot House, near a back entrance that smelled faintly of rust and wet stone. He sank down onto the stairs like someone had cut the strings holding him up. His chest ached, not like a pulled muscle but like something was crushing him from the inside, slow and relentless. He sucked in a breath, but it caught—too shallow. He tried again. Too fast. Too much. Not enough.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Except he couldn't. Or not properly.

His vision blurred again, then cleared, then blurred worse. His fingers had gone tingly. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

He lowered himself to the stairs and quietly pulled off his gloves, he didn't just wear them to hide his shaky hands. He also wore them to hide his scars and help manage the pain. The criss-crossing lines from several different times he'd been whacked with rulers and canes until he bled and bruised and later scarred, marred his hands, heavy scarring standing out against pale skin, like a map of places he didn't want to go back to. 

And unfortunately, now if he twisted his hand or clenched it the wrong way he would get sharp pain shooting through his palms and knuckles, not dissimilar to when someone touched a particularly bad bruise. 

Fresh pain lanced through his palms as he tensed them in the wrong direction, much too quickly. He clenched his fists and gasped when the pain shot through him. It helped, painful as it was, the familiar feeling grounded him.

His throat began to burn just a little less, the pressure on his chest slowly—painfully slowly, began to ease and he gave big, gasping heaves of breath. 

His breathing settled into something closer to normal, and the ringing in his ears faded enough to hear the faint rustle of wind against the bricks.

He didn't know how long he sat there, just silently catching his breath and trying to calm down—or at least lower his anger and panic to the usual manageable level. When he finally felt himself calm enough he slid his gloves back on, pulled up his impassive mask and quietly slipped around the corner and re-joined the crowd in search of Jupiter and Morrigan.

...

Jupiter and Morrigan were talking to an old woman with brown hair pulled into matching buns, brown eyes, a cane, and a cheery grin when Rigel re-joined them.

"Is that a false leg?" asked Morrigan. Rigel winced and Jupiter cleared his throat loudly. 

Rigel took that as his cue to stroll over and join them," I'm exactly certain when I gave you my coat, but you may return it now."

The woman, to her credit didn't seem all that offended by Morrigan's rude question.

She rolled her eyes," You gave it to me when you like totally crashed out and stormed away after Baz called you a... that word and Jupiter got all angry at him."

"Cripple?" Rigel offered," You can say it Morrigan. It's not like he's the first person to call me that. Father wasn't exactly the type to sugar-coat he felt about my short-comings, remember?"

Jupiter's grin flickered into a scowl for a moment and he gave a shake of his head to the woman whose eyes had narrowed, mouthing Later to her. Rigel pretended not to notice.

"Nan, I'd like you to meet my other candidate, Rigel Crow." Jupiter grinned," Rigel, this is Nancy Dawson—"Call me Nan."—Finest dragon-rider I know. And, yes, Morrigan." He shot her a chiding look," She has a wooden leg."

"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?" Rigel whacked his sister upside the head. Nan laughed and shook her head fondly.

"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. Rigel's lip twitched.

"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 had assembled on the balcony.

"That's our newest High Council of Elders," Jupiter whispered to the twins. "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."

"Wow, this really is a cult," Rigel muttered under his breath. Beside him, Nan snorted.

"Okay, but why is one of them a bu—" Rigel resisted the urge to facepalm. They'd been in Nevermoor three days, would it kill her to pick up a book?

"Shh, listen."

A reverent hush descended as one of the Elders approached a microphone stand. A thin, stooped woman with wispy grey hair, she seemed unbalanced by the enormous flowery hat on her head, Rigel felt it was rather stupid to wear something so unnecessarily inconvenient. 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 wunimal bull-major, Rigel made note of each name. "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."

Rigel straightened, there was no way in hell it would be his and Morrigan's last. He would do whatever it took to ensure it.

"My esteemed colleagues and I," Elder Quinn continued, "wish to thank you, young candidates, for your bravery, optimism, and trust." Rigel had none of those things, but please, continue. "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."

It had nothing to do with bravery, optimism, and trust for Rigel, and everything to do with confidence and self-discipline that had been instilled into him since he was a babe. Granted, it was by himself—stars knows his father didn't encourage him to stand up for himself. That would've made it much too difficult to shove him around.

She paused to beam at the guests, and she and Elder Wong, a grey-bearded man with colourful tattoos covering his arms and neck, applauded enthusiastically. Elder Saga, stamped his hooves. 

"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."

Out of the corner of the eyes Rigel noticed Morrigan looking at Jupiter, but he was watching Elder Quinn with rapt attention. He elbowed his sister and gestured for her to pay attention herself.

"Calm down," He hissed," Honestly, I can feel the anxiety radiating off of you. Like I said: It's more my colour."

Rigel could understand why she was panicking, it was a daunting number. One point eight percent, no two percent. Because he and Morrigan counted as one spot and they would be getting in.

For all he and Morrigan bickered, she wanted this so much. Rigel would be cruel to deny her—then again, if Morrigan wanted the world, Rigel would still consider it cruel of him to deny her that. It was daunting and dangerous how much he cared for his twin under his indifferent façade.

"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.

Rigel frowned—there it was again. He made a note to look into that.

Whoever or whatever he was, it seemed that the spectre of the Wundersmith loomed so large over Nevermoor that he needn't even be mentioned by name to strike fear in people's hearts. Rigel knew Morrigan thought it was silly given that he hadn't been seen for over a hundred years, but time didn't heal all wounds—and even when it didn't, that didn't mean it erased the scars.

"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."

Rigel hung onto every word, uncertainty digging its grip into him. It wasn't that he didn't like singing, he used to, but now... he just couldn't. It terrified him, what he could do with his voice. It wasn't normal. He swallowed.

"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 and Rigel settled for a polite, highly sceptical applause as he twisted the words around his head disbelievingly.

Family. Belonging. Friendships to last a lifetime. It all felt so... weak and sentimental. So mundane. So dangerous.

After a round of applause, most of the patrons and candidates returned to the dessert buffet. Jupiter hung back, leaning down to speak to the twins quietly.

"I'm going to catch up with some old friends," he said, he shot Rigel a look before he spoke next—as though the words were for his benefit. He supposed they were, "You should go make some new ones."

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

"One conversation"

"No."

"Rigel," Jupiter hesitated, then sighed and dragged a hand down his face before crouching to Rigel's height. Rigel tensed, his father only ever acted like that when he was about to get a very bad beating—though typically his father looked a lot colder and more tense, all Jupiter looked was... well... disappointed. The boy didn't understand why the sight of Jupiter's disappointed expression made his heart clench in a way that hurt far more than the dread that typically settled into his stomach when his father got into a similar state. His face flickered through a thousand emotions before settling on a strange mixture of sorrow and pride," That stunt you pulled with Baz was brilliant, by the way."

"Yes, well," Rigel's hands went behind his back  fiddled with the hem of his gloves, twisting it around his wrists as he spoke," You weren't kidding about Charlton. He really is a sleazy, odious excuse for a plebeian."

Jupiter snorted, his face fell into an expression of sorrow," He was wrong. You're not a cripple; or a burden, or some virus. And so was your father, Rigel. There is nothing wrong with you."

Rigel stared at the man for a moment, impassive expression cracking. He opened his mouth as though to say something before schooling his expression and letting out a scoff," Whatever."

He swept away before Jupiter could respond.

...

Rigel made his way over to the refreshments table and was pleased to notice some peach flavoured iced tea, his grim expression lightened slightly as he ladled some into a plastic cup—though, he frowned as he tried to figure out how to hold it without tea splashing everywhere, he didn't often stoop so low as to drink from little red plastic cups, especially ones where the only way the contents didn't spilled as if they were filled up a quarter of the way which happened to be like four sips. Assuming they were small.

He scowled as he tried to force his hand steady and winced as he tensed it in the wrong directions—having nerve damage didn't just mean shaking hands, It meant that if he moved them in certain directions they would send sharp spouts of pain up them. Regretfully for him, the wrong direction typically consisted of clenching them around, well, anything.

His lips twisted and a sneer crossed his expression as he huffed and finally gave up, setting the cup on the table shakily. He leaned against the wall of Proudfoot house, which the refreshments table was set against, and clenched one shaking hand around the other in an attempt to hold it still. Naturally, it didn't work and only left the boy with a sharp pain. He clenched his hand around his fist harder, but the pain and quivering only worsened. 

Finally, he gave up and just dropped his hands, rubbing them lightly as they hung in front of him. The boy glared frustratedly at a tree root from one of the dead trees sticking out of the ground, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands behind them. 

His teeth clenched angrily—and his frustration was interrupted by a familiar voice's exclamation of "Oh, shut up!"

He raised a brow, unbiddenly his gaze swept across the nearby space in such of his sister and he was surprised (and mildly impressed) to see that she was talking to a brunette girl with bright blue eyes, pretty features and a vibe radiating "bratty" about her. He strolled over, though he kept a careful distance. He had no interest in humiliating himself with such childish squabbles.

The girl's top lip curled and Rigel couldn't help but be amused—clearly she thought herself intimidating. Unfortunately for her, she lacked the posture and general impassiveness Rigel had that allowed him to pull off the expression. She just looked pathetic, like she's seen her mother do it somewhere. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Morrigan said, raising her voice a little. The boy winced, don't raise your voice, Improve your argument. "Leave her alone."

'Her' turned out to be a petite blonde girl who was currently attempting to make her escape, coincidentally he happened to be blocking her path. He gave her an unimpressed glance are aside, she blushed as she skittered off.

"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.

Rigel's lips twitched. He'd bet Morrigan was beginning to miss the old days in Jackalfax, when everybody had been terrified by their mere presence. She hunched in on herself before squaring her shoulders and speaking in what was obviously meant to be a low, cold voice  but only came out as soft and somewhat questioning. "I suggest you consider your next words carefully."

Okay. That was... kind of adorable. No, that was really adorable. Maybe Rigel was starting to grow fond of Jupiter, especially if his sister trusted him enough to mimic the man while attempting to be intimidating. He pulled a hand up to his mouth to hide the smile crossing his features, furrowing his brows so he just looked deep in thought.

Silence. And then—

"Ha!" The bratty girl whose name Rigel still didn't know—and didn't particularly care to learn, exploded with laughter, followed by her friend and all the other candidates surrounding her. As they fell over themselves laughing.

Rigel's lips twitched as he watched his sister's expression go through the five stages of grief as she realized how utterly unterrifying she had become, seemingly incapable of deciding if she was pleased or disappointed by this new development.

The laughter died down. The brunette glared at Morrigan. 

"It's rude to eavesdrop." She put her hands on her hips. "But I wouldn't expect good manners from an illegal."

"A what?"

"I beg your pardon?" Rigel took that as his cue to cut in," Actually, no—forget that, I don't beg. Much less from an ill-mannered little wench such as you."

"How dare you!"

"Rather easily, thank you."

"Ugh! That's not what I meant—You know what? Whatever! My patron says your patron smuggled you both 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."

"Excuse you," Rigel forced the most offended, hateful sneer to his face—one that made the one he'd shot this pathetic little weasel's patron look like a cheery grin," When your patron says that nobody has heard of us, what he really means is that he hasn't—which isn't inaccurate given that he is a nobody. And if the people he chooses to interact with are as pathetic as you are, all I have is relief that there is no world we have ever associated with the odious man, because quite frankly I'd be rather offended if I was offered patronage and forced to stand alongside some wretched little girl, terribly insecure and sabotaging every one else's confidence because she knows  her knack is a dime-a-dozen and there is only so much her patron can do to try and make her seem anything more than utterly, ordinary. If you must know, my sister and I are former residents of Barclaytown in The Seventh Pocket—however I would be unsurprised if you hadn't heard of it given your woeful incompetence and room temperature IQ, then again, that's being generous. Now, I suggest you hurry along  before you offend my sister and myself any further, because I assure you: We are not the kind of people you wish to make an enemy of."

The girl gulped, lips quivering and tears springing to her eyes, and someone—lord only knows who, took the opportunity to deliver a finishing blow in the form of dropping an enormous green gelatine sculpture form above where it sailed down and landed straight on top of the girls head.

Rigel smirked cruelly as green jelly dropped down the bratty girl's face," I—Urgh!"

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

The girl—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 wailed as she ran off, fat sobs shaking her body, the other children close behind, her friend with the braided hair still giggling.

The boy landed with a thud next to the twins and Rigel rolled his eyes, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets and leaning against the wall, unusually unconcerned about his open suit jacket and generally untidy appearance. The Crow boy allowed his eyes to slip shut, peaking one of them open to catch sight of the unknown boy as he flicked his head back, pushing a mop of thick brown curls out of his blue 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. Rigel frowned in disapproval at the indignity of it—wondering absently what on earth could possess the boy to wear such a thing to such a prestigious event?

Had he no respect? Pride? Was this some sort of strange reverse psychology play to make his opponents underestimate him? Or was he simply trying to leave a poor first  impression?

"I liked that thing you did too. You know, 'consider your next words carefully' and all that," he said, mimicking her low, angry voice. "Or when your brother like totally destroyed her, but I reckon the only language some people understand is the language of the surprise dessert attack."

Rigel crinkled his nose, and let out a scoff. Words and silence were a far more effective weapon, embarrassing moments were easily forgotten or wiped away by the next best things—but words and silence robbed them of their dignity, and though they were forgotten by the crowd, if they were well placed, then they were never forgotten by the individual they targeted. The boy nodded sagely and they stood in silence for a few moments. Morrigan couldn't stop staring at his sweater, Rigel didn't blame her.

"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 catalogue. She gets loads of them for me, it's called the Ugly Sweater Company. She's pretty funny."

"What do you get?"

"For what?"

"What were the stakes of winning the bet?" Rigel drawled to the idiot, wondering what could possibly buy his dignity.

"I get to wear the sweater." He frowned, looking genuinely confused for a moment until his face lit up with some new idea—clearly it took a few moments between thoughts for him to regather the energy to rub his two braincells together. "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, well Morrigan and the boy were—Rigel wasn't bothering with a task so plebeian. He'd tried to explain to the boy that was what servants were for, but Morrigan had slapped him on the chest and told him to stop being such a jerk. So now, he was hanging back silently, totally not pouting, thank you very much, Morrigan. 

They'd dragged it from an empty corner of the grounds all the way around Proudfoot House to the back lawn. It was almost impressive, at least the boy made up for his lack of braincells with obvious strength, he was clearly carrying more weight than Morrigan. Rigel would probably surpass him, but he couldn't really be bothered lowering himself to performing such mundane feats. 

"It's nice, yeah," he huffed. "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—Rigel raised an eyebrow, gaze sweeping over the quartet as though to say go about your own, don't mind us. "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 the twins  actually lived in a hotel—Rigel wondered how he'd react if he discovered they were raised in a Manor. Well, more like a house of horrors, but, same difference," 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 parlour? And a dwarf vampire?"

Why on earth would you eat sea food for breakfast? You'd throw up. Better yet; Why would you wish to eat an animal at all? Also, Frank was not a dwarf vampire!

"Vampire dwarf," Rigel corrected absently, trying to sound as uncaring as possible. Seriously, the Deucalion was lovely, but you'd think after twenty minutes, the boy would've grow bored of this conversation topic.

"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 charmingly. 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. Rigel's lips parted, reluctantly impressed. 

Well played. Roping you opponent into a scheme so that you had leverage over them to prevent sabotage in the later trials? Well played, indeed. Apparently this boy was more intelligent than he seemed. 

"Told you. Massive vermin problem."

Rigel clapped his hands slowly," Impressive. Coercing us—or, I suppose Morrigan—into helping you smuggle a bunch of toads into a garden sort so you can hold it over our—sorry, her—heads at a later date? Ingenious!"

The boy stared," Huh?"

Rigel frowned, he wasn't used to cute boys looking at him like he was crazy," Do I have something on my face?"

"I didn't ask you help to hold it over your head," He explained lamely," I just needed help moving the barrel."

Rigel blinked," Oh."

Apparently he'd misjudged the depth of the boys character. Unfortunate. Well, at least he was good looking. Rigel stared at his hair, it looked very fluffy. He really wanted to reach out and touch it.

Morrigan's eyes widened as she realised she'd just helped to smuggle a barrel full of toads into a garden party. A slightly hysterical laugh slipped through her lips and Rigel bit back a smirk. He was going to hold this over her head until the day she died.

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. Rigel took a step back, lest he be seen with the idiot's who were standing in plain sight, he sighed dramatically and yanked them back.

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—Rigel jogged after them reluctantly.

"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. "This is my brother, Rigel. What's—"

"Are you, by chance, a middle child—" Rigel started.

"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."

"Immensely." Rigel retorted, expression and tone bland.

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."

... 

The trio 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." Morrigan smiled uncharacteristically. Rigel frowned, Nevermoor was corrupting his sister.

"Anything else of interest?"

Morrigan thought for a moment. "I think we made an enemy too."

"Oh please," He scoffed," That girl was little more than a pathetic nuisance. If you wish to lower your standards, fine. But, do not lower me to her level. That's just insulting."

"You should've seen Rigel with Noelle," Morrigan said to Jupiter," She was all "nobody heard of you" and he was all "your patron is a nobody, so he's not lying but we're from Barclayton—"Barclaytown"—in the seventh pocket" and she was like "how dare you" and he was like "I do dare! You have an IQ the equivalent of room temperature"" Jupiter let out a snort and Morrigan's inhaled deeply," and then Hawthorne—and then Hawthorne, that's our—"your"—new friend by the way, dumped green jelly on her and she ran off crying. It was so cool."

"I didn't make my first proper enemy until I was twelve." He plastered on an impressed expression.

"Maybe that's our knack?"

Jupiter chuckled. Rigel rolled his eyes, expression impassive save for the slightly amused twinkle in his eye.

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—"

"No." Rigel cut in, shooting Jupiter a shut up look," We're here perfectly legally."

"But... we don't have visa's."

"We do," He assured her, lying through this teeth," They just took longer to process, so we entered illegally but as long as you stick with the Barclaytown story, it'll be fine."

Jupiter was looking at him in confusion, and Rigel waited for Morrigan to turn to him before he shot him a nod.

Jupiter swallowed," Exactly."

"Oh. Okay," Morrigan's accepted, her expression shifted, like she was debating whether to ask her next question," If I don't... if they don't let us in, you know, to the—to the Society..."

"Yes?" he prompted.

She drew in a deep breath. "Can we stay anyway? Here at the Deucalion, with you?" 

Rigel froze, he'd had no idea that Morrigan had been worrying about such a thing. When Jupiter said nothing, she rushed ahead.

"Not as a guest! I meant you could give us a job. You wouldn't even have to pay us 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 labour."

"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."

Rigel was tempted to correct him, but paused as he realised it was Jupiter. The man didn't do anything subtle or simply and if given the opportunity, he probably would blow up a bridge purely for the aesthetic.

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?"

Rigel gripped Morrigan's grip," If—" He swallowed as Jupiter made a big show of glancing away and pretending not to eavesdrop," If this doesn't work out... I've made alternative plans—or well, I'm working on them. But, I promise—if anything happens, we have living arrangements. I'm not letting you go back to Father," He swallowed, if he ended up going back to father—fine. Morrigan wasn't going back there though. No matter what," Not ever."

"Neither of us are allowed to go back there. Okay? You promise?" She asked, voice soft and fearful. A part of Rigel resented it, resented he was the one protecting her. Their father had never hurt her—and she was supposed to be his older sister, but... he shoved that thought from his head as he made the childish agreement.

"I swear."

She didn't notice his crossed fingers behind his back, Jupiter ignored them.

Chapter Text

"So many possibilities for this all to end badly, it's almost guaranteed."

...

Rigel's late night excursion was made much easier by the Deucalion, he felt, when he found a small balcony with a ladder awaiting him. He wasted no time in walking towards his bag and pulling out a small folder from a hidden pocket, the boy frowned at a note stuck to it, written in neat cursive.

Rigel,

It is to my understanding that you packed this bag when you attempted to run away from this house for the very first time, and if there is one thing I've always known about you—you're a logical boy. 

I have watched you change because of your father over the years, watched you fade from a grinning, laughing boy to the hollow shell of your father's actions. And I am pleased to know that you will protect Morrigan from the same thing.

I have taken it upon myself to ensure that all your bank accounts remain open for one more week, following that they will close and remain utterly untouchable, lest Ivy get her grubby little hands in them. Below is the jecessary, and fully signed documentation to transfer all of your assets—including a 5-Million-Kred trust fund and a single bedroom apartment located in Nevermoor, listed under your name—to a new account with you as the sole benefactor. As you are over eleven, you have legal access to this. I did not do this for Morrigan as the girl had not liberated access to her trust from her father like you did. 

I am sorry to have forced you to remain alive, but I could not bare to let you die. It's not time for you to rest yet. Behave, use your brain and pass the Wundrous Trials, if not for yourself, do it for Morrigan. 

Good luck,
Grandmother.

Rigel swallowed as his eyes traced the words, he shook his head and grabbed the documentation, dressing himself in a pair of elegant black slacks, a maroon turtleneck and a long black coat as he made his way outside, papers clutched tightly to his chest and a few kred tucked in his pocket for a wundergound ticket.

There was an airport on the other side of town with a bank nearby that didn't close until eleven-thirty, which meant he had two and a half hours.

...

The Wundergound, as it turned out, was rather disgusting. Rigel crinkled his nose as his polished shoes stepped in a piece of gum.

A young boy was screaming as he clutched to his distressed looking mother, a strange man was staring at him intently, some teen was graffitiing the wall, and a group of wunnimal's were playing songs for coin. He squared his shoulders and strolled over to purchase his ticket, wincing at the woman manning the desk who spat in his face every-time she spoke.

She shot him a glare when his shaking hands, reached for his handkerchief and he used that to grab the tickets from her hands, and grumbled out," Train'll arrive in fifteen minutes."

Rigel leaned against a wall as he waited, trembling hands tucked into his pockets, silently praying that nobody would recognize him.

Jupiter hadn't really given them a curfew, he'd just said that bed-time was nine o'clock, and Rigel had in fact, spent time, in bed (rifling through his bag and preparing to sneak out) at nine o'clock. So, really, this was Jupiter's fault. He should've been more specific. Rigel wasn't technically breaking any rules. Laws? Yes. Rules? No.

And so what if he snuck out through the window? He wasn't explicitly forbidden from doing that.

He scowled, pulling a crumpled five kred note from his pockets and wandering over to the marching band, he tossed it into the case.

"What song?" The gorillawun on the sax asked.

Rigel paused, though he didn't turn back," Hey kid!" He called to the crying  five-year-old over his shoulder," What song do you want to play?"

The five-year-old crying ceased and the mother shot the boy a grateful look," Can-Can I listen to-to the Morningtide song again?"

"Course ya' can kid!" The gorillawun grinned as he began the intro to the song.

"Say thank-you to the nice boy, honey!"

"Thank you, Mister!" He grinned toothily as he and his mother giggled. Rigel offered the boy a curt nod and a slight upturn of his lip, kids were cute. 

"Attention passengers: Wunderground 417, outbound service to Old Town, now arriving on Platform 2. All aboard!"

Rigel made his way onto the train, shoving his ticket in the general direction of the man and taking a standing position (divine thing knows he was not sitting on those chairs) next to a silver pole, hanging onto the ceiling handle as the train departed. Next stop was the Old Town Heritage Bank branch across the airport.

...

After a (exhaustingly) lengthy visit to the bank — which involved handing over his passport for ID, presenting the guardian-signed authorization form for the release of funds, carefully reciting the memorized Deucalion address, signing for the release of the apartment into his name—who knew all he had to say was 'my grandfather died, and I'm an orphan' to explain why he was there alone?—and waiting through an overly cheerful spiel about "youth banking privileges" — Rigel finally succeeded in transferring all five million kred from the trust fund into his newly opened personal account. 

The bank manager, after double-checking the post-Bid Day paperwork that granted him the legal rights of a sixteen-year-old, approved the transaction with only a few raised eyebrows and no further questions—though that might've had something to with the sad puppy god eyes, complete with tears and sob stories about how his grandmother had fallen ill since his pop-pop died and wanted to make sure he had everything ready to take over and ensure he was safe if she didn't make it. They even printed his debit card right there—slick and silver, with his name embossed like it belonged on business cards. No visa. No entry records. Just a passport and the quiet assurance of someone who knew the loopholes better than the adults around him. Rigel slid the card into his pocket, nodded politely, and walked out like he'd done this a dozen times before.

He was referring to his unknown maternal family, of course. There was no way he was putting that evil out on his grandfather. He couldn't help the amusement though, as he imagined his grandfather rolling in his grave at being called pop-pop.

It was almost eleven-thirty when he exited the bank and he groaned as he realized this was going to be an all night task. With a scowl, he shoved a pair of five kred notes in his pockets so they were sticking out and strolled around town—once he was sure he was being followed, he made his way down an alley and tucked himself behind a dumpster.

The unknown assailant stopped and glanced around the empty alley, knife in hand and Rigel ran up behind him, pinning him against the wall and pressing the knife to his neck," Move, and I slit your throat."

Whoever it was, gulped," Wha-Whadda you want from me?"

"Simple," Rigel spoke," I need a place to get some paperwork forged, either you know a place, or you know the name of a gang territory that I can use to find a place."

"Nah man, I know a place! I know a place!" He stuttered out, hands against the bricks," He does real high profile shit. Got some friends in high places. 'Stead of giving you fakes, he'll arrange real 'uns. Couple thousand kred, depending on what ya' need. All ya' gotta do is pay for it and he can do it up on the spot or have it sorted in a couple weeks, Yeah?"

"Yeah," Rigel pulled back, pressing the knife to his side—he was relatively young, probably around nineteen with golden-blond hair and ugly bangs that he obviously thought made him look hot," Here's the deal, big bro, you're gonna take me there. You're not gonna look at my face, and you're not gonna ask my name. In exchange, this knife doesn't go through your ribs. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah!" He agreed.

The walk following that was swift, curtesy of the terrified coward having a knife pressed to his side, and he found arrival at an old apartment building, where he made quick work of negotiating a completely legal and above board green card for him and Morrigan and went on his merry way with a fake in hand and the knowledge that the real one would arrive at the Deucalion and be hidden in a specific spot in the back alley near the service entrance in two to three business days, memorising the address in case he ever needed to come back here.

It was around one in the morning when he arrived back at the Caddisfly Avenue and snuck back into his room, Rigel froze at the sound of humming—terror gripping him and freezing his feet to the spot as though they were chained like iron.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry as the silhouette of a man—but not a man, something was wrong with him, something awful and evil that Rigel could feel rolling off him in waves—turned to him, ever so slowly as he hummed softly.

"Or the crowling, little crowling, will peck out your eyes..."

Brown eyes met glowing golden orbs, shining bright against a creature of darkness and across the room, across a distance of mere centimetres and thousands of miles at once, Rigel locked eyes with The Humming Man.

Chapter Text

"And what is home if not the first place you learn to run from?"

...

Room 86 on the fourth floor was slowly adjusting to Rigel. Every few days, something in the room shifted—be it the light's that disappeared until the room was lit only by wall-mounted candles, the bed that couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to float above the room in loft style or to build itself into a hole in the ground,  the scent that shifted from the sharp smell of morning dew tot he slaty breeze of the beach, or even the the wall that couldn't decide between moss coated cobblestone and ballerina-style mirror's (Rigel couldn't tell if he appreciated the meltdown that had triggered, it was something other than the utter... nothingness—thankfully the room had taken the prerogative of changing it to a simple grey-blue paint). 

Every few days he noticed something new and brilliant, something he had initially been uncomfortable and hesitant about—if you were looking to someone to appreciate change, it would not be Rigel—but eventually he had adjusted to it, until it had become part of his morning routine to glance around the room for a game of spot the difference with his photographic memory. Some days it was difficult, like the stone owl-shaped paperweight that showed up on his shelf one day, or it was ridiculously easy, like the giant fluffy polar bear(?) seat that had mad a home on a circular dais to the right of Rigel's bed when the boy had woken in a cold sweat and gotten up to force himself awake before promptly collapsing. It moved its arms sometimes while he was leaning against it and wrapped him in a hug while he stared ahead blankly and if some one had the misfortune of walking past the room at the wrong time it, it would let out the loudest roar.

More than a few unfortunate souls had run down the hallways screaming. Typically it would give the boy some semblance of amusement, but all it did was drag him back to the events of that night, haunting him with what exactly he had seen in The Humming Man's eyes, and then he was back in that overwhelmingly cold, dark place haunted by that numb, empty feeling. And he just couldn't shake it, 

He supposed at least, that it fit in really well with his room, the shape was rather simple, a rectangular room with the back just-slightly-less-than-half of the room mounting up into a simple raised dais—which had a simple circular dais going up one more step on the left—and consisted of pretty almond coloured wooden floors, blue-grey walls, white skirting boards and a white ceiling.

The room was decorated in a combination of whites, greys, and light brown furniture, with an ornate brown arched three-piece bookshelf built into the left wall with white wooden detailing wrapping up around a gold-handed clock that showed not just the time, but the stages of the ages, opposite a simple almond coloured desk and wardrobe, an unrealistically fluffy white rug decorating the place. Up on the wooden dais was his bed—which was currently an ornate wooden white double with matching bedside table, though it shifted each day. To the right of the bed was the circular dais which his giant polar bear chair rested against, sitting diagonally so that it could face the door and to the left of the bed was a light brown door with a little golden knob that lead to a rather simple bathroom. 

It had become an unspoken agreement that the room only change its content rather than shape and size ever since it had changed everything at once overnight and Rigel had woken up frozen in a completely different place he went to bed to and had a violent panic attack. 

One night several weeks earlier, the bed had changed from a plain brown headboard to an ornate wrought-iron frame while he slept in it. The Deucalion obviously thought it had made a mistake, though, because two days later he woke up on an ornate white wooden double-bed.

His favourite thing of all though, was a small framed pastel painting of a bright green moulded gelatine sculpture, which was set in a frame on his desk. He'd yet to tell Morrigan that he had one to match the much larger version which hung proudly above her toilet.

At first the twins had conclude it was Jupiter or Fen changing things in secret, testing their gullibility. Until once, in the middle of a sleepless night, Rigel had gone to check on Morrigan who had called him to the doorway of the bathroom, where she stood frozen and the pair had stopped silently and stared helplessly at the bathtub growing four talon-shaped silver feet before their eyes.

Soon there were window boxes full of pastel purple flowers, lilac's, purple hyacinths, lavender and white tulips—all some of Rigel's favourite, they didn't make him cheery but they vanished the nightmares and calmed his shaking nerves after particularly terrifying moments, but what really made him happy was hearing Morrigan talk animatedly about how cool her room was. Listening to his sister radiating joy as she laughed gleefully made Rigel feel... something other than that unshakeable hollowness, if only for a moment.

Over the course of the weeks the painful cuts on his back had healed until they were mostly just bruised scars.

Midway through spring, a man in a mud-brown uniform came to the Hotel Deucalion. His moustache curled all the way to his cheekbones, and the light glinted off a silver badge on his chest. He stood at the concierge desk, his hands stiffly behind his back, appraising the hotel foyer with undisguised contempt. Rigel loathed him on principle, the Deucalion was brilliant, and somebody whose fashion sense consisted of dressing like a bag of compost didn't have any right to judge her.

Kedgeree had fetched Jupiter and the twins from the Smoking Parlour, where Jupiter and Morrigan sat in a cloud of forest-green vapor (rosemary smoke: "for sharpening the mind"), playing a game of cards as Rigel's eyes darted between the two, pretending to analyse every move they made with an impassive expression, as he zoned out. 

It was clear that neither was certain of the rules, but Frank whispered advice in Morrigan's ear, and Dame Chanda did the same for Jupiter, and every now and then someone would yell "Huzzah!" and the others would scowl or throw something—which Rigel might have found mildly amusing at any other time. All things considered, Morrigan had decided it was a rather pleasant afternoon with a cheery expression that Rigel couldn't help but mutter an exhausted agreement to.

They all felt a bit put out when Kedgeree insisted they hurry to the foyer—well, Rigel was more intrigued than anything—and Morrigan's level of annoyance had quickly grown to match Rigel's own when she saw the moustachioed man sneer disapprovingly at the small, misshapen chandelier, which was still regrowing—shooting the twins a contemptuous side-eye that neither Morrigan or Jupiter seemed to notice.

Rigel's lip curled in distaste, silently appraising the man who seemed to think he had a place to judge the Deucalion or his sister. It was, perhaps the most emotion he'd had since that night. The Deucalion was doing its best to take care of him in his state, and while Rigel couldn't muster up the emotion himself, he knew it only right to try and stand up for her. He knew that if he was able to, he'd be rather indignant on her behalf.

The chandelier was creeping back to health day by day, but it still had a long way to go. At this stage it was impossible to see what form it would take. Fenestra had opened a betting pool. Frank swore up and down it would be a magnificent peacock, but Morrigan was still hopeful it might come back as the same pink sailing ship Jupiter had loved. Rigel didn't have the heart to tell her that it wouldn't have grown out just to regrow the same thing, he'd quietly placed a fifty kred bet on a Crow, a logical conclusion given the timing of the crash and the speed in which the Deucalion had accepted the twins.

Frank had made a teasing comment about his ego, but Rigel's lip had simply quirked up, an empty replica of his usual smug tell for Morrigan's sake—stars knew she was the only one who could actually read him well enough to be concerned.

"What's the Stink doing here?" Jupiter murmured to Kedgeree, who shrugged as he scooted off behind the concierge desk.

"Who's the Stink?" whispered Morrigan. Rigel had an idea, he'd learned some rather interesting things, and definitely expanded his vocabulary from all of Fenestra's muttered rants.

"Ooh—ah, I meant the Nevermoor City Police Force," Jupiter said under his breath. "We, er—probably shouldn't call it the Stink. Not to his face. Actually, just let me do the talking."

Rigel huffed out a scoff, there was no way that was happening. If this had to do with what he thought it did, he'd better handle this.

Jupiter approached the man and shook his hand amiably. "Good afternoon, Officer. Welcome to the Hotel Deucalion. Checking in?"

The man scoffed. "Not likely." Rigel narrowed his eyes, he really despised this man. A sneer teased his lips," You're the proprietor, correct?"

And you're an entitled prick, correct?

"Jupiter North. How do you do?"

"Captain Jupiter Amantius North," said the man, consulting a notebook. "Esteemed member of the Wundrous Society, the League of Explorers, and the Federation of Nevermoorian Hoteliers. Secretary of the Wunimal Rights Commission, volunteer bookfighter for the Gobleian Library, and chairman of the Charitable Trust for Decommissioned Robot Butlers. Discoverer of seventeen previously undocumented realms and Snazzy Man Magazine's Snazzy Man of the Year four years running. Very impressive, Captain. Anything I've missed?"

"I also give tap-dancing lessons to underprivileged hoodlums, and I'm on the judging panel for the annual blackberry pie bake-off at the Nevermoor Maximum Security Rehabilitation Centre for the Criminally Insane."

Morrigan laughed out loud at that, although she wasn't sure whether Jupiter was joking. Rigel's amusement was smothered by the rage, not quite his own, brewing under his skin as he stared at this man. He had a feeling the Deucalion might have been channelling some emotion through him.

"Well, aren't you just a saint?"

"Some would say," The boy spoke up, rather coolly," Jupiter is definitely a man worth respecting, sir."

Jupiter looked surprised—whether it was because Rigel was standing up for him, or because that was perhaps the only sentence he'd spoken in the last few weeks since the night of the garden party, Rigel didn't know—but he quickly masked it," I'm only in it for the pie." He winked at Morrigan.

The officer sneered. "Think you're funny?"

"I often do think that, yes. Is there something I can help you with, Inspector?" Rigel's gaze turned, ever so slowly to the name printed on the metal tag Inspector Harold Flintlock. 

Rigel made a note to only refer to him as Officer Flintlock, a laughably easy thing that would definitely serve to enrage and undermine the man.

Flintlock sucked in his paunch and tried to look down his nose at Jupiter, which was difficult, as Jupiter was several inches taller than him. Rigel privately though he looked like mix between a fat duck and a walrus, then felt bad, because that was insulting to ducks and walrus's. "I'm here acting on an anonymous tip. One of your Wundrous pals has turned you in, North, for harbouring two illegal refugees. That's big trouble, that is."

Jupiter smiled serenely. "It —"

"Perhaps if it were true, Officer," Rigel cut in stepping in front of Morrigan and Jupiter until he was just a foot away from the man. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and tilted his head at the man, staring at man with an unnerving blankness," How can you be certain that this source of yours is reliable?"

"That's what I'm here to find out, and that's Inspector to you. Now, if you'll excuse me the adults are talking," He sneered, turning to Jupiter," You're entering two candidates for the Wundrous Society trials this year, is that correct?"

"Correct." Jupiter shot Rigel a warning look. Rigel continued staring at the man with unnervingly dead eyes. 

Patience is key. Patience is a virtue.  Patience is a virtue, Patience is a Virtue, Patience is a Virtue—

But you've never been all that virtuous, have you? His mind whispered, then in a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father: Wretched, unholy child. 

(" You've no place for disrespect when all you do is cast a blight on this family.")

"And these are the candidates, are they?"

"Their names are Rigel and Morrigan Crow."

Inspector Flintlock's eyes flickered between the twins and, clearly understanding that he wouldn't garner a thing from Rigel, he narrowed his eyes at Morrigan and brought his face down close to hers. Rigel tilted his head, Jupiter rested a hand on his shoulder but the boy politely stepped to the side and away from the man's grip," And where exactly are you from, Morrigan Crow?"

"Nunya," replied Morrigan. Rigel raised a brow at his sister's gumption.

Jupiter tried to turn his snort of laughter into a cough. "She meant to say she's from the Seventh Pocket of the Free State, Inspector. She just... pronounces it funny."

Morrigan glanced at her patron. He had the same cool, confident air as when he'd spoken to the border control guard on her first day in Nevermoor.

Inspector Flintlock slapped his notebook in the palm of his hand. "Now, listen here, North. The Free State has strict border laws, and if you're harbouring any illegal refugee's, you're breaking about twenty-eight of them. You're in a lot of trouble here, sonny. Illegals are a plague, and it's my solemn duty to guard the borders of Nevermoor and protect its true citizens from Republic scum trying to weasel their way into the Free State."

Sonny? Cliché.

Jupiter turned serious. "A noble and valiant cause, I'm sure," he said quietly. "Protecting the Free State from those most in need of its help."

Flintlock scoffed, smoothing his oily moustache. "I know your type. You bleeding hearts, you'd let anything in here if we gave you half a chance. But I think you might find these scummy illegal's of yours are more trouble than they're worth."

Jupiter looked him dead in the eye. "Don't call them that."

"Interesting that you've already decided we're illegals," Rigel observed tonelessly," What ever happened to Innocent until proven guilty?"

A chill crept up Morrigan's spine as she glanced between Jupiter and her brother, Jupiter had that same edge to his voice that he'd had a few times, but Rigel? Rigel was calm, dead silent, perfectly okay, control freak letting somebody else take  charge of the situation, calm. Morrigan had only ever heard rumours of Rigel in this state. The maids had whispered about it in fear, like a folktale, when their father had introduced them to his opposition and the old man had said... something, she'd never found out what exactly had been said but by the next day his entire career had been ruined and he'd been sent to trial and later prison. 

Rigel hadn't let Morrigan near a newspaper for the next two months.

"I'll call them what they are, dirty, stinking, rotten illegal's. You can't fool me, North. Either hand over their papers—their legitimate citizenship papers—or hand yourself over for arrest, and these filthy illegal for immediate deportation!"

The inspector's words echoed in the lobby, bouncing off the high ceilings. A few of the staff wandered in, drawn by Flintlock's raised voice and Rigel watched with a dethatched impassiveness as the man made a fool of himself and the entire Nevermoor police department by acting like a petulant child.

"Everything all right here, Captain North?" asked Kedgeree, leaving the concierge desk to stand beside them with Martha.

"What a terrible ruckus," said Dame Chanda. She put her arm around Morrigan and glared at Flintlock as she stepped just behind Rigel.

"Did somebody call for security?" Fenestra said from the staircase, where she sat casually cleaning her enormous claws as if preparing for a meal.

"Shall I bite his kneecaps, Jove?" asked Frank the vampire dwarf, sticking his head through Jupiter's legs.

"That won't be necessary. Everything's fine, thank you. You can all go." They all reluctantly left, except for Fen, who stayed just where she was. Jupiter was silent for some time, while Flintlock shot nervous looks in the Magnificat's direction. Rigel made a mental note to thank Fen later and perhaps see if she was interested in being introduced to the small litter of kittens that he may or may not have been taking care of without Jupiter's knowledge.

When Jupiter finally spoke, it was in a quiet, measured voice. "You have no right to demand the papers of someone who falls under the jurisdiction of the Wundrous Society, Flintlock. We deal with our own lawbreakers."

"She's not in the Society—"

"You need to brush up on your Wun Law handbook, Flinty. Article ninety-seven, clause F: 'A child who is participating in the entrance trials for the Wundrous Society shall for all legal purposes be considered a member of the Wundrous Society for the duration of said trials or until he or she is removed from the trial process.' All legal purposes. That means they're already ours."

Morrigan straightened beside Rigel, and glared up at Flintlock, clearly emboldened by the knowledge that Wundrous Society law was on her side.

Flintlock's face coloured bright red, then purple, and finally white, contorting with rage. His moustache quivered and he opened his mouth to speak, but Rigel cut him off, he pulled his coat jacket forward and reached into a pocket inside, pulling out the two green cards and twirling them between his fingers as he locked eyes with man, utterly unphased.

He had stared into the eyes of a monster, he would not be intimidated a bumbling fool who allowed some pathetic little badge to got to his head.

The man shrank under Rigel's gaze, eyes darting to the card twirling in his hands as he paled in fear," You—You have a green card?"

"It's rather interesting," Rigel started, voice utterly devoid of emotion," That you barged in here, made several rude and prejudiced statements, held the word of an anonymous individual against us, flaunted your power and authority, deliberately antagonised innocent citizens, and showed a clear aversion to the several diverse-raced individuals that approached you before finally demanding paperwork from us, all without making any effort to read us our rights or potential charges, yes? Some might consider that harassment, certainly a violation of our civil rights." The smiled Rigel shot the Inspector was all Ice, sharp and cold enough to match his dead eyes, as he took a single step forward so he was toe-to-toe with the pathetic barbarian," I'm sure you didn't mean that though, correct?"

Flintlock gulped as Rigel finally broke away, turning away from him only to pause after a few paces and glance back with clear faux-confusion," I assume, that the next time we speak, not only will you act with a manner befitting of a man sworn to uphold the law with righteousness and respect for all individuals, you will remember basic etiquette... and leave your coat the door. I suggest you find yourself on your merry way, and perhaps find a way to politely remind the public that submitting false-information to the police department is considered both a waste of public resources, and a crime."

Flintlock nodded.

"Lovely," Rigel's lip curled as he looked the man up and down," See to it, that if you require further information or confirmation of our immigration status and the legality regarding such a thing, you go about it in a just and lawful way—else my sister and I may have to consider filing a harassment claim... and I assume none of us want that, do we?"

"No," The inspector nodded," I uh—I apologise. It won't happen again. I'll get right on that."

"See to it you do," Rigel tilted his head in silent dismissal before turning and stalking away, coat billowing behind him dramatically.

He barley made it to his bedroom, clicking the door quietly shut behind him and leaning against it as he slid to the floor—tilting his head back and letting his eyes slip closed as the hotel clicked the lock behind him.

He didn't get any sleep that night.

Chapter Text

"No one really knows why they are alive until they know what they'd die for."

...

"Wassyoornackthen?" Swift asked through a mouthful of toasted cheese sandwich. Rigel cringed from where he was making himself a sandwich to have on his way to the orphanage in Old Town—the boy had been avoiding Jupiter expertly over the last several days, and on one such sunny day he'd had the fortune of coming across a young girl named Alice and pulled her out of the way of a car in the nick of time, before he'd escorted her to the orphanage she claimed to live in, where he'd seen a volunteer sign and been all too happy for an excuse to avoid Jupiter.

However, upon volunteering he'd come to the realization he rather liked it and slowly but steadily the numbness had begun to... fade. He still had bouts of it, and most of his dreams (on the few occasions he could get to sleep, still thoroughly shaken by the idea of The Humming Man's return) nightmares of that awful, empty feeling, but it had gotten more manageable when he had signed up for several places—silently vowing never to tell a soul in his personal life. Stars knew he would never live it down, he had a feeling Fen might have worked it, but, well...

He sighed heavily.

Jupiter had allowed Morrigan's new friend to visit her at the Hotel Deucalion on the condition that he help her study for the upcoming Book Trial. So far they hadn't studied anything but the Deucalion itself. Swift especially loved the Smoking Parlour (chocolate smoke this afternoon: "to promote emotional well-being"), the Rain Room (though he hadn't brought any galoshes and his trousers were now soaked to his knees), and the theatre. Actually, not the theatre itself but rather the dressing room backstage. The walls were lined with hanging costumes, and each one came with an accent and a funny walk that took ages to fade, Rigel had taken it upon himself to supervise the two idiots (and no, it didn't means he was friends with them). Swift was still skipping down the corridors half an hour after he'd taken off his Goldilocks costume.

Now they sat at a corner table in the Hotel Deucalion's busy kitchen, which was full of steam and noise and chefs scrambling to fill orders. Rigel didn't exactly feel it the best place to study for a test, but when he'd voiced such an opinion, Morrigan had informed him that Fen wouldn't let them eat their lunch in the library and that—according to Kedgeree—gravity had been suspended in the dining room until further notice. Rigel had nodded approvingly before reluctantly loaning his notes—and if there happened to be a study schedule in there, well, Rigel wasn't aware how that had gotten in there—to the pair and informing them not to wait until the last minute to study next time.

"Wass... what's my knack?" Morrigan had learned to dread this question. "Um, I don't know."

Swift nodded, chewing and swallowing loudly—Rigel grimaced, making a note to get him an etiquette book. "You don't have to tell me. Loads of candidates keep it a secret. Gives 'em an edge at the Show Trial."

"It's not that," said Morrigan in a rush. "I don't think I have one."

"You must," he said, frowning as he chugged half a glass of milk and Rigel was tempted to excuse himself, because this was a nauseating sight. "Your patron can't put you in the trials unless you've got a knack. It's the rules."

"I think I'd know if I did." Morrigan picked at her sandwich.

"Don't play with your food," Rigel frowned as his hand reached out to lightly tap her wrist, she tensed, he narrowed his eyes," It's unbecoming."

"S'pose you would." Swift shrugged. He polished off the last of his sandwich and opened up one of the textbooks Morrigan had borrowed from Jupiter's study. "Should we start with the Great War?"

She looked up. "What?"

"Or do you want to save that until we've covered the boring stuff?"

Morrigan's voice lightened in what Rigel recognised as an attempt to hide her smile. "So you... you still want to be friends?"

"What? Yeah. Duh." He made a face. Morrigan's mouth twitched, a small smile crossing her face. Rigel nodded approvingly, Swift was giving his friendship as if it meant nothing. He couldn't know that it meant everything. Still, it was... nice to see somebody being so kind to his sister.

He... appreciated it. Ugh, Jupiter had made him soft.

"But we're supposed to be... making valuable alliances and... and all that stuff they said at the Wundrous Welcome." Morrigan carried their empty plates to the sink, narrowly dodging the sous chef as he rushed past with a dish of steaming mussels. She felt duty-bound to make sure Hawthorne understood. "I doubt I'm a valuable alliance."

"Who cares?" he said with a laugh, Rigel didn't stick around long enough to be roped into their studying—he was going to be late for his shift.

"Oh, Morrigan," He procured his sister's green card from his coat pocket and set it onto the bench as he waltzed passed," Don't lose it."

...

His shift at the orphanage was quite pleasant, and Rigel spent most of the day helping Alice and Charlie with their homework, before he'd calmed down a panicked Evie who'd accidentally grown ivy vines up the wall of her bedroom.

Following his shift at the orphanage, he showed up at the animal shelter where he got the lovely task of babysitting a group of rather violent kittens that took great pleasure in tearing his sleeves apart (Ashton took great efforts to hide his shaking shoulders, and Rigel blushed, his lip quirking up uncertainly. He wasn't used to cute boys laughing with him).

Finally, he headed to the teen help-line centre and had a rather quiet but long evening answering trivial calls and resolving basic conflicts.

He made his way back to the Deucalion at around ten p.m. with a number of pretty feathers and an (admitted terrible) crayon drawing of himself and the trio of kids he'd babysat. No, he didn't cry. And so what if it found itself hanging up on the inside of his cupboard door? It's not like anybody else needed to know.

Fen shot him a smirk the next day and Rigel was reminded that she did housekeeping. He made a mental note to get her some tuna.

...

A week later the twins walked up the long driveway to Proudfoot House for the second time, once again fighting the urge to turn and run. The bare, black-trunked trees lining the drive seemed even more menacing this time. Against the pale sky their spindly branches were like spiders looming above her, ready to pounce. Rigel wondered if the elders had done that intentionally, or if that was just his nerves. He wouldn't put it past them.

"Nervous?" asked Jupiter.

Morrigan's only answer was a raised eyebrow. Rigel's expression had returned to its usual resting impassiveness.

"Right. Course you are. You should be nervous. It's a nervous sort of day."

"Thank you," Rigel snorted," I feel much more confident."

"Really?"

"No." Rigel drawled.

Jupiter laughed, looking up at patches of grey sky through the tree branches. "I meant it in a good way. Your lives are about to change, little crow's."

"Morrigan." "Rigel."

"In a couple of hours you'll be one step closer to getting your little gold pins. And when that happens, the world will open up to you."

Rigel couldn't decide if Jupiter's optimism was endearing or nauseating—then again: he hadn't figure out if Jupiter was optimistic or just a madman, so...

"The written part's the hardest," said Jupiter. "Three unseen questions, total silence, nothing but a pencil, paper, and a desk. Just take your time, and answer honestly."

Rigel blinked, was this some kind of personality test? Were they selecting those with the most admirable traits? Well, he was going to fail.

"You mean correctly?" Morrigan asked, confused. Jupiter didn't seem to hear her.

"Then there's the oral component, but it's nothing to worry about—just a little quiz. More of a conversation, really. Again, take your time. Don't be afraid to make them wait. The Elders want to see what you're like. Just be your charming self and you'll be fine."

"What charming self?" Rigel muttered drolly. Morrigan whacked him on the chest.

"Jerk."

Jupiter snickered, and the group came to a stop at the steps of Proudfoot House.  

"Good luck, Mog, Ryj," Jupiter said, punching Morrigan lightly in the arm. The twins joined the stream of candidates climbing the marble steps. "Go forth and conquer."

Morrigan turned to Rigel," At least we still have each other?" She offered weakly. 

"Oh, hell no," Rigel corrected absently, glancing around," You're on your own."

"Gee, thanks."

"Anytime." He walked ahead.

...

The examination hall was the biggest room Rigel had ever been in—and that was saying something because he'd spent over two years eating every meal in a cafeteria, filled with row after row of rectangular desks and straight-backed wooden chairs. Hundreds of candidates filed in, one after another, and sat silently as Wundrous Society officials handed out booklets and pencils. Beside him Morrigan craned her neck trying to spot Hawthorne, but no luck—the desks were allocated alphabetically, and she supposed he was all the way back in the S section, so she turned to Rigel, but he ignored her even as she whispered for his attention—fully monopolising the time to examine his booklet. She gave up and read the front of her booklet.

He'd read about these. Apparently if you lied the booklet was enchanted to damage itself, different ways depending on the enchantment. 

WUNDROUS SOCIETY ENTRY EXAMINATION

BOOK TRIAL

SPRING OF ONE, THIRD AGE OF THE ARISTOCRATS

CANDIDATE:  ʀɪɢᴇʟ ᴄʏɢɴᴜꜱ ᴄʀᴏᴡ (ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴏɴ.)

PATRON:  ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴜꜱ ɴᴏʀᴛʜ (ʀᴇᴀᴅ; ᴀɴ ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴅɪᴏᴛ)

When every child had the exam paper, a Society official at the front of the hall sounded a glass chime. With a chorus of rustling, they opened their booklets. Rigel turned to the first page.

It was blank. As was the second page, and the third. His frown deepened as he flipped through the rest of the booklet and found that there were no questions anywhere. How was he supposed to answer non-existent questions? That was like asking someone to breathe oxygen in space without an oxygen tank.

Rigel flipped back to the first page and blinked a words began to appear, as though an invisible person was typing them.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺?

ᴏʜ. ᴏᴋᴀʏ. ᴡᴏᴡ. ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ. ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴏɪɴ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ.

Before he'd finished writing it, the sentence was scratched out by some unseen pen. He gasped.

𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦, said the book 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺?

ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ᴘɪɴ, He wrote dryly.

The words scratched themselves out again. A corner of the page began to blacken and curl in on itself.

𝘕𝘰𝘱𝘦, Said the book, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.

A tiny tendril of smoke coiled up from the smouldering edges of the page. Rigel tried stamping it out with his hand, but it wouldn't stop

ᴏʜ, ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ'ꜱ ꜱᴀᴋᴇ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴅᴜᴍᴘ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴏᴏᴋ—ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ.

𝘎𝘰 𝘰𝘯.

ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀɴᴛ: ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀꜱᴋ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇɴɪᴀʟ. ɪ'ᴅ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇᴀᴛ, ᴡᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀɴʏ ɢᴜɪʟᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ᴇʀᴀꜱᴇᴅ.

𝘚𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦...

ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴍʏ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀ ꜰᴀɪʟᴜʀᴇ, ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡᴜɴᴅʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴇᴛʏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ—ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ɪꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ, ꜱᴏᴇᴍʜᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɪɴ ᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴇᴍʙʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴋɪɴᴅᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ʏᴇᴛ. ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ? ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛꜱ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀꜱ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ɪꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ  ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴛᴇᴘ-ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ. ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳?

Rigel didn't even have to think about that one. Total no-brainer. He and Morrigan had discussed this question in great length.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜰʀᴏɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ɪ'ʟʟ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜᴀᴅ ᴋɪᴅꜱ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇꜱ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ.

The words scratched themselves out. Violently. The paper began to char. Rigel sighed, he should've expected this. But, he didn't really think he'd pass if he told them his anglerfish fear—or his praying mantis one.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʙᴇᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇxᴘʟᴏᴅᴇ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ꜱᴇx—ʟɪᴋᴇ, ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ, ɢᴇɴɪᴛᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴛᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ—ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴇᴛʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴀʟʟ ɪᴛ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ.

The paper set itself aflame.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ꜱᴘɪᴅᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ʙʏ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ ᴇᴀᴛ ᴜꜱ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. ʟɪᴋᴇ, ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀᴘ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ-ᴄᴏᴜɴᴄɪʟ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴘɪʟᴇ—

The paper began to curl.

—ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ!

The paper froze and Rigel paused as he began to have some... less than ideal realizations.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴡꜰᴜʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏʀʀᴇɴᴅᴏᴜꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ɪ'ʟʟ ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴍɪɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴏʀʀɪʙʟᴇ, ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱɴᴀᴘ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ... ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ʜᴏʟʟᴏᴡ.

Nearby, a girl shrieked as her own booklet conflagrated. She was sent out of the examination hall with singed eyebrows.

𝘎𝘰 𝘰𝘯.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜰᴇᴇɪɴɢ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰᴀᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠɪɴɢ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴏʀᴇxɪᴄ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜᴘɪᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴ ᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ... ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇ᥊ɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸, asked the book, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

Rigel was suddenly acutely aware of the little fires all around him, of everyone being asked to leave the hall. Silently, he glanced around as he pondered—he turned to his sister on his right and the pair locked eyes, something silent and broken and heavy passing between them.

 Silently, Rigel peeled the glove off his left hand, offering his scarred pale, shaking hand to his sister. Morrigan stared silently for a moment, then, ever so hesitantly she stuck her own hand and interlaced their fingers. A mix of emotions flooded the boy's senses, love, hesitance, trust, sorrow, joy,  nostalgia... it was all too much. He needed it to stop, he couldn't breathe, his throat was constricting around nothing and—and—

Morrigan smiled at him. He pulled away.

ɪ'ʟʟ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ—ɪ'ʟʟ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ.

In an instant, all three questions and answers disappeared from the pages and were replaced with a single word in large green letters.

𝘗𝘈𝘚𝘚.

...  

Rigel watched with a detached sense of amusement as his sister paced back and forth in an antechamber of Proudfoot House. Around a third of the candidates had failed the written examination. The rest were put into smaller groups and shepherded into rooms to await the next part of the Book Trial.

In Rigel's group,  there was Morrigan pacing back and forth anxiously, a boy hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, an energetic pair of twins firing questions at each other and high-fiving aggressively, and a girl slumped on a chair with her arms folded.

He vaguely recognized her; it was the friend of Noelle's from the Wundrous Welcome, the one who couldn't stop laughing at how hilarious Noelle wasn't. Her black hair was twisted into a thick braided knot at the back of her head. She watched the twins through hooded brown eyes.

"What are the three major exports of Upper Zeeland?" shouted one of the twins.

"Jade, dragon scales, and wool!" shouted the other. They high-fived. Noelle's friend scowled.

"Do shut up, why don't you," Rigel drawled, as he was yet again distracted from mentally reading a book about how the economic environment in the free state differs from that of the Republic," Some of us are trying to concentrate on things that'll  actually help improve our chances rather than shouting basic knowledge."

The girl in the corner snorted and Rigel nodded at her. A look of surprise crossed her face. Morrigan paused her pacing to shoot Rigel a chiding glare, Rigel raised a brow. 

A woman with a clipboard entered the room, her heels click-clacking on the wooden floor as she bustled over to the group of children. "Fitzwilliam? Francis John Fitzwilliam?" she read from her list. The boy in the corner looked up at her and swallowed. Sweat beaded on his brow. He rose unsteadily to his feet and followed her out of the room, tapping his fingers on his thighs and staring at the ground.

"Who was the first Nevermoorian to walk on the moon?" shouted one of the twins. Rigel sneered and an incredulous look flashed across the braided girls face.

He shoot her an "Are they serious?" look, once more, she looked surprised—but she returned his look with a judgemental side-eye. Rigel smirked, perhaps he would make a friend yet. Jupiter would be pleased at least. He had a feeling Morrigan wouldn't approve.

"Lieutenant-General Elizabeth Von Keeling!" shouted the other. They high-fived. The girl with the braid breathed fiercely through her nose and widened her eyes before rolling them. Rigel strolled over and leaned casually against the wall beside her.

Meanwhile Morrigan closed her eyes and began naming the twenty-seven boroughs of Nevermoor. "Old Town," she whispered to herself, "Wick, Bloxam, Betelgeuse, Macquarie..."

Rigel was rather impressed at the level of preparation she had achieved in such a short amount of time. And the dedication she'd shown. She'd read every history and geography book she could get her hands on, and she'd made Kedgeree and Rigel quiz her over and over the night before, she's won most of Kedgeree's but Rigel had taken great satisfaction in sneaking in some trick answers and tripping her up—considering she didn't have Rigel's bookish tendencies—but she was doing rather well he supposed. She might not know much about the exports of Upper Zeeland, or the current ecologically crisis they were facing, but he felt sure she knew enough now about Nevermoor and the Free State to get through to the next trial.

"Delphia," continued Morrigan, looking up at the ceiling. "Groves and Alden, Deering, Highwall..."

"They're not going to ask about the boroughs," said Deveraux's friend. Morrigan turned to her in surprise  and Rigel glanced at her in intrigue—it was lower, huskier than he'd expected. At the Wundrous Welcome she'd sounded like a giddy hyena. "Every idiot knows what the boroughs are called. We learned that in nursery school, for goodness' sake."

Morrigan ignored her. "Pocock, Farnham and Barnes, Rhodes Village, Tenterfield..."

"Are you deaf or stupid?" asked the girl.

"Where do the time zones of the Unnamed Realm intersect?" shouted one of the twins.

"Center of Zeev Forest, Fifth Pocket of the Free State!" shouted the other. They high-fived.

Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut and resumed pacing. "Blackstock... um... Bellamy..."

She was stopped by a soft wall of person. She opened her eyes in surprise and found the woman with the clipboard looking down at her. "Crow?"

The twins looked up. The woman blushed," Morrigan Odelle."

Morrigan nodded gravely, straightened her dress and shoulders, and followed the woman to the interview hall. Rigel watched in mild disinterest at the other twins as the girl spoke.

"You're going to fail," she said to them in her husky voice. "You're completely unprepared. You're not going to remember a single thing. You'll never get into the Society. You might as well just go home now."

Rigel blinked, mind plucking unnecessary information.

Mesmerism and Beguiling are two hypnosis based knacks most consider the same—though there are two key difference that defines them. While Mesmerism often focuses on controlling the command centre of the mind, and controls the general actions of the body and its psychological state—giving them the ability to essentially place their 'victims' in a trance like state as they move to obey as though operating on autopilot, whereas beguilers control the emotional centre, particularly the thought process and desires of individuals—leading to their subjects taking a course of actions of their own volition. 

This inspires the second key difference that defines their abilities—as beguiler's manipulate the emotional centre, they are more often charismatic and confident, inspiring a subconscious level of comfort and popularity in the mind, meanwhile Mesmer's being able to take total control of the mind inspires a state of subconscious defence, meaning that individual often forget and disregard their presence unless directly approached. This is of course, like all habits, is something that can be broken with extensive training and commitment—but does make it more difficult to recognize signs of Mesmerism (see Page 312) and often leads to individuals not realising they were mesmerized in the first place.

Was she a Mesmer? Is that why she's been so surprised by Rigel's acknowledgement? Interesting.

The girl titled her head at the twins," You are... woefully unprepared. You're going to fail," She took a step forward, voice coated in honey," You may as well save yourself the trouble and leave now, go cry to your patron about how you can't do it and how you just don't know enough. Leave."

The twins burst into tears, running out of a door on the opposite side of the room and the girl turned to Rigel.

"Don't even think about it, Little Mesmer." He drawled—amusement filling him when she blinked and stumbled back in shock," Or I'll have you disqualified from these trials before you can say 'please no'."

"You—how do you know I'm a Mesmer?"

Rigel raised a brow, she huffed and shot him a glare.

A moment of comfortable silence passed between them, broken only when the woman came back out and glanced down at her clipboard," Crow, Rigel Cygnus?"

Rigel straightened, pulling on his best poker face and straightening his shoulders and suit jacket as he followed her to a large set of doors. She nudged him inside, he straightened his posture.

...  

The High Council of Elders sat at a table in the centre of an empty hall, murmuring among themselves and shuffling through papers as Rigel approached. as Rigel approached. As Morrigan approached they murmured among themselves, taking sips of water and shuffling through papers.

"Mister Crow," said the spindly, wispy-haired Elder Quinn, adjusting her spectacles. "Who is the leader of the Free State?"

Rigel cleared his throat," The free state is, in its essence, free. This means that despite being under the leadership of Prime Minister Gideon Stead, the only true leaders of Nevermoor are the three key elements which drive each of its citizens: innovation, industry, and a thirst for knowledge."

Elder Quinn looked impressed, she leaned forwards as though actually interested now rather than reading off a script," Correct."

Rigel gave a curt nod, expression still impassive and shaking hands clasped behind his back. 

"Who is Gideon Steed?" asked the bullwun, Elder Alioth Saga.

"Prime Minister Gideon Steed is a recently democratically elected steward of the free state, a man who has been appointed by the the citizens of Nevermoor to protect the values, standards, and liberties they hold dear. He is a leading representative of the Republican Party and is known for his ruthless ambition and power-over-people, many-outweigh-the-few mindset."

"Correct," boomed Elder Saga, giving a grave nod.

"How does one tell a true incendiary botanical from a tree that has merely been set on fire?" asked Elder Helix Wong. Rigel blinked—why were all of these questions so insultingly easy? 

"Any tree on fire is most certainly not an incendiary botanical and should be extinguished immediately, as those trees are extinct, sir," Rigel drawled," However, if there was a hypothetical scenario in which they were not all long deceased, you could differentiate between the species by looking at which trees produce smoke, as incendiary botanical do not produce smoke when set ablaze due to the fact they are a naturally occurring representation of the wretched art of inferno."

"Correct," said Elder Wong, all three elder's looking impressed.

"How old is the great city of Nevermoor?" asked Elder Quinn.

"The city of Nevermoor is said to be 'as ancient as the stars, as new as powdered snow, and as mighty as thunder', however The Free State was founded one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-one years ago, during the Second Avian Age."

"Correct," She nodded," And when did the Courage Square Massacre occur?"

"The Courage Square Massacre took place during Eventide night, during the Winter of Nine, Age of the East Winds—it is known to have occurred on a dark day, arguably one of the darkest in Nevermoorian history. A day when darkness triumphed light, and sorrow took root forever in history. A day so dark, that Nevermoor herself had to intervene and banish evil from her gates. A day never to be repeated, to be honoured and commemorated as a grievous page of our history."

The ghost of a smile danced across Elder Quinn's face.

The hunched little Elder looked as though she might be about to ask a follow-up question, and Rigel straightened fully prepared to offer an answer. Elder Quinn looked to her colleagues, who nodded curtly and returned to their papers, sparing Rigel a single impressed glance.

"Thank you, Mister Crow. You may go."

...

Rigel emerged, with a few quick blinks as sunlight made a home on his face. Morrigan glanced up as he made his way out and took her place on his right. He walked in a thoughtful daze down the steps of Proudfoot House to where Jupiter and Morrigan stood waiting, deep in conversation.

"How was it?" Jupiter grinned.

"I... believe I performed acceptably." Rigel offered carefully, straightening himself and banishing all emotion from his face. He saw no reason to spare precious energy on such needless displays. He showed Jupiter the sealed envelope, pleased to note he was only mildly uncomfortable at the attention the man was offering his shaking hands. 

He still hadn't explained to any one at Deucalion the reason behind his gloves or quivering hands and they had the good sense not to ask, thought it had clearly been close a few times. More often than not Jupiter, Fenestra or Dame Chanda intervened if Frank or some guest overstepped too much. 

"Weird." Morrigan said simply, raising her own envelope.

"Obviously." He shrugged, as if she should have realized that weirdness was standard procedure for the Wundrous Society. "Your mate with the toads came out earlier, by the way. Said to tell you he got through to the next trial, and that you'd better get through too, or else. Then he and Nan Dawson had to rush off to a dragon rider training session, and I had to pretend not to be completely jealous of an eleven-year-old boy who gets to ride dragons. So, did you, er... did you get through?" he asked casually.

Morrigan held up the letter she'd been given, still not quite believing it herself.

"Congratulations, candidate,'" Jupiter read aloud. "You have proven your sincerity, reasoning, and quick thinking and may proceed to the next round of trials for Unit 919. The Chase Trial will take place at noon on the last Saturday in Summer of One. Details to follow. I told you. Didn't I tell you you'd do it? Well done, Mog. I'm chuffed."

Rigel handed Jupiter his own while Morrigan tried (and failed) to look like she wasn't staring at the pair of twins who had been mesmerised into running away.

"Congratulations Candidate," The man continued, shooting Rigel a grin," You have... received the highest results in The Book Trial, ranking first place in the current Wundrous Society Trials, proving your sincerity, reasoning, and quick thinking. You may proceed to the next round of trials for Unit 919. The Chase Trial will take  at noon on the last Saturday in Summer of One. Details to follow. Brilliant job, Rigel! Dame Chanda's going to be over the moon—Frank'll probably try and throw you a party."

Rigel frowned, bewildered," But I did well? Why would you punish me?"

"What?" Jupiter asked, equally confused.

"If I did well and you're proud of me, why would you let Frank punish me?"

"Not punish, party." Jupiter grinned," He'll probably throw a party."

"That's the same thing." He responded drily.

"Is not!"

"An evening in which I get to be the centre of attention that I typically go out of my way to avoid, deal with loud noises, vibrant decorations and several dozen people, several of whom I am expected to converse and interact with in a large, packed full building, which won't help with my claustrophobia, instead of one where I lock myself in my room and read for hours in silence and peaceful solitude?" Rigel elaborated, utterly puzzled," That sounds like a punishment to me."

"Alright, no parties!" Jupiter raised his hand in an I'm innocent gesture.

Rigel nodded with his usual grim frown," Thank you."

Jupiter gave Rigel a long look," Huh."

Rigel tilted his head," What?"

"Nothing," He grinned as he wrapped an arm around each of the twins shoulders and guided them away from Proudfoot house, beside him Morrigan lifted her head, letting the sunlight above them glide across her face and absently reached out to touch one of the dead fireblossom trees as the trio strode down the drive. She let out a yelp, pulling her fingers back.

"Ow!"

"What?" Jupiter stopped short, turning to the twins. "What's wrong?"

"That tree just burned me!"

 Rigel glanced at her sceptically," The dead tree, that has been extinct for decades just magically burned you when you were walking past?"

Jupiter stared at her a moment, then chuckled. "Very funny, Mog. I told you, fireblossoms are extinct."

Jupiter carried on ahead of them, and Rigel watched uncertainly as Morrigan examined her unblemished fingers, looking genuinely confused. She reached out, cautiously, to touch the tree again, completely disregarding her brother's presence. Nothing happened. Morrigan let out a light, confused huff of laughter.

"It was probably just static electricity," Rigel assured her.

She shook her head, giving a smile and a nod of agreement as she rushed into a jog to catch up with Jupiter. Rigel glanced at the tree, then his sister, before pulling off one of his gloves and slowly, carefully, pressing his trembling palm flat to the tree. He blinked as it zapped him, not a single quick jolt, but more like a current of electricity locking him in place as it ignited an inferno in him... roaring and loud and rushing through his body in an agonising, unrealistic level of power and possibility.

For a moment, that felt like an eternity the world opened up to Rigel as though he was seeing colour and light for the first time. It was... intoxicating.

A wave of pleasure and life and purity and rage and roaring pride not his own rushed through him, faint and barely there but somehow overwhelmingly powerful. He throat closed around nothing and he couldn't breathe as he stood there choking around absolutely nothing, energy rushed out of him, streaming and crashing out of his body in waves as he gasped desperately for breath. He gagged and retched violently around the invisible intrusion, it felt as though something was sucking all the energy out of him, only to refill him with it at the same time.

Whatever shock he might have felt about the foreign emotion was quickly replaced with a very different kind. Because when he looked up at the fireblossom tree in front of him, it was not a large blackened sticks with no leaves and all branches... for a moment, just a moment he could... see it?

Golden light taking the shape of flaming leaves as the tree roared to life, crackling in front of him for what felt like an eternity. He didn't dare blink, holding his eyes open until they teared and leaked as he stared at the tree, intoxicatingly empowering as it roared to life. He didn't know how long he stood there, breathless and frozen as he stared, utterly entranced by the sight before him. 

Just when the boy thought he was going to pass out—when the line between pain and pleasure blurred together until it was all too much, until it was both and neither, some sort of invisible force released him and stumbled back as he clutched his shaking hand.

He glanced up, the glove in his hand slipping from his grasp and floating to the floor.

The tree was dead as ever.

Chapter Text

 "I cannot seem to contort myself back into the shape of a dutiful child—I am coming unravelled. I am coming undone."

...

Rigel's days had been occupied by a consistent routine of research, sleepless nights, panic attacks, anxiety and working until collapse ever since the strange occurrence at The Book Trial.

With their first trial out of the way and the next not until months away, the twins were free to enjoy their summer—Morrigan had expressed a heavy intent to do exactly that; days of splashing in the sun-drenched Jasmine Courtyard pool gave way to balmy nights of ballroom-dancing lessons, barbecue dinners, and long lounging sessions in the Smoking Parlour, and relaxing in vaporous clouds of vanilla smoke ("to soothe the senses and bring happy dreams"). Rigel, however, focused on studying, researching and recording every fact he could find about the Fireblossom trees—which wasn't much at all. All the boy could find was that they'd been created by some one called a Wundersmith, and yet he found himself utterly incapable of figuring it out.

It had grown dangerously obsessive, life was dull and hollow without that... light he had seen. The rush and thrilling thrum of adrenaline and power flowing through his veins, that tingling prickle of blood under his skin so warm and gentle it burned, so overwhelmingly good his body froze. 

At one point he'd asked a local librarian and she had glared him and told him off for attempting to make such a 'cruel joke' of a truly grievous moment in Nevermoorian history. He'd still not been allowed to return. So, he'd settled for keeping an eye on Morrigan from afar, she, after all, the first one of them affected by the Fireblossoms. He'd been pleased to note that they were taking care of his sister, though he had been attentively avoiding her since the book trial, and then the argument that had followed that. Her thought continued to drift of missing their family, a concept that only made Rigel angry, and the twins had bickered about it incessantly—refusing to tell any one the reason for their arguing—until they'd blown up at each other one night and Rigel had stormed off, infuriated that she could reminisce and miss the days he'd spent being beaten and abused by their so-called family.  

They'd both been avoiding each other since, and despite his simmering anger he settled for watching from a far.

If occasionally her thoughts drifted back to Crow Manor—he forced himself to bite his tongue and not rise to the unintentional bait despite how furious it made him—if she remembered how Grandmother was always slightly nicer in the summer, or wondered whether Ivy had yet had her baby—a topic that Rigel pointedly avoided, he wanted nothing to do with their replacement and he knew that if he met the child he would be instantly besotted and he just couldn't, a small part of him whispered that he was a terrible brother for failing to be there to protect them, failing them the same way Morrigan had failed him—the thought was always quickly chased away by an invitation to help Charlie groom the horses, or to taste-test the menu for Frank's next party. 

Sometimes Dame Chanda, who famously had six suitors ("one for each night of the week, except Sundays," she explained nonchalantly), would enlist Morrigan's help to choose her outfit for the evening. Together they would dive through the thousands of beautiful gowns, shoes, and jewels in the soprano's wardrobe (which was nearly as big as the hotel lobby) to find the perfect ensemble for dinner and dancing with the man Jupiter had jokingly dubbed Monsieur Monday, a stroll in the park with 'Sir Wednesday of the Midweek', or a night at the theatre with the Honourable Lord Thursday.

At one point Morrigan had ditched them to hang out with Hawthorne—who Rigel had given up referring to by his last name mentally, though he still did so verbally—and Dame Chanda had roped Rigel into taking her place to help choose an outfit. Rigel took great pleasure, though he failed to show it, in styling her and she had been shocked to see how good he was at makeup, instantly rushing to interrogate him.

He'd shrugged her off with some humbled mumbles and murmured half-truths about how his father was a rather public figure(she'd seemed rather interested in that but had quickly picked up on Rigel's blatant discomfort and hadn't even bothered trying to interrogate him) he was expected to keep up a good appearance—she didn't need to know that appearance was less about looking good and more about hiding whatever bruises his father, tutors, or occasionally grandmother, had left on him the previous night. 

Life at the Deucalion brought fresh curiosities and study topics daily—like the time Kedgeree summoned the Paranormal Services men to remove a pesky ghost that had been walking through walls on the fifth floor. Kedgeree said he didn't mind ghosts, on the whole, as long as they didn't have any annoying habits. But this one kept coming back, he said—they were already on their third visit from Paranormal Services—and while he'd never seen the spectre himself, the stories and rumours had so frightened some guests that he'd had to move them to another floor. Rigel had been ignoring the ghost, refusing to look full at it and tyring his best to hide the falter in his step or the clench of his hand on the door handle when he hear the man's humming.

Morrigan was allowed to watch the exorcism—so was Rigel but he hadn't wanted anything to do with that—but according to the conversation she and Hawthorne had in the kitchen when she recounted it, it wasn't as impressive as she'd imagined. She claimed she'd been hoping to see a real ghost fly out of the building, but there was just a lot of sage-burning and weird dancing, and then the Paranormal Services men handed Kedgeree a bill for four hundred and fifty kred and left. 

Rigel had rolled his eyes, Kedgeree was going to be rather put out. He'd tried that on The Humming Man already, he wasn't an idiot after all, and had only been sorely disappointed to find that it hadn't worked.

A waste of some very good quality sage, it had been.

The most disappointing thing about the summer, however—much more disappointing than the exorcism—was that the twins saw less and less of Jupiter. He was always being called away on business for the League of Explorers or dashing off to endless meetings, dinners, and parties. It was a shame, because Rigel had grown rather fond of the man, though he didn't think The Witness realised. If anything he seemed to think Rigel disliked him.

 Which was ridiculous, Rigel had done nothing to imply anything of the sort. He'd gone out of his way to be on his best behaviour around the man, performing every feat with pride, dignity and professionalism. His shoulder were always straighter, posture always impeccable, words perfectly measured as he pulled Jupiter up on all of the factual inaccuracies he spouted about whatever conversation topic—which were obviously tests to determine Rigel's intellect and ensure he was studying—and went out of his way to keep his emotions carefully from and around the man he'd come to view in an incredibly positive light, ensuring that he did not embarrass his patron with such pathetic displays of affections and emotion and he never spoke of his day to day activities (such as his volunteering) or attempted to coerce interest from the obviously very busy man.

Plus, he went out of his way to ensure he was safe (to be around?) and happy without bugging him.

Hell, he'd found the exact shade of ginger the man's hair was after he'd woken with a scream one morning because he had a grey hair in his beard and slipped the dye into his beard cream and shampoo so that he wouldn't have another melt down about his "old age". He'd even let the man start calling him by that ridiculous nickname he'd come up with (albeit begrudgingly)!

How much more obvious could he be?

Incidentally, he had fostered a lovely connection with Kedgeree, the pair of them both subtly ensuring that Jupiter's recklessness, overdramatic and toxic work ethic didn't kill the man. 

"Bad news, Mog, Ryj." Jupiter slid down the curved marble banister one Thursday afternoon and landed in the foyer, where Morrigan and Martha were folding napkins into swans as Rigel leaned against the wall—fully aware he did not have the fine motor skills required to help with this task. The boy rolled his eyes and quietly nudged a potted plant with his foot so Jupiter didn't fall straight into the stupid cactus. Again. 

Then, he stuck out his foot just so and the landing Jupiter had over shot was mysteriously righted without him even realising. Truly, it was a wonder the idiot hadn't snapped his neck at this point.

Martha's swans looked perfect, like they could fly off in formation at any moment. Morrigan's looked like drunk, angry pigeons. It only further encouraged Rigel's determination not to partake, if they actually had working hands and looked like that, he didn't want to know what his would look like. "Can't take you and Hawthorne to the bazaar tomorrow night. Something's come up."

"Again?" Morrigan asked, looking disappointed.

"Tragic." Rigel said dryly, trying his best not to look like he was dancing with joy, he had been so looking forward to spending his night after a long shift at the orphanage and then the youth centre, at a place filled with loud music, hundred of people, and screaming children.

Jupiter ran a hand through his bright copper hair, hastily tucked his shirt into his trousers, and snapped his suspenders in place. Rigel cringed, the man truly had a terrible sense of fashion. Truly, who still wore suspenders—much less green and white striped one's with a plum purple shirt decorated with fuchsia pink polka-dots? "'Fraid so, old girl. The Nevermoor Transportation Authority has sent—"

"Again?" Morrigan repeated. The NTA had been sending messengers to fetch Jupiter from the Deucalion all summer long. 

They usually only needed his help with "echoes on the Gossamer Line"—Rigel had been rather displeased to note Jupiter was the only witness they had, he was overworked enough and the boy was tempted to just solve it for the man so he'd finally take a nap—but three weeks ago there'd been another derailment, and this time two people had been killed. It was front-page news for a week, and the Deucalion had gone wild with rumours about who was responsible and what it might mean. Some of the staff got into such a state of panic that Jupiter had to ban anyone from uttering the word Wundersmith.

Rigel had found that greatly inconveniencing to his research. 

"I could take the twins," offered Martha, who Rigel tended to avoid because of how much she reminded him of Mary. "Tomorrow's my night off, and Charlie's taking me—I mean, Mr. McAlister and I—well, he's going to the bazaar and he asked—I thought I might pop along too." A crimson blush spread across Martha's face. It was common knowledge at the Deucalion that she and Charlie McAlister, the hotel chauffeur, fancied each other. They were the only ones who still thought it was a secret.

It was sickeningly endearing.

"That's all right, Martha. You and Charlie will have enough on your minds." Jupiter smirked. "We'll go soon, you two—promise."

Morrigan struggled to hide her disappointment, and Rigel did his best to disguise his relief, both for Morrigan and Jupiter's sake. His eyes narrowed on Jupiter though, this was the third time the man had postponed and Morrigan was steadily getting more disappointed. He didn't like seeing his sister so put out—even angry as he was at her, it was unnatural. Out of the two of them, Morrigan was the reckless, naïve one, always jumping headfirst from one thing to the next while Rigel over-analysed risks and ensured her landing was padded with cushion long before she took the leap.

 The Nevermoor Bazaar was a famous market festival that ran every Friday night, all summer long. People came from all over the Seven Pockets just to see it, and dozens of them stayed at the Hotel Deucalion. Every Friday at dusk, excited guests ventured out in carriages and on trains, and every Saturday morning they'd compare thrilling stories and photographs and purchases over brunch while Rigel locked himself in his room over the course of two-to-three day period in an effort to avoid the disgustingly large influx of people. Morrigan would babble eagerly to him about the countless stories she'd heard to Hawthorne, still ignoring her brother, and Rigel had left a brochure on Jupiter's desk in the hopes the man would see it and think he'd picked it up on the way home from one of his late-night adventures, before having the brilliant idea to escort Morrigan there. 

A silent apology to Morrigan that she wouldn't realise he'd made, she'd shove aside her pride and recount her exciting evening at the Bazaar to him and he'd respond and they'd ignore the fact the argument had ever happened—even though it had lasted several weeks of them giving each other the silent treatment. Perfectly planned.

And it had worked. Except he wanted to take both twins, something about not leaving Rigel alone (Rigel suspected he was hoping it would be a bonding activity to get them to stop ignoring each other)—Rigel didn't want to ruin the opportunity for Morrigan by asking for anything, much less permission to stay behind, so he'd sucked it up and absently nodded along as Jupiter and Morrigan made plans, ignoring the indiscernible looks Jupiter had kept shooting him when he thought Rigel couldn't see him. Besides, he had a feeling even if he'd declined it wouldn't be accepted.

 Yet, every time they were planning to go, something came up and Jupiter postponed with an unfulfilled promise of Next Time. But the summer was half finished and Morrigan still hadn't gone. "Next week?" she asked hopefully.

"Next week. Definitely." He grabbed his long blue coat and threw open the front door, then paused to look back. "Wait—not next week. I'm scheduled on a gateway to Phlox II. Terrible realm. All the bloodsucking insect swarms of Phlox I, but none of the charm." He scratched his gingery beard and gave a helpless chuckle. "We'll sort something out. Hey, Jack will be home from orchestra camp next weekend. He'll be here for the rest of the summer. So we can go together, all four of us. Five of us—Hawthorne too."

Morrigan looked startled by the mention of Jupiter's mysterious nephew, Rigel had a feeling she'd almost forgotten that Jupiter's nephew lived at the Deucalion when he wasn't at boarding school. Martha said he sometimes came home on weekends, but so far there'd been no sign of him. At first the boy had been intrigued at the prospect of an older, and perhaps less optimistic, presence, but now that he'd realised the boy was likely avoiding meeting them because he was jealous, his interest was faded and he was left rather unimpressed.

Jupiter stepped back inside to grab his umbrella and paused to look at them strangely. "Have you been having bad dreams?"

"What? No," Morrigan said hurriedly, glancing at Martha. The maid suddenly got very busy counting her swans and pretending not to hear. 

Rigel raised an unimpressed eyebrow and narrowed his eyes as he grumbled," Don't use your knack on me."

"Even if I was doing it intentionally I can't exactly see much with you Rigel, you're like a closed book—"Unsurprising." Morrigan muttered—"I could only tell because it looks different in a way that while hard to read, is very similar to Morrigan's," Jupiter said absently, eyes still glued to Morrigan, he waved his hand around her head as if brushing away invisible flies. "Yes, you have. They're hanging around you. What have you been dreaming about?"

"Nothing," she lied.

"It's the Show Trial, isn't it? I told you not to worry about that."

"I'm not worried about it." 

Rigel's disbelieving scoff was ignored by the both of them—he'd given up on using the smoking parlour to read because of how many times she and Hawthorne hung out there while she nervously paced and anxiously rambled. He swore he was starting to feel the emotions radiating off her without touching her. 

He hoped that was just his mind playing tricks on him—he'd been trying to avoid researching his knack for as long as possible. He really despised it.

"All right." Jupiter nodded slowly, then leaned over her chair and whispered—rather loudly, "I'm really sorry about the bazaar, Mog, Ryj."

"Morrigan," she corrected, reaching up to fix his collar, which had flipped in on itself. Rigel's lip quirked as he pulled his polaroid out of his back pocket and took a quick picture. Martha shot him a knowing look and he quickly schooled his expression, glancing away with an embarrassed flush. "Never mind. Hawthorne and I can do something else."

Jupiter nodded once, aimed a playful punch at Morrigan's arm, and was gone.

...

Rigel didn't get any sleep that night, he stayed in his room, tossing and turning in his bed, memory after memory flashing through his head.

(His father loomed above him, face curled in an all too familiar sneer, the same one Rigel saw when he looked himself in the mirror and glimpsed a hint of his father, or some semblance of softness, of that young child, that past version of himself peaking through. The one who had let him get hurt time and time again, whose mannerisms he couldn't quite kick.

Who would always be there, wretched in its innocence. Grotesque in its content to suffering

"You are just like my father!" The man sneered, dragging the boy into the back yard by his hair," Just as weak and embarrassing."

Rigel returned his loathing," I'd probably kill myself to get away from you too," He spat contemptuously.

The man reared back, releasing his grasp on Rigel. Just as quickly as he stumbled away, he raised his hand and struck the boy.

Neither would look back on that moment with ever any pride or fondness, simply a resentment for just how similar they were. How apathetic they were in their rush to cross lines. How horrified they both were of their rage.)

Memory after memory after memory flashed to the front of Rigel's mind.

("Please," He begged sobbing," Dad, please."

The man stared at him with a detached coldness," This? I pay good money for your tutors and you skip your lessons for this?"

The crow, only a hatchling, was tweeting desperately in his father's grasp. He scoffed as his son begged and pleaded, desperation falling to deaf ears.

"Dad..."

A snap rang through the room, and the silence was broken only be sobs. Corvus threw the dead bird at his son," Clean it up."

Rigel clutched the baby in his hands, cupping it desperately," Please wake up. Please wake up! Why won't you wake up? You have to wake up."

His sobs only fed the flames of hatred steadily growing in his heart.

His grandmother stared at him blankly as he stood in front of her bedroom door, tears streaming down his face as he cupped the dead bird in his hands.)

Rigel squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove away the memory's burned into his brain.

("Pack your things." Hs father declared form the doorway. Rigel looked up at his father numbly, the hollow emptiness echoing inside him," We're going on a trip. Nothing with laces."

The boy blinked, he nodded once.

He stared desperately up at the man from the wooden chair, tucked in a simple bland office as he let out a whisper," Please stay."

His father scoffed.

Twenty minutes later he stared out of a barred window as his father's carriage drove away, he stayed there until he could no longer see it. The walls were white, and the only furniture was a bed.)

Rigel threw off his covers and jolted up from his bed, he ran to the bathroom and promptly threw up. The boy stayed seated a few moments, the tile was cold against his legs, a welcome contrast to the stuffy summer heat. Hatred burned in him as he recalled the child who had let him get hurt. Who had been too weak to protect himself. He was never going to forgive that. 

A few tears slipped from his eyes, and a humming tune echoed through the room. Rigel curled up, clutching his hands to his ears and he sobbed.

"Please just leave me alone." He begged.

The humming stopped. The boy kept sobbing.

...

It was six a.m. when he finally exited his room, he'd hauled himself to his feet and stared out the window for hours, watching the sun slowly peak over the horizon and the last of the stars  flee the sky as he pondered futilely. Deep down he knew there were only two ways he would ever recover from this: either he forgave his father or he forgot him. Either way, a part of him was going to die with whatever decision he'd make.

Morrigan joined him on the walk downstairs, pointedly ignoring him, he tried not to let the hurt that showed. or the fear when he could feel himself suffocating in her stubborn mixture of anger and sadness.

(What was wrong with him? Why was this happening?)

By the time they'd made it to the dining room, he'd straightened himself up and pulled on a mask of apathy, fully intent to function through whatever pain the day brought.

There was a boy at the breakfast table. Sitting in Morrigan's chair. Eating her toast. Rigel bit back a groan, he had a feeling that he knew exactly who this was, and he could predict how this interaction was going to go. Agitation, jealousy and resentment not his own prickled his skin and he couldn't help the frustrated huff that escaped him—he could feel himself suffocating in the boys emotions, feel his own temperament rise and patience thin with each moment his skin itches of emotion.

Clearly he had been right about his assumptions. 

He was taller and older—perhaps twelve or thirteen—and though his face was mostly hidden behind a copy of the Sentinel, the top of his thick black hair was visible over the masthead. Flipping the pages of his newspaper and sipping blood orange juice, he leaned back in his chair as if he owned the place.

Morrigan cleared her throat quietly as Rigel took his seat, head pounding and a sneaking suspicion it was only going to get worse. The boy didn't look up from his newspaper. She waited a moment and then coughed loudly.

"Go away if you're ill," he commanded. Another page flicked over. A slender brown hand emerged, took a piece of toast, and disappeared again behind the newspaper. Rigel stared, unimpressed.

"I'd like my newspaper." He drawled, a contemptuous sneer crossing his face as anger roared too easily underneath him," I pay for that subscription."

"I'm not," Morrigan said, taken aback at his rudeness. "Guests aren't allowed down here. Are you lost?"

He ignored both her question and Rigel's demand. "If you don't have anything contagious, you can stay. But don't talk while I'm reading."

"I know I can stay." She stood up straight, trying to make herself seem taller. "I live here. You're sitting in my chair."

"You're reading my newspaper." Rigel added, tonelessly. He wasn't irritated the way Morrigan was, he couldn't care less about the petulant boy, he just wanted his morning paper. It was his. The boy had no right to what belonged to him. Besides, the boy wasn't actually reading it, he was just trying to make himself appear more mature. It was pathetic.

At this, the boy finally—slowly—lowered his newspaper to reveal a long, dark face and a look of extreme displeasure. One eyebrow arched smoothly and his mouth curled into a scowl as he looked the twins up and down.

Being accustomed to this reaction when meeting new people, neither twin was particularly surprised by his disdain, Morrigan did seem rather taken aback by the black leather patch covering his left eye though. She had finally recognized him, it seemed.

So this was Jack.

He folded the paper and placed it in his lap. "Your chair? You've lived here all of five minutes and you've claimed the furniture? I've lived here five years. This happens to be where I eat my breakfast."

"Stars above," Rigel huffed, leaning forward and snatching his newspaper from the boys grasp. He scowled as he straightened it out and flipped it to the first page, eyes narrowing as he realised the boy had torn it slightly. The boy shot him a glare, he ignored him, rolling his eyes as he read through the daily news, only half-listening to their  rather stupid debate. 

"You're Jupiter's nephew."

"You're his candidates."

"He told you about us?"

"Obviously." He reached out for the newspaper in Rigel's hands, but the boy continued reading, moving it slightly to the left so it was out of his reach," I was reading that!"

"I paid for it." Rigel drawled, slathering some butter on his toast as his eyes trailed along the page," Go buy a copy from one of the stands in the lobby. They're only half-a-kred." 

The boy huffed, crossing his arms and glaring at Rigel. He ignored him as he took a bite of his toast and flipped the page. It was all rather generic, the weather, the winning lottery announcements, some basic advertisements, yet another article on the wundergound derailment that had killed two people, the horoscopes, etc.

"I thought you weren't coming home until next weekend." Morrigan said.

"You were misinformed."

"Jupiter's away."

"I'm aware of that."

"How come you're early?"

He sighed heavily. "Uncle Jove wouldn't tell me what your knack's are. I can only guess you have the gift of annoying people and being rude and demanding."

Morrigan sat across from him. "You go to that Graypants School for Clever Boys, don't you?"

Rigel choked on his water. He and Morrigan were both well aware that was not the name.

"Graysmark School for Bright Young Men," he snapped.

Morrigan smirked. She knew the real name. "What's it like?"

"Just dandy."

"How come you're not in the Wundrous Society, like Jupiter? Did you try out?"

"No." Jack shoved a piece of toast in his mouth, and snatched his half-full teacup from the table before stomping out of the dining room and up the stairs.

Morrigan looked appeased with his absence. She slid into her chair and helped herself to a bit of toast, a heavy, tense silence settled over them as they both dutifully ignored each other. Out of the corner of his eye Rigel noticed Martha about to enter the room, only to catch sight of them and immediately turn back the way she came without a word. Clearly he wasn't the only one uncomfortable with the awkward silences and one sided glares that had settled over every interaction between Morrigan and himself.

"I'm going to wake up earlier tomorrow and get her before Jack does." Morrigan muttered under her breath finally.

Rigel rolled his eyes, resolving to just start taking his breakfast at that chair. If only to prevent some sort of stupid war over a chair between the childish fools. He'd like to see them get up at 3-5 a.m. every morning and sit there for hours reading. Clearly neither had the patience for that.

...

"Someone probably gouged it out with a hot fire poker," said Hawthorne that evening as he and Morrigan dragged out the board game chest in the Smoking Parlour (rose smoke tonight, hazy and pink: "to encourage sweetness of temper" Rigel had a feeling the Deucalion was trying to tell them all something, he wisely did not voice this.). "Or stabbed it with a letter opener. Or put flesh-eating insects under his eyelid and they ate it all up. Something like that."

"Ugh." Morrigan shuddered. "Who would do that?"

"Anybody who's met him," The boy muttered as he bookmarked his book and rose from his chair, striding out with a surprising amount of dignity for someone running away from an eleven-year-old-girl.

"Someone with a reason not to like him," said Hawthorne.

"So, anyone he's ever met." Morrigan nodded, ignoring the fact Rigel had just said that.

Hawthorne grinned and then, surveying the contents of the chest with a look of dismay, he asked, "We're not actually doing this, are we?"

"We are," said Morrigan, pulling out a colourful box. 

Apparently, she was determined to have a good night so that when he asked she could honestly tell Jupiter it didn't matter in the slightest that he'd cancelled their promised trip to the Nevermoor Bazaar for the fifth week running—at least that's what Rigel had heard telling Hawthorne when he'd gotten back from the bank, where he'd finished filing the paperwork for his investments, having almost doubled the amount in his account over the last few months, and set up a trust fund for Morrigan (which he'd decided not to give her access to given heir recent argument). Rigel had a feeling that a part of her was hoping if she pretended it didn't matter, the universe would either allow it to happen, or allow her to stop caring.

Ge rolled his eyes at his sisters naivety as he walked down the hall.

"Happy Housewives? Oh, come on... I haven't played this since I was ten!" Hawthorne's words echoed in the hall behind him as the boy made his way to his room. He shut the door behind him silently, leaning against it and letting out a sigh of relief. Being around people was hard, he didn't understand how Morrigan and Jupiter interacted with them, much less voluntarily.

He frowned as he put his book The Study of Chronology—Time and its Concepts back on the shelf and grabbed a comb to brush his hair before pulling on a dark jacket and making his way down to the lobby.

"Going out, Mister Rigel?" Kedgeree called.

Rigel nodded," Yes, I've got to pick up a few things."

He made it a few steps past the desk before he stopped and turned," Kedgeree?"

"Yes?"

"When do you clock off?" He asked, moving forward and leaning against the desk.

The man blinked," It's 4.25, so in about five minutes, why?"

Rigel swallowed," Jupiter's nephew—Jack—he's lived here for like five years right?"

"Aye, what's up lad?"

"So, you've probably seen or maybe helped Jupiter get him gifts when he was younger?"

"Uhh—yes?"

"Then you know how to shop for kids—I need your help. If you're okay with it, I mean. I just... I don't really..." His cheeks turned in embarrassment as he glanced," Know what to buy children. What they like."

"Probably whatever you liked when you were there age, lad." The man answered," Who are you getting gifts for?"

"I spent my childhood reading encyclopaedia's." Rigel answered hollowly. Actually, he'd read encyclopaedia's because he hadn't even known what a toy was when he was three, as he'd never owned one—and thus never had a reason to dream of having one," I've never owned one a toy."

Later in life, when he was seven and first mustered up the courage to ask his father for a birthday present his father had taken him to see a family be executed by the guillotine the day he turned eight, well, the father. That mother and son (only five) had been hung. Understandably, he'd never asked for a gift or a birthday celebration again.  

Kedgeree blinked," Never?"

Rigel glanced away and gave a jerky nod," I preferred to to spend my time in the family library."

I preferred to hide here so I wouldn't be beaten by my father, and found solace in books and facts in the absence of familial comfort.

"You don't know what children like because you spent your whole childhood... reading?"

"I—" Rigel glanced away, refusing to acknowledge the light pink dust that coated his cheeks," Nevermind. I apologize for the bother."

"I believe I clock off my shift right now, lad!" Kedgeree cut him off, rising from his seat," How about you tell me more about who we're getting gifts for?"

Rigel blinked as he looked up at the man hesitantly," Truly?"

"Of course, Mister Rigel."

"Right..." He blinked, snapping himself out of his surprised daze as he began to explain," There's these kids at the orphanage I volunteer at, and they've been wanting to go the Bazaar but the outing was cancelled because there's some new children arriving—six of them, two sets of triplets—and I thought I could get them each show bags from one of the stalls, but I don't know what themes to get each of them."

Kedgeree blinked," I didn't know you volunteered."

Rigel shrugged," Yes, an orphanage in old town—Madame Carlyle's Home for The Gifted. It caters to orphaned children who have knacks. There's only three living there as of current, but with the new arrivals it'll be nine."

"Wow," Kedgeree nodded," That's very generous. I never took you as the type with a soft spot for children."

Rigel shrugged," I enjoy helping them."

"Hmm," The man spared him a puzzled glance," Tell me about these kids."

Rigel's lip quirked up," Evie is seven, She has an... affinity for plants, which she adores. She's very shy and nervous. Alice is nine. She can make illusions, she's very creative and adventurous. Charlie talks to animals, he has a pet bird too, a dove names Cyrus."

 Kedgeree beamed at the boy," You like these kids."

"Yeah," He murmured," I think I do."

"What about the new ones? Do you know anything about them?"

"Uhh... There's Elliot, Felix and Matteo. They're the younger triplets, and they're seven. Apparently Felix is selectively mute, and he is very good with instruments and controls soundwaves, he and Elliot are very shy. Elliot has social anxiety and can draw on something and make it come to life. They're eight. Matteo is apparently the loudest of the three, he's able to beguile people. Elizabeth, Andromeda and Theodore are nine, I think? Theodore can read people's minds, he's very quiet and likes books a lot. Andromeda and Elizabeth are apparently both usually very loud and confident, but they've been a bit out of it recently. Andromeda controls wind and Elizabeth is hyper-intelligent. From what I know, their parents were the couple that passed in the wundergound derailment a month or so ago, they've been staying with their aunt up until recently."

The conversation settled into a solemn silence and Kedgeree settled a hand on Rigel's shoulder," You're a good lad, and you'll make a fine man one day."

Rigel offered him a short, barely there smile. 

They picked out some stuffed brown bears for the new arrivals, each with a bow tie the favourite colour of the kids and had their names embroidered on the bears by the man at the counter. Charlie got a train themed show bag, Evie got a pastel themed unicorn one, and Alice got a Cheshire Cat, Rigel thanked Kedgeree for the help and the man nodded with a smile as they parted ways.

...

The kids, as it turned out, were brilliant, if rather sullen—suffocatingly sorrowful more like it (Rigel spent the entire interaction with them a brink from tears). Felix had a violin and flute and had lit up when Rigel showed them the music room as Madame Carlyle spoke to the caseworker. Matteo seemed rather taken by Charlie, who Theodore also seemed to make fast friends with after the boy (covered in oil from some train expedition the children had been taken to earlier) offered him a bracelet weaved from grass the way Rigel had shown him.

Andy and Lizzie as it turned out, were both loud and rebellious, with Lizzie showing an interest in chess—apparently she and Theo were in some long standing tournament and the boy seemed to come out of his shell while the two traded barbs, something Rigel felt Lizzie might've done intentionally. She was the eldest, then Theo, Andy, Elliot, Matteo and Felix—while Andy showed an aptitude for parkour and she and Alice made fast friends when she showed Alice her mini-tornado's. Rigel had told them both if they were going to play around they needed to do it outside please, and only with Madame Carlyle's permission. Meanwhile Elliot and Felix had both been quietly besotted by Evie's shy plant facts and the girl was now rambling animatedly to them about different types of Roses.

"So," Lizzie strolled over to him," Are you an orphan too?"

"No," He explained with a smile," I don't live at the orphanage. I live with my patron."

"Patron?"

"He's sponsoring me in the Wundrous Society trials." Rigel explained.

Lizzie beamed," Like the Wundrous Society? Andy and I are dying to join! But until we're old enough to—hopefully—get bid on, we're stuck at Devereaux's School for Stuck-Up Princesses."

"I don't think that's the actual name." He gave her a look.

She scowled," If you met my classmate, you'd agree. They're a bunch of stuck up, silver-society snobs. Our Aunt basically roped our parents into  sending us there because we're Beauregard's, even though our last name is Clementine, and both sets of our grandparents disowned our parents when our mother got pregnant and they eloped."

"Interesting backstory." He said drily.

"Not really," Lizzie shrugged," The Beauregard's are steadily falling into poverty and trying to hide it, and our paternal family is all dead so we're set to inherit when we're older. They were like super rich, it's the only reason our aunt agreed to take us in, but then she found out from the will that our parents made it so our legal guardian wouldn't be able to touch our trust funds and shipped us off to the orphanage, both because she hated us and because she couldn't afford six more mouths to feed."

"Well," Rigel offered," You won't have that problem here. Madame Ziara can seem very stern, but she considers every one here her own."

Lizzie smiled, staring at the scene in front of them. Matteo was making large exaggerated gestures as he eagerly spoke to Charlie, who was leaning against the wall besides Theo, both paying rapt attention. Evie was smiling softly as she giggled at Elliot's nervous jokes and explained to them about plants, Felix only half paying attention from where he was tuning his violin with a secretive smile. Andy and Alice were both in the corner, Andy totally ignoring Rigel's rule and making mini tornado's spin around the two girls while Alice proudly showed off her illusion butterflies," I think we're going to like it here."

Rigel glanced down, setting a hand on her shoulder," I think we're going to like having you here."

...

Rigel arrived home around nine, after making hot chocolate for every one and tucking them all in. He'd had a nice conversation with Madame Ziara explaining what he'd observed in each of the new arrivals. Matteo was confident and performative because he had his own type of anxiety, only his made him more adaptable to his surrounding and he redirected attention away form Felix and Elliot because how shy.

Theo was just generally rather anxious and was content to live and let live, both his sister's were a different kind of loud. Lizzie was very protective, using her confident mothering  to distract herself and help escape her own head, Theo preferred to observe and avoid to make it easier to keep his mental walls up, Andy was almost over-confident with an odd mixture of youngest and middle child syndrome, she relied on her loudness and jokes because of a paralyzing fear that she needed to perform to be enough. Because in her family, being extraordinary was ordinary. 

Felix looked up to Theo a lot and his anxiety wasn't the only reason he was mute according to Lizzie, he also had trouble controlling his super-sonic screams. Elliot apparently had really bad nightmares and he used art as an escape, but sometimes he couldn't help that his drawings took on the darkness of what he was feeling and thinking and came to life. And Lizzie had a bad case of hyper-intelligence and expectation mixed with eldest-daughter syndrome and a need to protect all of her younger siblings who were broken each in their own ways. Rigel was surprised to find he actually enjoyed the company of the girl—not as a child to mentor and protect, but as an intellectual equal. Though not a friend, she was a pleasant acquaintance and was rather mature for her age.

He'd suggested rooming Elliot and Felix with Andy and Alice, who'd had a similar problem keeping her nightmares from coming to life in the form of illusions. Theodore and Charlie seemed like a smart idea together as Charlie seemed to make the reserved boy more comfortable around people, and Evie and Matteo worked well because Matteo's energetic attitude brought out Evie's enthusiastic approach and helped with her confidence, while Evie calmed his own hyperactive approach and make him feel less of a need to perform. 

The boy stalked up to his room, tiredly pulling his trousers off and jumping into a cold shower before changing into his black silk pyjama's (long pants and a buttoned tee-shirt) and heading downstairs to make some hot chocolate before bed.

He hummed under his breath as he made his way through the mostly empty halls, all the lights were out downstairs—only the upper floors with the parlour's, bars and games rooms had a reason to really be alive at ten o'clock at night, and he was surprised to run into Hawthorne in the lobby, waving his torch around like a bloody lunatic.

Hawthorne blinked," Are you... humming?"

Rigel schooled is expression, cheeks tinting in embarrassment. He ignored the question," What on earth are you doing waving your torch around like an uncultured lunatic?"

"Uhh—" Hawthorne froze," I was... searching! For... for my slippers!"

"You mean the ones on your feet?" Rigel asked, glancing at the scaly green dragon slippers on the boys feet.

He blushed, eyes flickering up in embarrassment. Rigel locked eyes with the boy and had to force himself not to look away, his eyes were pretty. Stormy-grey almonds carved against tan skin, like clouds or smoking quartz. He cleared his throat and Hawthorne went red as he glanced away," Right. Yeah. Th-Thanks."

"Not so fast." Rigel shook his head, snapping himself out of his daze," What were you actually doing?"

"I was looking for my slippers." He answered," I told you."

Rigel scoffed, stepping forward," Don't lie to me, Swift." He tilted his head slightly, hand reaching out—a finger tilting the boys head up. Hawthorne hesitated, blue-grey eyes flicking ip to meet Rigel's own brown orbs. Rigel lowered his voice to a whisper as they locked eyes—time seeming to freeze between them," You're no good at it."

The boy swallowed, staring at him for a few moments and opening his mouth to speak only to pause and swallow. He stepped back, pulling his chin off of Rigel's finger as he glanced away,"I told Morrigan I wouldn't tell you."

Rigel's brows flickered up ever so slightly in a condescending sort of surprise, he tilted his head mockingly as he lowered his eyelids and tilted his chin so he was looking down at the boy—peering at him through long thick lashes as he spoke mockingly," Is that so?"

And slowly, the whole story came spilling from his lips, about the shadow room and the umbrella key, and how one had escaped and Jack's warning and how they were looking for it now. He panted to regain his breath.

Rigel stared at the boy with parted lips for a moment—expression torn between a disbelieving grin and a cruel scoff, finally he released an incredulous huff of laughter, that was more a puff of air than anything," Clearly your looks supersede your intellect."

"What?" Hawthorne asked, confused, ignoring the obvious insult in favour of demanding an explanation. 

"You... stars above.... you do understand that shadows need shadow to survive, yes? Shadows are shadow, darkness is their nature, it is their life. It is the air to their lungs, the flesh to their bone, the power to their body. Without it, they fade. They die. They need to be dark. And their darkness cannot last forever. You are not chasing a shadow, that has long died by now—you are chasing a ghost story."

"Seriously?"

"Korrapati was pulling your leg, it was a joke." He drawled," How did the both of you actually fall for that?"

Hawthorne scoffed," Sorry we don't all spend our time reading because we're friendless losers who think they're better than every one else despite the fact that all they do is spend their free-time judging how smart people around them are and wandering around doing whatever they want without telling any one and acting all secretive about it like some shady weirdo."

Rigel stared as the boy stormed away, hurt clouding his features. He banished the emotion from his face, jaw setting stubbornly as he tilted his chin upwards defiantly.

He didn't owe Swift anything, not kindness or an explanation of what he did with his free time and the boy had no right to judge him. He didn't even know him. 

Chapter Text

"What's left unsaid will always find a way to scream."

...

The Sun's reign of terror was dying, at long last—though it refused to go without a fight. As seasons shifted, 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 asked irritably. "The second trial is only three days away."

Rigel frowned—they still weren't talking, but he couldn't help but agree with her and he had a feeling he was going to snap at Jupiter soon. His... knack was getting worse, he couldn't just feel them now, rather he struggled to differentiate between what belonged to him as opposed to others.

 Their own emotions influenced his actions—and it was getting more and more glaringly obvious, especially since Jupiter and Rigel had been in the middle of a rather pleasant conversation and Rigel had snapped the man's head off irritably as a wave of anger and agitation flashed though him for utterly no reason at all. Yet rather than some sort of chiding or beating—he was still rather confused and suspicious, Jupiter had yet to let a hands on him since he move in. It was strange—all he had received was a concerned look towards his angrily retreating form.

His twin had 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.

Korrapati, mercifully, were nowhere to be seen. Rigel had been stuck dealing with Korrapati's pathetic attempts to get a rise out of him all Summer (okay occasionally he got snippy and agitated and his temper was steadily growing short but that wasn't because of him—it was because he, stupidly, couldn't block things out with his gloves anymore) and listening to his and Morrigan's childish bickering. Rigel didn't really care where the boy was—but an afternoon listening to Morrigan's annoy Jupiter as opposed to those tow annoy each other was appreciated—though, if he had to guess, he'd say the boy 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. 

Rigel couldn't wait for him to go back to school so that he could finally be free of their incessant poorly veiled barbs and arguments over the simplest things. 

The boy had 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. And Korrapati wouldn't stop rubbing it in her face—Rigel hismelf was ready to punch the boy just based off the irritation he felt from both Morrigan and the boy at any give time, but especially because it only got worse when the little prick antagonized her.

And he did it a lot.

All things considered, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that Rigel was happy to see the last days of summer... even if that meant it was time for their 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 corrected—not that it would mean much, Rigel had a feeling he did that on purpose, if the amusement radiating from him was any indicator. "And he's fine. Can we please focus on the Chase Trial? We need a steed. And it can't have more than four legs—that's in the rules."

"Right." Jupiter was so unbearably smug right now, Rigel couldn't fight the rush fo amused arrogance through him and he smirked lazily.

"And we can't fly."

"You certainly cannot," said Jupiter, taking a sip of sangria, "for you are Crow's 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. Rigel cringed, it appeared both Jupiter's sense of fashion and humor were broken. "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. Rigel had already come up with a magnificent plan of his own. 

It had shocked her to realize that all these weeks, she'd barely given the Chase a thought. Clearly Jack's annoying presence had been a distraction to her. They'd been so busy arguing and getting in each other's way, it hadn't left any time for either twin to dwell on the upcoming trial, beyond the plan Rigel had made the second he got his letter.

...

"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."

Agitation spiked through Rigel at Jupiter's amused vagueness, he was being so impossible. It wasn't—oh. Ugh. This was getting old fast.

Morrigan kicked 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. Rigel snorted as a fresh wave of amusement shot towards him from Fenestra and Dame Chanda's direction. Then huffed. Meanwhile, orrigan ahd give up in her pursuits to pull a response from Jupiter, dipping her feet in as she pulled the Wundrous Society letter from her pocket and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

Rigel rolled his eyes, he'd long since memorise him (well, that didn't really say much given his perfect memory, but whatever.)

Dear Master Crow,

The Chase Trial will take place this Saturday at midday, in the heart of Nevermoor, inside the walls of the Old Town district. The United Nevermoor Councils and Guilds has granted us permission to evacuate the streets of Old Town temporarily, ensuring the event will be undisturbed by the public.

The remaining candidates have been divided into four groups. You are in the West Gate group. Please make your presence known to Society officials at Old Town West Gate no later than 11:30 on Saturday morning.

There are three rules:

1. Every candidate must ride a living steed. This can be any creature of transport with no fewer than two legs, and no more than four.

That had thrown a wrench in his first plan, but he'd figure something out.

2. Flying creatures are strictly prohibited.

3. Candidates must dress in white clothes only.

Any candidate found in breach of these rules will be instantly disqualified.

The successful candidate in this trial will show daring, tenacity, and an instinct for strategy. Further instructions will be given immediately prior to the Chase Trial.

See, this was closer to what Rigel had expected to demonstrate in the trials. Intelligence, cunning, dedication.

Warmest regards and highest congratulations,

Elders G. Quinn, H. Wong, and A. Saga

Proudfoot House
Nevermoor, FS

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". (That 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. Rigel had found himself respecting the man for that, clearly he saw the woman's intellect and new better than to underestimate her. As he should. Rigel still wasn't a particular fan of any of her suitors—much less concerned enough about their existence to remember their names, but he was in the lead)

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.Rigel took the East Gate entrance to the orphanage.

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 had dedicated herself to trying 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. Rigel was (reluctantly) impressed, her memory while not as impeccable as his, was much better than any one else he met, which was... actually kind of sad when you considered the fact it was so good due to her essentially spending her whole life having to remember every interaction to prove her innocence and recall every person she had to avoid due to cursing them and every apology letter she had to write.

"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.

Rigel narrowed his eyes on the man as he noticed Jupiter watching the Magnificat from the corner of his eye. 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. Oh, hell no.

He'd called dibs, he'd spent days needling Fen with winning smiles, ungelled (and undignified) curls and wide, innocent puppy-dog eyes at the most random times, buttering her up before delivering his proposition. 

1 Month Subscription to the Nevermoor Fishermen's Stall in exchange for a ride in the race trial. Boom!

"Do you two mind?" Fen asked, her voice oozing derision. Rigel blinked as he realised Jupiter and Morrigan were still staring at Fen," I'm trying to have a bath. Perverts."

Rigel paused, a new planning forming in his mind. Morrigan could have Fen then, he resolved, he just needed to pay a visit to Elliot.

...

Morrigan's anxiety radiated across the hall, even in her sleep, and kept Rigel up in a nervous, terrified jitter (well, that and the pure terror coming from the room three floor's above him—strangely enough he couldn't feel anything next door, seriously why was his ability being so unpredictable?) all night. That and the pain in his shoulder blades, he must be going through a growth spurt.

He wished he would hurry up and, you know, grow. It felt like somebody had pulled an elastic band really tight and tense between them and it was going to snap at any given moment. It was tense and painful and his back was rigid as hell because of it.

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

She truly wasn't grasping the whole 'Anxiety is my colour' thing, was she?

To be fair, 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. Rigel would know.

He yawned as he strode out of his room, pulling on a full face of makeup he met Fen in the hall and shot her a nod as she burst into Morrigan's room. He leaned against a wall, waiting for the girl to leave.

"Wear that," Fen 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," Rigel could hear Morrigan muttering to herself from the hall. "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."

Martha shot him a confused look as she walked by with the breakfast tray, but Rigel only shook his head with a fond smirk. His anger at the girl had steadily died down since the announcement of the Chase Trial, and the whole Bazaar thing, she'd been too distracted to keep reminiscing about all the times their Father had slammed his head into a wall, that he'd basically forgotten she'd been reminiscing it at all.

"Who are you talking to, Miss Morrigan?" Martha asked amusedly as she stopped in the doorway. 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! You too, Mister Rigel!"

"Good Morning," Rigel drawled as she ran past.

"Morning!" She called behind her, apparently having already forgotten her own anger too. He shrugged, great, now they could ignore the fact it had ever happened.

He trailed lazily after the girl, hands tucked in his pockets. He had on cream-colored slacks, a white belt (with a gold buckle, a message without breaking the rules, he was wearing the belt, not the buckle, that was just attached to the belt) and tucked in knitted white turtleneck sweater and a beige trench coat was draped over his shoulders. Personally, he felt he looked classy.

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

"Morrigan needs to tie her hair back," said Jupiter.

"Morrigan needs to keep her mouth shut," said Fen.

"Morrigan's in the same room as you, so you needn't speak about her as if she's not here," said Morrigan," You're not exactly nit-picking Rigel."

"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 grey ears perking up hopefully. "Can we tape her mouth shut?"

"I rather think the Elders would frown on that sort of thing." Jupiter replied casually. Rigel wasn't sure he like the implication that he would've if there hadn't been any disapproval," Also have you seen what Rigel's wearing?" 

Rigel's frown deepened—he'd though he was dressed well, but, he must've been doing something wrong if Jupiter of all people, was complimenting his fashion sense.

Morrigan folded her arms, suspicion radiating from her. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah," said Jupiter, rubbing his hands together in excitement. "I've found you a noble steed."

Morrigan blinked," What about Rigel?"

"Oh," Jupiter responded," He already found one for himself. Hasn't told me what it is."

Rigel glared," Stop using your knack on me." 

"Scared?"

"It's creepy and invasive," Rigel scoffed, suddenly irrationally angry," If you want to know something, do what literally everyone else does and ask."

"What's his problem?" Jupiter muttered to Morrigan.

"I can hear you!"

...

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

Rigel felt super dizzy and nauseous, like he was going to throw up. He wouldn't be surprised if he looked ready to pass out. He certainly felt it, hundreds of different feelings from every angle bombarded him and he couldn't even differentiate between the emotions themselves, much less which were his. The pain in his back had grown unbearable, actually, it was less a pain and more this dull, bone-deep ache. 

"Comforting," muttered Morrigan as she scribbled her name. Rigel's own shaky hands signing the waver himself.

Rigel was almost impressed to see the steeds some candidates had chosen. Most were riding horses or ponies, but he 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 unicorn, her terror momentarily giving way to delight, but Jupiter was unimpressed.

"Mind the pointy bit," he said with a worried look at the magical creature.

Rigel pulled up his sleeve, and tapped the little tiger drawing Elliot had doodled on his arm, the ink twisted around, running up towards his hands and he pulled off a glove—ignoring the three idiots peering over his shoulder at what he was doing, and trying not to puke as the hundred of emotions only worsened by like ten times as much—the tiger pounced all the way to his fingertip and ink exited his flash, as he leapt forward and out of his hand with the grace only such a brilliant creature could muster. 

The tiger, Tiberius Khan, as Elliot had lovingly dubbed him, was a Siberian Tiger. Easily three and a half meters long, over a meter tall and broad chested with regal markings and striking amber eyes. He let out a roar, loud enough to be hear from kilometres away.

Morrigan and Jupiter's jaws dropped, Fen stared, and Rigel held out a hand to the beautiful beast, it sniffed him hesitantly before lowering itself into a bow and nuzzling his hand. In a matter of seconds he'd rolled over onto his back and Rigel, forgetting all decorum, had collapsed onto the floor to give him belly rubs.

The boy grinned, Elliot had done well. He made a mental note to buy the kids a bunch of candy and take them to the park when he next saw them (well, he did that every time, he enjoyed spoiling his kids, but still.).

"Morrigan, Jupiter," He said," Meet Tiberius. My steed."

The over-sized house cat purred, nuzzling into Rigel's hand as he ticked that crook between the bottom of his ear and the top of his jaw. 

Fenestra was the first to snap herself from her staring trance, she huffed and tossed her head as she resumed her anxious stalking back and forth 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. Rigel snorted, she didn't really seem to care for the difference.

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?"

Rigel huffed out a laugh at the terror and uncertainty radiating fro Jupiter—then cringed as his headache grew worse at the movement.

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?" Rigel perked up, and Tiberius let out an offended meow as the boy stepped patting him.

He pet him on the head as the tiger reluctantly got to his feet. Rigel lip quirked up slightly, head still pounding as he whispered," Later."

Jupiter glanced at Tiberius out of the corner of his eyes, radiating a mixture of caution and amusement," 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."

Morrigan's eyes flew open and Rigel raised a brow, clinging to Jupiter's words like a lifeline," 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."

The twins stalked over to the starting line side by side, Fen trailing alongside Morrigan and Tiberius curled up against Rigel. It was almost comedic—and probably would've been were it not for the immense amount of pain Rigel felt sticking through his back, itching and aching like something large and blunt was poking it from the inside—to know that such a large, regal tiger, easily the same height as Rigel, was cowering behind him in fear. Clearly Elliot's creation had inherited some of his shyness, Rigel rested a glove hand against his fur as a familiar, grating voice reached his ears.

He rolled his eyes, he'd just escaped Korrapati and Morrigan's bickering and now he had to deal with Deveraux antagonising his sister? Ugh.

"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?"

Deveraux'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 Mesmer friend—Rigel figured she must be at a different gate, or she'd ditched Deveraux. He doubted the girl had failed the Book Trial, given her knack.

"That would explain why you're still here," said Morrigan.

"My, my," Rigel drawled," What a refreshingly creative insult. I never could've thought to call some one stupid and ugly. Although... I do have to wonder why you'd even bother competing in the... stupid, ugly trials. That's hardly fair on the other contestants, they'd have no chance of victory."

Deveraux's sputtered," Mister Charlton says that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"I'm aware," Rigel explained," I didn't think you'd understand anything else... I doubted you'd even understand it, to be honest. Although, given your patrons familiarity to poor wit, that does explain your excellent grasp of it."

Morrigan snorted.

"I—" Deveraux'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 the pair. "And that's why you're still here. Though, I doubt even they'd let in a cripple. The elders won't want you once they realise your broken."

Rigel raised a brow, it was a pathetic insult but he was too exhausted and agonised to muster up a retort to it—and even if he could, he did not wish to waste his time bickering childishly with the overconfident little upstart. Tiberius nuzzled into him, concern shining in his eyes.

He settled for staring at her like she'd just said something inexplicably stupid and watching her confidence slowly fade. If you couldn't weaponize your words, weaponize your silence. 

The cogs in his pounding head were spinning a mile a minutes as he analysed the girl, picking apart he words, actions, flaws and weaknesses. He'd already know it was the girl and her patron, Baz Charlton, who had sent Inspector Flintlock to the Hotel Deucalion. He was hardly an idiot. There'd been a front page article the following day reminding the public of the dangers of misinformation and the fines that came with wasting police resources, which had sparked speculation and concerned whispers about whatever had happened to prompt the warning.

His eyes narrowed on the girl's outfit, dressed in all white, save for the single, shiny golden ribbon in her hair.  A message to the elders? He couldn't picture Charlton risking his most prized candidate by allowing her to go for one of the ten golden targets he could jsut make out scattered around the middle of courage square in the distance, he suspected there must be some kind of points system to it all? He resolved no to point it out, instead filing the information away for later use. Apparently, Morrigan had other plans though.

"You could be disqualified for that, you know," she said instead, pointing at Deveraux's hair. Rigel sighed, hoping the girl was too stupid to realise the clues she was practically throwing at them.

Perhaps... perhaps there were gold targets disguised around the square? He wouldn't be surprised if Charlton helped her cheat, he already was with that ribbon after all. Rigel paused, realisation dawning on him as he struggled to suppress the slow smirk growing on his face. 

He wouldn't be surprised if Charlton helped her cheat.

"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."

Ahh. So a golden target or... whatever, meant an invitation to some 'secret' dinner. It couldn't be that much of a secret if somebody as insignificant as an eleven-year-old candidate managed to learn about it before it was even announced.

"Secret dinner," Morrigan asked, scowling suspiciously," What secret dinner?"

Rigel cringed, she was giving away too much information. Letting Deveraux know of their ignorance," Do you never pay attention when I speak to you?" He drawled in an attempt to spare her humiliation," Honestly, Morrigan. No wonder you're so uninformed."

Deveraux gave an incredulous giggle. "Your brother had to tell you? 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 a pig snuffling around the ground looking for food. "How nice—you have matching faces."

Okay, that one was actually kind of good. Still, he wasn't going to let her have the last laugh.

"I understand your desire to insult us, but my," He drawled," I didn't think you ruthless enough to use your own family as the insult."

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."

Rigel tilted his head, raising a brow as he stared at the woman, around him, his peers leaned in attentively. He scoffed under his breath. Leaning in like that only advertised attentiveness, which showed anxiety. An easy way to flaunt your weaknesses like a fool. You did not have to lean in to pay attention, and it's not as though the woman was going to report every single child's "desire to be a part of the society" to the elders.

"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 signalled 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 the twins' letter's, but much bigger, and with dozens of coloured 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 colour 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 centre 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—Rigel 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."

Rigel narrowed his eyes, clearly this was going some where.

"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."

Rigel blinked as his fellow candidates murmured excitedly. Why on earth would they willingly wish to join a late night dinner with few people and forced pleasantries and interactions?

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!"

Surely it couldn't just be the novelty of Proudfoot House? Could it?

His eyes caught on Deveraux, near the front of the crows. She was curling her finger around the little golden ribbon, looking gratingly smug. Yes, Rigel resolved, Charlton clearly wasn't above cheating, given that he'd given his most precious candidate 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 coloured 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?"

Rigel raised a brow. Were they daft? They're dressed in all white because the targets are most likely full of chalk dust, glitter or paint. He scoffed, clearly their knack wasn't quick wit.

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."

The boy smirked, Charlton must have found the location of one of the hidden targets and passed it on to her. He tilted his head at the spoilt little girl, oh he was absolutely stealing that cow's target.

A wave of anxiety flooded his senses and he let out a short, sharp gasp as pain spiked up his back," Do calm down," He hissed at Morrigan," You look like a gaping fish."

The Society official continued. "Remember, you can only hit one target. Will you bypass the coloured 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."

All of the above.

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, Rigel, listen," Jupiter said in a low, urgent voice as he led them 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?"

Rigel nodded along, completely ignoring Jupiter in favour of eavesdropping on Deveraux and Charlton. He couldn't make out much, but the words Pink, Gold and Roderick Street reached his ears. He smirked, beside him, Tiberius nuzzled into him, a mixture of curiosity and cunning radiating from him.

Rigel smirked as he lowered himself down in front of Tiberius, tickling him under the chin as he whispered," See that little brunette on the stupid white horse?"

Tiberius purred, blinking up at him lazily as though to say 'What about her?'.

"We're following her to Roderick Street, we need to get the pink target she's going for. Stay hidden on the way and before she reaches it, leap in front of her."

Beside him, Fenestra was lecturing his sister," 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, she spared a glance at the giant clock above the west gate, only sixty seconds left on the countdown. "Fen, how do I—"

Before she could finish, Fenestra bent down, grabbed Morrigan between her teeth and threw her onto her back. Tiberius bowed his front legs down and Rigel mounted his back, petting him on the side.

As the final seconds counted down, Morrigan clutched onto two hand full of Fenestra's fur, panic gripping her.

"Fen, what if I fall off?"

"You'll probably get trampled and die. So don't fall off." 

Rigel snorted, then shot Fenestra a look," Don't you dare let my sister get trampled."

Fenestra huffed, before she 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."

"Tiberius," He whispered," We're heading to Roderick Street, going for the pink target."

Three loud bangs rang through the clearing as the count down reached its end. 

Hundreds of animals—and the people riding them—shot off in all directions, dozens rushing toward the easy purple and blue targets that exploded around him. Rigel lost sight of Morrigan in the chaos far too quickly. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Tiberius's neck as the majestic beast sprang forward, leaping over other candidates to reach a stairwell at the side of the building.

Tiberius's fur gleamed in the light as he scaled the wall, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, careful to keep the stampeding horse below them in sight. Rigel smirked. Tiberius was going to reach the target long before the girl—he wasn't even at half speed, and that horse was straining just to hit thirty miles an hour.

Wind whipped through Rigel's hair, his blood thrumming with adrenaline, heart pounding in his ears. They were about a meter ahead of the girl now. As they passed Albatross Lane, Rigel narrowed his eyes and leaned slightly to the side, silently signalling Tiberius to change direction.

The cat growled curiously, but Rigel scratched the back of his neck with trembling fingers and murmured, "Trust me."

Sure enough, they lost sight of the girl as they pounced over the rooftops along Albatross Lane, cutting behind Gardenblock Boulevard and reappearing on a rooftop at the edge of Roderick's Street.

Deveraux was just meters from the target now, her hand outstretched and a smug grin etched across her face—until Tiberius and Rigel leapt off the rooftop, soaring across the street from one rooftop to another. Rigel's outstretched palm barely grazed the target just before it exploded, showering him in glistening golden dust.

He landed smoothly on the rooftop across from her and turned to look down. The boy shot Deveraux an uncharacteristically cheeky smirk as her face twisted with rage," Not bad for a cripple, huh?"

And just because he could, Rigel thought, Tiberius let out a thunderous roar, echoing throughout Old Town before he turned, tail whipping behind him as he and Rigel leapt away.

Rigel and Tiberius darted across rooftops as the made their way across the square, Rigel kept his eyes pealed to see if he could catch sight of Morrigan on the way back. He did, but not just her. The sight of Morrigan and Fen being charged at by a giant rhinoceros was one that would later inspire great glee within him, but now, all it prompted was panic.

The girl—The Mesmer—was struggling to control the beast as it bucked around in a wild panic, throwing her off to be trampled by competitors. Vaguely, Rigel wondered if the elders were insane for allowing a competition this dangerous, panic etched its way onto the girls face as she glanced around frantically at the animals darting around her.

Rigel could just make out Fenestra and Morrigan turning around, mouths moving in obvious argument, he straightened as they caught sight of his and Tiberius's gold coated forms and shot them a nod, gesturing for the target. He would handle this.

Rigel bent low, leaning into Tiberius. "Reckon you've got it in you to get one last target, buddy?"

The cat growled, flexing his claws and shooting Rigel a look over his shoulder as if to say, Are you seriously asking me that? Rigel smirked.

"Let's go get this girl a target."

Boy and cat plunged into the stampeding crowd below. Tiberius lunged forward, snatching the back of the girl's shirt and tossing her effortlessly onto his back. Rigel kept his arms clenched tightly around the cat, even as the girl's panic and fear flooded him. He steered them toward one of the two remaining golden targets, lowering himself against Tiberius's neck as they soared forward—narrowly beating the scrawny dog-faced boy on his donkey.

"Hit it!"

The Mesmer stretched her hand out and grazed the target. For the second time that day, golden dust exploded around them, showering Rigel and the tiger—though most of it landed on the girl.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rigel spotted Morrigan and Fen, glistening with their own golden sheen of victory.

"Come on, buddy," he said, "let's go."

The girl's arms wrapped tightly around his back as they sped away, her grip fierce, clinging to safety. Rigel guided Tiberius toward the rooftops again, a smug wave of victory and relief surging through his veins.

...

"One at a time, please, one at a time!" shouted the harassed-looking Society official. "Now, who hit the target?"

"I did." Rigel drawled, glancing up at Green-Coated Deveraux through hooded lashes," I rode Tiberius."

Beside him, Tiberius lifted up a paw and flexed his claw, letting out a small hiss in Deveraux's direction. She screamed. Rigel smirked cruelly," Play nice, Tiberius."

"Is that true?" The society official glanced at Deveraux's green coated form, clearly already aware of the answer.

"Well... Yes," She sputtered," But he cut me off! I was going for that target! That ticket should've been mine! If I'd gotten the—"

"But you didn't," Rigel cut her off smoothly," Honestly, Deveraux. You're only embarrassing yourself."

Beside him, the Mesmer shifted," Noelle... You're tired. Mister Charlton will fix this right up. You just have to tell him what happened."

Deveraux's eyes glazed over," Yeah... I'm," She yawned," I'm tired. I'm going to go tell Mister Charlton what happened. He'll fix this right up."

And just like that, the girl turned and stalked away. Rigel tried not to be jealousy, he wished he had a knack like mesmerism, instead he was stuck with a stupid singing voice-empathy-back-hurting thing. The society official turned to them," Alright. The tiger hit the gold target... twice, two different riders. Who was who?"

Rigel frowned, whoever had gone for the actual gold-target was going to get the most points. He would get five less than the girl, which meant forfeiting his current first-place status.

"I rode it the first time," The girl drawled, sparing him a glance. Rigel glanced at her in surprise—she was going to have to mesmerise the society official into believing that given that they'd just had this argument," I hit the pink target."

"And you are?"

"Cadence." She straightened," My name is Cadence Blackburn. I fell of my rhinoceros at the start of the race and Rigel picked me up. I hit the pink target and then we kept going to get one of the gold targets in the square."

"Is that true?" The official asked, looking amused. A wave of ironic amusement poured into Rigel, setting him on edge. He grit his teeth.

"Uhh... Yes," Rigel cleared his throat at the look the Mesmer shot him," I picked her up so she wouldn't be trampled."

The official snorted," Why does every one think valour and good sportsmanship are going to win them favour? We're going for tenacity and ambition, not bloody niceness."

Rigel glared, righteous indignation coming from Morrigan flooding him," I only picked her up she wouldn't die. Mainly because otherwise my sister wouldn't've gotten a target and would've discarded her chances of getting into this stupid wundrous society." He snapped, blinded by his irritation, pain, and the hundreds of disappointed sad and humiliated individuals emotions stabbing into him, as he snatched his own ticket from the official," I don't even want to join!"

Rigel turned and stormed off. The official blinked and called after him," Why wouldn't you want to join The Wundrous Society!?"

"Because it sucks!" He called over his shoulder, strides not faltering as he glared at the sobbing fools in his path and stalked away—Tiberius shoving aside those who didn't care to move out of his way, clearly sensing the unimaginable pain in Rigel's back.

Jupiter was leaning against a wall when Rigel joined him, hands stuffed in his pockets, scowl coating his face and dressed all in golden-coated white clothing. It certainly made for an interesting picture, especially in contrast to his grinning, purple and green pinstriped suited ginger patron. 

He laughed," I don't know how you got a tiger that leaps out of your arm, but you did absolutely brilliant, Ryj."

Rigel gave a curt nod, shoulders tense with pain and face tight with fury and pain," Can we go now?"

Jupiter's brow furrowed as he peered at Rigel, leaning forward. Instinctively, Rigel curled away. The ginger tilted his head, reaching out to Rigel's shoulder and the boy flinched away. Violently.

His patron stared at him a moment, in some sort of trance like state, face twitching as though trying to see... something, meanwhile Rigel stood there, stone still. His face steadily growing paler as a wave of horror and fury, steadily growing in power, radiated from Jupiter. Finally; the man snapped out of his trance.

His jaw clenched, eyes widening in realisation as he stared at Rigel in a mixture of horror, pity and indignation. Hesitantly the man stepped forward, voice leaving him in a hoarse, almost sob-like whisper," Ryj—"

"Jupiter!" Morrigan's voice called over whatever that interaction was, allowing Rigel to stumble back from the furious man. His throat burned, suffocatingly with a righteous, deadly fury and fear clenched at his chest as he realised Jupiter had used his knack on him. Jupiter knew about their father.

Reluctantly, the man's eyes snapped away from Rigel and the boy wished he could say he let the breath he was holding out—but pain and panicked lingered among hundreds of other emotions withing him, swirling into an indiscernible mess. 

Jupiter forced a bright grin to his face as he turned to see Morrigan waving her letter around as she ran towards them, grinning like a lunatic," I got through! I got through to the next trial!"

Jupiter's eyes darted back to Rigel, grin suspiciously fixed as he responded with an elated tone," Brilliant, Mog! Utterly Brilliant!"

Morrigan puffed up at the praise, holding the letter tight in her grasp, blissfully unaware of the way Jupiter's gaze lingered on Rigel.

Rigel swallowed, cheeks burning in humiliation as he realised the most secret parts of him—the most brutal, scarred, traumatising, broken experiences he'd carefully hidden alongside the shattered little boy who'd undergone them had all been exposed to the man in a single glance.

He felt achingly, terrifyingly seen. It was... humiliating.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. A tear dripped down his cheek as Morrigan chattered excitedly to Fenestra who was gazing at the losing candidates with a lazy smirk. And another. And another. Until he was standing there silently, face etched with horror and pain as tears slipped silently down his cheeks.

And then, without a word, he turned and fled.

(Like a coward.)

Chapter Text

"Wasn't that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted." —Abraham Verghese

...

"I need a queen, please."

"What for?"

"Just do. Hand it over."

Swift heaved out an over-dramatic sigh as he shuffled through the deck in his hands for a Queen of Diamonds. "I don't think you're doing this right."

After their Chase Trial success (Swift had not in fact, been riding a cheetah—but rather, had successfully coated himself and the camel who's back he had been riding on in orange dust), Jupiter had promised that Morrigan and her friend could have a sleepover at the Deucalion on Hallowmas night—so long as they swore to ignore bedtime, eat lots of sweets, and get up to no good. 

Rigel had a feeling that had something to do with the fact that the man had begged and pleaded with them to not make him take them to The Elder's dinner because apparently Baz Charlton was going to be there since on of his candidates had made it in.

It hadn't taken much for Rigel to agree (or anything at all really), he loathed people and the dinner was a disgusting social interaction. He'd only gone for the stupid social interaction because he wanted the points he'd get for the golden target, and to remain in first place., Which he had. Morrigan, however, had taken more convincing, hence the sleepover.

Something Rigel had scoffed at, turning to Morrigan and her friend and (rather disappointingly) given them a list of rules," No pranking the guests, either the black parade or trick or treating—not both, and if you're going to give yourself a sugar high I expect you both to take a nap in one of The Parlours before you head out."

He was under no delusions that they'd take the nap, but at least they were trying to calm down in the parlour's, if not get any actual sleep. Rigel wondered if Jupiter knew how unhealthy it was for Morrigan not to have a bed time, what if it stunted her growth? Then he looked at his sister and reassured himself that she'd always been ridiculously short and there wasn't exactly any growth to stunt so it was fine.

(Somewhat) True to the word they'd given to Jupiter, they'd already demolished handfuls of candy and were now teaching themselves to play poker in the Music Salon while they waited for Fen, who was taking them out to the Black Parade at midnight.

As it was, the whole plan had been a way to distract Morrigan so he could corner Rigel into a lovely conversation about what he'd seen with his knack, a topic which Rigel had been politely avoiding by excusing himself before he ended up alone with him. Jupiter had been attempting to corner him all afternoon and Rigel had quickly realised the last place Jupiter would expect him to be tonight was with Morrigan and Swift—the boy didn't like people or noise, and they were both—so he'd silently resigned himself to a night of overstimulation and socialising, and had even agreed to go to the Hallowmas parade with them. He'd feigned interest in Society traditions, but it was a whole plan to avoid the man.

Jupiter would have to leave to march in the parade and if he thought Rigel was at the Deucalion, he'd likely immediately return to corner him—and then be informed that Rigel was at the parade, Rigel would loiter until the early hours of the morning and return home at a time Jupiter was sure to be in bed, and if he didn't feel like being out any longer he could just sneak in through the emergency exit he'd left unlocked. It was a fool proof plan.

And Jupiter was a fool, so it would work. 

In honour of Hallowmas, the salon was lit entirely by candles and jack-o'-lanterns. Frank the vampire dwarf was singing an obnoxious song about beheading his fearsome enemies and drinking their blood. The guests clapped along, enchanted by the idea of the little man beheading anybody at all, fearsome or otherwise.

Morrigan arranged her cards in a fan on the table. "Poker!"

Swift examined them. "That's not poker."

"Yes it is, look: The Queen of Diamonds was out in the park one day, walking her dog, Jack of Diamonds. She met the King of Hearts and they fell in love. They were married six (of hearts) weeks later and had three (of diamonds) children and lived happily ever after." She grinned triumphantly. "Poker."

Rigel cringed from behind his book, Swift had claimed to know the game and they'd wanted to play the adults-only game "in honour of their new-found maturity" (and wasn't it adorable tragic that they though joining a cult was a step in the direction of... maturity?) and Swift had claimed to know the rules, but evidently the game he knew, was not poker.

Nobody in the salon had had the heart to inform them of their, frankly humiliating, misconception. Rigel truly didn't care enough to burst their bubble. Live and let live, and all that other stuff.

The only things he really cared to pay attention to were things that benefitted him (knowledge) and things he couldn't ignore—like the still unbearable, throbbing pain in his back and (nauseating) mixture of terror and excitement tunnelling into him.

Swift groaned and slapped down his cards. "That is poker. You win again." He pushed the large pile of Hallowmas sweets over to her side of the table.

"No it's not, no she doesn't," Rigel muttered, almost imperceptibly under his breath. Beside him, Dame Chanda let out a small huff of laughter, sparing him a quick glance.

"Thank you, thank you, friends," the vampire dwarf was saying loudly. "And now, on this Hallowmas night, the night when we feel closest to those we have lost—in honour of my dear departed mother, I shall sing for you her favourite song." His audience cooed sympathetically. Frank motioned to the pianist. "Wilbur, if you please—'My Sweetheart Is a Garroter' in D minor."

"Where's Fen?" asked Swift, shuffling the cards listlessly. "It's almost ten thirty! If we don't leave soon, all the best spots will be taken."

"My sweetheart is a garroter, my sweetheart loves to strangle. Her hands are wrapped around my throat, but my heart is in a tangle..."

Swift had talked of nothing but the Black Parade since autumn began—it was almost nauseating how eager he was to partake in such a rambunctious activity. Nauseating, but fitting, given it was Swift and rambunctious and loud, was basically his entire personality. As Jupiter was marching in the parade, Fenestra to accompany the twins and Morrigan's fool of a friend in his place. Fenestra had agreed under extreme protest, and only after she'd extracted a promise from Jupiter that if they misbehaved, she could put itching powder in Morrigan's bedsheets every night for a month.

When Morrigan had asked why only her, Fenestra, Jupiter and Rigel had all shot her a deadpan look. Rigel would never be caught misbehaving. Chances were, if they were caught misbehaving, Rigel would have been heavily against it or have been the one to snitch and get them caught. Morrigan had huffed, but relented with a pout.

"Fenestra does things on Fenestra time," said Morrigan, biting into a sour skeleton. Rigel have a noncommittal, silent shrug of agreement from behind his book.

"She grips me with her burly arms and the stars begin to shine. My scrawny neck is hers alone, her violent heart is mine!"

Frank finished his song with a grand flourish and a high note that made Rigel wince—stars, he hated this place. Of all the places to hang out... and Morrigan had chosen The Music Salon... he hated singing. The other guests broke into applause and the vampire dwarf took a deep bow.

"Any requests?" asked Frank.

"Sing something scary!" a young man shouted.

"Ah. Beheading and strangling not scary enough for you, eh?" There was a gleam in Frank's eye. "Then perhaps you'd like to hear a song about... the Wundersmith?"

Rigel's head snapped up, intrigue flooding his features, though it was quickly schooled. He'd been trying to find a lead on The Wundersmith for months. And no luck.

The guests gasped, then fell into nervous laughter. Across the card table, Swift grew very still. A sharp jolt of fear flooded Rigel, and he glanced at the boy in curiosity, (no, there wasn't concern there. shut up.) wondering what had invoked such a provoking reaction from the hyperactive nightmare," Shall we go wait in the foyer?"

"Fen said to wait here," said Morrigan. "She'll be cross if we leave. What's wrong?"

"I just..." He swallowed and lowered his voice. "I wish he wouldn't sing about the Wundersmith."

"The Wundersmith." Morrigan rolled her eyes and Rigel was amenable to let her shoot the questions. He would be rather satisfied to silently benefit form somebody else's hard work.. "What's a Wundersmith, anyway? Why is everybody so scared of it?"

Swift's eyes bulged. "You don't know about the Wundersmith?"

On the other side of the room, the piano clanked to a halt. "Can that be true?" called Frank. He was staring right at Morrigan. "Can this really be a child who has never heard the stories of the Wundersmith?"

His audience turned  to look at Morrigan—and Rigel, who shot them all a lazy stare over his book, resulting in several pairs of quickly averted eyes—with shocked faces. "I mean," she said, "I've heard of him, but..." She shrugged and bit the head off a gummy ghost.

"Can it be," Frank continued, his voice rising, "that she knows nothing of the thing they call the Butcher of Nevermoor? The Curse of the Capital? That wicked devil with blackened mouth and empty eyes?"

Swift let out a strangled noise—Rigel felt it sounded half way between a dying toad and a cat yowling. Morrigan sighed. "So what is he?" she asked, exasperated.

The boy raised his brow and folded his book into his lap as he stared at Frank blankly. He wished the man would get to the point—he wanted information, not dramatics. Franks eyebrows raised as he realized Rigel was actually interested in watching his little performance. He puffed up in pride, Rigel was feeling too nice to roll his eyes and turn back to his book. He would burst his bubble another day.

"My children, my dear darkling children," said the vampire dwarf, drawing his cape around him with a dramatic swish, "perhaps it is best you don't know..."

The guests fell for his ruse—which was, frankly pathetic Rigel scoffed. He hated drama so much, signing, acting, plays, musicals. Ugh. "Tell her, Frank," they cried, clapping their hands with savage delight. "Sing about the Wundersmith!"

"If you insist," he said, affecting a reluctant air. The pianist hit a loud, dramatic chord, and Morrigan giggled. This was all rather silly, she thought.

"Who—or what—is the Wundersmith?" Frank began. "Is he a man, or is he a monster? Does he live in our imaginations, or is he lurking in the shadows, waiting... to... pounce?" Frank lunged at a group of women, who shrieked, first with fright and then with laughter. "Is he human, or is he a savage animal who will tear through the realm with talons and teeth until he has consumed us all?" Here he paused to bare his own impressive fangs, and there were gasps and giggles around the room.

Rigel felt the fact that there was an "or" option only signified the official verdict to the ends of those questions.

"The Wundersmith is all of those things. He is a phantom that lives in the darkness, watching, always watching, biding his time until the day when we have let down our defences, when we are not expecting him, when we have almost forgotten he existed." Frank grabbed a candle from its holder and held it under his chin so that his face was eerily lit by the glow. "And that is when he will return."

Rigel's usual scowl deepened, he'd hoped to know the story, not to listen to someone bluff their way through actually explaining it.

"Tosh," said a quiet voice from the corner. Rigel glanced beside him, where Dame Chanda and Kedgeree were playing chess, both deep in concentration. He took a quick glance at the board, blinked, and quickly concluded that Dame Chanda was going to win.

White had just played pawn to C4—typical Queen's Gambit. Chanda, ever the intelligent player, had developed both knights early, her dark-squared bishop fianchettoed, the king already castled short. Kedgeree's black pieces lagged slightly, his kingside still cramped. Rigel saw it instantly: Kedgeree had held back his C8 bishop, preferring a rare... B6 setup that weakened his queenside.

If Chanda played knight to E5 within the next three moves, she'd pressure the pinned F6 knight and bait the queen-side exchange. Kedgeree wouldn't see it—he was too material-focused—and when he countered with D6, Chanda would pivot her dark-square bishop to H6, forcing an awkward rook shuffle.

Rigel saw exactly thirty-four more moves ahead—a precise fork by Chanda's knight on move twenty-seven, after Kedgeree misplaced his rook in anticipation of a non-existent threat. Then a queen trade. Kedgeree would think it neutralized the position. It didn't. Her passed pawn on the d-file would become unstoppable.

He blinked.

She would win in forty-one moves. Maybe forty-two if she hesitates after the rook exchange.

The game would continue on for another hour and twelve minutes, depending on how long Kedgeree argued with inevitability.

It was already over.

Kedgeree hummed in agreement. "Aye, utter nonsense."

"Is it?" said Morrigan. "Then the Wundersmith isn't real?"

Dame Chanda sighed. "Oh, the Wundersmith is real. But I wouldn't ask that sharp-toothed showboat about it," she muttered, nodding toward Frank, who was now doing a tap dance in the instrumental break. Rigel snorted, rather ineloquently. For some one who typically hated theatre, he was rather a fan of Dame Chanda. "He wouldn't know the real Wundersmith from a potted agapanthus. He thinks it's funny trying to scare people."

Morrigan frowned. "But why is everyone so scared of the Wundersmith? What is it?"

"That's a very good question," said Dame Chanda. Kedgeree shook his head warningly, but she waved a hand at him. "Oh, Ree-Ree, she's bound to find out sooner or later. Better to hear the truth from us, don't you think, than a load of hogwash from some other fool?"

Rigel raised a brow—they were good friends it seemed. He bit back a smirk, two of his favourite people at the Deucalion.

Kedgeree held up his hands in defeat. "All right, but I don't think North will like it."

"Then North should have told her himself." Dame Chanda took a moment to capture Kedgeree's knight and sip her brandy. "Now. Frank is being silly, of course, but he poses an interesting historical question: Is the Wundersmith a man, or is he a monster? Certainly he was once a man. He once looked like a man, although almost all photographs and portraits from his younger days have been destroyed. Some people say he has turned inside out, and the darkness within him is now on the outside, for everyone to see. They say he is hideously deformed, that his teeth and mouth and the whites of his eyes have turned black like a spider. That his skin is greyed and decaying like his decaying soul."

"Is it true he was exiled from Nevermoor?" asked Swift, leaning forward, pale and uncertain. Rigel tilted his head, gaze flickering to Kedgeree and Dame Chanda.

"Yes," said Dame Chanda, her expression grave. A wave of sorrow hit Rigel. "Over one hundred winters he's been in exile, banned from Nevermoor, from all Seven Pockets of the Free State. To this day he is kept out by the force of this great and ancient city, by the combined efforts of the Royal Sorcery Council and the Paranormal Services Union, by our protective borders, which are manned by the Ground Force and watched over by the Sky Force and patrolled by the Stink and spied on by the Stealth and probably by dozens of other secret organizations that exist only to protect us from the Wundersmith. Thousands of men and women all working constantly, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for more than a hundred years, all to keep one man out."

Rigel's brows floated up. Thousands of people... just for one man? That was impressive. And tragic. Obviously tragic. "Why? What did he do?"

"He was a man who became a monster, lass, that's what he did," said Kedgeree. "A monster who made monsters of his own, who was so brilliant—so talented and twisted—that he decided to play God. He built a great army of fearsome creatures with which he planned to conquer Nevermoor, to enslave the people of our city."

"Why?"

Kedgeree blinked. "For power, I suppose. He sought to own the city, and by owning the city, to own the entire realm."

"Some people stepped up and tried to stop him," added Dame Chanda. "But they were massacred. Brave, selfless men and women, destroyed by the Wundersmith and his army of monsters. It happened not too far from here, in Old Town. The place where they died was renamed for those brave people. Courage Square."

"We've been there. That's where the Chase Trial ended," said Morrigan, and Hawthorne nodded grimly. It was hard to imagine that cobbled, sunlit square awash with the blood of a massacre. "And—oh! We read about the Courage Square Massacre, didn't we, Hawthorne? When we were studying for the Book Trial. The Encyclopaedia of Nevermoorian Barbarism didn't mention anything about the Wundersmith, though."

"No, it wouldn't," said Kedgeree, pointedly raising an eyebrow at Dame Chanda. "Even history books don't like talking about the Wundersmith."

Rigel was well aware of that much.

"How?" he asked.

Dame Chanda blinked and turned to him," How what, Dear Heart?"

"I mean... if he slaughtered people? How... How could he do that? You said there were several people... did he... have a knack?"

Had The Wundersmith been like Rigel? Had his singing... or just his knack...?

Kedgeree and Dame Chanda exchanged glances, before Kedgeree spoke up," The Wundersmith could control and summon Wunder... he could use it as a source of power. Which mean he could use the wundrous arts. Like Santa Claus and The Yule Queen, but all of them."

Rigel had heard of the epic Christmas battles in Courage Square, there to honour the massacre, but... he was too busy focusing on something else in that sentence: The Wundersmith could control and summon Wunder... he could use it as a source of power. 

Unbidden, his mind flashed to the only source of Wunder in the Republic, then the understanding that controlling the Wundrous Arts meant controlling your... ability. Finally, he remembered that The Wundersmith had been banished after the Massacre.

He paused. Was Ezra Squall... The Wundersmith?

"Nobody knows exactly what happened to the Wundersmith that day," continued Dame Chanda," Some say he was weakened by the attack. Some say his monsters deserted him—that they'd gotten a taste for death and liked it, and so they melted away into the darkest corners of Nevermoor, where they lurk still, killing off its people one by one, waiting for the day when their master will return to conquer the city."

"Chanda..." Kedgeree said, shooting her a significant look.

"What? That's what some people say."

"It's not true, wee ones," said the concierge. "Just a scary rumour."

"I never said it was true, Ree-Ree, I only said it's what people say," said Dame Chanda, ruffled. "Anyway, after that day, Nevermoor locked her doors to him forever. Of course, the ban is reinforced by sorcerers and magicians, the Stink and the Stealth and all the rest, but everyone knows it's Nevermoor herself who truly keeps the Wundersmith out."

"How?" said Morrigan with a glance at her friend, who swallowed hard, looking pale and clammy. "What if the Wundersmith finds a way back in?"

"This is an ancient and powerful city, children," said Kedgeree, "protected by ancient and powerful magic. More powerful than any Wundersmith, don't you worry about—"

"Fen's here!" shouted Swift suddenly. He grabbed Morrigan's arm and ran to meet the Magnificat at the door, clearly eager to leave all talk of the Wundersmith behind him. Rigel rolled his eyes at their terror and grabbed his book, rising from the chair. He spared a single glance at the chess board and turned to them.

"Chanda will win in just over an hour," He turned to her," Don't hesitate on The Rook Exchange."

Chanda blinked, and Kedgeree looked utterly perplexed. Rigel turned and stalked away, mind still twisting with thoughts of Mr Jones—or perhaps Ezra Squall, using a different name to hide his unaged face—and what The Wundersmith could want with he and his sister.

The boy faltered at the door to the salon, the walls around him contorted to candlelit bricks, and as he turned ahead, he looked eyes with an aged face. With a blink, it was all gone.

He swallowed back the bile in his throat, all thoughts of The Wundersmith temporarily forgotten.

...

Nevermoor was full of ghosts.

Also vampires, werewolves, princesses, and wart-nosed witches—Rigel tried his best to refrain from bothering them about their expertise. Warts were a sign of knowledge, wisdom and power among witches. There were quite a few fairies. The occasional pumpkin. Thousands of people in costumes lined the high street, waiting for Nevermoor's Hallowmas festivities to begin.

Beside him, Morrigan rubbed her hands together for warmth and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. He huffed and pulled his own scarf off—wincing as the crisp air bit at his exposed flesh.  He draped the scarf around her neck and pulled off his coat (his back hurt any way), draping it over her shoulders.

She shot him a glance and a tiny, hesitant smile before she and Swift shared an excited grin, their breath turning to fog in the crisp autumn air. They'd managed to barge their way through the heaving crowd to what Jupiter had promised would be the best spot on the parade route, right on the corner of Deacon Street and McLaskey Avenue—chattering excitedly all the way as Rigel trailed lazily behind them and death stared any one who so much as looked at his sister sideways.

The Wundrous Society had started the parade hundreds of years ago, it was originally a silent procession of Society members, dressed in formal black uniforms with their gold W pins at the throat, marching to honour those Wuns who had died in the previous year. They walked through the streets in rows of nine on Hallowmas night, when the walls between the living and the dead were thinnest.

It was certainly an... interesting coincidence that the first reported Wundrous Parade was only two years after The Courage Square massacre. Either, it was Wunsoc members who fought in the Massacre, or there was something more... sinister going on there.

As the years went by, the people of Nevermoor started gathering to watch the procession in silence and pay their respects. It became one of the city's most sacred traditions, and they called it the Black Parade. Over the Ages it grew into something much louder and more colourful (Rigel felt it brought a sense of Nevermoorian colour to the sombre tradition, honouring the freedom they had been granted), but the Wundrous Society still upheld tradition by marching first.

The crowd was eerily quiet as the solemn rows of nine passed by, their footsteps on the cobblestones the only sound to be heard. Rigel thought he spotted Jupiter's big ginger head at one point, but there were so many Society members going by so quickly that he couldn't be sure. Just to be safe, he huddle behind Morrigan slightly. They wore sombre expressions, their eyes straight ahead. Here and there were empty spaces, and some of the people marching carried candles—one candle for each of the departed, Jupiter had said. The youngest Society members, who looked only a little older than Morrigan, marched in the first row. She supposed this must be Unit 918.

Rigel straightened, glancing at how they acted, that would be him, Morrigan, and Swift next year. He would ensure it. No matter what. Rigel shuddered as he caught sight of a Black Doberman, edging away from it silently, rubbing a scar on his clothed arm from where one of his fathers hounds had bit him. That appeared to be a mistake, because suddenly everything was... cold. Dark. Wrong. 

Rigel tensed, glancing around, the eery feeling that he was being watched taking over. He shuddered as it persisted, stronger and stronger. Something brushed against him, but when he glanced around nothing was there.

He was quiet for a moment, tense as his eyes flickered around paranoidly. Something dark clouded his vision, an almost fog clouding over the world around him. He shivered, this cold, empty darkness. Not like that numbness, heavier, tighter. His eyes widened in horror. Shadows and monstrous demons lurked through the fog, forms shifting and disappearing, teleporting around. 

Once the Wundrous Society reached the end of the route, the "proper parade" (as Swift, rather disrespectfully, referred to it) began at last, the fog slowly gave way but Rigel could hear screaming and growling and pained, fearful howling echoing in his ears. 

A wave of anticipation rolled through the crowd as music began to play. Rigel's lips twitched into a sneer. His hands grasped tightly behind his back, desperate to block out the agonised screams and pain-filled howls. 

Sound from every angle hitting him, someone brushed against his arm. His head snapped up, a dirt covered spade enter his vision and departed just as quickly. 

Noise and colour blurred together, panic tightening in his chest as fear, glee, horror and anticipation battle within him, each desperate for dominance. A particularly loud man gave a gleeful shout right behind his ear and Rigel panicked—

Hecouldn'tdothishecouldn'tdothishecouldn'tdothishethoughthecouldodthishecouldn'tdothishecouldn'tbreathehecouldntthinkhecouldn'tdothishecouldn'thejustcouldn't—

The boy gasped for breath that just wouldn't come, stumbling back and staggering away, with every desperate have his panic grew, tightening around his heart in a vice-like grip. Tears streamed down his face as he pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the screams and cries and begging and the coldness reaching out. Touching him. He couldn't not see it, he couldn't stop feeling it. The pain, the burning like his flesh was peeling off his bones, the fear and desperation and begging. It wouldn't go away.

Finally, he made it to an alleyway. The noise was loud, but more distant, no roaring crowd and personal space. It was okay. He hugged his arms tight around his chest, taking deep gasping breaths as he shoved his fear and panic down deep, he'd deal with it later. 

(He'd never let later come.)

A few moments passed, before his peace was broken by a shout," Help me!"

The voice sounded as though it belonged to an old lady, Rigel glanced around the alleyway, unable to see any one," Please—somebody help me! I've fallen down."

Rigel huffed, on one hand, if it was an old lady he had to help. On the other, this was how people got kidnapped or murdered by serial killers. Ugh, talk about a conundrum. 

His mind wandered to the letter, unspecified time and location. During Autumn of One. Oh. Oh. He huffed, sticking his trembling hands in his pockets, ignoring the cold goosebumps that prickled at his exposed arms. He'd worn a sleeveless black turtleneck and a woollen grey knit sweater (he'd made it himself) underneath his black coat and heavy woollen scarf, both of which he'd given to Morrigan. And while sweaters typically kept one warm, they couldn't fight off the biting autumn chill.

(They couldn't fight off the chilling fear than lingered along the back of his neck.)

The alley was dirty and the dumpster smelled awful. He huffed as he followed the voice, hoping this was a trial and not a homicide. The sharp rush of adrenaline and satisfaction did not help ease his concerns, nor did it help him shake the quivering uncertainty and the terror gripping his chest.

(This woman did not want to die. Rigel did not want to live. She was scared. He was scared.)

 He bit back a groan. 

"Hello," He asked tentatively, dread growing in his stomach," Ma'am? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Down here," The old lady crooned, a strange edge to her voice. Rigel shuddered as warning bells in his head went off with the violence of a thousand fire alarms.

Something was wrong. So very wrong. It was just wrong, terribly, awfully, undoubtedly wrongbadwrongbadwrongwrongwrongwrongbadbadbadbaddangerous—

Hesitantly he stepped forward, his vision blurred, the world shifting around him. 

He glanced around in horror, the bricks were close together, no longer gaps between the canals, there was a small ledge and the more distant stench of sewage tickled his nasal passages. He gagged, candle light lit the place around him eerily, reflecting of red bricks, a little golden plate glistened in front of him, white wax dripping downdowndown—

It pooled at the bottom of the cup, a single small flame held by wrinkled hands. Hesitantly, Rigel glanced up and his eyes froze, gazing into pitch black orbs—

"Down here." The voice came from beneath his feet. Rigel felt like he was snapped back into the present with a rubber band, he glance down.

A manhole. Slowly, carefully, he pried it open," Hello? Are you down there?"

Wrongbadwrongbadwrongbadwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong—

"Oh! Thank goodness you heard me. I tripped and fell, and... I think I've broken my ankle. I can't climb up by myself."

Wrongbadwrongbadbadwrongwrongbadwrongbad—

"Okay, don't—don't panic," Rigel ordered, though it felt more like it was for his benefit. "I'll climb down and help you."

And yet, his body did not wish to move. Come on, he ordered silently, just go. He scoffed, shaking his head. He was overthinking. This was ridiculous. It was just an old lady.

 Silently, he climbed onto the ladder, pressing a foot onto a rusted beam. Testing its weight carefully, hesitantly he placed another, then one hand, then the other. One step at a time, he ordered. One. Two. Three. Four. Fi—

Rigel let out a shout as the ladder gave way underneath him, he fell down, landing painfully on the brick, twisting his foot in the wrong direction. He hissed, trying to help himself up only to let out a choked whimper. The boy sat there a moment, gasping in pain. Something warm trickled underneath and he glanced down, blood. He was bleeding. 

Rigel sat there a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he breathed in and out shakily, gasping out whimpering sobs. Finally, he scooted himself back into a corner and pressed a shaking hand to one wall, and another to the other before heaving himself up.

He gasped, tears springing to his eyes as he leaned against the wall, resolving to stick to the left wall so he could lean against it and keep the pressure of his left leg. He glanced around, breathing heavily, back still hurting. There was no one there. 

White hot anger surged withing him. Brilliant. He was alone in a sewer on Hallowmas night with an injured—likely broken—leg because he made the intelligent decision to follow the creepy voice into a manhole against every instinct telling him not to, directly after having a panic attack because he was too much of a coward to just communicate with Jupiter and had spent the last weeks avoiding him. He was going to die down here and the last memory Jupiter was going to have of him was him all but barrelling out of the room in a desperate attempt to get away form the man. He would never see Morrigan, or Mary again. He would never meet his brothers. He would never see Elliot, Felix, Matteo, Charlie, Elizabeth, Andromeda, Theodore, Evie, or Alice again. He'd never get Elliot to re-draw Tiberius onto him, with tattoo ink so he could be there forever. He'd never play chess with Madame Ziara again. Never see Tiberius again. 

This day couldn't get any worse. 

He glanced up, he just needed to get up the ladder, up to the top of the man hole—

Metal scraped against cement and the little light he had disappeared. Rigel gasped, looking around in horror as reality set in. He was actually going to die down here. No one knew where he was, the likelyhood of any one being stupid enough to come down a creepy dark alleyway in the middle of Hallowmas night was rather low. He was actually going to die down here because he who always prided his intellect mad the utterly, astonishingly stupid decision—

"Hello?" The old lady's voice rang out once more and Rigel looked around desperately for the source but there was nothing in sight," Please? You said you were going to help!"

Fear, utterly encompassing, gripped Rigel. Everything was wrong. He was going to die down here, alone with this creepy voice, he didn't want to die, he didn't, he'd only just started living. It wasn't fair! He had a family now, Jupiter and—and Kedgeree, and Fenestra, Martha, Charlie, Dame Chanda! A sob slipped form his throat at the thought of Dame Chanda. 

She sang all the time, and he adored it. She was the first person in years who he'd heard singing and not instantly been filled with hatred and resentment. She'd let him do her makeup and pick out her clothes and death stare her nightly suitor and—and he was going to die with this, creepy, invisible old lady's voice haunting him until his last moments—

"Please!"

No. Rigel straightened, wiping his tears from his face. He was going to get out fo here, and he was going to talk to Jupiter and he was going to see Dame Chanda's concert and he was going to get out. He would not be dying, alone and forgotten, in a creepy sewer on Hallowmas night. 

"Ma'am?" He forced concern into his tone," Where are you?"

"Here!" He crooned," I'm right here."

He glanced around in horror, the bricks were close together, no longer gaps between the canals, there was a small ledge and the more distant stench of sewage tickled his nasal passages. He gagged, candle light lit the place around him eerily, reflecting of red bricks, a little golden plate glistened in front of him, white wax dripping downdowndown—

It pooled at the bottom of the cup, a single small flame held by wrinkled hands. Hesitantly, Rigel glanced up and his eyes froze, gazing into pitch black orbs—

And stopped as he looked around, several more candles lighting around him. Had he... seen this? That was impossible! That... no... no... that was— 

They surrounded him in a tight circle, their faces eerily lit by candlelight. Rigel wanted to scream, to shout, to sing—

But he was frozen in fear.

"We are the witches of Coven Thirteen. We are the eyes that have seen the unseen. We are the voices of those who don't speak. We will distinguish the bold from the meek."

They were seven but they spoke as one. A mix of young and old, with not a pointed black hat or broomstick among them. They wore long-sleeved black dresses buttoned all the way up to their necks with their hair pulled back tightly, and netted black veils over shadowed, cruel faces. This, Rigel realized, must be what real witches looked like. The one in the centre, three on each side of her had a single wart on the right of her nose. 

"What do you want?" He lowered his voice dangerously, a sneer curling at his lips. Daring them to threaten him, to touch him, to give him a reason to attack.

"Two frights befall you this All Hallows' Eve," they said in unison. "One to be seen and one to believe. Flee if you must. Charge if you dare. Or follow the glow and you might have a prayer."

One of the witches handed Rigel a small ivory envelope, sealed with a golden wax W. The card inside read:

Welcome to the Fright Trial.

You may turn back now and withdraw from the Wundrous Society entrance trials if you wish. 

If you continue, we accept no responsibility for the consequences.

Choose wisely.

"The Fright Trial,"  Rigel declared bluntly," I suspected as much..."

It was rather fitting that it would take place on Hallowmas night. Cliché, but fitting. Jupiter had been appalled to learn that the new High Council of Elders had reinstated it. Rigel had been rather exhilarated to finally have a real challenge.

Rigel raised an unimpressed brow, the blood on his leg had dried, only a few drops trickled down the back alongside throbbing pain. He was, thus far, utterly unimpressed.

"We are the witches who'll settle your fate," they chanted. "We know the terrors and dread that await: Be wise and turn back, before it's too late. Or if you dare—open the gate."

The candles blew out, as if in a gust of wind, and the coven disappeared. The boy stared, utterly unimpressed and completely unfazed by the interaction, before finally, he shrugged, noncommittally. He'd been through weirder.  

Two lights appeared in the darkness. To Rigel's right, the ladder had returned, illuminated by ambient street light from the open manhole above. Looking up, he could hear the distant, celebratory noise of the Black Parade and he shuddered, he very much did not wish to return to it. Not that he could. He was barely able to walk as was, much less climb.

To his left, farther into the darkness, an arched wooden gate stood half-hidden in shadow. A single, melted-down candle stub burned dimly above it, inviting him inside. Follow the glow and you might have a prayer.

Rigel huffed, and, not for the first time today, he made the stupid decision likely to get himself killed and hobbled towards the archway.

Chapter Text

"From childhood's hour, I have not been as others were. I have not seen as other's saw. And all I loved, I loved alone." —Edgar Allen Poe

...

Squaring his shoulders, Rigel forced his shaking hands up to the gate and hesitantly pushed it open. The boy instantly regretted it. Cold air bit at the back of his neck, the boy's body shivered at the night's chill. Clearly, he was outside again.

But not in the alley.

A full moon shone over rolling hills covered with jagged tombstones, concrete angels, and hulking mausoleums. An engraved stone archway above Rigel's head read MORDEN CEMETERY.

This was no parade float, with cardboard headstones and crepe-paper trees. It was the real Morden Cemetery... Rigel didn't know where that was. He didn't know where he was. The boy swallowed, shaking his head, he was okay. He was in pain, his leg hurt, but he was not a nine year old glancing around unfamiliar streets curiously as they'd made their way to the Jackalfax Town Square—a place now of little more than terrible memories and suffocating absence for Rigel.

That was the bad news. The worse news was that, once again, Rigel was not alone. And no, his throbbing leg did not count as company. Regretfully.

A groan rose from the ground beneath his feet. He was standing on a grave, and the grave had a corpse, and the corpse had a head, and the head was emerging from the sodden earth with an eerie, rasping moan.

Rigel blinked—How was that even possible? People were buried in coffins, unless they came back as magic zombies—

Nope! So, not the time to debate the logistics of if Zombies were even possible. Plus, he wasn't sure he wanted to know if there were magic zombies. Normal zombies were bad enough, well... no zombies were normal... but, you get the idea.

Rigel stumbled back, ripping his ankle from the corpse's grasp—its nails scratching his skin painfully. Quietly, he stumbled back, farther and farther backwards as he pondered what to do. He paused, a—rather loathsome—idea crossing his mind. Then he shook his head, their eardrums were probably well and truly decayed by now, he doubted his singing would even work on them.

There were several more—Rigel could hear each of them all around, rising from their previously undisturbed rest one by one. Rigel crinkled his nose at the, almost chalky cement-like substance on his ankle. Grey flash had wiped off onto his skin, leaving a texture rather along tk dried mud.

"How loathsome," He murmured, refusing to throw aside his dignify to scream like a maniac despite the fact that he very muchly wanted to. He fought the impulse well, mainly because he had practise. People's stupidity could only be so tolerable. Regardless, he would not give in to his maniacal urges: Decorum makes dignity, dignity makes man.

There were dozens now, coming fast like a tidal wave, their hungry white eyes fixed on him, strangely enough Rigel couldn't find it in himself to be scared. He was calm, for all that a wave of zombie corpses should be terrifying, all he felt was... relief. He couldn't feel anything coming from them, no pain, desire, hate, excitement, sorrow, hatred. It was all, free. He was free.

He almost wanted to let them get him, Morrigan wouldn't care if he died tonight. He doubted She wouldn't even notice, she deserved better than him anyway. She deserved better. Better than him. Hesitantly, almost in a trance, he stepped forward, eyes glazed over. Another hand wrapped around his legs, one scratched at his shoulder—all he could think was that he deserved this. He deserved to die. He was not worth a—

Morrigan. Rigel's tunnels back with a gasp, oh. Oh. He could feel from them. Morden, meaning moor hill, or in German: to kill. Murderers. Murderers who had killed... themselves. He was in a graveyard of people who had killed themselves. That was why he was—he'd been so relieved. Because they were.

Nausea and horror twisted in his stomach, a deadly tango, both desperately searching for dominance. Bile coated the back of his throat and the boy grimaced as he swallowed it down. There was... so much pain. And it was flooding him all that pain. How could they bear it? How was he ever going to stop noticing it?

Skin and muscle hung loose, rotting on their bones. Burial clothes, all shredded and greying with age. These were nothing like the costumed zombies on the Black Parade float, with their artfully torn clothes and caked green makeup. These were the rising dead. And they were coming for him, coming to have him join them in their eternal misery. Rigel stumbled further back, tears still streaming down his face as he sobbed—he wasn't sure what was worse.

This overwhelming, unending darkness or that terrible empty nothingness.

"RAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"

A curly-haired, gangly-limbed storm of fist and flame tore through the horde, screaming itself hoarse. The corpses stumbled away, if not in fear, then at least in mild alarm.

"Take tha—oh." Hawthorne Swift lowered the flaming torch in his hand," I thought you were Morrigan."

Rigel heaved a shaky inhale, brushing away his tears in a single Swift motion and squaring his shoulders," We are twins, I suppose."

Has This done tilted his head, concern flooding his features," Are you... crying?"

"It's... It's nothing." Rigel graced him with to an answer," I... appreciate the aid, Hawthorne."

Swift gave a dorky smile," You called me Hawthorne."

Rigel blinked. Oh. Oh no. He did not like this. He did not like this one bit. The boy forced his lips into their pursed frown as he glanced away, a light blush coating his face," No I didn't."

"Yes you did." The boys grin grew," You like me."

He scoffed," Hardly."

Hawthorne's clothes were torn, and he had leaves and bits of twigs tangled in his scraggly curls, an endearingly dorky half-grin graced his features and Rigel felt warm and safe underneath it, like there was this... invisible glow protecting him—like he was standing underneath the sun. Though, perhaps that came more from the torch the boy clutched in both hands, swinging in wild haphazard blows, arms flexing with muscle each time he moved them.

Rigel swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as he titled his head, his own darker curls falling in front of his face—untamed from the events of the night. He'd never seen a boys muscles before, much less a boy his own age. Well he'd seen his own but.. they were neither impressive, nor unimpressive. He wasn't stocky or broad, his figure was lean, arms strong but not particularly muscular, he stood at around 4'7, neither tall nor short, and while his shoulders were solid, they weren't particularly broad.

"Are you sure about that—"

A loud cry cut them both off and Rigel blinked, recognising Morrigan's voice. The boy straightened, squaring his shoulders, schooling his expression and shoving away his tears as he and Swift exchanged looks.

Rigel slammed a hand over the boys mouth and pulled him behind the trees skirting the cemeteries border as they rushed towards the sound, careful to remain hidden. The boy hushed Hawthorne, hiding behind a headstone as they caught sight of Morrigan. Half a moment passed before Rigel spoke mind rushing.

"Okay, there's one zombie gripping her ankle, anchoring her in place. Three more are closing in, roughly five meters out, moving at about one-point-six meters per second. Estimated time to contact: three to four seconds, depending on terrain resistance. If you throw your torch from here—at a thirty-two-degree angle and a velocity of... about fifteen meters per second—it should arc cleanly over the headstones, pass directly through the path of the three incoming zombies, and strike the one holding her. That'll sca—."

"ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Swift held his flaming torch in hand, waving it around like a maniac as he ran forwards, swinging it in wild arcs, and utterly ignoring Rigel's entire plan. Rigel's eye twitched, his fingers reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose—he refused to acknowledge the amused smile tugging at his lips, shoving it down with the expertise of some one who had lived in Crow Manor all their life. Fool.

Silent and swift, Rigel snuck around the trees, light on his feet and careful not to make a sound as adrenaline flooded him, his leg going almost... numb. He slipped out form behind the tree Morrigan beside him and Swift in front, waving his torch around with all the manners of a Neanderthal.

"Where have you been?" Morrigan asked, sounding relieved.

"Me?" said Swift. "Where have you been? I was shouting for you and I tried to climb down, and then the alley went dark, and these witches showed up—"

"Coven Thirteen!" Morrigan finished. "I met them too, and they were awful, and they said we're going to get—"

"Two frights each, I know." Swift's eyes were wide as dinner plates, he lunged forward and swept the torch back and forth like a sword. The dead kept crawling from their graves like rats from a sewer.

Morrigan shuddered. "How do we get out?"

"No idea." Swift responded.

"Well, how'd you get here?"

"Dunno. It's like I was in a tunnel, and at one end I could see the Black Parade, and at the other end there was just this candle, and I knew if I went back to the parade I'd be kicked out of the trials, so I just..."

"Followed the glow?" Morrigan gasped, grabbing his shoulder. "Hawthorne, Rigel—the candle! Follow the glow, that's what the witches said. I followed a candle through the gate and—"

"They're getting closer!" Hawthorne shouted breathlessly, still swinging. "Let's make a run for it."

"And how exactly—will you be careful!" Morrigan and Rigel ducked once more, narrowly missing a torch to the head. "Where'd you get that thing?"

"It was hanging outside a crypt. Up there, beneath..." Hawthorne trailed off, his eyes suddenly alight. Morrigan followed his gaze to a marble tomb, the biggest in the cemetery, at the top of a gently sloping hill. "...Beneath the angel. The angel statue—above the crypt—it was holding a candle, I'm sure it was."

"Follow the angel and you might have a prayer," Rigel quoted, voice dry," A clue. How generous."

Morrigan grinned, clearly thinking the same thing. Swift led the way, using the torch to beat a path through their attackers like an explorer hacking through thick jungle with a machete. The zombies ducked and stumbled, melting away from the fire in fear.

There was a flicker of light at the crest of the hill—a small, glowing beacon, drawing them onward. They were going to make it! The crypt was close, it was so close, it was—

"Locked," puffed Hawthorne. He dropped the torch, pulling at the iron door with all his might. Morrigan joined in, but even with their combined strength the door wouldn't budge.

"Hold them back," Rigel ordered, pulling out to bobby pin that had lost themselves to his unruly curls," I'll pick the lock."

Quietly, he slipped them between his teeth, pulling off the rubbery ends and he jingled them around in the padlock, which opened with a satisfying click.

A renewed chorus of groans rose up behind them, the rasping scrape of flesh and bone dragging across pebbled ground as the unhappy residents of Morden Cemetery closed in. Hawthorne snatched up the torch again and, in his panic, swung a bit too enthusiastically. With one last arcing whoosh through the air, the flame blew out.

"Come on," he ordered. But Morrigan was frozen in place.

Without thinking, Rigel surged forward, grabbing both Morrigan and Swift by the arms and shoving them behind him, arms spread wide to shield them as the undead reached out with decaying hands.

A loud, whooshing sound roared behind him. Pain flared through his back—then something... burst. That tense rubber-band-like pressure on his back for the last several months snapped, releasing every ounce of tension and aching all at one into something heavy, unfurling from within, settling across his shoulders with an unfamiliar weight.

Behind him, Morrigan and Hawthorne both gasped.

"Go!" Rigel barked.

"Wait!" Morrigan shouted. "I have an idea!"

Rigel swallowed hard as she grabbed his wrists. He tensed, bracing himself for a blow, for something sharp or sudden to strike. He flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Is it a good one?" Hawthorne asked hesitantly. "Better than sprinting into a creepy tunnel, getting trapped, and eaten alive by zombies?"

"Yes," she said quickly.

Rigel's eyes narrowed. Her voice was too high. He could feel the sharp tremor of uncertainty bleeding through her grip and right into his own chest. She was lying.

He had two choices: pull away—or trust her.

He forced himself to glance past the clawing hands of the dead, past the chill creeping into his bones, and focused on Morrigan. He shoved aside the terror, the sorrow, uncertainty, and overwhelming hopelessness, and forced himself to focus. Beneath the panic, beneath the doubt, beneath the lie—there was sincerity.

("There will come a day," Mary had once whispered, brushing aside his curls and tilting his chin toward her eyes, "when you must choose: the logical decision, or the loyal one. To expect faith, you must have some, my dear. Morrigan trusts you implicitly—one day you will show her that you trust her too.")

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" Swift asked. To expect faith, you must have some.

Rigel lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and ignored the strange weight on his back and the icy air grazing bare skin. The cool fabric clinging to his back.

"Nope," Morrigan said. And Rigel turned to her, just barely catching sight of a spade glinting in the dirt before his sister pulled him and Hawthorne.

And then—they fell.

There was wind, sharp and cold against something unfamiliar. A limb, maybe? Something that wasn't there before. Rigel winced, pulling Morrigan and Hawthorne close.

Something soft—dark and vast and furry—curled tightly around them from behind. They cushioned the fall, cradling the trio in their descent. He braced for impact. For stone or earth or bone-snapping pain. But it never came.

They plummeted—Morrigan and Hawthorne screaming all the way—through icy darkness.

When they landed, it was with a soft thump on damp grass. Dew clung to his clothes, the cool, torn wet fabric pressing against his flesh. the scent of mossy earth grounding them. For a moment, they lay there, gasping and giddy with relief.

"Rigel," Hawthorne wheezed, rolling over to lock eyes with the boy, "you're an angel?"

Rigel blinked. "Thank you?"

"Wha... No!" Swift corrected," Literally! You're an angel!"

"You have wings?" Morrigan gaped. "And you never told me?"

"What in the name of the Divine Thing are you on about?" Rigel inquired, heaving himself up—only to topple sideways from the unfamiliar weight dragging him down.

He rolled over, confused, trying to see what was stuck to him.

And then he froze.

There—rising from his back—were two enormous furry stretches of fabric.

No, not furred. Not fabric. Wings, feathered wings.

Feather's a shade of blue so dark they appeared almost black and put the night sky to shame—with each feather's rachis and quill shimmering a faint gold, perfectly matching the few pure golden feather's scattered throughout the wings and the almost armour-like cluster of them resting on the top crest. Grey and white feathers could be seen just slightly out of the corner of his eyes on the underside of his scapula's and the inside of his wings before they faded out into the dark blue—unnoticed by any one unless specifically shown. Rigel stared, unable to breathe or speak, simply frozen, mouth agape.

"Rigel?" Hawthorne asked, tilting his head as he stared up at the boy, eyes gleaming with curiosity and concern," Are you okay?"

"No," He croaked out, absently, glancing around as though just now aware of his surrounding, as he forced himself up. He paced around, leg throbbing and occasionally giving out underneath him as Morrigan and Hawthorne pulled themselves up," I don't—I can't—Why do I have wings? I don't want wings!"

And then they were gone—a single whooshing sound as they retracted into his flesh, leaving no sign they'd been there in the first place. And Rigel was standing there, the back of his shirt and sweater torn open, hands trembling violently. His leg throbbing as tears of confusion and uncertainty trickled out of his eyes. He didn't understand. Why couldn't he understand? He'd read about angels, only briefly. Some had the ability to retract their wings, but he'd not heard of one being able to see into the future.

He straightened, expression falling into impassiveness as he pinched the bridge fo his nose and inhaled deeply. He pointed his chin up towards the sky and shoved all emotions form his body as he turned to them all," Not a word, am I clear? Not to Jupiter, or your parents, or your patron. No one."

Morrigan and Hawthorne nodded, expressions a strange mix of sympathy and concern.

"Morrigan," Rigel spoke," My coat."

Morrigan nodded, pulling off the extra coat still draped tightly over her shoulders and Rigel shrugged it on, buttoning it up in an effort to hide how ridiculous he looked. He grabbed his scarf off her neck and wrapped it around his own tightly.

Clearly sending the tense atmosphere, Hawthorne gave Rigel a long look before turning to Morrigan," How did you know that would work?"

"Didn't. Guessed."

Rigel glance around, trying to figure out where they were. The air was richly autumnal. It smelled of rain and chimney smoke and decomposing leaves. Of apples and beeswax. The moon seemed brighter and yellower here. It was as if someone had taken the autumn night and turned it up several notches. Everything was just a bit... more.

Oh. Wunsoc weather. Lovely.

"Good guess."

Morrigan got up and dusted herself off. They were in a garden courtyard, surrounded by twenty-foot-tall hedges. Tiny golden lights twinkled among the foliage. At one end of the courtyard, a pond burbled pleasantly. At the opposite end, an apple tree had dropped its mottled red harvest on the ground. To their left, a natural archway in the hedge led to a dark, foggy path. To their right, a wooden gate was ajar, shining a beam of pale, silvery light into the courtyard.

"Where are we?" Hawthorne asked.

"In the Wundrous Society gardens," Rigel answered.

"Oh!" he said, surprised. "Is that it, then? Did we pass?"

"I doubt it," Rigel said, at the same time Morrigan responded," Not sure. Aren't we supposed to have two frights?"

Hawthorne screwed up his face. "I was hoping the witches counted as one."

"Doubtful," Rigel dismissed," They were just a cheap trick for the elders to invite some Hallowmas cheer to the occasion." He sneered, before lowering his voice and grumbling out," I hate holidays."

He'd never had a good track record. He couldn't name a single Yule where he hadn't been caned or beaten, couldn't name a birthday that had been remotely happy, a Christmas where they're family had so much as wished them a merry day, or a Hallowmas or Loki's Fools where their father hadn't taken his poor mood out on Rigel. Not a single holiday in his life had been happy.

And he had a feeling that this would go down as one of the worse one's yet, right up with his ninth birthday or the Christmas that same year where his father had finally grown sick of his tales of The Humming Man, his nightmares, terrors, sleep paralysis, and his shaking hands, and shipped him off to an insane asylum.

As much as he'd love for both this trial and Hallowmas to be over with, he had a feeling he wouldn't be so lucky. The witches were creepy, and he'd be overjoyed and endlessly relieved never to set foot inside Morden Cemetery again (that was a first, Rigel not wanting to spend his free time in a cemetery), but even so... he couldn't see why anyone would call this the Nervous Breakdown Trial.

It felt peaceful and safe in the courtyard, warm and pleasant and comfortable and wrong. So very wrong. Too blissful and happy and careless. It was unnatural.

A part of him drifted as if in a dream, drawn by the pleasant tinkling sound of the pond. It felt like the water itself was beckoning him on, pulling him on a string. Rigel fought it with every ounce of his being, trying to locate the source of his bewitchment. He had a feeling he was under the effects of a charmed item, apparently the witches had been more than a cheap parlour trick after all.

Then he saw it. A golden light on the broken surface of the water. On a stone in the centre of the pond sat a single candle, dripping tiny rivers of melted, glowing wax into the water. Illuminating the ripples on the surface and reflecting on the golden-orange scales of the Koi fish that swam through the pond.

"Morrigan, Rigel, look!" he shouted from the opposite end of the courtyard. "I found it! I found the next candle!"

Morrigan ran to where he was standing beneath the tree, pointing up into the branches. Sure enough, right at the top of the uppermost branch sat a burned-down candle stub in a pool of molten wax. A quick investigation revealed a third candle melted onto the handle of the wooden gate, and a fourth dripping into the grass beneath the shadowy archway. Rigel watched in a mixture of incredulity and bemusement. Surely they weren't that daft.

He glance around the clearing, and his eyebrows flew up as he met the gaze of none other than Cadence Blackburn who gestured to them with an incredulous expression and then raised a brow at him as thought to say Are they serious?

He sighed resignedly and gave a single nod. Her jaw parted in, eyebrows drawing together in pity. The pair resumed staring at the pair of bickering fools.

"Which are we supposed to follow?" said Morrigan.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Hawthorne, looking puzzled.

"The pond," said Morrigan, at the exact same moment Hawthorne said, "The apple tree."

"No, the pond," she insisted. "Don't you see, we're supposed to jump in! How can you follow the glow when it's stuck up a tree?"

"Climb it! Duh."

"And what, break our legs on the way down?"

"We can't stay here all night," said Hawthorne. "Let's draw straws."

"We don't have straws."

"Paper-scissors-rock, then."

Morrigan groaned, exasperated. "Fine."

Rigel and Cadence traded looks, the pair silently arguing over who get to deal with this. Finally, Cadence rolled her eyes and huffed.

"Are you two completely stupid?" She asked, finally stepping out from the shadows. Rigel snorted, but even then he respected the blunt delivery. No sugar-coating. He glanced at her properly, finally.

Her long, thick hair was in two braids, and she wore flannel pyjamas, a bathrobe, and striped woollen socks. The witches of Coven Thirteen must have pulled her straight out of bed.

"What are you doing here?" Morrigan demanded with a glare. Rigel rolled his eyes, here we go with the self-righteousness.

"What do you think?" Cadence drawled, rolling her eyes. "Fright Trial. Same as you."

Morrigan scowled. "You're a cheat, Cadence."

"You—" The girl's sour expression faltered, and surprise flickered briefly across her face. "You remember me?"

"Of course I remember you," Morrigan scoffed, drawing herself up to her full (rather unimpressive) height. "You mesmerised those two twins out of completing their trial, and then you stole Rigel's first target."

Rigel hadn't told her the truth, letting her believe what they'd told the official. Cadence didn't seem all that bothered.

Cadence stared silently, her mouth slightly open. Morrigan wondered if she was going to apologize, but then she seemed to snap out of it. "So? He's here, isn't he?"

"Hope the dinner was worth cheating for," Morrigan said resentfully, clearly not over Jupiter's petulant avoidance of Baz Charlton. "S'pose you and Elder Quinn are best friends now, are you?"

"No, actually." Cadence stood, pulling her bathrobe tight around her. It was streaked with dirt, and she had twigs and leaves in her hair. Rigel winced, fully aware that he probably looked worse. His lips twitched into a not-pout, he hated camping for a reason. "If you must know, Noelle got given my invitation and I, hers. She wouldn't shut up about it for weeks" Cadence finished abruptly, looking bitter and resentful. Rigel sneered, making a note to hex Noelle on Cadence's behalf. She was the only one of his peers he truly respected: her ruthlessness, but moral code were equal to his own and he would not allow her to be treated with such disrespect. He wondered vaguely if she would appreciate voodoo dolls of Deveraux and Charlton, perhaps they could set them on fire together! The girl walked to the edge of the pond. "Anyway, have you figured it out yet, idiots?"

"Figured what out?" asked Hawthorne.

Rigel sighed, getting the feeling that if he didn't step in then their precious feelings would get hurt by Cadence's brutal honesty," We're not supposed to pick the same one. It's a Mirabilis Affinitas Bewitchment. It draws you to whichever element you identify with through the use of Ambient Wunder, which allows the enchantment to work on multiple individuals without needing to be recast each time it's effects reached some one as it would if it were powered by the individual celestial arts of a singular person."

"The others all just ran straight through the arch or climbed the stupid tree or whatever." Cadence scoffed. "You're the only two idiots who've decided to draw straws."

"Others?" said Hawthorne. "How many people have been through?"

"A maximum of one-hundred-and-forty-six." Rigel explained, they glanced at him in surprise. "Weren't you paying attention at The Chase Trial? There were only one-hundred-and-fifty targets and four of us are here. It's basic math."

"Whatever. We all get dumped here and everyone goes gaga over one of the candles. It's part of the test. You're supposed to pick the one you're drawn to. At least," She offered a practised shrug of indifference, "that's what I think. Your brother must know it better, I didn't understand a word he just said."

Rigel huffed, though it was habit than any real bite. He was tired, cold, wet, confused and exhausted. He was not a creature of the cold and he wanted to be in his bed with warm, fluffy blankets. Though. He did not want to sleep, he did not think sleep paralysis or The Humming Man would make his day better," Honestly. Do none of you know how to open a book? What if you need the knowledge? Or you get injured?"

Hawthorne grinned, wrapping an arm around his shoulders," That's what we have you for!"

Rigel grumbled some words he usually wouldn't utter in front of Morrigan—or any children—under his breath half-heartedly. Thankfully, they'd all turned their attention back to Cadence and hadn't picked up on anything he'd said. Inwardly, he crinkled his nose at his lack of decorum. Decorum makes dignity, a man without dignity is a man not at all.

"Why haven't you gone through, then, if you're so brilliant?" asked Hawthorne. "You scared?"

Cadence made a face at him. "Course I'm not scared. I just—nobody's jumped in the pond yet. They've all gone for the other three. I was waiting..."

Morrigan groaned. "Oh, of course—you were waiting to see what happens! You don't want to jump in first yourself in case it's something bad. You're a cheat and a coward. Well, I don't care, I'm not afraid," Morrigan's lie was rather obvious and Cadence shot Rigel and exasperated look. "Hawthorne," she ordered, and probably would have sounded more confident were she not squeezing her eyes shut. "You climb the tree. I'm jumping in the water. Rigel, do whatever calls to you."

Rigel scoffed. He had spontaneously trusted his sister enough for one night.

"Are you sure you don't—"

"Count of three," she continued, before he could talk her out of it. "One—"

"Three!" shouted Cadence, and pushed Morrigan from behind. Rigel sighed and shot Cadence a look.

"Really?" He asked tiredly, raising a chiding brow. She shrugged unapologetically.

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," Then, she peered into the lake and asked bluntly," Do you think she's dead?"

Rigel shrugged, grabbed Cadence's hand in his own and plunged into the freezing lake, loathing himself for the decision before he even hit the water, pulling Cadence into alongside him.

The pair plunged down into the depths of the pond, sinking lower and lower. Rigel almost began to kick and paddle desperately like Cadence, but stopped as he felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise like they had when he'd gone down a tricksy lane. He needed to push past the trick. He reached a hand out to Cadence, arm gesturing for her to still her movements as he tugged her close to his chest in an almost protective embrace. His lungs burned as he slowly exhaled, trying to hold onto his breaths as long as possible, his chest contracted more and more with every passing second, cheeks puffing out desperately, but he held his mouth shut until there was no more breath left in her lungs. Cadence kicked and struggled in his grasp, opening her eyes in the dark water but he shook his head.

There were to options: Out-last the trick, or trick the trick. And he didn't have the resources to trick the trick.

There was no candlelight above. Everything was black. His lungs burned. They were going to drown, they were going to die, and then—

Still.

Dark.

Dry.

Land.

Rigel and Cadence gulped mouthfuls of sweet, cold air into their empty lungs. A moment passed, Cadence still clutched tight against his chest, panting desperately. And then, she whacked his chest.

"What the hell?"

Rigel shrugged, rolling her off of him so they were both lying on the concrete, breathing heavily side-by-side. Then, he grinned like an idiot, the events of the evening finally catching up to him as he spoke," A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do."

He didn't need to look at her to know what she was doing, he could feel Cadence's irritation and the burning glare she was directing at him.

"I loathe you." She hissed through her desperate gasps, shivering as she huddled closer to him for warmth.

"That's nice," Rigel hummed, strangely serene. He paused. "Are you going to tell any one?"

She huffed, then rolled over onto her side, propping her elbow up as she rested her cheek on her closed fist. She was silent a moment, analysing him and Rigel took the time to glance at the stars, he could see the cluster of stars that made up the faint outline of the Leon constellation, to its east sat Athens, to the west was Carcenus, and above it sat Kallisto.

Finally she spoke, it wasn't a reassurance. Not in the traditional sense. More... an offer. An insurance," I mesmerised Baz into sponsoring me."

Rigel recognised what she was truly saying: If I share your secret, you can share mine.

He hummed. She rolled back over. A comfortable silence stretched between them as they sat there, chilled to the bone, shivering almost absently in the autumn cold. It was broken by her.

"Why?"

He hesitated," I don't know."

"That's not a reason."

"Yes," He corrected," It is. You just don't know it. Not yet."

"No," Cadence's voice shifted, deepening and Rigel turned in confusion, only for his body to grow rigid at the sight of his father," It's not."

Rigel hastily picked himself up, staring at the man in horror. He waited, refusing to believe the part of his mind that screamed this isn't real. His voice cracked as he spoke," Father?"

The boy shrunk in on himself, lifting his hands to protect his head and cowering as he waited... something. A sneer. A shout. A fist. A belt. But nothing came. Hesitantly, he glanced up.

His father was smiling, beaming with an unnatural joy that Rigel had never seen in his life. He'd never seen his father do anything but scowl and tower over him," Look at me, Rigel," He ordered, hand reaching up to tilt Rigel's head upwards. Rigel flinched back, violently. His father didn't clench his jaw or dig his nails into the boys flesh though, instead his eyes softened and he ran a hand hesitantly through his curls," I am so proud of you."

Rigel breathed out a trembling sob," What?"

"I'm proud of you." He smiled.

Tears streaked down Rigel's face, horror, fear and guilt settling into him. He didn't understand. This was what he'd always wanted. His father's pride. So... why did it feel so wrong?

(Why did it feel so awful to finally hear aloud what he had begged, pleaded, prayed, cried and bled for his whole life?)

The realisation hit him like a truck, the truth sinking deep into his bones. He didn't want to be some one his father was proud of. He didn't want his father to look at him with love and respect, he wanted a father to. He wanted a good person to see him as he was and love him, not respect him for who he had turned into. He wanted somebody to love the light in him, not to nurture the darkness.

He wanted the pride for his personality, not arbitrary achievement.

Silently, the boy rose from the ground and fixed his father with a menacing glare. He stood on shaking legs, shivering and sopping wet int he cold, covered in dried blood and clothes torn and looked his father dead in the eye as he spoke," I don't want your pride. I don't want you to love me. I want my family—the people I choose—to love the kindness in my heart, not for my blood to respect the cruelty in my soul."

His father's face flickered, form tensing into a familiar demon. Rigel did not care to grace the echo of his father's wrath with his presence, instead; he turned and walked away. Following a path towards a golden spotlight.

His father shouted and raged behind him, shouting wards that would surely haunt Rigel's mind later, despite their lack of an effect currently," You can't escape me, Rigel! You are my son, you are the spitting image of me. My flaws and faults live on in you."

He scoffed, stopping just a step from his destination and turned to the side, face illuminated in the half-light," No. My demons are my own, you do not get to claim any part of me as yours any longer, Father. Every part of me, the good and the bad, belongs with my family. It belongs in Nevermoor."

Finally, he took a single step into the golden circle and focused, summoning every ounce of energy to his back as wings burst form his shoulder-blades and he launched himself upwards, golden feathers glistening in the light. He stepped forward, banishing his wings with the last of his energy as he slumped his shoulders and stepped forwards, the events of the night catching up to him. He leaned an arm out to the dumpster beside him, holding his exhausted form up.

Something soft tugged at his body, an unfamiliar emotion rushed through him, not unlike the jovial cheer of Jupiter or the warm comfort of Mary or even Martha. But this felt deeper somehow, older, more sacred. It was heavier, though still comforting and warm it carried a weight to it—like there was a level of pride or gratitude to be held in response to it, the air wrapped around him like a cocoon of comfort despite his shivering form, almost as though Nevermoor herself was reassuring him. Embracing him. Protecting him.

His eyes slipped shut for a moment, and he opened them blearily once more. Before he could slump against the wall the night went dark and silent again, as if all the noise and light of the Black Parade had been swallowed up. As if the moon itself had gone out.

A match was struck in the darkness, and suddenly Rigel was surrounded by the veiled, candlelit faces of Coven Thirteen. The boy straightened, expression impassive as he glance up at the witched before him, silently daring them to hurt him.

Their seven voices rose as one.

"We are the witches of Coven Thirteen. Abigail, Amity, Stella, Nadine. Zoe, Rosario, Sweet Mother Nell. For your bravery and wit, have been chosen, young crow. And thus you shall proceed to the Trial of Show. Your courage and daring while facing a fright did serve you well on this Hallowmas night. So go with our blessing, go without fuss, and enjoy ten percent off at Cauldrons 'R' Us."

The witches handed him a voucher for a magic supplies shop, a small vial, and an ivory envelope, inside which was an invitation to the final trial—the Show Trial—to take place at the Trollosseum arena on the fifth Saturday in Winter of One.

Coven Thirteen blew out their candles and disappeared. The sights and sounds of the parade returned slowly, rising up around them as if someone were turning a dial, and finally—finally—the Fright Trial was truly over.

Silently, he stared at coupon and then glanced at the vial, which held a single snow white feather. His eye twitched, he was rather tired of feathers. Still, his eyes were drawn to the label and he raised an eye brow. Caladrius Feather.

Quietly, the boy pulled the feather out, resting it against the back of his left leg and holding it in place. The feather warmed, letting out a small soft glow as it took the form of a pure white light and spread out, wrapping itself around his injured leg before the glow slowly faded until the light had vanished completely, taking every ounce of pain along with it.

Rigel breathed out a sigh of relief and pulled his coat tighter as he glanced around and steadily stepped forward, in search of Morrigan and Hawthorne. Hs eyes swept across his surroundings as he stalked out of the alley, only for him to walk straight into a pair of familiar children.

"Rigel," Morrigan breathed, wrapping her arms around him tight. He tensed hesitantly and then slowly returned her hug.

A beat passed before Rigel gave a tense nod," Okay. That's enough now." He offered," We should go find Fen, before she gets mad."

The parade was ending just as they got back, much to Hawthorne's disappointment. He and Morrigan made their way through the dispersing crowd to find Fenestra, who was nowhere to be seen.

"She's going to murder us," Morrigan groaned. "Come on, let's get to the Wunderground, maybe she's looking for us there."

"It's not really our fault, is it?" Hawthorne asked, picking up the pace. "I can't wait to tell my mom about the zombies, she'll be so jealous."

"I wonder if Cadence ever left the courtyard." Rigel snorted, mind flashing to her screaming and burning glare. Yeah, she'd left the courtyard.

"Who's Cadence?" Rigel rolled his eyes, Swift wasn't going to be able to fight the Mesmer.

"The girl who pushed me in the pond—that's her name, Cadence Blackburn." Morrigan ducked as a bat swooped overhead, its last hurrah for Hallowmas. "I wonder if she ever jumped in. Probably still sitting there, the chicken."

Hawthorne looked puzzled. Were it under different circumstance, Rigel would have found this hilarious. "What are you talking about?"

"What happened after I left? Did you see her jump in, or—"

"See who jump in?"

"Very funny, Hawth—oof!" A woman in a pumpkin costume knocked into Morrigan and sent her sprawling to the ground, then hurried past without noticing. Rigel sneered at her retreating form.

"Dear me, how rude," A man's voice chided. "Are you all right? Let me help you." Rigel turned, more than aware Morrigan would probably want Swift's help over his, to see a man in a grey overcoat with a silvery scarf wrapped around his neck and half his face. He made to reach out a gloved hand, but, predictably, Hawthorne was already helping her up off the cobblestones.

Rigel glance at the strangely familiar man, furrowing his brows in confusion. Then, like a light had clicked inside him, he realised. It was Mr. Jones. Ezra Squall. The Wundersmith. He swallowed thickly, throat suddenly dry.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Oh, it's you," the man said, pulling down the scarf to reveal a familiar pale face and bemused smile. "Hello again, Miss Crow—"Please don't notice me, please don't notice me."—Mister Crow, I don't believe we've run into each other in Nevermoor yet."

Rigel froze from where he'd been trying to make an exit, wincing as he turned back around and gave a pained smile," Mr. Jones," He offered, rather poorly forcing cheer to his voice," Lovely to make your acquaintance."

That came out more sarcastic then he'd intended.

"Mr. Jones!" Morrigan exclaimed behind him, dusting off her hands and trousers. "What are you doing back in Nevermoor?"

He blinked. "Just visiting some old friends. They were in the parade, I thought I'd lend my support."

Rigel narrowed his eyes. Squall's bottom lip twitched outward slightly.

"I haven't seen you at the Hotel Deucalion. Are you staying somewhere else?"

Squall looked faintly surprised. "Goodness, no. I'd never stay anywhere but the Deucalion. I'm afraid my employer couldn't spare me for long this time; I'm only here for the evening's festivities." No lips twitch. But... perhaps a half truth?

"It's a long way to come just for one night. You must really love the Black Parade."

Rigel titled his head, from the Republic to Nevermoor in just one night wasn't just a long way, but for a man such as Ezra Squall, any travel into Nevermoor should've been impossible. His eyes narrowed into slits as he glanced at the man, mind racing a million miles a minute. Realisation settled deep into him.

He'd never seen 'Mr. Jones' touch a thing, and Morrigan had never mentioned it. Was he... using the Gossamer Line? 

Rigel had read about that, he'd run out of books and hadn't wanted to go to the bookstore while it was pouring rain so he'd simply slipped into Jupiter's study and grabbed one off the shelf. It had become a habit after that, Jupiter was gone for weeks and Rigel would keep a book for weeks and then when Jupiter came back, it made its way back onto the shelf within the hour.

As long as the books kept going back, no one had to wonder where Jupiter was. Least of all Rigel—he had more important things to spare his concern for than Jupiter's inability to take care of himself.

(No one needed to know he'd already read every book in the study and had moved onto the habit of buying a new book and placing it on the man's bookshelf whenever he returned safely. Or that the one time Jupiter had returned with a cut on his arm, he had not received a new—thus far unnoticed—addition to his library.)

Why would Squall be using The Gossamer to travel to Nevermoor? What could be so important about Morrigan and Rigel that he would follow them aroun—Oh. Oh.

("Every citizen, every household in this country will owe you a debt of thanks. You will be their lifeline—the provider of their warmth, power, food, entertainment. Their every need, every want... all reliant on the use of Wunder, and all filled by the good people at Squall Industries. By you."

His voice had become so soft it was almost a whisper. Morrigan leaned closer, her brother stared, utterly unimpressed.

"Ezra Squall is the nation's greatest hero," he continued. "More than that—he is their benevolent god, the source of their every comfort and happiness. The only living person with the ability to harvest, distribute, and command Wunder. Our Republic relies on him totally.")

That was what a Wundersmith was. Ezra Squall wasn't The Wundersmith. He was a Wundersmith.

He chuckled. "I suppose I do."

Rigel's lip curled, he supposed the man did enjoy watching people celebrate The Courage Square Massacre at the location of The Massacre.

"Well... Happy Hallowmas." Morrigan looked over his shoulder toward the Wunderground station and thought she could see Fen's fluffy grey ears poking up out of the crowd. "We should go. It was nice to—"

"Are you here with your patron?"

"No, my friend. This is—"

"Swift," Ezra Squall did not need Hawthorne's first name," This is our friend, Swift."

Mr. Jones turned to Swift with an amiable nod, his eyes very slightly narrowed in appraisal. "How do you do?"

Swift glanced up at him distractedly. "Thanks. I mean—you too. I mean, good. Morrigan, we've got to go, Fen'll be mad."

"Right. Nice to see you again, Mr. Jones." Rigel did not share the sentiment, so he settled for a curt nod.

"Wait—I've been meaning to ask how your Society trials are going."

"Good, actually!" Morrigan sounded surprised at his interest. Rigel stared at him impassively, watching him steadily grow more unnerved underneath his apathetic gaze with a well-hidden, vindictive sense of amusement. "We just finished one now—the Fright Trial."

"And you made it through?"

"Just," said Morrigan, grinning. She hesitated a moment, like she was going to say something else, but decided against it.

"Congratulations!" He returned her smile. "Three down, one to go. You should be very proud. And I presume you know by now what your knack is?"

Morrigan's smile faltered, and she opened her mouth to respond. Rigel was bout to cut her off but Swift got there before him.

"Morrigan," Swift said pointedly. "Itching powder."

"He's right, Morrigan," Rigel drawled," You ought to go ahead."

"You should go, Miss Crow. I think your friend is in a hurry. Good luck at the Show Trial." Mr. Jones tipped his hat. "Both of you."

Morrigan and Swift smiled, but Rigel lingered behind. Mr. Jones blinked and turned to Rigel with a practised smile," Mister Crow."

Rigel offered the man a curt nod.

"Cut the act," He said bluntly," I know who Mr. Squall is. Meet me at the Deucalion rooftop at quarter-past-three, don't be late or I tell Morrigan everything."

He walked away without awaiting a response. Squall would come, he would. Rigel knew it. And then he would confirm his theory.

...

Morrigan and Swift were rambling out hurried apologies and explanations when Rigel re-joined them, but Fenestra cut the pair off. "I know, I know. Fright Trial. Jupiter said."

"You knew?" Swift asked in surprise.

"Course I knew." Fen rolled her eyes. "Why do you think I pretended to be distracted while you tiny reprobates scurried away? Now, hurry up. If we miss the last train you two are carrying me home."

Rigel nodded, appreciating the insult. He ranked that one right up there with rapscallion and degenerate.

They were following Fen through the station's stuffy, unfathomable maze of stairways and tunnels when Swift finally turned to Morrigan asked, "Who was that weirdo in the grey coat?"

Rigel tensed, keeping a close eye on the conversation.

"Mr. Jones," she said, pulling off her scarf and shoving it in her pocket. Rigel scowled, pulled off his won scarf and draped it over her. She shot him a deadpan look, he returned the favour. She kept the scarf on. "He's not a weirdo, he's nice."

He offered a derisive snort under his breath.

"He asked eleventy-billion questions. I thought he'd never leave. How d'you know him, anyway?"

"Eleventy-billion isn't a number." Rigel corrected," The number you are likely looking for is One-hundred-and-ten billion."

Morrigan and Swift rolled their eyes.

"He offered us an apprenticeship on Bid Day."

Swift's eyebrows shot upward, excitement lacing his voice. Rigel's lip tilted up fondly. "You got two bids? I was excited to get one."

"We got four," Morrigan admitted, her face turning scarlet. She hurried on, "But two were fakes. It was a prank or something."

Swift's face grew thoughtful, and he was silent until they got to their platform. The four of them ran for the last train and leapt on board just before the doors closed, well Fenestra, Morrigan and Swift ran, Rigel jogged after them lightly, scowling deeply.

"Do you know what it is yet?" he asked Morrigan as they settled into the last two seats. Fenestra sat on her haunches nearby, giving the other passengers her trademark glower and Rigel leaned against the wall beside her, offering his own scowl.

"What?" She knew exactly what he meant.

"Your knack. It must be a really good one. To get four bids."

"Two bids," she corrected him, staring resolutely at her shoes. "And it can't be that good if I don't even know what it is."

They sat in silence through the remaining seven stops, although the twins knew Swift was dying to ask more questions. When they emerged into the cool night air, he finally cracked.

"So," he said, nudging Morrigan with his elbow, "what school did the grey weirdo come from?"

Morrigan frowned. "He's not from a school, he's from a company called Squall Industries. And don't call him that."

"He wanted you for an apprenticeship, this Jones guy?"

"N—"

"Yes." Rigel cut her off with an I'll explain later look, directed at the two of them and lowered his voice to a whisper," Just. I'll tell you in Morrigan's room, okay? For now, keep it a secret."

Morrigan and Swift lit up eagerly, Rigel bit back a groan.

"Will you two please stop dawdling?" Fen shouted from nearly a block ahead of them. They ran to catch up. "What were you whispering about back there?"

"Nothing," puffed Morrigan, just as Swift said, "Secrets."

Fenestra side-eyed them both awkwardly and Rigel closed his eyes, pursing his lips in a resigned expression. Finally, she huffed," Whatever."

She stalked down Caddisfly Alley ahead of them, leaving the trio to trail behind her. Only when they'd reached Morrigan's room and settled into bed (two hammocks tonight, swinging side by side), with Rigel taking a spot on her octopus chair in the corner (his polar bear was better) did the they finally speak.

"Spill." Rigel shot Swift a look he typically reserved for when Evie or Matteo forgot their manners," ...Please?"

"Do you really think it's the best idea to talk about the man working for your potential patron to individuals under the employ of your actual patron?" Rigel deflected," Besides, didn't Mr. Jones mention that his boss required discretion. I don't know about you, but he seems like a powerful fallback if we don't make it into The Wundrous Society. I wouldn't want to risk having him revoke his offer."

"We're going to make it into Wunsoc," Morrigan said," I trust Jupiter. He swears we'll pass The Show Trial. And I believe him. Why won't you trust him?"

("Why won't you trust me?" Rigel asked, tears glistening in his eyes," He's real, Father! I swear he's real.")

Rigel was silent for a moment, staring at the wall blankly," Trust is for fools. If you truly expect me to trust a man, then perhaps he should give me something worth having faith in. I've yet to receive anything worthy of disappointment from the man, but that does not mean I have received something worthy of pride."

(Corvus scoffed," Trust is the notion of a fool. If you want me to trust you, then try finally being something worthy of placing my faith in. All I have seen from you is a pathetic little boy worthy of nothing more than disappointment, and eternally unworthy of my pride.")

Morrigan turned, she and Swift fixed him with a long stare, but his own gaze remained locked on the wall ahead, a horrible, hopeless feeling worming its way back into his heart. Flashes of grey flesh, chalking against his own and agonised moans flooded his vision.

"So what?" Swift asked. " You just spend your whole life waiting for somebody to prove themselves as some one to trust before you offer them the slightest bit of faith?"

(A quill pressed onto the line, a shaking hand signing the name Rigel. A frail old woman's voice called out, the boy walked forwards. A glistening lake spread in front of him, he plunged in, dragging the girl alongside him. A ginger man, pulling down a curtain.)

"Yes," He lied, not for the first time.

"That sound like a really lonely existence."

It is. "I manage." He rose, straightening himself," Morrigan, you're not to tell Swift about our other patron, at least, not until after The Show Trial. And the both of you: Not a word about what happened during The Fright Trial. I'll be conducting my own research into it, and will loop you both in once I have results."

They all knew what he was talking about.

...

Rigel arrived at the rooftop at ten-past-three, freshly showered, hair gelled down straight and new, clean and untorn clothes on his back—including a button up shirt in case he needed to remove it quickly to summon back his... whatever.

He sighed, as he was enveloped by the autumn breeze. The air was so crisp and cold it clawed up his nose with every breath, sharp and stinging like static. He clasped his hands—clad in fresh, clean black gloves which clung tightly to his shaking flesh—behind his back as he made his way to the railing on the edge of the rooftop and stared out at the vast city below.

The events of the night flashed before him, grey hands reaching up.

("I'm proud of you, Rigel.")

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep, shaky breath. His eyes stayed clasped shut, the inside of his eyelids his only few for a time that could've been seconds or minutes. In tune, they snapped open with the tick of a clock hand moving in the distance.

A figure stepped forward, standing beside him.

"You came."

"You called."

Rigel glanced to the side, silently appraising the man. Ezra Squall was clad in the same distasteful suit he'd been wearing earlier that night and they boy crinkled his nose," You need a new tailor."

Squall choked," I beg your pardon?"

"Or a new fashion sense, your clothing choices are as abysmal as you are evil," Rigel sniffed," Being villainous and being fashionable are not mutually exclusive, you know."

"I hadn't realised," Squall responded dryly," I'll make note of that in the future. Any suggestions?"

Rigel's eyes narrowed, the flicked over his suit with utter disdain," Avoid serged edges. If I can see the overlocked seams from across the room, then you don't deserve to be in this room. It screams off-the-rack desperation and rushed manufacturing—and really, if you're trying to appear even half as professional as you attempt to sound, you might consider a tailor who knows the difference between assembly-line laziness and pad stitching."

Squall looked mildly affronted, but Rigel wasn't finished," And please, oh please, try replacing it with hand-finished pick stitching—something subtle, dignified, not unlike the kind of precision you no doubt reserve for tearing holes in the fabric of the gossamer. Who knows, perhaps the city of Nevermoor doesn't consider the Courage Square massacre as your worst crime, but rather you life-choices of dressing like a taxidermized banker in a thunderstorm. She might forgive your crimes against humanity if you quit you career of crimes against fashion."

Squall glowered, looking far more than a little affronted now," I was being sarcastic."

Rigel blinked," I wasn't."

He hesitated," Is it really that bad?"

"Send it to me in the mail," Rigel ordered," I wish to burn it."

Squall scowled," I like your sister better."

"Most do."

"Your father certainly did, it seems," The man's eyes glistened with dark promise," Or, well... I suppose he never met her."

Rigel blinked," Pardon?"

"You didn't know?" Squall tilted his head, a taunting smile playing at his lips," You never wondered why Corvus Crow preferred his daughter to his... I mean, his wife's son."

"What are you implying?" Rigel demanded," Morrigan and I are twins."

"Half-twins," He corrected, a smirk crossing his face," Your mother was an interesting woman."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rigel demanded, glaring up at the man," Are you seriously trying to tell me my mother was an adulterer?"

"Well, she certainly wasn't an angel," Squall scoffed," And your father definitely wasn't."

"So, what, being an angel is genetic?" He asked," How do you know I'm not adopted?"

Squall shot him a look," You think Corvus Crow would've kept you if you were neither his, nor your mother's?"

Rigel stared ahead, swallowing back the heavy lump in his throat. It wasn't fair, he knew nothing of his mother. Had nothing of his mother. And when he finally did learn something about her, it was that she was promiscuous. That he'd been born out of wedlock and Morrigan hadn't. He'd spent years silently wishing some one would come along and save him, help him, but each time he forced himself to remember he had no family.

A wave of resentment shot through him. He had a father out there some where. One who hadn't been there. One more relative who'd failed to protect him. He scoffed.

"Heteropaternal superfecundation," He muttered deprecatingly," One of the rarest phenomenons to occur among humans, and yet it happens to me."

Squall glanced at him in surprise," That's the name for it?"

He eyed the man disdainfully," Yes."

"Well," He offered," It didn't occur among humans."

Rigel sneered," We've established that much. The whole, Corvus doesn't have the right genetics for me to be an angel."

This time it was Squall who scoffed," Being an angel isn't genetic, it's hereditary. Angel's don't have DNA." He explained," Think of it like this: angels are made up of divine essence. Akin to the gossamer thread, each angels 'essence' is stitched into something known as a Seraphic Imprint. Which is unique to each angel, but shares traits among them—like how every angel has wings. An imprint is based on what most aligns with them, like... an embroidery patch on their soul. Except these... patches, all share traits among family. Like a father might have a brown patch underneath, though completely varied in decoration, shape and design. Then, his son's patch might be a slightly lighter shade, decorated entirely different, and his son even lighter. That is the thread of essence they share which makes them related. Like mortals, some are eerily alike in personality, which means their Seraphic Imprint looks very similar, resulting in their physical form being very similar. However, some are also polar opposite of their parents, meaning they look nothing alike. This means that a mother and son could appear entirely different ethnicity's, though... ethnicity isn't really a thing among angels. It's a physical trait. Like eye colour or hair colour. You'll find that divine essence and your seraphic imprint show less through your physical appearance and more through the appearance of your wings."

"So..." Rigel furrowed his brows," My biological-father is, uh, basically related to me through the angel equivalent of DNA. Which is like... a mixture of godly ichor and the gossamer thread. And, could be an entirely different race to me."

"I—Yeah. Let's go with that." Squall sounded exhausted. Rigel scoffed, he was the one who opened this can of worms, now he get to deal with it.

"Do you know who my father is?"

"Do you want to know who he is?"

"I don't know."

"Give me your hands," Squall ordered.

"Why?"

"I'm going to create a bridge and take control of your body so that I may write down his name and you can read it later."

Rigel eyed him suspiciously," You actually think I'm going to let myself be possessed by a mass murderer?"

"Oh please," Squall scowled," I wouldn't be able do much harm in the body of an untrained eleven-year-old boy."

"The mass murder supplies, using the information he gives me to support his arguments."

Squall scowled," I value my reputation. I still need you to pick out a new suit since apparently my fashion sense is abysmal."

Rigel pondered that for a moment. Squall did put great care into how he upheld himself, and how he appeared.

"Fine." He huffed, holding his hands up. Their hands met through the gossamer, and for the first time Rigel understood Squall's words that day in town hall, on Eventide.

In that second, the world unlocked for Rigel, intoxicating power flooding through his veins. Joy and glee and freedom and reminiscence seared through his veins, emotions and adrenaline not his own. The boy laughed as he realised he'd made a terrible mistake. Tears of laughter and joy and overwhelming everything rushed through him. Terror gripped him, a grin of glee spreading across his face in a way that was just inherently wrong.

Fear and uncertainty whispered in him as he fell into a dark, warm pit, like he was hiding under a blanket. Every ounce of positivity he'd ever felt in his life could've flooded through him at once in an overwhelming, unnatural, combination, and it still wouldn't have compared to this feeling.

It was like the fright trial all over again, but it wasn't water filling his lungs. Power, Chaos, Madness. He gasped for air desperately through his laughter, tears streaming down his face in a steady river, incapable of stopping,

Vaguely, he was aware of Squall looking at him in a mixture of incredulousness and corned confusion. It was like the sea was colliding, like two waves were crashing against each other, salty water flooding through their lungs, roaring and scratching his throat painfully.

And then, all at once, it stopped. A calm, blissful haze of safety and warmth wrapped around him—everything about it was wrong. And yet, Rigel couldn't help but succumb to it. His body moved around, though it felt more like he was floating above it. His vision was blurred and unfocused, peace and warmth stretched across his conscience, and just as he started to relax into it, he was flooded with cold and plunged into an icy pool as he awakened back in his body.

And Rigel knew. He knew that this power could be his. That he was a Wundersmith.

"Ugh." The two Wundersmiths groaned in synchronisation.

"Your body is horrendous," Squall said, quite bluntly," Truly. The level of pain you're in is abysmal. Is it always like that?"

"Yes." Rigel responded, grabbing the folded paper from the notebook he'd had in his suit jacket and tucking it back in there, along with the small notebook.

He fixed the man a long look, staring at him in silence. Finally, he offered a short, begrudging," Thank you."

Stars, he hated the man.

Mr Jones nodded, and Rigel took the opportunity to walk away, heading firstly to his room to tuck the note away somewhere he wouldn't stumble upon it while he pondered its contents, and collapsing onto his belove polar bear chair. Try as he could to focus on his reading, he was too exhausted and his mind was far too preoccupied by the truth he'd realised today.

With a sigh he walked over to his back and reached out for his small art journal, lingering only slightly on the pages Corvus had torn out and burned before he turned to a new page and began sketching. He scowled as he messed up line after line, eyes burning with frustration as his shaking hands refused to hold steady, and only grew shakier with every attempt to force them to.

His grip on his pencil tightened as he moved it slowly and let out a gasp as his hand cramped the wrong way, pain shooting up it. He breathed shakily in and out, trying to twitch his hand, but ti was stuck, frozen in that painful position. Tears prickled his eyes and a choked whimper tore from his throat as he sat there, body screaming to just move his hands, and hands frozen painfully, shooting a throbbing ache up to his wrists, then his shoulder. Like his nerves were on fire, his arm twitching because of it.

Slowly the tension eased from Rigel's hands, and he ever-so-carefully clenched and unclenched his palms into fists, gasping shortly at the much more manageable waves of pain it sent up to his wrists. He scowled, and turned to the clock built into the top of his bookshelf, raising a brow when he realised it was quarter-to-eight and heading to the bathroom to get ready to go out.

He was going to need to get the supplies today if he wanted any chance of getting Dame Chanda's Christmas gift completed on time.

Chapter Text

"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym."

...

December was the hotel's busiest month, which was only added to the list of reasons Rigel hated it. The foyer buzzed constantly with guests checking in from all over the Free State, coming to experience Christmas in the big city and radiating tons of stress, impatience and excitement towards Rigel wherever he went. Ugh. Rigel hated Christmas, he hated this one even more, because at least Christmas with Corvus was spent too distracted by dreading the current beating to linger on thoughts of the Christmas's past. Rigel had a fool proof plan to avoid Christmas this year, he go shopping the week before (last minute shopping was always the way to go because you could prevent people form bringing it up with the threat of no Christmas presents, only Dame Chanda's gift had been started on Hallowmas night), wrap up everything on the 23rd, and slip it into stockings or under the tree and disappear into his room with the door locked the entire day. He had no doubt (and the deepest gratitude) that Morrigan would find a way to very politely inform people he wasn't a huge fan of Christmas so they wouldn't attempt to interact with him.

Rigel awoke one chilly morning at the beginning of winter, from a rather unkind memory of the asylum, to find that his new home had transformed into a Christmas wonderland overnight. He scowled, pulling the plainest, most boring, un-festive suit he could find (lest somebody see red or green and try to wish him a happy holidays before getting out of his candy-cane themed ensuite as quickly as possible, and walking straight into his elegant north-pole styled bedroom and letting out a short huff. He couldn't fault the hotel for being excited, but his room too? Really? 

The halls were decked with ribbons and evergreen boughs, the foyer lit up by shining, shimmering fir trees dotted with silvery baubles. The Smoking Parlour rolled out emerald-green waves of pine-scented smoke in the morning, red-and-white-striped candy cane smoke in the afternoon, and warm, spicy gingerbread smoke at night. A mistletoe had been hanging over the entrance to the foyer and he'd walked straight underneath with Jupiter, who'd grinned and pulled him into a half hug, pressing a big, sloppy, wet kiss to his forehead and ruffling his perfectly tamed hair (which he was thankful he'd straightened, he would never have recovered if people had found out his hair was curly).

"Good morning, Ri-Ri!"

Rigel death stared him, slowly lifting his hand up to wipe the side of his head with his sleeve as he vowed to the man," My vengeance will be swift and painful."

"Well, wait after the holiday season, yeah?" Jupiter offered, much too chipper for somebody who was alive," Gotta dash! Ra-ra!"

Rigel gave a slow blink, unparalleled rage burning behind his impassive expression, a woman passing by cooed at him. He scowled. She cooed at him again. 

Even the chandelier was embracing the season. It had slowly grown all year long and finally was full size again, but for the past two months it had shifted and changed every few days, as if the Deucalion couldn't settle on a final shape yet. So far this month it had been a shimmery white polar bear, an enormous green holly wreath, a sparkly blue bauble, and now a glittering golden sleigh. Rigel wanted the polar bear back. He also wanted the stupid Christmas Tinsel that The Deucalion had added gone from his polar bear chair.

Back in Jackalfax, Christmas had meant watching Ivy decorate a modest-sized tree, Morrigan adding her own baubles wherever Ivy pointed to and Corvus absconding from his study to add the star at the top of his tree ad pose with his wife, daughter and (step)son. Sometimes it included hanging the odd string of fairy lights (if Grandmother was feeling particularly festive, which she usually wasn't). Occasionally Corvus would drag the twins along to the annual Chancery Christmas party, where they'd be whispered about by overly-conspicuous politicians and their snobby families, none of whom should have career because they were terrible at their jobs.

But Christmas in Nevermoor was a month long celebration that didn't stop, with festive parties and themed suppers to attend almost every night, none of which Rigel bothered attending, preferring to slip away from The Deucalion and spend his days in shady, possibly illegal shopping alleys where there wasn't a bunch of Christmas sales. Choirs and brass bands performed carols in Wunderground stations all over town, so Rigel had settled for walking (he refused to fly, he rather hated his wings, but it burned and bled if he didn't have them out for too long). The River Juro froze over completely, turning it into a traffic-free highway snaking through the city, and scores of people began ice-skating to school and to work.

There was a pervasive feeling of goodwill, but the season also inspired a competitive spirit between friends and neighbours, many of whom went to great lengths to out-Christmas each other. Houses were lit up in almost every neighbourhood, each one brighter than the last, each street an extravaganza of tackiness and wasted Wundrous energy, flashing and twinkling and blinding anyone within a mile radius. It was garish, absurd, and so obnoxious. Rigel hated it. Morrigan adored it.

But the most intense rivalry of all was between the two public figureheads of Nevermoor's holiday season, one which Rigel had been trying his best to avoid. It made his head to think about, because he wanted to research it but couldn't find the answers he desire. Why was a Germanic-Nordic individual form pagan folklore who celebrated Yuletide on December 21st/22nd (depending on the year) fighting with a Grecian Bishop of Germanic-Dutch tradition over who got control of a Christian holiday on December 25th? They were two separate religions! And Holidays!

"I don't get it," said Morrigan one afternoon as she and Swift sat stringing popcorn and cranberries onto fishing line, Rigel having grumpy given up and slammed his roll of fishing line onto the table after he had dropped yet another piece of popcorn, Swift eying his shaking hands with poorly concealed curiosity, but refraining form interrogating thus far. "How can he get around the entire realm in one night? That's impossible."

Swift had invited her over to his place to show her how to make traditional Christmas tree decorations and she'd dragged Rigel along, who'd reluctantly agreed if only because it was better to be in a single house with four people than playing the game of how-many-different-ways-can-people-recite-the-same-two-words. Outside, it was a chilly, wet December day, but in the Swift family living room there were hot chocolate, carols on the radio, and a saucepan full of corn kernels on the woodstove, popping merrily away.

"It's not impossible—ow," said Swift, sucking blood from the finger he'd just pricked with his needle. Rigel reached into his pocket and handed the boy a Band-Aid. "It's Wundrous."

"But really, a flying sleigh? Powered by deer?" 

"Reindeer," Swift corrected her.

"Same difference." Rigel supplied.

"Oh, shut up, you don't even like Christmas," Swift shot back playfully. 

"Sorry, reindeer. How do they even fly? They don't have wings. Has he bewitched them?"

"Dunno. Why are you so bothered?"

Morrigan screwed up her face in thought. "It's just... perverse, that's why. What about the one with the glowing red nose? What happened to it?" She finished off her fourth garland and reached for the roll of fishing line to start another. "Was it an experiment? That's sick."

Rigel snorted," Injecting him with strange liquid to give him a new physical feature? Not exactly the spirit of giving I had in mind, but could be so."

Swift choked, a wave of shock and incredulity flew towards Rigel," No, I... I think he was born that way."

"What about this Yule Queen lady? I've never even heard of her. At least Saint Nicholas is on all the soft drink and chocolate advertisements."

Swift popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. He'd finished making his garlands and was now working on unmaking them, one morsel at a time. "Dad says people really underrate the Yule Queen, 'cause she's never in any Christmas plays or anything. But Christmas would be rubbish without snow, and where do you think snow comes from? It doesn't just float out of the sky on its own."

Rigel raised an eyebrow, clearly some one hadn't learned about this wonderful thing called the weather cycle yet.

 "You're telling me the Yule Queen makes snow?"

"Course she doesn't. Don't be daft." Swift spoke as if to a simpleton, Rigel must've been rubbing off on him. "The Snowhound makes the snow. But he wouldn't bother if the Yule Queen didn't tell him to."

Morrigan knit her brows together. "So... these two, Saint Nick and the Yule Queen, they have to kill each other?"

Rigel perked up. "Murder?" He asked hopefully. Maybe he could get behind the Christmas spirit after all.

"What? No. You're so bleak." He laughed. "They battle each other on Christmas Eve to see who has the best Christmas spirit. If the Yule Queen wins, her promise is a blanket of snow on Christmas morning and a blessing on every house."

"Oh." He sighed, disappointed. Swift look at him strangely.

"And if Saint Nick wins?"

"Presents in every stocking and a fire in every hearth. You'd better pick a side. We're a pro-Nick household, except for Dad secretly fancying the Yule Queen a bit. The Campbells next door are big-time Yule supporters, as you can see from all the green." He pointed to the window; the house next door was decorated entirely with green banners, twisting ivy, and twinkling green fairy lights.

"What's the green for?"

"Yule Queen supporters wear green, Saint Nick supporters wear red. Here, take this." He pulled something out of the Swift family's decoration box and threw it at Morrigan, who fumbled to catch it. Then another towards Rigel, who death glared him.

"What's this for?"

"So you guys can support Nick, like me," he said, shrugging. "Presents and fire—what's not to like?"

It was a scarlet ribbon. Rigel glanced over at Morrigan, who had received an identical on. Morrigan tucked it away in her pocket, Rigel placed his own alongside the green one in his pocket when none of them were looking.

"I'll think about it." Morrigan offered.

...

"Who do you support?" Morrigan asked Jupiter that night over dinner. "Saint Nicholas or the Yule Queen?"

"The Yule Queen," Jack interrupted, spooning mashed potato onto his plate. "Obviously."

Morrigan scowled. "I wasn't asking you."

Jack had come home for the Christmas holidays a few days earlier, and had been doing his utmost to annoy Morrigan ever since. Rigel had yet another thing to hate on Christmas; the constant waves of irritation and petulance radiating from the both of them.

"No, you were asking Uncle Jove, but you're simpleminded if you can't see that he's pro-Yule. Are you a complete idiot?" Jack asked, and Rigel felt a wave of irritation.

"Must you always bicker?" He demanded irritably," Just one nice dinner, no arguments. Don't even get along, just stop arguing. Please." All three of the tables occupants ignored him, Rigel tried to pretend that didn't sting.

"Take it easy, Jack," warned Jupiter, shooting him a look. 

"Why?" snapped Morrigan. "He isn't wearing any green. He hasn't worn green at all this week. Are you blind in both eyes?"

Rigel flinched back, shocked by his sister's callousness. His gaze flickered down to his hands and he set his cutlery on the plate, folding his hands in his lap under the table. Surprise and disappointment wafted from Jupiter, and Rigel stared down at his lap, feeling disgustingly small. His hands trembled as much as ever. His gaze flicked to the wall and he straightened his shoulders as he stared at the pant.

"Bad form, Mog," Jupiter chided softly, but Jack continued, apparently unphased by Morrigan's insensitivity.

"Obviously he can't be seen wearing green," He said "Important public figures should appear neutral at Christmas, that's just good manners. But if you had a brain you'd realize Uncle Jove and I prefer elegance and finesse over flashy displays of consumerism. Saint Nick is just a capitalist fat cat with a good publicity department. The Yule Queen has style."

Morrigan glared at Jack defiantly, reaching into her pocket for the ribbon and tying it around her hair. 

"Is that supposed to intimidate me?" Jack asked, laughing. "Are you going to challenge me to a duel over the dinner table? Dessert spoons at dawn?"

"Come on, you two..."

"Rigel?" She asked tightly.

"Rigel obviously supports the Yule Queen." Jack scoffed," Have you met him? He prefers dignity and class."

"Please," Morrigan retorted," He's my brother. I know him better than you and he loves curling up by the fire with a book. Last I checked, that was Saint Nick's territory."

"Oh please," He snapped," Liking warmth and books doesn't mean you lack taste."

Rigel stared at the table, lips twisted into a frown.

(He was nine, staring at the hardwood of Corvus's desk as the man droned on and on about expecting better. Tears streaked from his eyes silently.)

"No," Morrigan shot back," But liking the Yule Queen does."

("Why are you such a disappointment? Would it kill you to hold yourself with the slightest bit of dignity and pride of your family? I mean," Corvus scoffed, ripping open the book," Dresses? This is pathetic.")

"Please," Jack sneered," Rigel doesn't care about all that sentimental stuff."

(The design curled in the fire. The ruler hit his hands hard enough they stung. Blood trickled down the back of his palms. "Of course you can't do anything right. You'd have to actually care about this family. Why do I even bother paying to have you educated? It's not as though it'll be any use to your future career choice. And you're certainly not capable of showing enough emotion to be sentimental and grateful about it. Starving, emotional anorexic.")

"Yes he does," Morrigan glared," Just because he doesn't show it, doesn't mean he doesn't feel it."

("Father doesn't love us," Rigel scoffed, staring ahead vacantly," Don't be delusional, Morrigan."

"Yes he does," She objected with a glare," Just because he doesn't show it, doesn't mean he doesn't feel it.")

"Who do you support, Rigel?" The pair turned to him in synchronization at Jupiter's question.

Tear dripped down Rigel's cheeks, and the three looked at him in concern as he kept staring blankly at the table. Then, without a word, he got up and stormed out of the room.

"—okay?" he could hear Jack ask distantly as he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, tilting his head back," We didn't mean to make him cry."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and paced along the hallway in an effort to calm himself.

"Rigel... doesn't like Christmas very much." Morrigan admitted," It's complicated..."

"Oh," Jupiter's voice carried a weight of understanding.

"I still think the Yule Queens's better." Jack admitted.

"If the Yule Queen's so great, where are all the Christmas plays about her? And why isn't she in any ads? Saint Nick's the face of Holly Jolly Toffee, Dr. Brinkley's Holiday Fizz, and Tristan Lefèvre's winter collection of cashmere bobble socks. I've never seen the Yule Queen on a billboard. I wouldn't know her if I fell over her." Morrigan snapped.

Jupiter sounded exhausted. "Why can't we all just get along?"

"That's because she has integrity," said Jack, completely ignoring his uncle. "Which is something your oversized friend and his gang of flying fleabags wouldn't know if they fell over it."

"Saint Nick is the soul of generosity, charity, and... and jolliness!" Rigel gave a weak huff off laughter, wasn't that from an advertisement?

"You're just parroting what you've heard on the radio," Jack muttered. "I suppose now you're going to tell me his sick experimentation with artificial bioluminescence only makes the reindeer more magical."

Morrigan slammed her hand on the table. "The reindeer are magical. Even the one with the nose." She pushed her plate away with a clatter and stormed out, yelling over her shoulder, "And anyway, he was born like that!"

Morrigan quietened as she caught sight of Rigel, head titled back as he leaned against a wall, tear tracks on his cheeks. Hesitantly, she walked over to him and gripped his shaking hand in her, shooting him a smile. Rigel gave her a long look, torn for a moment, then pulled his hand away.

From the hallway, the twins could hear Jupiter sigh. "Really, Jack, why are you and Mog always at each other? I hate having to umpire, and I'm pretty sure Rigel's sick of the bickering all the time. Makes me feel like a grown-up." He said the last word as though it tasted bad. "Why can't you just be friends?"

"F-friends?" Jack spluttered. It sounded like he was choking on his dinner, beside him, Morrigan smirked. "With that? Not even if you paid me."

Jupiter's voice went very quiet. "She's a long way from home, Jack. And Rigel's been through a lot. You know how that feels."

Morrigan frowned and Rigel's brows knit together. Where was Jack from? Where were his parents? He'd never thought to ask... but then, Jack didn't like nosy questions. And he didn't exactly spend his time interrogating Rigel, so he tried to return the favour. 

"But she's infuriating, Uncle Jove. And he's just closed off an weird. And I don't know how you think they're going to get into the Wundrous Society, honestly, I mean, does they even have—"

Morrigan covered her ears and ran down the hall, up and up the spiral stairs, presumably towards her bedroom.

"—knacks?" Jack finished.

Rigel glanced between the stair way and the door, before letting out a huff and making his way upstairs towards his sister. He hesitated at the door, knocking lightly. She didn't answer. The door was locked.

...

(A glass clattered to the floor, white liquid spilling over tile. Two dark brown eyes peered at him, wide with shock and hazy with confusion. A towel dabbed at the floor. A slender, pale hand next to a dark tan one clutching a crumpled shirt.)

Rigel scowled, letting out a string of undignified words that if he ever heard Morrigan or Jack repeat he would probably put soap in their food for, as he pricked his finger yet again. These stupid vision things were getting old. Then again, he'd already been pricking his fingers without them. Dame Chanda's Christmas present had taken the better part of over three-hundred hours at this point and he was down to the finishing touches, the finer details. Which meant that he was messing them up and pricking his fingers more often.

He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes and setting down his sewing supplies (the needle not tied off and instead sewn half-way through the embroidery and resting on his desk beside the cloth-draped mannequin) as he made his way downstairs for a snack. He paused at the door to his room, there tied around the handle was a small green ribbon. 

The boy huffed out a laugh. Jack. With a sigh, he grabbed the ribbon and tucked it into the pocket of his pyjama pants, resolving to place it with his red one, before heading down to the kitchen.

He was surprised to find Jack in the kitchen when he reached it, a glass of milk in hand. The boy looked up with a scowl on his face, though it quickly disappeared," Oh. It's just you."

Rigel gave a curt nod," Korrapati," He offered, opening the fridge.

"Crow." The boy moved towards the sink as Rigel pulled some ham and margarine from the fridge, the two bumped into each other and Jack's glass slipped from his hands, clattering onto the floor, white liquid spilling out over the tile.

"Shit," Jack hissed, glancing around desperately before huffing and pulling off his shirt to dab at the mess. Rigel set his stuff on the counter and reached for a tea-towel, dabbing at the mess alongside him. Footsteps echoed along the hallway and Rigel went rigid, glancing up at the door fearfully, wondering how mad Jupiter would be if they'd interrupted his sleep with this mess.

In the low lamp-light of the door, Rigel could just make out a short, long haired silhouette. He breathed a sigh of relief. Just Morrigan. She glanced between the two boys and the mess on the floor before turning a fleeing, returning a moment later with a towel  clutched in her hand and kneeling down to help wordlessly. Rigel pulled the tea-towel away and set it in the sink, rinsing it with water so that the milk wouldn't make it smell dowl.

"It's fine," Jack mumbled stubbornly. "I can do it. You'll get your towel dirty."

"You'll get your shirt dirty," she countered, smacking his hands away. He leaned back on his heels and let her finish, Rigel busied himself with making a cup of tea.

"There," Morrigan whispered once it was cleaned up. "You can put this in the laundry—what? What are you staring at?"

Rigel turned tot he pair, the look on Jack's face was familiar. They'd had a lifetime of looks just like it, back in Jackalfax. It was fear and mistrust, mingled with reluctant curiosity and just a touch of abject horror. However, that wasn't the most disturbing thing he noticed about his face. His heart sank, stomach clenching and twisting as he glanced down at his trembling hands and then back at Jack's face, at a loss for words.

"Your eyes are perfectly normal!" Morrigan cried, standing up at once, forgetting to whisper. He followed less gracefully, nearly falling over as he continued to stare, open-mouthed and Rigel could only stand there helplessly, eyes darting between the pair like a tennis match. Jack;s black leather patch was nowhere to be seen; both wide brown eyes were fixed on Morrigan. "You fraud. You're not half-blind at all. Why have you been pretending all this time? Does Jupiter know?"

Jack said nothing.

"Stop staring, Jack, and answer me!"

Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs and Jupiter's face appeared, rumpled with sleep. Rigel tensed, freezing as his gaze flickered between the trio, mouth parted as he stood rigidly, waiting to be shouted at or slapped or told off.

 "What's this racket? There are guests trying to—" He looked at Jack, who still hadn't taken his eyes off Morrigan. "Jack?" he said quietly. Rigel stepped back silently.

"Did you know?" demanded Morrigan. "Did you know he doesn't need an eye patch?"

Jupiter didn't answer her. He gave his nephew's shoulder a gentle shake and Jack seemed to finally come to himself. He pointed at Morrigan, than Rigel, with a shaking hand, which Jupiter took in his own. Rigel straightened, staring at the man with wide, earful eyes.

"Cup of tea, I think. Come on." He started to guide Jack down the stairs. "Go back to bed, Mog. You too, Ryj."

Morrigan's mouth fell open. "Us? Why do we have to go back to bed? He's the one who's been faking half-blindness."

Jupiter breathed in sharply through his nose, his face suddenly fierce. "Morrigan!" he whispered hoarsely. Rigel flinched back violently, stumbling away slightly and the man's face crumbled at the sight of the terrified boy. "Back to bed. I don't want to hear another word about this. Understand? Not a single word. Rigel..."

He swallowed.

Jupiter sighed, running a hand over his eyes and down his beard," Finish making your cup of tea. Then come up to my office, we need to have a chat. Morrigan. Bed."

Rigel's stomach sank, his eyes lowering to the floor as he nodded. Morrigan took one look at Jack and Jupiter, watching after them silently as Jupiter led him up the stairs, her eyes darted to Rigel, who was glancing up at her desperately. Her gaze flickered away from him guiltily. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking away. 

The sound of retreating footsteps echoed through the hall, and then, suffocating silence. Rigel shook his head, snapping himself out of his daze. Anger, resentment and fear danced through his veins. It wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything and now Jupiter was punishing him. Because Jack had pointed to him and Morrigan. And Morrigan had just left. Like always, she just... left.

(The twins swallowed thickly, and Rigel looked up at Morrigan, shaking his head silently, he shot her a pleading look. She swallowed and glanced away, before turning and exiting the room.)

She always left. Like every body else. Like his mother, and his biological father, like his grandfather. Like every one. He wondered if he had grandparents. Biological grandparents. If their mother had parents or if his father had parents. His mind lingered on that thought, for a moment he wondered if he should find his father, if he would have a family with the man, but he banished the thought. He didn't think he could handle being rejected by one more person. 

With a sigh, he realised that he probably would've finished a cup of tea by now. If he'd made one. As it was, he felt he was far too nauseous to stomach milk or cream right now. He stalked up the stairs and towards Jupiter's study, each footstep bringing a wave of dread.

...

Jupiter beamed when Rigel entered the room, and the boy eyed him suspiciously, lingering around the doorway.

"You can come in, Ryj," The man said, softly, eyes sad despite the grin on his face. Rigel glanced around the study, there were no other exits. His shoulders slumped in defeat, though his body remained taut as he lowered himself onto the chair in front of Jupiter's desk. 

The man looked tired, stressed even. The lines around his eyes were tight, and the ones on his forehead creased with worry and exhaustion. He looked lost, like he was trying to figure out what to say and do. Rigel felt guilty, he hadn't meant to put Jupiter in this position, of having to figure out how to punish or discipline him, hadn't even meant to put himself in this position. But he had. Again.

("I give you what most children would kill for," Corvus sneered," And you always end up being nothing than a miserable little burden. Grow up, Rigel. You're audacious and snappy and you break the rules time and time again and have the nerve to ask for kindness? Love? Like you deserve that?"

"I—I'm sorry, dad." He answered, looking up at the man tearfully. A slap rang through the room, the chair his father was on clattered back as the man stormed around the desk and grabbed the boy by the collar, slamming him into the wall.

"Don't you dare talk back to me, Rigel!")

"Alright," Jupiter lifted his arm, Rigel flinched and the man's hand froze halfway through his ginger man. The boy shrank back sheepishly. Jupiter lowered his arm, looking physically wounded by Rigel's fear. He knelt down," Rigel, do you think I'm going to hurt you."

No answer.

"I am never going to hurt you. Not you. Not Jack. Not Morrigan." He swore," Do you understand that? I need you to understand that, Ryj."

Rigel swallowed and nodded. Yes, you are.

"I mean it," He said, as though he knew what Rigel was thinking," We never got to speak after The Chase Trial."

"There was nothing to speak about." Why did Rigel have to feel so small right now? He wasn't seven years old anymore. He wasn't some desperate child.

(He was always seven years old, desperately waiting for Corvus's approval. For the one thing he craved more than anything, despite the fact that if he ever actually grasped it, he would probably shatter from the weight of its meaning. Every time a man shouted, he was seven years old again.)

(The World was full of shouting men.)

"Rigel." Jupiter said softly. He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh," I wanted to give you time. I wanted to wait until you were ready."

"I'm not," Rigel said quickly, eyes filling with tears as he hugged his hands to his chest, the familiar weight settling on his chest. He couldn't breathe," Ready, that is. I'm not ready. Jupiter please."

(Why couldn't he breathe?)

"No." He said softly, eyes pitying," Rigel, I need you to understand that I don't know what you're going through. And I really want to help you, but I can't do that without knowing what you have been through, and are still going through. However, I would never invade your privacy on purpose. What happened at The Chase Trial was an accident, okay?"

Rigel didn't respond. Jupiter sighed, running a hand through his ginger man," Look... my knack isn't really something I have to work to turn on. It's more like something I have to work to turn off. And I do that when I'm with you because I know you don't appreciate it being used on you. But I would never, ever intentionally use it on you without your permission."

Okay. Thank you. I appreciate it. You're a good person. I don't believe you. Can I hug you? I'm sorry. 

"Can I go now?" Rigel asked abruptly, trying not to cry or hug him or... anything. Jupiter blinked in surprised," Please?"

"I—Yeah," He sighed lamely, looking lost," Sure, Ryj."

Rigel was already out the door.

...

Rigel had spent the last three days locked in his room, only exiting to sneak away to the orphanage (he'd wrapped the kids Christmas gift's and placed them under the tree already as Madame Ziara had explicitly forbidden him from spending his Christmas holidays volunteering—he'd agreed with the deal that she would hold onto his camera and take a lot of photos over the next few weeks, including videos of them unwrapping their gifts. He felt bad for the newer kids, it would be their first Christmas without their parents), after emptying the contents of his stomach in his toilet. Every morning and evening the boy found a tray of breakfast, lunch and dinner at the door, curtesy of Martha. He appreciated it, though he felt bad because he'd barely eaten any of it, simply taking a few bites to not starve and collecting the trays, delivering them to the kitchen at precisely seven-past-six, when Jupiter was (predictably) half-way through his evening stroll on the rooftop and through the different parlours, by thirteen-past Jupiter would enter the Smoking Parlour just as Rigel strolled up the stairs and by the time Rigel was on the landing to his floor Jupiter would have entered the elevator taking him down to supper at half-past. 

He'd mastered the art of avoiding the man, and The Deucalion seemed to be helping, because on several occasions he'd gone to enter a room only to find it mysteriously locked, and be filled with a wave of relief when he heard Jupiter's voice from within. He hadn't just spent the time avoiding Jupiter though, he was capable of multi-tasking. He'd also taken the time too finally finish Dame Chanda Christmas gift (three-hundred-and-forty-two hours!) after focusing solely on it several hours a day for the last fifty-four days. He'd cut it close of course, the morning of Christmas Eve, but it, along with all the other gifts were completed (he'd set Swift's aside to give him the day after he returned from his holiday trip—apparently the Swift's took a trip to the Highlands every second year during Christmas), including the fuchsia pocket square he'd made Jupiter, using glass and metal from the fallen sailing ship chandelier to sew an exact pattern of it onto the front and setting it into the bag full of gifts he was hoping Kedgeree would agree to hand out for him if he decided not to come home after The Christmas Battle (which Jupiter and Morrigan were dragging him along to) and instead stay the night when he checked out The Nevermoor apartment his Grandmother (who wasn't his grandmother?) had arranged for him, which he'd recently discovered was located in The Bohemian District.

Christmas Eve was crisp and cool, and there was a tremor of excitement in the air. Rigel double checked that his hair was combed perfectly straight, his eyes lingered on the copy of The History of Nevermoor and its People tucked in his bookshelf, one of his favourite books. He was less interested in the book  though, and more interested in what was tucked in the pages of it.

 Hesitantly, he pulled the book open to Chapter 11, page 260 (he'd thought himself rather clever with that one, eleven chapters for eleven years, 59 lines into the chapter for the 59th day of the year that his birthday was on, he'd like to see any one figure that logic out), sure enough, sitting on the tenth line of that page was a familiar folded piece of paper, alongside two ribbons—green and red respectively.

He hesitated, fingers tracing the textured paper, and before he could chicken out, his shaking hands grasped the folded paper and shoved it in the pocket of his coat before he shut the book, replaced it on the page and made his way downstairs.

The Hotel Deucalion seemed to vibrate with high spirits as guests and staff alike prepared for the battle that was to take place in Courage Square at the centre of Old Town.

"Jolly Christmas, Kedgeree," Morrigan said as she passed the concierge desk, dinging the bell twice. Rigel placed a large bag full of gifts on the concierge desk.  

"Jolly Christmas to you, Miss Morrigan, and you, Mister Rigel. And a glad Yuletide, too!"

"Ugh," He muttered, earning a curious look from Kedgeree. He let out a reluctant sigh," Merry Christmas and Jolly Yuletide and... whatever else I'm supposed to say here. Would you mind ensuring these get to the correct recipients tomorrow morning, please?"

Kedgeree blinked," Course, Mister Rigel!"

"Right," Rigel nodded awkwardly," Oh, uhm. I was planning on giving yours to Dame Chanda. Just so you know, she has it. Good luck keeping Jupiter out, he's been nosing about what could be in the box. Uhh, and would you mind telling Dame Chanda that I'll adjust it to her measurements at some point later?"

"Aye, sir," He gave a mock salute, eying the bag full of gifts curiously," Not gonna be here tomorrow?"

"I'll probably be out," He admitted blandly," If I am I'll be in my room. I rather loathe Christmas."

("Pack your things." Corvus declared hollowly from the doorway. Rigel looked up at his father numbly, the hollow emptiness echoing inside him," We're going on a trip. Nothing with laces."

The boy blinked, he nodded once.

He stared desperately up at the man from the wooden chair, tucked in a simple bland office as he let out a whisper," Please stay."

Corvus scoffed.) 

"Any particular reason why?" Kedgeree asked. "Or just some bad memories?"

("Please don't leave me here, dad." He whispered," Please, I'm scared.")

"Something like that."

The foyer was filled with noise and warmth. Guests scarfed down rum balls and eggnog as they waited for Jupiter's signal to leave. Rigel cringed as one man let out a laugh, spitting pieces of his rumball all over the countertop. He hurried past the man as quickly as possible.

"Only a ribbon, Miss Morrigan?" asked Dame Chanda Kali. Dame Chanda wore her hair in green coils, with dangling emerald earrings, a matching emerald choker, and a forest-colored velvet cloak. She bit her lip as she surveyed Morrigan's black dress, black coat, and black lace-up boots. "I've a darling crimson chapeau that might fit your little head. Or a ruby necklace? I have twelve. You could keep one!"

"No, thank you, Dame Chanda," said Morrigan, hands reaching up to brush lightly against the crimson ribbon, as though to check it was still there.

Lucky for her (and unlucky for him) Dame Chanda caught sight of Rigel and let out a gasp," No green or red?"

"No."

"Why ever not?" She frowned," I believe one of my suitors has a green tie he left in my closet that would fit well. It certainly wouldn't clash with the... grey on your suit. Or, if you support Saint Nick like your sister, I think I have a red scarf to replace your black one."

"No, thank you, Dame Chanda," Rigel's left eye twitched, Morrigan let out a poorly muffled giggle beside him," I'm quite fine."

She let out a displeased sigh," A shame, I was so excited to have another Yule Supporter. If you change your mind, do let me know, won't you, dear?"

Rigel gave a curt nod. Why were people so interested in who he supported?

Watching the staff from their vantage point on the stairs, Rigel had to admit they had festive style by the bucketload. Frank the vampire dwarf had painted his fingernails red to complement his red-lined cape, and Kedgeree was bedecked in layers of red tartan and tinsel. Martha showed her allegiance to the Yule Queen with a smart green coat and matching scarf. Charlie the chauffeur wore a pea-green tweed jacket and driver's cap, even though he had the night off. It would've been endearing, to see the group of people he cared most about in the world so delighted and festive, if it weren't for the fact that every time he looked down or saw a parent embracing their kid, he had this strange urge to cry and vomit.

Why hadn't he had that?

He remembered one time, Mary had been explaining to him that the crow was dead, after his Grandmother had just stared at him apathetically and shut the door in his face.

("Sometimes, the Divine Thing can be selfish," She whispered, brushing a hand through his curls and clutching him close from her place beside hm, kneeling in the dirt in front of the freshly buried grave," Like people in a garden, he picks the prettiest thing to take with him. Sometime, he doesn't even do it for himself. He just look at them and thinks 'oh, this one. this one's special. the stars would like a soul like this one', without really regarding just who he's taking it from. Because, he just know that's exactly what the stars needed.")

Rigel's expression twisted, something ugly and raw and utterly hurt making a home on his face. His mind flashed to his mother, a faceless, nameless individual, whom he knew nothing about—except that she was an adulterer. He wasn't sure he wanted to know more about her, he'd always been able to imagine her as this brilliant, generous, wonderful woman, but... then he'd found out she'd been unfaithful to Corvus and it was like...

It was a bit like losing faith in a religion. Like, finding out this divine entity you'd worshipped and prayed to wasn't what you though they were. He didn't believe in The Divine Thing anymore. He didn't believe in his mother either.

(Why did the stars need her more than me? I was a child.)

The clock began to chime and Jupiter ushered everyone out the front door to the forecourt, where a row of fancy carriages was waiting to take them to the big event. He winked at the twins and gave Morrigan a friendly nudge as she went by, shooting Rigel a grin when he trailed behind lazily. Three days had passed since the incident with Jack, and Morrigan and Jupiter still hadn't mentioned it (though Morrigan very obviously wanted answers). Rigel couldn't exactly fault her for that—her curiosity was understandable—but he personally felt it wasn't really any of his business, if Jack wanted to tell him, he would. 

Rigel had expected Courage Square to be a swirling sea of red and green, but instead there were large pockets of each colour where pro-Nick and pro-Yule supporters gathered in droves, shouting slogans and trying to out-sing each other. Just as a chorus of "Ode to a Jolly Old Fat Man" or "Have Yourself a Jolly Little Christmas" exploded from a patch of red, a nearby patch of green would rise up with "The Yuletide Hymn" or "Green Is the Colour of My Cheer." Jupiter found a spot between two groups, where Morrigan could stand with the reds and Jack could stand with the greens and Jupiter could station himself between them to discourage any fisticuffs. Rigel scowled, it was loud, populated and so obnoxious. He couldn't wait for this to be over, his eyes glazed over the crowd as he absently wondered if Cadence was her. He doubted she was. She didn't seem the kind to attend something like this willingly, and Baz Charlton hardly seemed the type to force a 'family bonding' activity with his candidates.

"You look like broccoli," Morrigan said to Jack, making a face at the elaborate green hat that towered over his head like a small, artistically designed explosion. Then, just to be clear, she added, "Really stupid broccoli."

Rigel glared ahead. Apparently, not only was he being forced to be here, he also had to sit there awkwardly through their ceaseless bickering.

"At least my support for the Yule Queen is obvious," said Jack, adjusting his eye patch, which was once again covering his left eye. "I notice you're only wearing that pathetic little ribbon. Is it because you're embarrassed to be seen supporting a morbidly obese trespasser and enslaver of elves?" Annoyance.

"The only thing I'm embarrassed to be seen with is that revolting hat." Irritation.

Rigel grit his teeth.

"Ding ding ding," Jupiter made a T gesture with his hands. He gave Jack a meaningful look. "Time-out, please, for the love of—ooh! It's starting." Exhaustion. 

Rigel shot him a curt, thankful nod, he winked in response.

A hush descended on the crowd. People pointed into the northern sky, where a hulking figure was emerging from the dark. Beside him, Morrigan's breath hitched with excitement. A cheer rose up from the red sections as Saint Nicholas swooped down into Courage Square, his nine flying reindeer performing an impressive loop-the-loop and coming to land neatly on a raised platform in the centre. A pair of elves jumped off the sleigh and began waving feverishly at the crowd, goading them like promoters at a troll fight to cheer more and more loudly for the jolly, white-bearded man as he heaved himself out of the polished mahogany-and-red-velvet sleigh.

Rigel stared in incredulous disbelief, then his gaze flickered over the cheering crowd. This was what people were so excited about? He had to admit, the reindeer were pretty cool (actually they were adorable, Rigel wanted one but Rigel did not think he would be allowed a reindeer), but... it was just a fat man in a red suit with midget slaves dressed in ugly candy-cane themed clothing. You could find any of them at any shopping centre during the holidays.

Rigel side-eyed his siter, who was grinning like a lunatic, and then Jack who looked reluctantly impressed. 

His magnificent reindeer stamped and shook their great antlers back and forth, clouds of frosty air shooting out of their nostrils. The elves jumped up and down like hooligans as the crowd bellowed their support for Nick, who waved and pointed at random people in the crowd as if they were old friends of his whom he'd only just spotted. One man actually fainted at the acknowledgment. Ugh. Rigel hoped the concussion he'd get would snap him out of his dreadful fashion sense and make him buy a new coat. 

Morrigan turned to Jack, radiating a sharp satisfaction much like one half the crowd (Rigel didn't think there was much to be smug about, but to each their own), but the boy had schooled his expression (Rigel could still feel the begrudging respect he felt along with the other half of the crowd smashing into him in painful, violent waves and wanted nothing more than to leave and maybe take a nap because it was all far too much) and offered an unphased shrug. 

"Just wait," he said, smirking as he gazed to the south of the square. There was a level of self-satisfaction even higher than Morrigan's coming from the boy, but Rigel was too busy trying not too puke. It was bad enough he had to feel the overwhelming joy and anticipation coming from The Deucalion crowd at all hours (even the few times he was actually able to shove aside his paralysing fear and try to sleep), but now he had to deal with this?

Whatever the crowd was waiting for, they didn't have to wait long because seconds later, the sea of people parted for what looked at first like a small frost-covered mountain but was in fact the ten-foot-tall Snowhound moving through the spellbound audience. A beautiful woman stood proudly on his back, gazing out at the hushed square. She wore a diaphanous green gown, well-tailored and fluttering elegantly behind her, flowing like fabric twisting underwater. Her hair fell in soft, shimmering waves white as snow, cascading down her back and all the way to her waist.

Her lips were pale and bloodless, her smile nothing less than a glowing expanse of white teeth and twinkling eyes that acted as a spotlight, casting everything around her into shadow. The masses gathered in Courage Square released a collective sigh of pleasure as she appeared to float toward the platform. Rigel could feel waves of... oh... eww. Her presence was calming and empowering to children, and apparently either incredibly attractive or very well-respected by the men and women in the crowd.

Altogether, the Yule Queen painted herself the picture of poise, and offered a downright ethereal image. It was no wonder some one as regal and elegant as Dame Chanda admired her, she embodied everything the woman valued: class, dignity, beauty, and poise.

But that wasn't what drew Rigel's attention. No, he was more focused on the glittering rose gold band, an oval diamond with marquise detailing, glittering on her finger and the wave of reverence and adoration radiating from Saint Nick. Oh.

He'd wondered what the whole point of this battle was—after all, Yule was a Germanic-Nordic Pagan holiday celebrated on The Winter Solstice, and it's queen was an Icelandic figure known as Grýla, and Christmas was a Christian holiday, ironically based on the Germanic-Dutch traditions of St. Nicholas who was a Grecian Bishop, there should have been no fighting over who got domain over the holiday of Christmas, because they were two entirely separate events.

But apparently St. Nicholas was married to Grýla and this whole tradition was based around two lovers having a friendly spar for how they got to celebrate their holidays, which must have eventually turned into a highly-anticipated Nevermoor-wide celebration.

That was... actually kind of endearing. Then again, that might have just been St. Nicholas's emotions. He held a lot of love and devotion towards his wife, along with an overwhelming wave of—oh. Oh eww.

"I'm out," Rigel declared, tone hollow. Jupiter, Morrigan and Jack all looked at the boy's impassive, though slightly green-tinted face in curiosity and confusion," This has been such a fun bonding activity. Good day." 

He fled towards the back of the crowd, eventually finding himself standing beside Dame Chanda who was beaming joyously, eyes wide and soft with awe. She turned to Rigel, a gentle smile crossing her face as she looked down at the boy. 

Her expression was swiftly replaced with one of concern as she caught sight of the nauseous looking boy.

"Are you okay, darling?" She asked," You're looking rather pale." Concern. That was... rather touching. Rigel couldn't recall an adult being genuinely concerned for his health before (well, Jupiter, but the boy still hadn't entirely ruled out ulterior motives).

He offered a nod," I'm.... fine," He grit out through a harsh breath, tears stinging his eyes as he was flooded with emotion," Just a little nauseous. I think I'm going to head off. Would you mind letting Jupiter know?"

"You're not ill are you, dear?" She asked," You really ought to rest if you are." Care. Uncertainty. Affection.

Rigel offered a small smile," I'm fine. Just not a fan of crowds, that's all."

"Alright," She looked doubtful," I'll let Jupiter know."

"Thanks," He nodded tensely," Oh, uh, I told Kedgeree to let you know, but he has yours and every one else's Christmas gifts. I was wondering if you would mind giving him his? It's only small," He pulled the small, flat box out of his pocket, only to freeze as a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground, drifting open on the way down. Dame Chanda picked it up and blinked.

"The Angel Israfel?" She asked, knitting her brows together," I've heard of him. Are you interested in hearing him sing?" Excitement. Confusion. Hope?

Rigel froze, staring at the piece of paper in her hand. His stomach sank to his fist, twisting and slithering in tight coils like a snake around it's prey. His eyes stung and he licked his lips nervously. The Angel Israfel. The Angel Israfel. The Angel Israfel. His father's name was Israfel. 

"I—" Rigel didn't know what to say. Or do. He'd never not known. He'd never—he'd never not known. He didn't know what to feel, or say. Or even just. Just breathe. What was he supposed to do here? He didn't understand," I need to go. Uh—I—uhm—Here."

He shoved the gift in Dame Chanda's hand, blinking rapidly. She didn't exactly hand him the paper, but her grip was loose and out-stretched to him almost automatically. He offered a jerky nod, turned on his heel, and fled.

Five minutes later he emptied the contents of his stomach beside a dumpster in an alleyway off the side of a side street.

Chapter Text

"Enduring things is what you do best. Grinding your teeth and bearing them."

...

The Wunderground station was empty when he arrived, which wasn't entirely surprising, The  Christmas Battle had just started. Though, it was eerie, to see the place dead silent, save for a neon pink haired girl scrolling through her phone at the ticket stand as she chewed gum loudly.

Rigel cringed at the sound.

A light breeze wafted through the tunnel, a few scattered pieces of rubbish floating around. A chip packet hit Rigel's show and his steps faltered, he bent down and grabbed it, tossing it into the recycle bin as he made his way to the desk.

The girl was scrolling through some sort of video app when he reached the desk, and didn't show any sign of acknowledgement. Rigel waited patiently, clearing his throat when she still hadn't glanced up five minutes later.

She jumped, phone clattering to the desk and hand making its way to her chest. "Jesus fuck, kid!" She gasped," You scared the shit out of me. Where the fuck are your parents? Aren't you like... nine?"

"Eleven actually." He paused," Possibly. Assuming my darling family didn't lie to me about that too."

She took a moment to gather her bearing and Rigel tilted his head as he looked at the star stickers decorating her face. "I... I don't even wanna know."

"I'd like a ticket to The Bohemian District please."

She groaned," Look, uhm. Like. You're not some runaway right? You're not running off to join the art district and make money selling glorified graffiti and live on the street?"

Rigel face twisted," That sound horrendous. Why on earth why would I lower myself to such standards?"'"

"I—Whatever."  She sighed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like I don't get paid enough for this shit as she pulled out a train ticket," Three Kred. Here."

Rigel took the ticket and handed the girl a five kred note, making his way to wait for the train. His eyes found the tracks, staring at them blankly as he twisted the same word around in his head over and over. Israfel. It didn't matter how many different ways he thought of it, it always brought up the same emotions. 

"Israfel." His voice cracked as he whispered the word to himself, like some carefully concealed secret that only he could ever know the weight of. He finally knew the name of one of his parents. 

It hit him then, that for the last several weeks he'd not known either of his parents names. Not their ages. Their birthdays. Their favourite colours. Their fashion sense. The simplest things that he knew of each person who lived at The Deucalion, those stupid, miniscule, tiny things that he'd never considered how lucky he was to know about those people. How important those small parts of them were.

Something shifted in the shadows, and Rigel jumped, glancing around wildly. Eyes red as ruby stared up at him from where then knelt down. He blinked and they were gone. Had he imagined it?

("Go away!" The toddler shrieked, curled up on his bed with his hands over his ears. "You're not real! You're not real! GO AWAY!"

The chandelier above him exploded, tiny glass shard showering the room, each glistening crystal that reached the boy adding to the collection of cuts he wore like a weight on his back)

A figure appeared on the across the tracks, facing away from him. A man in a bland grey suit, hair combed neatly to the side.

"No." Rigel breathed," No, no... go away," He whispered, eyes wild as he pulled his hands tight around his chest," You're not real."

(The silhouette tilted its head, its humming ceased and it vanished.)

This one stayed. Its humming grew louder.

"Go away," He whispered," Go away. Please. Please."

("Is it just you and me in a world so cold and torn? The must be such a burden for a boy so broken and worn.")

"Is it just you and me in a world so cold and torn? The must be such a burden for a boy so broken and worn."

"Go away," He rasped, as the familiar hollowness rushed over him. Monsters peered out of the darkness, thousands of red eyes, shadowy figures, silhouetted ghosts that only he could see.

(Why was he the only one who could see them?)

Men, women, children, animals, all twisted by their demons, by their inhumanity surrounded him. Desperate, clawing at him form afar. The world was so cold. Full of pain, and emptiness, and death. No stories or tales did them justice.

Each of them were so full of sorrow and pain and guilt, clawing at Rigel, begging him to just look at them. Every time his gaze flickered to one they grew... intoxicated. Empowered. The world was dark and twisted around him, wherever Rigel was, he didn't think it was at The Wunderground station anymore.

Their bodies were cold and grey, flesh half torn, rotted, pained, hurt. So hurt, they wanted others to hurt. To feel their pain. Each of them, infant to ancient, wore their guilt like chains, forever holding them down, and Rigel could see it all. For some, it was so simple—a young girl whose mother had been scolding her for eating a Christmas cookie was running out onto the street, crying. She'd disappointed her mother. A carriage came past but it was too late for her to move and it hurt so, so much—

And now she wondered forever, chained by guilt of disappointing her most dearly beloved, forever wandering those same streets eaten by pain and hurt and heartburn. She watched her parents mourn and cry and sob and only felt guiltier as she called out desperately to them that she was here. 

(Why wouldn't they look at her? "Why can't you see me?")

She was right there. She wanted her parents, she wanted them back, she wanted power. She wanted people to hurt like she did, she wanted to make whatever forced her to be like this burn.

Another, an old man, dying in his sleep alone long after his dearly departed wife.

His wife was gurgling on her blood as she stared up at him, he who clutched shakily to the knife in her throat and could do nothing but stare horrified at what his anger had made him do.  

("Please, my love.")

Another, a young woman, only in her thirties and responsible for gruesome murder after gruesome murder. Who felt no remorse for the murder, but rather getting caught during the last one. 

A step-father, who's wife had a daughter, his hands wondered farther down. Farther than they should've as he gave in to lust and greed. 

A boy, only twelve, who'd never quite shaken the guilt of lying about his homework.

Rigel didn't know what was more nauseating. Image after image after image. Some horrible, gruesome people, who's crimes were fitting of their eternal punishment, some just people weighed down by the lightest guilt of the most mundane actions they'd been pondering about at the wrong time.

It hurt so much. There was so much pain in the world. How could people not feel this?

"The shadows whisper secrets no daylight could mend."

They wore their guilt on the outside like chains. Like thick vines creeping around their hands and feet, wrapped round their necks, forever twisting, tightening, squeezing. Forever holding them, tethered to whatever it was they wanted to forget. So much darkness and hurt and pain. He needed light. 

Rigel couldn't just see them, he could hear them. And that was worse. It was so much worse, it was unbearable. 

No rest, they sang wordlessly, whispering in a language silent but easily understood. No rest.

 Rigel fell to the ground, wings bursting from his back as he wept. He wanted to scream. To shout. To beg. He could hear words beneath the wailing, could hear distant hurt and pain and just so much, but it all seemed so far away. All he could see was them. A ghoulish woman advanced on him, mouth open in a silent scream, reaching out with pale, grasping hands through a tangle of vines.

A young baby rested on her arms, and in an instant the baby was gasping desperately, bubbles leaving its mouth as the same hands that had rocked it moments earlier pinned it down. Every moment, it was like he was drowning, but not in water. Like the world was so full of oxygen and it was all being forced down his throat before he had the chance to exhale and he couldn't do anything but gasp for more because he knew the second he stopped, the pressure of it would crush him while he tried to catch his breath. Like so much pain and knowledge was being shoved towards him all at once, each image still playing in the background as another took its place. And they never ended, they just rewinded and played again, more and more. 

It was too much. It was all too much.

"You reached for the truth, but I cannot blame you."

Her nails, long like claws gripped his shoulders and he burned. It seared itself into his skin, painful, agonising, unending. Another hand reached for his other shoulder, digging in like ice and fire as one. 

(The child stilled, hands on each shoulder still holding it in place.)

Blood trickled as inhumane claws squeezed the sensitive skin of his trapezius. More hands reached and grasped for him, desperate and pained, begging him to help them. To give them the power they needed.

He looked up at them, kneeling on the cement ground in pain and for a moment, they seemed to grow stronger, worse, more painful, more horrifying. More imaged rushed in front of him and he clawed at his eyes desperately, warm liquid trickled down his face as his nails dug desperately—trying to claw them out. He wanted to stop seeing this and he never wanted to see anything again. He didn't want to be an angel,  he didn't want this. 

"You were bound to fall apart in the end..."

Each of them were intoxicated, empowered by his acknowledgement. And Rigel realised, that he was going to die here. He was going to die here, in pain, intoxicated, suffering and be tethered to these lands—to them for all of eternity. He was going to become as inhumane as them. The boy gasped desperately under the weight of everything.

And when he finally managed to force something out, it was a familiar line, sung, gasped like a prayer," But there is never an end to eternity. Only an ending to you and me."

His wings burst into flames, agonising and cold and gone, burnt to ashes that fluttered to the ground. And Rigel was cold. He was so, very cold as he shivered and shook, shaking hands now only pressing against his bleeding eyes.

For a moment, the world froze. Fear settled into the... whatever they were and they back away as Rigel gasped from breath, unable to see through blood-soaked eyes. And he couldn't hear them run, or see it, but he felt them. He felt each one terrified as it grasped for power desperately, only for horror to sink into them as they gripped it at last. The realisation at what they could do. And then... he felt them flee.

In an instant the biting cold disappeared, like a strong breeze he hadn't even known was there faded. The ice cold burning on the boys neck remained as something dark wrapped around him, shattering what little light was left. The world hurt, cement hard against his skin, but in a way that was peaceful. Like the aftermath of unending pain. Like the relief of overstimulation finally fading away.

A haze grasped at corners of his mind and Rigel fell back into it, plummeting into the welcoming dark abyss and slipping into the realm of unconsciousness.

...

When Rigel woke it was to the feeling of stone on his back—his bones aching in a way that signalled a restless slumber, his eyes fluttered blearily, painfully opening and closing, the skin pulled tight at the stinging corners of his eyes as the events of the Wunderground station rushed to him. His gaze flickered around the room he was in as he yawned and stretched himself out, wincing in pain as his back arched.

The boys eyes stung, and a dull kind of horror settled into his stomach as he recalled why. He'd tried to gouge them out. He knew he should feel disgusted. Horrified. Terrified. But all there was, was this... hollow sense of shock. Like this vague numb haze he couldn't quite shake, still to wrapped up in what he'd felt.

It was like... everything.

Everything. Everything wrong in the world all at once and nothing stopped before it started. There was so much pain. There is so much pain. How did they not notice it? How did nobody notice it?

He glanced down at his nails, each dried and caked with glittering gold flecked red—a twisted combination of two colours—and scowled. Angel. Fucking angel. His blood had been only red once.

(A knife sliced satisfyingly into his wrist and the boy stared hollowly as it trickle over his flesh, he set the knife down and raised his hand, watching satisfying red race tantalisingly down his arm.)

It would never only be red again.

A grin, twisted and inherently wrong crossed his face as he giggled hysterically, shoulders trembling like his hands as he looked around at the world and fell silent. It was... a bit more. Mor colourful. Just slightly more. The cracked concrete of the roof beneath his feet was just slightly too grey. The street lamp in the distant shined just a little too yellow.

It was... beautiful. Twisted. Wrong. Like the world had opened itself up for him.  It shouldn't be like this. Nothing should be like this. The stars were too white, too bright. The moon shone just a little too much. For a moment, it was exhilarating. And then it was wrong. Like the world was forever posing. Colour a little too colourful. There was no such thing as black and white, just pure darkness, dull grey or stark white.

Like the world as punishing him: you did not appreciate you gift so now you will see more.

And everything was so dull, so plain and boring. A warning, Rigel knew. One that might fade on day, but would live in the back of his mind forever. Appreciate it.

("Appreciate me." It rasped, a foreign language that Rigel somehow understood perfectly.)

In the corner of his eye he could see a boy. A young child, soaking wet. A bathtub. A hand around his neck. Blood dripping down the side of it. Hand roaming his skin. You look so much like your other.

Father will never forgive me.

A man beside him, taller, stockier. Hands permanently clenched like they were wrapped around something invisible. A fist, pinning the boy to the bathtub. A bracelet tied around the loop of his jeans. Fishing line from his fishing kit that the boy had broken into. Rage. Unrollable anger. Love. Loneliness. Hands no longer wrapped around the boys neck, but his own. Hands that had roamed where they never should've.

My wife would be so disappointed. 

Rigel puked.

Realisation settled in, they would be there. They would always be there. And if he acknowledged them, he gave them power. But power terrified them. Power made them flee. Horrified either by what pain it could bring, how it could worsen their situation—or by what pain they could bring to others. What more it could make them into, what more it could make them do. But once they grew used to that power... they would not flee.

They would use it.

They would come after him again. 

Rigel couldn't acknowledge them. He couldn't ever acknowledge them. Something heavy, heavier than the guilt those things carried settled over his back. Like a physical burden that had been there a moment, but had only just appeared. His wings. They'd grown back moments after they'd been burned and now rested on his back heavier than ever.

He sneered. The Angel Israfel. 

Fuck him. Rigel didn't need parents. He'd made it eleven years just him and Morrigan. And now Jupiter. Whoever this Israfel was, he didn't mean a damn thing.

His finger tingled and itched uncomfortably. He looked down and peeled his gloves off slowly, a flickering flame sigil rested like a crest of knowledge on the knuckle of his left middle finger. Rigel stared down at it hollowly, mind wondering to his burning wings, right after he'd sung. 

He paused. Had he summoned wunder? By singing?

The boy glanced at his watch. December 25th, 3:04am. 

Oh. Ugh. He needed to talk to Squall.

But first: he was taking a trip to The Gobleian.

...

The Gobleian Library was... open. Which, shouldn't have surprised Rigel as much as it did. He doubted any one would wish to risk offending the sentient pocket realm by closing it, much less Lord and Lady Gob-Le-Fasse (and weren't those unfortunate names?) who would have to pay whatever damages the Library caused in its temper tantrums as its sponsors. 

Rigel huffed, pulling out his library card and closing his eyes as he summoned his wings with a scowl. He'd only come twice, once to sign up for a card (all he'd had to do was purchase a stupid kids book for Cadence's help after The Speech Trial.), and the second time to obsess over Angel's (where he'd found out that retracting wings was neither uncommon nor common, whereas clairvoyance was rather highly regarded, plus that the age restriction for angels to hold library card was much lower, hence summoning the wings).

There were two women at the front desk, one with straight black hair and skin a dark brown, only a few shades lighter than her spectacled cinnamon eyes, smiling softly as she conversed with a bright eyed, grinning woman with bouncy brown curls held away from her face by a spotty red and white bandanna, her own warm-toned brown skin contrasting with the cooler undertone of the woman beside her. She talked fast, laughing between sentences, while the other just listened with a small, polite smile—watching the woman beside her with a fond twinkle in her eyes.

Love and affection radiated towards Rigel, his skin growing hot as it tingled with the pure joy radiating from both woman, one slightly calmer and more reserved to her enthusiastic counterpart. Rigel didn't know why watching two women talk to each other with such openly affectionate gestures made him happy, but it did. 

His mind wandered back to Hawthorne and he wondered if the boy was enjoying his holiday. He hoped he liked the Christmas gift when he opened it—assuming the impatient boy hadn't already opened it. It wasn't much, a deck of cards, each covering a specific kind of dragon species with little hand drawn sketches above the vague descriptions of each dragons species, size, height and scales. Rigel had made it himself, the drawing weren't very detailed, more like jagged sketches, but they'd been hard to get right with shaking hands and he hadn't wanted to risk ruining them by attempting to add any extra details to it.

He strolled over to the desk, pulling his card out of his coat pocket, scowling as a familiar folded piece of paper came out along with it. He glared, scrunching it up, earning curious glances from the two women.

He nodded as the woman with the square spectacles turned to him, only for her face to fall as she took sigh of him, the other woman beside her froze. His cheeks tinted pink as he realised he probably looked like a mess, scratch marks around his eyes, grime coating his face and still combed-flat hair (he used a very good gel), dirty and slightly bloody.

"Good Morning," He greeted tersely, handing the spectacled woman behind the desk his card.

The smiling woman dropped her hands, a wave of concern washed over Rigel," Oh, sweetheart! Are you okay? Rosh, he's hurt!" She said turning to her girlfriend(?)," What happened?"

Rigel tensed," I'm fine." He responded automatically. The frantic woman shot him a look and he swallowed. "I am. I appreciate your concern, but it truly doesn't hurt. Really," He said, as sincerely as possible (which was very because the woman instantly relaxed, he almost felt bad for lying)," It just looks bad."

She relaxed, though, she still looked doubtful. "What are you doing here so early? Shouldn't you be in bed waiting for Santa?" She winked at him in a way that indicated she knew he was too old to be so excited but was just trying to keep the Christmas spirit alive.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," He answered blandly. At their surprised looks he moved on to the next question," And I'm here because I didn't want to spend the night with my sister, our patron and his nephew lowering myself to such flamboyant festivities alongside the degenerates."

"You live with your patron?" Rosh asked," What about your parents?"

Oh, well. No sugar-coating it. "I'm an orphan."

"Oh," The cheerful woman's voice softened with pity," I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," He responded," I never knew my mother, I hardly have I right to mourn her. And my father's a child-abandoning reprobate of the highest conceivable order."

The spectacled woman snorted. Her girlfriend(?) elbowed her.

The curly haired woman offered a grin," Where do you go to school?"

"After the Show Trial, it'll be The Wundrous Society," It was then that he noticed their golden W shaped pins," I'd appreciate if you wouldn't mention I was here though, I doubt my patron would be too pleased. And... I still haven't figured out how to tell him about the whole... wings thing..."

What Jupiter didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Rosh raised an unimpressed eyebrow. The other woman was much more understanding.

"What he doesn't know hurt him," She smiled. Rigel liked her. "You're very confident you'll pass The Show Trial." 

He sniffed," Obviously. Each of the trials have been insultingly easy. It's degrading how little such an exclusive society expects of their scholars. Then again, most of my fellow contestants have proven themselves to have the courage and cognitive functioning of a vegetable. I've met four with an IQ beyond room temperature. And that's including myself and my sister."

Rigel paused. Since when had he considered Hawthorne intelligent? The boy was certainly charming, and almost endearingly dorky. Plus, he had a rather positive, enjoyable demeanour, but... well, Rigel didn't know when he'd started considering the boy intelligent. But he was, intelligent enough to know that kindness and loyalty were the most valued traits he could show.

(Rigel scoffed, stepping forward," Don't lie to me, Swift." He tilted his head slightly, hand reaching out—a finger tilting the boys head up. Hawthorne hesitated, blue-grey eyes flicking up to meet Rigel's own brown orbs. Rigel lowered his voice to a whisper as they locked eyes—time seeming to freeze between them," You're no good at it."

The boy swallowed, staring at him for a few moments and opening his mouth to speak only to pause and swallow. He stepped back, pulling his chin off of Rigel's finger as he glanced away," I told Morrigan I wouldn't tell you.")

Rigel's brows knit together slightly as a warm rush flushed through his body at the thought of Swift, goosebumps spread across his arms as a tingling warmth prickled his skin, his body felt... lighter. Happy, almost. But. More. Blood rushed through his veins, heat dancing across his skin as an image of the boy's bright, crooked grin flashed to the front of his mind.

He frowned, confused and turned his attention back to the two women, shoving the feeling down.

He didn't know what it was exactly, but... it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Just, confusing. Uncertain.

Regardless, it didn't matter. 

The curly haired woman smiled brightly, though she seemed a little taken aback by his bluntness," Well, I'm Marina, this is Roshni. But, you can call me Miss Cheery—especially if you're going to be a member of Unit 919."

Her eyes sparkled with humour and Roshni pursed her lips to fight a smile, as though they had some inside joke.

"Uh, right." He nodded," May I head in, Miss... Roshni?"

"Roshni Singh," She nodded," Yeah, looks accurate. Until I find out you're eleven."

His lip quirked upwards slightly as he spoke in his typical flat voice," The age restriction is lower for celestials."

She snorted," Yeah, not that low. Fifteen, not eighteen."

He smirked blandly.

She shook her head with a sigh," Try not to run into any book bags. Don't cause any trouble."

"No promises." He said. He launched himself off the ground and flew away before she could respond. Rigel smile, small and completely unnoticeable from how high he was, but there. 

He'd not flown before, not just for fun. He'd used his wings. To escape the Fright Trial and likely to fly away from The Wunderground when he got cornered by those... things. But not just to fly, to just... feel the air around his body. Feel the breeze cradle him. 

Was this why Hawthorne enjoyed riding dragons so much? It felt so... exhilaratingly free.

...

Old Town was what he knew best. Both from The Chase Trial and from the intimate understanding of its streets that he'd gathered from all the orphanage excursions he'd taken the kids on. So, it shouldn't have been a surprise that it was where he decided to start off his search;

The sigil on his finger burned when he landed, not enough to be painful, just... uncomfortable.

His wings folded quickly into his back and he pulled his coat off quickly, reaching around the back to button up the wing flaps—he'd made the coat specifically after his wings had appeared, deliberately stitching the seams on the back close than normal to help hide the invisible button up holes hidden in them and had just been wearing shirts with holes cut into the back, resolving to keep that routine until he could see a tailor and gather the courage to talk to Jupiter—before placing it back on and strolling around aimlessly. 

He faltered when the tingling heat of the sigil grew as he took a step forward, and then, tentatively he stepped away slightly. It lessened. A step forward. Warmer. Another. Warmer.

He followed the strange game of hot and cold until he found himself standing in front of an alleyway, a plague rested on the brick wall beside the entrance.

DEVILISH COURT: BEWARE!
 BY ORDER OF THE GEOGRAPHICAL ODDITIES SQUADRONAND THE NEVERMOOR COUNCIL, THIS STREET HAS BEEN DECLARED A PINK ALERTTRICKSY LANE (NUISANCE-LEVEL TRICKERY PRESENTING SIGNIFICANTINCONVENIENCE ON ENTRY) ENTER AT OWN RISK!

Well, Rigel wasn't exactly known for his caution. And it wasn't like he didn't know how to handle a tricksy lane. Besides, it was only a pink-alert. His eyes narrowed as he glanced around, eyes landing on a small golden circle. He hesitated, gaze flickering down at the almost burning fire sigil on his knuckle and the small golden circle which had begun to glow.

Was the circle glowing for him? Was it inviting him in?

If some one wanted to hide rare and obscure books about Wundersmith powers and monsters lurking in the shadows of Nevermoor, a tricksy lane seemed like the place to do it.

The boy glanced around, double checking he was alone before he took in a  deep breath and stepped into the tricksy lane. Nothing happened. Rigel took another, tentative step, and another. Still nothing.

He made it halfway down the alley before a wave of nausea hit him, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to faint, puke or fall over. He settled for neither, swallowing as he straightened, mind unbiddenly going back to the night of The Fright Trial.

(He scoffed, stopping just a step from his destination and turned to the side, face illuminated in the half-light," No. My demons are my own, you do not get to claim any part of me as yours any longer, Father. Every part of me, the good and the bad, belongs with my family. It belongs in Nevermoor.")

Nevermoor was his home. 

(Something soft tugged at his body, an unfamiliar emotion rushed through him, not unlike the jovial cheer of Jupiter or the warm comfort of Mary or even Martha. But this felt deeper somehow, older, more sacred. It was heavier, though still comforting and warm it carried a weight to it—like there was a level of pride or gratitude to be held in response to it, the air wrapped around him like a cocoon of comfort despite his shivering form, almost as though Nevermoor herself was reassuring him. Embracing him. Protecting him.)

Rigel understood now. She was sentient, just like The Deucalion. That feeling had been her.  He belonged with her, and as long as he respected her, she would protect him. Care for him. Even now, he could feel the trick lessening with the realisation and a small smile crossed his face as he realised. 

The ghouls. The ghouls from earlier, he'd been in The Wunderground Station, and yet when he'd awoken he was on a rooftop. He'd though his wings had taken him there, he'd somehow taken himself there without realising. 

But it wasn't true. Nevermoor had been protecting him, or at least trying to. She'd tried to help him escape, and when she couldn't, she'd offered him privacy in his darkest moment. 

And his eyes. That hadn't been his gift punishing him for not appreciating it. It had been her. Punishing him from hurting himself. Protecting him, even from himself.

("Every part of me, the good and the bad, belongs with my family. It belongs in Nevermoor.")

He smiled, as the nausea faded, not much, just slightly. Just enough for him to push through. Even now, from outside the pocket real, she was doing her best to protect him.

"Thanks, old girl." He whispered," I know I probably sound crazy. But thanks."

A slight warmth enveloped him, gently caressing his face. The slightest breeze ruffled through the alley, mussing his hair just so. Then, a warning. Caution. Comfort. A gentle squeezing around his shaking hand. If he continued down this lane she wouldn't be able to help him any more, she could only stetch so far. The Gobleian was a replica of her, but it wasn't her. It was a pocket real. A separate place she could only really reach because it settled inside her and chose her to take inspiration from.

He nodded. "I'll be careful." he whispered. A slight warmth, not unlike sunlight over his skin.

It faded as he took a step forward and the nausea hit him full force. He bit his tongue, swallowing back the bile and his hands clutched his stomach slightly, he was suddenly acutely aware he hadn't eaten at all today. Or, well. Yesterday. 

He inhaled sharply and forced himself to take one more step. And suddenly he walked through an invisible wall of resistance, and everything faded away. 

("—the Stealth on our trails." A paintbrush. A crookedly strung banner. A messy G scrawled in black paint. An auction palette. A large cat's tail. A ladder. Metal Bars. A terrified yowl. A defensive hiss.)

Rigel blinked, shaking his head of the vision. Nausea twisted his stomach once more, but not from the trick. The animal's, a Magnificub it seemed, terrified yowls repeated in his mind like a broken record. They were angry, but small. Young. 

A sneer curled at his lips, anger igniting behind his eyes. If he found out some one had hurt an innocent cub, there would be hell to pay. His wings burst from his back as if sensing his fury and he paused, taking deep slow breaths as he glanced around. The place beyond the tricksy lane was large, easily the size of a block and full of rows and rows of shelves full of books.

Warm tones decorated the square, giving the large space a messy, cosy feeling. The vines snaking up the shelves and trees, old and tall shading the books offered a wild, endearing messiness that felt almost... comforting. Exactly the kind of warm stability Rigel imagined a home would feel like.

(Room 86 had never felt like a home. Privacy, safety, perhaps. But never warmth and comfort. Rigel had never had a home. Not truly.)

The first book Rigel noticed was labelled Singularities: Curiosities, Marvels, Spectacles, Singularities and Phenomena: Volume One of an Unabridged History of the Wundrous Act Spectrum. Volume One. by Lillian Pugh. He raised a brow at the large tomb, eyes wandering to the one beside it. Volume Two.

On and on down the row of bookshelves, it seemed there were dozens—no, hundreds—of near identical successive volumes. His eyes flickered down to the author of Volume Two. It was also by Lillian Pugh, as were Volume Three and Volume Four. But Five and Six were by Daniel Middling-Blythe, and the next six volumes after that were by Ruby Chang. He strolled down the aisle, eyes glazing each book until he finally reached the final volume (Volume Three Hundred and Seven by Sudbury Smithereens), and pulled it from the shelf and sat down to open it in his lap. He flipped through the pages, unfamiliar name jumping out in front of him. Griselda Polaris. Rastaban Tarazed. Decima Kokoro. Mathilde Lachance. Brilliance Amadeo. Owain Binks. Ezra Squall. Elodie Bauer. Odbuoy Jemmity. All Wundersmiths. 

All like him and Morrigan.

He glanced at the tag on the book and scoffed. A black tag. He wasn't a Wunsoc member yet, so he could only check out books with a blue tag—and even if he was, he'd need written permission from The Elders and the highest level of clearance. He scoffed, just his luck, and the shoved the thought aside. He would read about this another day, for now, he had a topic of research to cover.

He rose reluctantly, tucking the book back into the shelf and strolling through bookshelf after bookshelf as he glanced from title to title, finally finding two that stood out to him.

The Unresting: Ghouls of Eternal Guilt by Hani Nakamura and Inferno: Mastering The Art and Accepting the Seal by Griselda Polaris and Brilliance Amadeo.

He flicked open the first book, rushing past the contents as he scanned the pages, finally breathing a sigh of relief. Quickly followed by a murmured curse.

The Unresting are perhaps one of the most fearfully regarded natural manifestations of The Wundrous Arts of Nocturne and Weaving. They are known to have been tethered permanently to the city of Nevermoor by a physical manifestation of their darkest most horrific emotions—ambient wunder manifesting a punishment befitting of the emotions, particularly guilt, that ghosts of deceased spirits feel, and converting them into agonised, cursed ghouls, forever tethered to the living realm as spectators by their own manifestation instead of being allowed to move on.

These emotions can range from unending agony and eternal shame to mild guilt and slight dread, and as such is seen as one of the most terrifying, unstable Wundrous manifestations, due to the unpredictability of when and why it manifests. The Unresting are spirits so consumed by their guilt, grief, shame, horror and fear, that all they can do is flee from power they receive through the acknowledgement and notice of individual, terrified of what more damage said power will do to them or what they will do with it.

Oh. Rigel had been right. He swallowed. Was this going to be his life from now on? Forever haunted by those things—The Unresting? Followed by them everywhere he went? Stuck seeing their eternal pain?

He shuddered, fear clawing at his throat. He didn't want that. He didn't want to live the rest of his life like that. Quickly he shut that book and flicked through the other.

Inferno is often regarded as one of the most difficult of The Wundrous Arts to learn, and it is not known for it's common affinity. The flames of Inferno are one of the most selective of those who may wield it, and many of those with a natural affinity towards it known for having a steady flame in their hearts, an anger and determination rarely seen. 

However, not all. There are two sides to Inferno: Anger, Recklessness and Determination, and Warmth, Comfort and Love. Those who are quick to burn their enemies with flames of wrath, are perhaps even quicker to warm their family with the comforting fire of The Hearth.

Rigel huffed, he was hardly know for his warm demeanour. What little warmth that Corvus Crow had snuffed out of him was carefully hidden, unnoticed and unseen. By any one, least of all those he cared about. He hardly wanted them to see his weaknesses, they would surely change their minds and dismiss whatever goodwill they had towards him if they saw the real him. 

One of the most common mistakes made when learning the art of Inferno stems from the misconception that all flames are angry and destructive, and thus powered by anger and destruction. Often amateurs will attempt to harness their flames solely through the use of anger and rage, leading to unrealised exhaustion and frustrated confusion as they push their power from their muscle rather than their lungs.

Rigel scowled, unpleasantly unsurprised by the knowledge that his first wundrous art was one etched in wrath. Wrath had followed him all his life. Still, he couldn't help the bitter hurt. 

(Remember how your father used to get angry over the slightest things? Notice how you get angry over the slightest thing? You have become everything you hated.)

He shoved it down and continued reading.

The first and perhaps easiest trick to master in Inferno is to breathe fire. Like all wundrous arts, the process begins with summoning Wunder through song—

Oh, you have got to be kidding. Rigel scoffed, a sneer growing on his face. Song? He had to sing just to summon Wunder? To use it? He only knew two songs, not including the ones he'd often made up as a child wandering the gardens.

—to begin any study in The Wundrous arts you must have a unique tune used to summon Wunder, the reasoning for this being  that it allows Wunder to differentiate its summoner and smith's. A unique tune to each person allows a deeper connection, understanding and familiarity to grow between the energy and fosters a sense of comfort in showing itself.

He blinked, Wunder showed itself when summoned? He glanced around, though realistically he knew no one else would be there, pondering which tune to sing. He settled on perhaps the eerier and more haunting tune, knowing that Morrigan only knew one tune and would likely need it.

"Is it just you and me in a world so cold and torn? The must be such a burden for a boy so broken and worn." He hummed voice rasping from disuse. He squeezed his eyes shut as something tingled, his imprint practically burned," The shadows whisper secrets no daylight could mend."

Something prickled at his eyes," You reached for the truth, but I cannot blame you. You were bound to break in the en—" His eyes flickered open and he gasped.

He could see it—a tiny, shimmering thread of golden-white light dancing before his eyes. Static electricity twirled around his fingers performatively, an elaborate dance of power and creation weaving its way into the fabric of the world's tapestry, growing perhaps even more restless and excited at the feeling of acknowledgement brought b his gaze. Rigel absently wondered it it felt like embracing an old friend, like finally being asked how your day was after years of only listening to others troubles.

It had been over a century since it had been summoned, stuck laying dormant as it waited to be freed by a Wundersmith.

This was what it had been waiting for. He'd thought it would be difficult to summon Wunder, but it was like... it wanted to be summoned. It gathered fast—a hundred tiny threads made of a million miniscule specks of light, surrounding his head and body... and washes over his body, not unakin to the feeling her got when blood rushed toward a part of his body, leaving goosebumps of excitement, embarrassment, or even affection.

Was this what made up the fabric of the world? Was this what made the sun burn and the flowers bloom, and the breeze rustle? What made the crows caw, and the shadows twist? Was this wonderful, empowering being what made up every thread and fibre of the world he lived in?

He closed his eyes, thinking of heat on his lips, of the warmth when you pressed your face against the a soft blanket in winter and breathed hot air, warming your mouth and face and smiled as his lips tingled. A genuine, true thing. Not a grin, or a quirk of  his lips, just the slighted, almost unnoticed smile crossing his face.

He inhaled, recalling Brilliance and Griselda's writing. 

(Often amateurs will attempt to harness their flames solely through the use of anger and rage, leading to unrealised exhaustion and frustrated confusion as they push their power from their muscle rather than their lungs.)

And released a soft exhale, giggling as the shortest breath of flame burst from his lips. It was hardly big, probably only about ten centimetres, but it was like the whole world clicked.

Like everything just fell into place. 

His smile twisted into a grin as he raised his hand, allowing the flames to twist around his shaking fists. He'd breathed fire. Like one of the dragon's Hawthorne rode. His eyes lit up, hands grasping the flames and brows furrowing as he focused on twisting the flames into a new shape. His brows knit together in concentration as they resisted his attempts to force them smaller and he focused instead on twisting them, allowing them to expand just slightly as he manipulated them. Wings formed, followed by a small head, then a tail, and soon a small dragon was floating above his trembling hand.

He lifted his other wrist, twisting it around as he let it fly. It's flames twisted around trees and foliage, sweat beaded at his brow as he focused all hi attention on controlling it, and then stopped.

Why was he controlling it? Why not work alongside it?

He hummed under his breath, wordlessly murmuring the last line of the tune as he let the dragon grow, trying his best to trust that the flames knew what to do.

Let fire be fire, he decided, nobody knows how to be a flame better than a flame.

The dragon grew, until it was twisting high above the trees, probably able to be seen by Miss Singh and Miss Cheery by now. He grinned, exhilarated as he twisted it's serpentine form, letting it dive into the trees, down, down, down. 

Gusts of wind extinguished the flames as it dived, allowing it to form into something small enough to twist through the foliage, and then, just as quickly, Rigel twisted it upwards, letting it grow again.

This time in the different form, less like a Chinese Dragon and more like a Hungarian Dragon, growing larger and larger as it flew high above the foliage once more, flames exhilarating. Rigel grinned, launching himself up off the ground and soaring alongside the dragon. He dived low, twisting around so he was facing the sky and pulling up just before he hit branches, only to twist around once again, allowing the dragon to stop, taking its form behind him.

He grinned and gasped in a deep breath, exhaling heavily like he would to blow out a candle and the dragon exploded behind him, flames scattering into the sparks of a thousand firebugs that parted among the trees. He laughed, letting himself fall and catching himself just before he reached the ground.

An applause sounded from afar and he gripped the book of inferno, pleased to see a blue tag on it, as he made his way out of the alley, pushing past the trick as quickly as possible.

He had a feeling it was time to fill Morrigan and Hathorne in on his discoveries—all of them.

...

Miss Cheery and Miss Singh were at the front desk when he made it there, clutching the book tightly to his chest. His cheeks dusted pink as he truly realised they'd probably seen all of that,  and a mixture of embarrassment and humiliation clawed at him indignantly at the idea of some one witnessing him toss aside every ounce of dignity and decorum in favour of acting like an immature child.

Miss Cheery was grinning in a mixture of awe and excitement as she glanced at him and he was glad he'd tucked his wings away as she spoke," Wow."

Miss Singh seemed much more collected and looked like she was trying to seem chiding despite her shock and wonder. She raised an eyebrow," The library isn't a play ground. It's a place of learning."

Miss Cheery whacked her on the arm lightly," Oh, leave the poor boy alone, Rosh. Don't pretend you weren't just as excited at the sight."

He raised his own eyebrow as he retorted," Who ever said learning couldn't be playful?"

She sighed," Touché. Honestly—between you and Marina. I'm going to have my hands full next year."

He titled his head, gaze flickering to her W pin," Intending on looking out for me?"

She scoffed," Some one's cocky."

"I have a lot to be cocky about." He responded drolly, making a note to introduce Roshni and Cadence. He had a feeling they would get along well. 

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head good-naturedly," Uh-huh. And I suppose you're ranking number one in the trials?"

He allowed himself a small, smug tilt of his lips," I'm a man of many talents."

She scoffed, taking the book and card from him to scan it," You're a boy who hasn't even managed to grow facial hair yet."

He sniffed," How do you know I don't shave?"

She gave him a sceptical look," Do you?"

"Why on earth would I want to hide these glorious cheekbones?" He purred, raising a cock eyebrow as he rested his thumb on his chine and dragged his index finger down his jawline smugly.

Miss Cheery gasped as though realising something and excitedly turned to Miss Singh who was staring at him mouth parted.

"Oh my gosh! Rosh! Rosh!" She tugged on her partner's arm excitedly.

"I see it." Miss Singh breathed. 

Rigel glanced between them," See... what?"

They both seemed to snap out of their daze," Nothing!"

"...Right." He nodded, not in the slightest bit appeased.

...

He took the Brolly Rail back to The Deucalion, and tried his best to ignore the wave of sorrow, grief and guilt that shot through him at the sight of a Young Man with a rope wrapped around his throat, weighed down by his depression and the effects of his escape.

When he got back to The Deucalion it was almost five and he stalked to his room, fully aware that there was no need to set an alarm because he'd probably wake to a nightmare about The Unresting.

(He had a hunch they were going to haunt him for a very long time.)

Chapter Text

"Over and over again, I have had to conquer infinite hopelessness." —Raina Maria Rilke

...

Rigel awoke a few hours later to panic, he clutched his chest as he bolted upright, gasping heavily. His shaking hands, ice cold and rough with scars and callouses travelled up to his shoulders and neck, rubbing the burn marks as images of hands clutching his shoulders—

(Holding the babe down, the last of his air leaving his lungs.)

—flashed to the front of his mind.

He shoved the image away, along with the bile in the back of his throat and tried to focus on the smells wafting through the air in an effort to calm himself from the painful clench around his chest signalling an oncoming panic attack.

He lowered his palms to his lap and lifted them as he inhaled. 

"Cinnamon," He murmured as he guided himself through the motions, he was too preoccupied to take amusement in the way the fire rose and shrunk with his gasps. Exhale. Inhale. "Citrus." Exhale. Inhale. "Matchwood." Exhale. Inhale. "Gingerbread."

His hands, pale and littered with a painfully familiar scarring that he rarely saw but knew by heart, quivered and cramped, clearly not taken by the cold.

He scowled, just another reason to hate Christmas. 

There was a traditional red stocking hanging above the fireplace and he frowned, brows knit together as he climbed out of bed and padded towards the rooms only source of warmth, ignoring the nauseating guilt wafting from beside his bed and the ghoulish hands he could just make out.

Don't acknowledge. Don't acknowledge. Don't acknowledge.

He stopped just as he reached the fireplace, taking a moment to rest his shaky palms above the flames and warm them a little before carefully pulling aside the stocking and walking over to his desk, methodically pulling everything out and diving into piles.

He blinked. He'd been meaning to get refill the small stashes of food he kept in his room, he'd had to empty them all recently as the fruit had started to go off. Mainly because he didn't really eat it. An unfortunate habit Morrigan didn't really like.

Every time she hassled him about it, Rigel just informed her that he had no desire to allow his body to adjust to a standard of food beyond the bare minimum. The less he caved into his body's desire, feeding himself when he grew hungry instead of when he was about to pass out or before a hot shower, the less it would demand of him. 

It was safer this way. To only rely on the bare minimum. To only rely on what was easiest attained.

The stocking was filled with different knick knacks and wrapped foods, freeze-dried clementine slices, a collection of assorted chocolates, gingerbread cookies (he set those aside to be divided equally among Morrigan and Jack, he was allergic to ginger), pickled sugarplums (a quick glance at the back of the package confirmed that the syrup was made with ginger and set those aside as well), and a large pomegranate (his favourite).

A set of silver-backed playing cards, a simple black wooden hair comb with a knight on a horse engraved in the handle, a book called Finnegan's Faerie Tales (he set that on the shelf, feeling rather uncomfortable at just how... much he had been gifted), and simple pair of plain knitted grey mittens (he appreciated the gloves and the lack of festivity but set them aside, fully aware be struggled enough with basic mobility and menial tasks without having to complete them fingerless).

He didn't believe anybody had ever gifted him so much, and he was... rather uncomfortable and uncertain how to proceed when he couldn't thank the man in person.

Should he send him a thank you letter?

The only gift he'd received before had been from Jupiter, and he'd been able to thank the man in person—though he hadn't ended up doing that, he realised which was rather understandable given he'd never received a gift in his life, but still left him vaguely disappointed by his lack of manners. He made a note to thank Jupiter when he got the chance—but when it came to a strange, jolly, fat man he didn't know, Rigel was almost as unsure how to proceed as he had been with Jupiter's gift.

The Crow's had never been big on giving gifts. 

Once, when he was nine, he'd worked up the courage to ask Corvus if he might get a surprise for his birthday that year, and to his delight he'd said yes. After weeks of anticipation (and jealousy on Morrigan's part) he'd jumped out of bed the morning of his birthday, pulling on his best clothes only to return hours later, severely traumatised after watching a public execution. 

Understandably, he'd never requested a gift again.

He'd been horrified that same year when Morrigan (who had no idea what had happened until she'd seen it in the papers that her father had been there that morning and put the pieces together) had asked for a Christmas surprise since she didn't get a birthday once, but (rather depressingly when you thought about it) relieved when that Christmas morning the twins had woken and found an envelope at the foot of each of their beds. Inside was an itemized bill for every cent Corvus had spent that year paying reparations to the Registry Office for Cursed Children on their behalfs.

The man hadn't lied on either account: it had been surprising. But, it hadn't prepared him on what to do in the event of actually receiving a gift.

He frowned, puzzle before nodding decisively. Yes. He would pen a letter of thanks.

Then, a new query crossed his mind, Originally he'd been planning to spend his Christmas locked in his room, but after the events with The Unresting, he didn't think that was a good idea. Whatever. He'd manage.

His gaze flickered around the room and his brow furrowed as he caught sight of a folded piece of paper slide under his door. He frowned, reaching to pick it up with a scowl, fully expecting bad news. He was right.

Urgent business on Ma Wei.
Back in time for lunch. Am having Jack take Mog sledding, please make sure they don't drown each other in snow for me.

J.N.

He sighed, hand reaching up to rub the crease in his brow from the headache he could already feel coming on.

This better not become a common occurrence. He had better things to do with his life than play babysitter to his immature older co-wards.

...

Sound floated from the open door across the hall when he made his way out of Room 86, stocking of plums and gingerbread cookies clutched in his hand.

"—what's Ma Wei?" She asked as he walked into the room like he owned the place, refusing to show his surprise at the sigh of Jack perched at the end of Morrigan's bed eating gingerbread.

"One of the middle reals," He responded airily, startling the two as he strolled in announced.

Jack swallowed a mouthful of gingerbread, a slightly bitter look crossing his face. "Probably another explorer missed their scheduled gateway home. He always gets called in on Christmas Day to help some idiot. Ugh—here, you can have this." He handed Morrigan the pomegranate from his stocking with a look of distaste, and she threw him a couple of her clementines in return.

Rigel glanced between the two, feeling strangely as though he'd missed something. Since when were they nice to each other?

"What are  you doing here?" Morrigan turned to Rigel, not unkindly," I thought you weren't going to be celebrating today."

"I got called in for baby-sitting duty last minute." He drawled, lowering himself to the octopus chair and spreading out lazily. "But I assure you, I still find the holiday as loathsome as ever and have no intention of celebrating beyond the mandatory greetings to the few people I don't find utterly repugnant."

Jack frowned, clearly put out by the idea of being babysat.

"You don't have to take me sledding." She turned back to Jack, biting into the chocolate with a shrug. "I don't even have a sled."

"What do you think that is, a pony?" said Jack, nodding toward the fireplace.

Rigel's gaze shifted over to the fireplace, where a shiny green sled encircled with gold ribbon sat. Rigel glanced down at the tag Jolly Christmas Mog.

His brows furrowed and he bit back an appreciative smile, he hadn't seen one by his fireplace, which likely meant Jupiter had respected his wish not to celebrate the holiday. That was good, he really hated the feeling of snow under his feet and he was most certainly not a creature of the cold.

"Wow," she breathed, looking slightly overwhelmed. 

"Mine's red," said Jack, rolling his eye. "Thinks he's funny."

Rigel ignored the sarcasm, tossing the plums ad gingerbread cookies in his sack onto the bed," Divide those up evenly. No squabbles."

Jack blinked," You don't like gingerbread or plums?"

He shrugged," Not partic—"

"He's really allergic to ginger," Morrigan cut in, arranging the candies among herself and Jack," And pickle juice has ginger in it."

"You drank Martha's ginger tea." Jack frowned.

"He probably puked a lot afterwards." Morrigan supplied, helpfully."

He shrugged," I didn't want to hurt her feelings." It would be like hurting Mary's feelings.

Jack eyes him strangely. "You're weird."

"Eat you ginger bread, Jack Sparrow." The reference went straight over his head. Rigel had never felt so old in his life.

He was absolutely going to start referring to the boy as Jack Sparrow now. He vaguely wondered if Jupiter would understand the reference.

...

Jupiter didn't make it back in time for lunch or supper, instead sending his apologies with a messenger, which of course meant Rigel had to break the news to Morrigan and Jack, and that he was stuck babysitting all day. Jack seemed utterly expecting of the news, and he had a feeling Morrigan was enjoying Christmas too much to be disappointed by his absence.

The day was marked by a thick, swirling snowfall, courtesy of the Yule Queen. Jack and Morrigan spent the morning sledding down nearby Galbally Hill over and over again and warring with the neighbourhood children in an epic snowball fight. Rigel shuddered at that, loathing having to stand in the snow, wet socks were only tolerable when they came from walking through the rain and you didn't have shoes on over them.

He allowed them until midday, before insisting it was time to head back to The Deucalion and warm up, lest they give themselves a cold, and they (reluctantly) trudged back to the hotel just in time for lunch in the formal dining room. Long tables groaned under the weight of glazed hams, smoked pheasants and roast geese, dishes of fat green sprouts with bacon and chestnuts, golden roast potatoes and honeyed parsnips, boats of thick gravy, crumbly cheeses and braided breads, and bright red crab claws and glistening oysters on ice.

Rigel grew nauseous at the sight of so many dead animals and quietly informed them he was heading to The Smoking Parlour and they were to meet him there immediately after they finished lunch—no side quests.

(Yes, he was very much aware they were not going to succeed in their mission and had instructed them to ensure they didn't throw up.)

Maybe he was hovering given the events of The Unresting, but he didn't wish to see them hurt.

Regardless, they gave up halfway through to lie down in the Smoking Parlour (peppermint smoke: "to aid digestion", he ignored the fact he was allergic to mint and would likely have a nasty rash, assuming he wasn't puking as well, in favour of sticking close to the idiots), declaring they'd never eat another bite of food as long as they lived. Rigel didn't believe that for a second.

 Fifteen minutes later, Jack was dutifully ploughing through a heaped bowl of trifle and two mince pies, while Morrigan demolished a fluffy white meringue with cream and blackberries.

He sighed, letting his eyes slip wearily shut in a half-awake state he was rather used to, mind hazy but still fully aware of his surrounding lest the idiots injure themselves or something.

During Jack's third trip back to the dining room, while Morrigan lay beside him on a corner sofa and breathed in the soothing mint-green vapours, he heard someone enter the parlour. Morrigan shifted beside him, and Rigel pulled her close sleepily.

Did they really have to nose into other people's business right now? He was tired, and actually relaxed for once in his life. 

She shrugged away slightly and he sighed as he received an answer to his unasked question. Yes, they were absolutely going to be eavesdropping.

"It's not that I don't trust him," Kedgeree's voice rang through The Parlour. "He must know what he's doing. The lad's a genius."

Rigel stilled, fully aware of where this conversation was going. Oh.

The twin opened their eyes sleepily, just able to make out two figures through the thick waves of smoke rolling out from the walls—elegant Dame Chanda dressed in flowing silks of red and green, and spry, snowy-haired Kedgeree Burns in his Christmas kilt.

"Too clever for his own good," Dame Chanda agreed. "But he isn't immune to making mistakes, Ree-Ree. He's only human."

Morrigan shifted beside him, he rested a hand over her chest, stilling her movements with an angry sneer. She needed to hear this, and so did he. 

"Why the twins?" said Kedgeree. "Of all the candidates he might have chosen, why them? Where's their knack?"

"She's a dear girl and—"

"O' course, o' course. Grand wee thing. Champion of a gal. And Rigel's... he's not real kind, but... he makes up for it with his brains. But what makes Jupiter think they're Wundrous Society material?"

He's not real kind, but... he makes up for it with his brains. He bit back a scoff.

"Oh, you know Jupiter," said Dame Chanda. "He's always taking on challenges nobody else will. He was the first to climb Mount Ridiculous, you remember. And he went blazing into that troll-infested realm that no one else in the League of Explorers would touch with a hundred-foot pole."

Was that what what they were now? Challenges?

The concierge chuckled. "Aye, and look at this place. It was a wreck when he found it. He took it on as a hobby and now it's the grandest hotel in Nevermoor." His voice had a grave edge. "But you canna' take on children as a hobby."

A hobby. Rigel swallowed, glancing at his crest-fallen sister, any hurt he'd had turned to rage. How dare they put such a look on his sister's face. His hands curled into enraged fists.

"No," agreed Dame Chanda. "At least if he'd failed with the Deucalion, it wouldn't have mattered so much. You can't hurt a hotel."

At least if he'd failed with the Deucalion, it wouldn't have mattered so much. They'd already decided what the outcome had been, hadn't they? They had absolutely no faith in the twins.

There was a pause. Morrigan froze and held her breath, worried for a moment that they'd spotted her through the clouds of peppermint smoke. Rigel hoped they had, he was furious right now and he almost wanted them to see him like this. He almost wanted a reason to lose his cool at them. Morrigan shook her head beside him, and he sighed, tension falling from his form. 

After some time, Burns sighed heavily. "I know we should keep our noses out, Chanda," Yes, he thought snidely, you should," But I'm only worried about the poor wee things. I think he's setting 'em up for a terrible disappointment. And you know Rigel, he's not exactly an open 'un. It doesn't take a genius to know he's been through the ringer, he shouldn' have to go through something like this on top of whatever demons he faces."

"It's worse than that," added Dame Chanda in an ominous voice. "If the Stink finds out they're here illegally, that Rigel faked those forms, think of what Jupiter risks. It's treason. He could go to prison, Kedgeree. His reputation, his career... gone. And not only that, but—"

Rigel scoffed, Morrigan elbowed him. He shrugged, he hadn't faked those forms. He'd paid some one to make real one's.

"The Deucalion," finished Kedgeree solemnly. "If he's not careful, he'll lose the Deucalion. And then where will we all go?"

Rigel glared ahead angrily, doubt and disbelief of the conversation sticking with him like one more heavy weight on his shoulders.

...

Rigel was unsurprised to find that he wasn't the only one wandering the halls of The Hotel Deucalion tonight, Morrigan trailed around aimlessly in the middle of the night, she didn't have to tell him for him to know she was trying to banish her stomach-ache and bad dreams. 

Another nightmare then. 

He joined her silently, gloved hand tucked in his pocket as he nudged her with his shoulder, silently letting her know he was here.

It was only quarter-past midnight when they noticed that the door to Jupiter's office was ajar. Morrigan peeked inside. He sat in a leather armchair by the fire, and on the table beside him was a steaming silver teapot and three small painted glasses. He didn't even look up. "In you come, Mog, Ryj."

Jupiter poured the tea—mint, with swirling green leaves (Rigel was not having another allergic reaction today)—and stirred a sugar cube into Morrigan's glass. His eyes flicked up to her face briefly as she took the chair opposite. 

Rigel politely declined the tea he offered the boy. Jupiter eyed him curiously.

"He's allergic." Morrigan said matter-of-factly," To mint, ginger and wasps." She paused with a shudder," He's deathly allergic to wasps."

Rigel glanced at her regretfully. She was never meant to find out that way. He knew for a fact she still had bad dreams about that. 

"You drank Martha's ginger root tea." Stars, Jack really was his nephew.

Rigel shrugged," I didn't want to hurt her feelings."

Jupiter nodded, somewhat appeased," Next time, just reject it."

"He's also vegetarian," Morrigan offered.

"Is that why you didn't eat much at dinner?" He asked curiously.

"Animals make me nauseous." He offered primly.

"He also just generally doesn't eat," Morrigan cut in," I'm pretty sure he has an eating disorder."

Rigel wondered if it was ethically acceptable to punch your siblings unconscious when they were being annoying and over-sharing your private information. Probably not.

"Morrigan had a nightmare," He redirected, rather conspicuously.

Jupiter side-eyed him but agreed to drop the topic," We're talking about this later."

Rigel hummed, neither in agreement or disagreement. That's what Morrigan had said about The Humming Man and they still hadn't had that conversation. The man turned to Morrigan. 

"You're still worried about the Show Trial." It wasn't a question.

Morrigan busied herself with sipping her tea.

"The trial's next Saturday," she said pointedly, clearly hoping it would prompt him to tell her, at last, what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to perform.

He sighed. "Stop worrying so much."

"You keep saying that."

"Everything will be fine."

"You keep saying that too."

"Because it's true."

"But I don't have a talent!" she said, accidentally splashing tea down the front of her nightgown. "Why am I even doing these trials when I'll never get into the Society? I can't ride dragons or—or—sing like an angel. I can't do anything." Morrigan found that once she started naming her worries out loud, she couldn't stop. "What if the Stink finds out we're here illegally? They'll kick me out and put you in prison. They'll take the Deucalion away from you. You—your reputation—your career—" Morrigan's voice caught in her throat. "You can't risk all that just for me! What about the staff? What about Jack? You can't look after him if you're in prison. And what about—" She faltered, losing her thread.

"We're not here illegally," Rigel explained," The forms I showed were entirely valid."

The two glanced at him. Jupiter blinked," I have even more questions now than I did when I thought they were fraudulent." 

"You're better off without answers," He offered," Just because the forms are legal, doesn't meant they were obtained legally."

Jupiter nodded, strangely calm. He turned to Morrigan, waiting for her to continue, smiling politely behind his glass of mint tea. Morrigan faltered, expression almost indignant.

"I want to go home."

The words hung heavily in the air.

Rigel froze, voice cracking," What?"

"Home?" Jupiter asked at the same time.

"Back to Jackalfax," she clarified, though she knew Jupiter realized exactly what she meant. He had become very still. "I want to go back. Now. Tonight. I want to tell our family we're alive. I don't want to join the Wundrous Society and I don't—" The words wouldn't come easily; they fought her at every syllable. "I don't want to live at the Hotel Deucalion anymore."

That wasn't true. There was no way that was true. Morrigan wouldn't, she wouldn't—

"Are you seriously reminiscing over that place?" He scoffed, disbelieving. "It was hell."

"It was home." She lied, her tone one of finality.

"Very well," Jupiter shattered the disbelieving silence before it could even settle in, breaking apart any arguments before they even started. "We'll leave at once."

Rigel's heart broke and he was reminded once more that he hated Christmas.

...

"How much farther?" Morrigan asked, as the twins trailed behind Jupiter. Rigel scowled. As though she had a right to be whining right now.

"Not much. Keep up." Jupiter marched down the dingy tunnel with its off-white tiles and flickering overhead lights, keeping his usual pace while Morrigan jogged, trying to match it. Rigel, for once in his life, slowed his pace to trial behind Morrigan's js Jupiter, each step filled with dread.

He'd barely spoken, other than to tell Fenestra where they were going. The Magnificat had looked at him with a mix of alarm and sorrow. She hadn't said a word, but when the twins had followed Jupiter out the front door, Fen nudged them gently with her great gray head and emitted a quiet, mournful sound. Rigel blinked rapidly and looked down at the ground, slouching in defeat.

They'd made their way through the darkened streets, hopping a Brolly Rail platform to the nearest Wunderground station, and then began their descent through the maze like tunnels and staircases. They climbed through hidden doors into dark, dirty hallways, following a path Rigel had never taken before but Jupiter seemed to know by heart. The night air and the reality of where they were going did nothing to soothe the mournful boy, and the cities warm attempt at comfort fell regretfully short. He memorized each twist and tunnel, just in case.

(In case this was the last time he ever saw Nevermoor.)

He clutched his oilskin umbrella tightly in his shaking hands. Twenty minutes and eleven blind turns later, they rounded a tight corner and came upon an empty train platform. Rigel stared at the cracks in the tile hollowly, still not daring to look up.

"Are you sure about this?" Jupiter's eyes were fixed on the tiled floor. Though he spoke quietly, his voice bounced around the cavernous space. "You don't have to go."

"I know," said Morrigan. A wave of sadness and sorrow rushed in Rigel's direction and his scowl grew deeper, expression darkening. She had no right to be sad right now, she was the reason they were leaving. She'd chosen this, and she'd chosen it for the both of them, fully aware this wasn't what he'd wanted. "I'm sure."

Jupiter nodded and reached out to take their umbrella's from them. Rigel's slipped from his grasp easily, barely clinging onto it as he was. He didn't feel a need to make this harder.

Morrigan clung onto hers though, Rigel felt that perhaps if this decision was so hard to make then it wasn't the one she should be making. But he didn't voice it, he wouldn't be listened to anyway. "Can't I keep—"

"It has to stay here. I'm sorry." Jupiter cut her off. A few tears dripped down Rigel's face soundlessly, an ugly mix of emotions caught in his throat—unseen by his companions.

Morrigan loosened her grip. As Jupiter hung the silver-handled umbrella over a rail on the platform,  right beside Rigel's own, all Rigel could muster was a dull, resentful disappointment that he knew to be Morrigan's and not his own.

"Ready?" He stood between the twins, taking each of their hands in his  and they stepped over the yellow line to the very edge of the platform. "Close your eyes. Keep them closed."

Rigel furrowed his brows, but allowed his eyes to fall shut. The tunnel was still with silence, and the boy couldn't help but feel a little ridiculous, standing their clutching his patron's hands in a violently quivering grasp.

Then he heard a sound in the distance—getting louder and louder—of a train gaining speed very quickly. A whoosh of cool air from the tunnel ruffled his hair lightly and he heard the train stop directly in front of them and open its doors.

"Step boldly, Little Crow's." Jupiter squeezed their hands and led the twins inside.

"Can I open my eyes now?" Morrigan asked.

"Not yet."

"Where are we going? What's the Gossamer Line? Will it take us all the way to Jackalfax or do we have to change?"

If Rigel didn't have his eyes shut, he would've blinked in surprise. The Gossamer Line. Jupiter was... oh. He vaguely wondered if the man knew how cruel it had been, to let him believe he was going back to Crow Manor, but shoved the thought aside, instead focusing on the small bit of hope it ignited in him.

He didn't want to leave Nevermoor. He wanted Jupiter's gambit to work.

"Hush." He squeezed their hands again.

The journey was shorter than he'd anticipated—just a few minutes—but Rigel felt nausea rising inside him as the train rocked from side to side. He wished he could open his eyes. He didn't appreciate the lack of knowledge he had on Jupiter's plan, his current mode of transport and the overall lack of control he had over the current situation.

The train stopped. The doors opened. Jupiter and the twins stepped out into cold, sharp air that smelled of rain and mud.

"Open your eyes."

With an aching dread deep in his heart, Rigel allowed his eyes to flutter open, blinking rapidly at the sight before him.

The front doors of Crow Manor stood before him in all their terrifying glory, and the boy had to take a deep breath to remind himself that he wasn't actually here. 

A familiar silver raven knocker glared down at him. 

(His case worker's hand rested on the ten-year-olds shoulders, the lingering scene of smoke filled the air as the man's pale fist rose towards the knocker and he wrapped on the door twice.)

Morrigan lifted her hand to knock, but Jupiter walked straight through the solid wooden door and disappeared. Rigel schooled his expression, refusing to allow himself to be phased by something as simple as the inner workings of The Gossamer Line.

"Impossible," Morrigan breathed.

Jupiter's hand reached back through and he pulled the into the dimly lit hallway of her childhood hell.

"How did—how—what just happened?"

Rigel rolled his eyes, but didn't elaborate, still feeling bitter and petulant. A slight sense of amusement filled him at wave of confusion wafting from Morrigan's direction.

Jupiter looked at her sideways. "Technically we're still in Nevermoor. At least, our bodies are. The Gossamer Line is supposed to be decommissioned, but as an interrealm explorer with a level nine security clearance, I have... certain privileges."

Rigel had a feeling that was the kind of privilege he could get arrested for, he did not voice this suspicion.

"How can we still be in Nevermoor? We're standing in my grandmother's house." Morrigan voiced her confusion.

"Not exactly. We're traveling on the Gossamer."

"What's that?" Rigel rolled his eyes.

"It's everything, it's... how can I explain?" He stopped and took a deep breath, looking up. Morrigan recalled that he'd tried to describe it to her once before and failed miserably. "We're all part of the Gossamer, and the Gossamer is all around us. The things I can see—your bad dreams, for instance, or the history of a certain green teapot—they all exist on the Gossamer, like tiny invisible threads woven in a vast, hidden web connecting everything together. The Gossamer Line simply gives us a way of traveling through those threads with intent. It was a by-product of interrealm exploration—something the League created about thirteen or fourteen Ages ago. Your body remains safely in Nevermoor while your consciousness travels the Republic undetected. Very clever system, and very much a secret, so for goodness' sake don't tell anyone. It was never available for public use. Too volatile. These days even top-ranking military personnel are banned from riding it."

Oops. Rigel supposed that book might not have been one he was supposed to read then? To be fair; he was bored and Jupiter had only said that he wasn't allowed past locked doors. It was the man's own fault for not locking his study.

"Why?"

Jupiter grimaced. "This mode of travel doesn't suit everyone. Some people who rode the Gossamer Line came back sort of... wrong. Their bodies and minds, once parted, never perfectly reunited. They were permanently unsynchronized, and it drove them to madness. This is a very dangerous business if you don't know what you're doing."

"I don't know what I'm doing!" said Morrigan, slightly panicked. "Why'd you let me on it?"

He snorted. "If anyone can ride the Gossamer Line, it's you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're..." A Wundersmith. He stopped, seeming to catch himself. "Because you're... with me." He looked away. "We can't be here long. Understand?"

A strange mixture fo relief, doubt and disappointment emitted from Morrigan. "But I didn't want to visit. I wanted to come back for good."

Rigel glared, he hadn't wanted that.

"I know this isn't what you were expecting. I just want you to be certain, before—"

"Jolly Christmas!" Ivy swept down the hallway toward them, smiling broadly. Morrigan stepped forward with an explanation on her lips, but their stepmother passed right by in a rustle of satin, leaving a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume in her wake. Rigel sneered, and Jupiter eyed him curiously. "Jolly Christmas, everyone!"

"I hate her so much." He muttered. Jupiter snorted but Morrigan ignored him, following her absently into the sitting room.

It was filled with people, each of whom raised a glass to their radiant hostess. Ivy gestured to a young man behind a piano, and he launched into a lively carol. Corvus—dressed in a tuxedo with a rose tucked into the lapel—beamed at his wife from across the room.

"I hope that stupid tie gets caught and he's strangled to death." Rigel decided casually. Jupiter choked and Morrigan shot him a look. 

His prayer remained unanswered.

"They're having a party," Morrigan observed. "They never have parties."

Jupiter said nothing. Rigel rolled his eyes.

He watched bitterly as Ivy and Corvus struck up an impromptu dance, spurred on by applause from their guests. One man said something to Corvus as he waltzed by, and Corvus threw his head back and laughed. Rigel could count on one hand, with one finger, the amount of times he'd seen the man laugh like that. Including now.

A wave of irrational fury filled him as he stared at Ivy and Corvus, two people he wasn't remotely related to and yet had suffered at the hands of his whole life.

The hatred he felt towards his birth father burned brighter, fuelled by the fire of his fury. If the angel had ever bothered to check in with the woman he'd slept with—

He hated him for abandoning him. For leaving him to Corvus. He hated him for never checking. He hated him for not being there.

He hated him for not being his dad.

He scowled, crossing his arms as he pulled away from his companions and stalked towards the entrance of the sitting room, walking straight through the doors.

...

His Hyacinthus's were neglected. The purple flowers were not dead, but... they looked duller than when he'd taken care of them.

Like they had just given the same generic treatment as the rest of the greenhouse. Or more specifically this greenhouse.

Corbin Crow had forbidden any one from ever being in this greenhouse, everyone but Rigel (and apparently his late son, Bertram,  who Rigel had never met), who he'd sat with patiently and taught the needs and desires of every plant in the garden.

He'd nurtured his purple Hyacinthus's and explained to the boy that they were his favourite, and they were grown from the propagated bulbs of the plant Ornella Crow had gifted him on their one year anniversary.

He'd told Rigel the story a million times and Rigel had never grown bored of it.

He'd been at the flower boutique and nursery his mother owned, a small shop and café located in the botanical garden's that his family ran, and a girl had come rushing in, desperate to buy a bouquet of flower—hair spun like gold and eyes the widest of blue, and had shoved his grandmother aside, where she'd fallen right into Corbin's arms, one hand wrapping around the girl's waist to stop her from tumbling to the ground and another grasping the bottom of a potted Purple Hyacinthus plant before it could shatter onto the ground.

They were only flowers, but they meant a lot to his grandfather.

Ornella Crow had never had a green thumb, and she'd only picked up the plant to move it aside to reach the ring she'd dropped, but she'd ended up purchasing them from the handsome cashier that day and had painstakingly nurtured them with a ridiculous amount of help from the dashing man.

They were only flowers, but they'd both shed tears of laughter and happiness alongside the plant as it grew.

Exactly a year after they'd met and subsequently began dating, Ornella had gifted the man the plant of Purple Hyacinthus's .

They were only flowers but the man had grown eighteen generations of Hyacinthus's from the bulbs of the original plant and treasured them more than anything in the world.

(They were only flowers but Corbin had taken his wife's surname under an arch of Purple Hyacinthus's.)

A familiar maid, with stern but kind brown eyes and elegant auburn hair, streaked with grey and tied up in a braided bun walked into the greenhouse and pointedly avoided the glancing at The Hyacinthus's as she stalked towards the garden tap and turned on the sprinklers, setting the timer.

Rigel voice cracked as he stepped forward," Mary?"

She stilled, body growing taut as his voice washed over her. "Little Master?"

He took a tentative step forward and she turned, face pale.

"Mary," He breathed, a watery smile growing on his face. 

"You're supposed to be dead." She whispered.

He faltered," I didn't die. The curse isn't real, I ended up in another state. Uhh—Nevermoo—"

"Quiet!" She exclaimed. He faltered, shocked by the fierceness in her voice," I don't want to hear one more thing or know how you know of Nevermoor. You foolish boy..."

Rigel blinked," I thought... I thought you'd be happy I was alive."

She looked at him as though he'd said something absurd," Do you understand how much happier every one was when they thought you dead? How much happier Master Crow was?"

He flinched. "We—Were you? Happier, I mean?"

"Of course I was!" She hissed. Rigel's face fell, a lump forming in his throat. "I spent years here thinking all I needed was to suck up to you and keep you out of his way to avoid being flogged, when all I really needed was for you and your wretched sister not to be here so that he was in a happier mood and none of us got flogged."

He frowned," You—You didn't care?"

"No." She scoffed. "Honestly, you were arrogant, closed off and spoiled. You knew, and likely still know, nothing of even the most basic ways to express emotion and desire. You had this obsessive need to always be in control and you were so whiny and irritating. Divine thing, do you know how annoying it was to hear you whinge and sob pathetically about your tragic little nightmares?"

He stumbled back as though physically struck, but she wasn't done. 

"And god, you knew nothing of how to express emotions. All you ever did was speak in the blandest tone of voice, get angry and hurt and bite yourself like a child, or cry and feel sorry for yourself." She sneered," You whined constantly about how little you knew of your perfect mother and how much you hated your father but by god, you acted like his mirror imitation. And you only grew more insufferable when you returned from that asylum. You should've stayed there."

He hasped, bile rising in his throat and shoulders trembling, tears streamed down his face as he backed away from the woman, but she continued, either not noticing or caring of his hurt and fear.

"It was... horrendous being charged with trying to make you talk again," She scowled. He didn't know what to do. His life was a lie, it was all falling apart and all he could do was stare blankly. She hadn't cared? She'd been charged with it? With him? "Almost as bad as trying to get you to talk when you were young. But your grandmother insisted. And all I got to hear about afterwards was your nightmares and your fears. He scares me. He touched me. All you did was slander him. A good man of the church who tried to fix your disgusting afflictions. Like you ever said no."

"I was eight." He whispered, shaking his head. Trying to convince himself that she was wrong.

(Hands wandered down, down, down. His trousers unbuttoned. The bishop sneered. His long beard tickled Rigel's neck. Rigel busied himself counting the raindrops trickling down the window.)

"Oh, I'm sorry." She mocked," Did I not pity you enough?"

"I didn't ask for your pity." He whispered," I never asked you to—"

"No,' She scoffed," But your grandmother did. She couldn't bare to look at you after what your father turned you into. After what you did to her husband—in name only. Her friend. We all knew of Corbin Crow's twisted tendencies."

He froze," What?"

"Just like yours." She scoffed," He's lucky Ornella married him. Though, perhaps it was good for her. She was never much interested in any form of romance. But by god, she helped with his sins. His stupid Hyacinthus's that she indulged, learning to maintain and giving him advice on his love life. As though something so sinful could be mistaken for love."

Rigel stared, expression mournful as she... Mary... 

"I thought you cared about me," He whispered, betrayed. Feeling like a fool. "I thought—"

"That I enjoyed listening to you complain about your suffering like you didn't grow up in the lap of luxury?" She breathed out a disbelieving laugh," Did I not pity you enough. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry that you were never made to be truly loved and it made you unbelievably cruel and selfish, Little Master."

The maid breathed out a huff of laughter," God, look at you. You're crying. What more did you expect? You're pathetic."

"I never meant—I never mean to be cruel." He admitted softly," I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be bad. I promise, I never meant to. Mary, it's me... It's me... you—you don't mean this. You don't mean this. You raised me. You taught me how to comb my curls and tie my ties and sew my suits and you bandaged my bleeding hands and you—I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry that I wasn't good but I promise I never wanted to be bad. I swear. I have good, I can be good, I can be kind—"

("He's not real kind, but... he makes up for it with his brains.")

"I can be kind. I can be good. I promise. I'll be good. I'll love the world like I should, just please don't hate me."

She snorted," It's far too late for that, you wretched child. You were always too cruel for this world. You were always too cruel to be loved, that's never going to change."

She scoffed as she walked away.

...

Rigel had never been in The Hall of Dead Crows as Morrigan referred to it.  He'd never been allowed, his father having forbidden it long ago. It wasn't like he'd imagined it. He'd thought of it as this... beautiful, well decorated memorial hall. 

But it was far from it. It was cold, empty, and smelled of musty, old parchment. 

It wasn't really called the Hall of Dead Crows, at least not by anyone but Morrigan. Its actual name was the Portrait Hall. But the only people who ever got their portraits in there were members of the Crow family, and only if they were dead. 

For some reason it was Grandmother's favourite place (Rigel had always suspected that was because there was no chance of running into him there)—she would sometimes disappear for hours at a time, and if you ever needed to look for her, you knew where she would be.

Standing in the Hall of Dead Crows, gazing at the grand lineage from Carrion Crow (Morrigan's great-great-great grandfather—accidentally shot by his valet on a hunting trip) right down to Camembert Crow (Corvus's prize greyhound—chewed through a box of soap suds and died foaming at the mouth).

Rigel was surprised to see that Grandmother had cleared a premium space for both him and Morrigan, who sat between venerable Great-Aunt Vorona, who was killed when she fell off her racehorse, and Uncle Bertram, Corvus's brother, who had died young of a fever. Rigel meanwhile, was opposite Morrigan, to the left of Corbin Crow who hung opposite to Bertram, the space beside him was empty, reserved for Grandmother when she passed on. He felt it rather morbid that she'd decided where the portrait of her would hang when she was dead, but it was a reasonable thought. Heavens knew neither Corvus or Ivy should be trusted with interior design.

Grandmother was notoriously particular about which dead Crows went where. Rigel had heard many lectures from Morrigan about it, and one of the only things he'd managed to garner about their mother was that her portrait was all the way down at the far end of the hall, among the lesser-beloved pets and the third cousins twice removed.

Which said all he needed to know about her relationship with grandmother. Looking back, he supposed that was fair. She had cheated on her only living son.

The artist commissioned to paint the twins had been painting the Crows for more than sixty years. This meant that he was very old, and painfully slow, and they'd had to stand still for hours while he tottered about with his paintbrush and occasionally shouted things towards Morrigan like "Stop moving!" or "Where's that shadow coming from?" or "I can see you breathing!" or "Don't scratch your nose, you beastly child!"

Rigel hadn't been all that phased, simply staring ahead in that vacant, unnerving way of his.

Halfway through the last-minute portrait sitting on Eventide Day, Ivy had come in with a tape measure, holding the telephone between her ear and shoulder while she took the twins' measurements. "Forty-eight inches long... yes, I should think so, at least... Oh no, wider than that, they're both quite broad-shouldered... How much is the mahogany? The pine, then, I think. No—no, Corvus would want the mahogany, we mustn't look cheap. Pink silk lining, of course, with a ruffled pillow, and a pink ribbon wrapped around the base. And I trust you'll deliver it to the house? What do you mean when? First thing tomorrow, obviously!"

Then she'd swept out of the room without a word to either twin or the artist. Once Morrigan realized what the conversation had been about, Rigel had spent the rest of the afternoon listening to her feel annoyed that her coffin was to feature so much pink. The result was the portrait that now hung in the hall, of a scowling Morrigan with her arms folded defiantly across her chest. And right across it was a portrait of Rigel in a bland black suit legs crossed over each other, back straight and eyes gazing off into the distance, with gloved hands folded into his lap. 

Jupiter and Morrigan were both awkwardly staring at the picture of her, and he could feel Morrigan's stubborn satisfaction of the artwork. He rolled his eyes fondly, the tears streaked down his face having long since been brushed away, and rested a hand on her shoulder—he had a hunch they wouldn't be going back here after all. He really hoped not at least.

"Who's there?"

Grandmother stood over by the window in the darkened room, lit only by the glow of lamplight from the hallway. She wore her usual formal black dress, with jewels at the neck and her dark grey hair piled high on her head. The air was fragrant with the familiar, woody scent of her perfume.

Absently, Rigel knew she wasn't really his grandmother and that he should stop referring to her as such, but that would mean Corbin Crow wasn't his grandfather. He'd rather spend a year straight dressed like Jupiter and smiling like Hawthorne than admit that.

Morrigan approached her with caution, carefully pulling stepping away from him. Rigel trailed behind, much more hesitant, feeling almost small. Smaller than he had in a very long time. He could feel Jupiter's eyes on them, watching the way they acted with a mixture of sorrow and morbid curiosity. 

"It's me, Grandmother." Morrigan offered tentatively.

Grandmother squinted as she scanned the dark room. "Is somebody there? Answer me!"

"Why can't she see me? I want her to see me," Morrigan hissed at Jupiter. Rigel glanced between the two.

"Keep trying," he replied, gently pushing her forward. Rigel swallowed, willing himself to appear behind her.

The two slowly faded into visibility. He let Morrigan talk, fully aware she had more of a right here. She was actually related to Ornella. "Grandmother? It's me. Us. We're right here."

"Morrigan?" Grandmother whispered hoarsely. Her eyes widened. She stepped toward her grandchildren, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Rigel? Is that... can it be...?"

"You can see us?"

Ornella Crow's milky blue eyes focused on their face, full of terror. "No. No."

Dread and anger rushed towards Rigel and he faltered, glancing at Jupiter, suddenly reminded of the signature on his contract.

"It's all right." Morrigan held up her hands as if she were gentling a spooked animal. "I'm not a ghost. It's really me. I'm alive. I didn't die, I'm not—"

Grandmother shook her head over and over. "Morrigan. Rigel. No. Why are you here? Why have you returned to the Republic? You shouldn't be here. They'll come for you. The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow. They'll come for you."

Rigel ='s form went ramrod straight, feeling like some one had just dunked a bucket of ice down the back of his shirt. He was right.

In unison, the twins turned to Jupiter, who was standing back with his hands thrust into his pockets, his gaze on the floor. Morrigan spoke. "How does she know about the Hunt—?"

But Grandmother turned on Jupiter, suddenly furious. "You! You foolish man! Why did you bring them back here? You promised you would keep them in Nevermoor. You promised they would never leave the Free State. You shouldn't have come."

"We're not really here, Madam Crow," Jupiter said hurriedly, reaching out to run his hand straight through her body. Grandmother shuddered and stepped backward. "We travelled on the Gossamer Line. Our bodies aren't... it's a long story. Morrigan wanted to come; I felt she deserved—"

"You promised you'd never bring themback here," Grandmother repeated, her eyes wild. "You swore to me. It's not safe, it's not... Morrigan, Rigel, you must go—"

"Morrigan? Rigel?" A voice came from the doorway. Someone flicked a switch, and suddenly the Hall of Dead Crows was bathed in light. Corvus strode into the room, his blue eyes flashing. Rigel froze, still with fear. He swallowed heavily, mouth suddenly dry. Morrigan opened her mouth to speak but the chancellor marched right past them, took hold of Grandmother's shoulders, and shook her. "Mother, what is this madness? Why are you acting this way? Now, of all times—it's a Christmas party, for goodness' sake."

Ornella Crow glanced over her son's shoulder, her eyes flicking anxiously toward her grandchildren. "It's... it's nothing, Corvus. Just my imagination playing tricks on me."

"You said the names," Corvus whispered, his voice tight with fury. "I heard it from the hallway. What if one of my colleagues had been walking past and heard them too?"

"It was—it was nothing, dear. Nobody heard a thing. I was just... remembering..."

"We swore we'd never speak those names again. We swore it, Mother."

Rigel could do nothing but stand, frozen in fear and terror.

"The last thing I need is for people to be reminded of all that, just when I'm making inroads into federal government. If anyone in the Wintersea Party—" Corvus cut himself off, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Tonight is important for me, Mother. Please don't spoil it with those names."

"Corvus—"

"Those names are dead."

Corvus Crow turned on his heel, walked straight through the spot where his daughter and step-son stood, invisible to him, and was gone.

...

Morrigan rushed out of the house, and Jupiter didn't hesitate, he turned and ran behind her, leaving Rigel alone with his grandmother and a hall full of portraits of the dead.

"Grandmother?"

"You took care of her." Ornella cut him off," You'll keep taking care of her? You won't let her end up like you?"

He flinched. Like you.

Rigel nodded," Yes. Yes, I swear. I swear. I..." He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "Did you... know? Did Corvus ever express the reason he hated me to you?"

Ornella blinked, gaze locked on him. "You know."

It wasn't a question.

"I..." He blinked, trying to find the right way to word it," I know I wasted eleven years of my life where I did not needs to be. I know I wasted eleven years believing I was cared for by some one who only cared out of fear and obedience and... apparently rather loathed me."

Ornella's eyes dawned with realisation," Mary."

"Is it true?" He asked," About Grandfather's... Inclinations?"

"She told you."

"Among other things."

Her eyes narrowed," What other things?"

He shrugged, turning away. 

"Rigel?" Her voice grew cold," What other things."

He hesitated," You recall... Christmas. Before my ninth birthday. Morrigan asked for a gift? I... it was the year following the... events of my eight birthday, I believe. I don't know, I... get the dates mixed up. The asylum—"

"Yes." She interrupted," Yes. It... You were... ten when you came back. Just after your tenth birthday. You left just before your ninth."

"Hmm." He hummed," I... thought it was after until recently."

"No, he took you to the... that on your eight birthday." She responded," The following Christmas he gave you and Morrigan those bills when she asked about Christmas gifts, and it wasn't until after you were gone I sat down and explained that you didn't get a gift on your birthday." He nodded," I remember because she was crying on her ninth birthday. She was alone and she was worried about you. I told her after the Christmas but before the birthday and she felt terrible for you, she didn't... she was so sad you were going to be alone on your first birthday after that. And you came back just after your tenth birthday. When it burned down. Then shortly after... your grandfather..."

He hung his head," I am so sorry, Grandmother." He whispered," I am so, so sorry and I am aware that no amount of apologies—"

"Corbin took his own life." She cut him off," He was... a dear friend and I couldn't have asked for a better man to be my husband. He gave me two children to love and cherish and gave me the opportunity to raise two brilliant grandchildren when I messed up with my own children. You do not take fault for that, yes? You do not... you were not the only factor. He didn't want to live, not after Bertram and certainly not after his..."

"Oh."

"Listen to me, boy," She huffed, drawing herself up," You get into that society and protect your sister. You've only got her now, she's the only one who knows enough to understand you. And as for Corbin, he made his choice. It's all ancient history now. It'll never be undone. You might not be a Crow by blood, but you keep carrying yourself like one because if I know anything: it's that Corbin Crow wouldn't stand for anything less. And as for Mary, clearly she'd not as good as I thought she was. You forgot her. I'll deal with it." 

He nodded. "Grandmother?" He asked softly," Did I... deserve to go the asylum? Was I... a bad kid?"

She gave him a long look," No kid is bad enough to deserve what Corvus did to you."

He nodded slowly, eyes glistening," You'll take care of the staff? There was a new one before we left. Timid thing. You'll watch out for her."

Ornella locked eyes with him and gave a single terse nod. He nodded and tucked his wings away as he walked out of the portrait hall, resisting the urge to find his mother. He wasn't going to look back any longer today. He needed to focus on tomorrow, just until he got there.

...

Jupiter and Morrigan were outside the gates when he joined them, only after taking off his coat and buttoning up the back. He still hadn't told them. He would. Once he had wrapped his own head around... everything. It was a lot. And none of it quite felt real yet.

Rigel was silent when he joined their conversation, not wishing to interrupt and still kind of pissed about Jupiter letting him think he was going back there. About Morrigan being willing to make him. About Mary. And Kedgeree. And Chanda. It had all just been one long list of betrayals after the next.

"—fore Eventide. I had to find someone to sign your contract."

So it had been their grandmother's signature, that unrecognizable name. Grandmother who'd slipped the envelope beneath their doors on Bid Day. "Why her?"

"She seemed to like you."

Morrigan choked out a laugh, drawing her sleeve across her nose to hide a sniffle. Rigel snorted. Their grandmother didn't seem to like any one. She just seemed to hate them least. Jupiter was polite enough to pretend, for a moment, to be very interested in the state of his shoes.

"Come back with me," he said finally, in a quiet voice. "Both of you. Please? Your grandmother's right, it's not safe for you here. Come back to the Deucalion. It's your home now. We're your family—me, Jack, Fen, and the others. You belong with us."

"Until we fail the Show Trial because I don't have a knack and Rigel refuses to use his." She sniffled again. "Until you get arrested for treason for smuggling us in."

"Like I said, we'll blow up that bridge when we come to it."

Morrigan wiped her face until it was completely dry. "Where do we go to catch the Gossamer Line?"

"Nowhere," said Jupiter, his eyes lighting up with joy and relief. He clapped Morrigan on the back, and she gave him a watery smile. "It will come to us. That's what the anchor is for. You must never ride the Gossamer Line without anchoring yourself first."

"What do you mean? What anchor?"

"The one I left on the platform." He grinned. "A precious personal object left behind on departure, tethering you to Nevermoor with a single invisible Gossamer thread. Waiting to pull you back home. Can you picture it?"

Rigel's brows knit together and horror settled into the pit of his stomach. His umbrella was beautiful, but it wasn't precious. Up until recently he'd barely trusted Jupiter not to hit them, much less to believe he wouldn't take back the gift. He'd never let himself grow attached to it.

He hesitated. He couldn't do that without an object. He couldn't be stuck here. Panic gripped his chest in an all too familiar fashion, and tightened like a boa constrictor. His breathing grew heavy, the world twisting around him. He swallowed tight and focused on Jupiter and Morrigan.

Jupiter and Morrigan. The would be on the platform once they returned. They would... he was okay. It was okay. He would just use them.

He nodded. "Close your eyes and see them as clearly as you can, hanging on the rail. Every little detail. Hold that image in your mind, Mog, Ryj. Have you got it?"

Rigel closed his eyes and imagined Jupiter and Morrigan standing on the platform, cracked tile under their feet. It wasn't until they were clear as one of his visions that he gave a nod.

A sense of joy rushed through Morrigan and he knew she was picturing her umbrella. "Yes."

"Don't let go of it."

"I won't." The pair chorused in unison.

Jupiter's warm fingers close around his. A train whistled in the distance. Rigel made it to the station seconds after their forms disappeared with the train.

...

The halls of the Hotel Deucalion were warm and familiar. 

Exhaustion and fatigue weighed on Rigel as his sister shuffled off. Jupiter gripped his hand when he went to follow and he flinched at the sudden movement, relaxing when he realised it was in fact, just Jupiter.

Jupiter seemed put out by the flinch, and Rigel glanced away guiltily. It wasn't that he wanted to, he just... couldn't not. "I haven't given you your Christmas gift yet."

"I don't celebrate Christmas." The boy felt the need to point out. "I hate holidays."

Jupiter offered a hesitant grin," I wasn't gonna get Mog and Jack sleds and leave you out, Ryj. You'll like it. It's only small. Promise."

Rigel hesitated, something about Jupiter's earnest, hopeful expression made him want to accept the gift. "After the Show Trial. You can give it to me when Morrigan and I are accepted."

Jupiter grinned. "When?"

Rigel sighed at the man-child, giving a short nod. "When."

...

Rigel jogged to catch up to Morrigan for once in his life, and he finally matched her pace at the entrance of the hallway. 

He paused," Sleepover?" He asked, feeling like a small child. The two hadn't had a sleepover in years. Not a proper one. One that wasn't them hiding from Corvus together or sleeping in the other's room with them to protect each other from ghosts every one insisted wasn't real and nightmares from cruel stories the staff terrorised them with.

Morrigan smiled. "Sleepover."

As she reached out to open her bedroom door, a cold, bony hand grabbed her arm. She gasped and jumped backward. Rigel tensed, glancing up.

"Oh! It's you, Dame Chanda." The boy stilled.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, sweet birds," said the soprano. "I'm just heading off to bed myself. Aren't we a group of night owls! All that rich Christmas food keeping you up too, I suppose?"

Morrigan offered an awkward smile and Rigel remained frozen still, eyes wide like a deer-in-headlights.

("At least if he'd failed with the Deucalion, it wouldn't have mattered so much.")

"Um, yeah."

"Well, as I couldn't sleep, I've been doing a bit of digging through my old books and boxes of records." Dame Chanda pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, unfolding and gently smoothing it. "I thought you might be interested to see this. I knew I had a likeness somewhere. It's not recent, of course. He must have been in his twenties or thirties. He'd be well over a hundred now. Quite a good-looking young man, was the infamous Ezra Squall, as you can see—although I suppose that's an unfashionable opinion these days. For goodness' sake, don't tell anyone I called a mass murderer handsome—they'll come for me with torches and pitchforks." She raised an eyebrow, smiling conspiratorially at Morrigan. "You can keep this one, it's just a print of the original oil painting. I'm pleased you've taken an interest in Nevermoor's history, however ghastly this particular period may have been. Good night, Miss Morrigan, Rigel, and a glad Yuletide to you, my dears. Oh, and Rigel? The dress is amazing, you must tell me where you bought it." 

Rigel glanced up," I made it. I've been working on it since Hallowmas."

Dame Chanda blinked," But... you don't even have my measurements."

Rigel had a veiled retort on the tip of his tongue, but a thought rushed to the front of his mind. Their knacks.

He shrugged, mustering every ounce of uncaring impassiveness as he spoke," I have a knack for fashion."

She smiled, though her brows furrowed together, clearly picking up on the message. She gave Morrigan's hand a squeeze as she left, looking at the twins kindly, as though she'd wanted to do something nice for the poor kids who didn't have a chance of getting into the Wundrous Society.

Rigel bit back a scoff. They'd show Dame Chanda and Kedgeree.

He glanced at Morrigan, feeling the realisation wash over her as she stared down at the painting of Mr Jones, it seemed the truth had finally started to reveal itself to her.

"Rigel, it's—"

"I know," He cut her off, she looked up at him in surprise," I told you I'd be conducting my own research, didn't I?"

"Yeah, on your wings—"

"Yes, well, my wings led to more answers than anticipated." He admitted. 

"Clearly," She scoffed tone biting, an indignant expression crossed her face," Care to explai—"

"Sleep." He ordered. "I'll explain everything to you and Swift once he gets back from his holiday."

"But—"

"Morrigan."

Chapter Text

"There are things you worship because they ruin you beautifully—because there is something holy in the way it hurts."

...

The white blanket of snow over Nevermoor turned to miserable grey slush in the days after Christmas. Rain battered the windows of the Hotel Deucalion and jolliness quickly turned to post holiday gloom, every hour of which brought the twins closer to the day they had been awaiting all year long—the Show Trial.

Rigel adored it. There was nothing in the world he loved more than miserable cloud cover, gloomy fog and the smell of rain on pavement. 

Of course, his joy was tempered slightly by the thought even entering the same room as Martha—who's alikeness to Mary he'd only grown more aware of, being generally around Dame Chanda and Kedgeree, anything to do with angels, his stupid visions, and any thought of Mary herself.

He'd tried his best to heed Ornella Crow's order, but it was hard to just... shove aside the betrayal of perhaps the one truly defining force of your childhood and the person you were today.

Mary had raised him, taught him, loved him and held him while he cried, and... it had all been a lie. All of it.

He didn't know how to move forward from that. He knew he should, but he just... didn't know how. So: He wrote.

He'd locked himself in his room and written poem after poem, line after line. He wrote until his hands cramped. He wrote until his handwriting was nothing more than unreadable scribbled. He wrote, and wrote, and wrote like he was running out of time. Like every breath could be his last. Like the world was going to end.

(His already had.)

His door remained locked, he lived off of tea made with one hand while the other continued scribbling. He took minor break to use the restroom, but he didn't stop. He allowed it to consume him. He ignored Morrigan, he didn't shower or sleep, he just lived at his desk, hunched over his journal scribbling. 

He wrote through his cramping hand, through the moments his mind blacked out and he woke to find a repeated word scribbled over and over in a never ending loop. His emotions flowed, an unending stream of pain engraving itself into each page, as though his wounds, invisible and unseen, were bleeding ink onto paper rather than blood through veins.

He ignored the rapping on his doors, ignored Morrigan's worried irritation and Jupiter's attempt to speak to him—not intentionally, just utterly encompassed by his work as he tuned everything out.

Years of pent up emotion, hurt, grief, betrayal, and rage burst onto pages in a flow he couldn't stop even if he tried, and still, it didn't feel like enough. It all invoked unmatched emotion, unparalleled hurt, even the barely legible scribbles spoke  of a thousand lifetimes of pain, and yet... it barely scratched the surface of what was coursing through his veins.

It was the fifty-seven hour mark when he passed out, having written over three-hundred poems, masterpieces of pain and heartache. Sculptures carved from the shattered pieces of his heart and soul. His body slumped and he fell forward, face pressed into smudged, half dried calligraphy.

In the end, he filled six cloth-bound journals with over three-hundred-and-seventy-two artworks, poems, ballads and prose, each word aching and haunted, each poem tattooed into the parchment so permanently it would stay there, bleeding like an open wound long after the pain of their author had faded.

...

Morrigan and Swift, who had returned from The Highlands the day following Christmas, cornered Rigel on his way to the kitchen, both looking shocked at the sight of the boy—dark bruise-like bag marred his under-eyes, his curls were wild and mussed, face oily and smudged with ink, his shoulders were slumped in defeat, his hands usually trembling lightly were shaking almost violently, as though thoroughly overworked and pain laced his features every time they twitched with movement.

The pair guided him to Room 85, forcing him to sit down as Morrigan explained to Hawthorne what she had discovered and that Rigel had already known, showing the boy the photo in the hopes he could offer a new perspective.

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

Rigel rolled his eyes, and his sister mirrored his actions—albeit much more exaggerated and with an over-dramatic groan. She'd explained that she'd "barely slept a wink" and was now wearing a groove in her bedroom floor from pacing back and forth (the Deucalion seemed amused by this as her bedroom walls stretched 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. And Rigel still hasn't explained how he figured this out."

Rigel gave an exaggerated sigh as he leaned his against the wall, letting the sunlight cascade over his face," Alright, are you listening?"

The pair leaned forward in interest as he launched into an explanation of how he'd figured out who the Wundersmith was, carefully omitting any details about their knack and individual paternity and telling them that he'd been warning Squall that he knew who he was on Hallowmas night, which wasn't technically a lie. 

"I don't get it," Hawthorne was the first to break the heavy silence that had settled over the trio," Why would he pretend to be his own assistant?"

Rigel blinked his eyes open blearily.

"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."

Rigel was almost tempted to tell them about how he was using the Gossamer Line, but then realised that would have to be accompanied with an explanation for Hawthorne's benefit and he was way too exhausted to bother.

He settled for an indifferent shrug and Morrigan moved onto the next question.

"So..." Morrigan hesitated," Do you... you know what we're supposed to do at the Show Trial?"

"Morrigan." He said softly, waiting until his sister was looking at him," What I am about to say is going to include several words neither of you are ever to repeat, and a sentiment you're never to admit. Am I very clear?"

Swift nodded, looking slightly eager and Morrigan eyed him wearily but acquiesced with her own nod.

"Corvus Crow doesn't mean shit to me. He has never been what makes us family. What make the two of us a family, is the sheer level of fucking effort we have put into our relationship. Into being... us. And I'm not going to pretend, we're close as and we'll always understand each other. You and I have lived the same life under very different circumstances and been through very different experiences." He admitted," And we have very much changed and grown over the years we were apart, but no matter how much you change and grow, you will always be my sister. My twin. And if you think for one fucking second, that I would let anything bad happen to you, or let you be humiliated. I swear, I would never. You are, and always have been, the single most important thing in the world to me. That being said: I trust that Jupiter has a plan. Okay? In fact, I promise Jupiter has a plan. Just talk to him about it."

Morrigan smiled, and Swift gave him a strange, almost admiring look, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity, likely wondering what Rigel had meant by years apart. 

"Hey Rigel," Swift asked slyly," Coul—"

"No."

"You didn't even—"

"No."

Swift pouted. Rigel sighed, leaning his head back against the wall and letting his eyes slip shut as he unfurled his wings. Morrigan and Swift stared, mesmerised. Almost as if in a trance, Swift reached out his hand, expression full of awe. 

The second his fingers touched his feather Rigel let out an indignant squawk," I'm not a barn animal!"

"But they're so cool and pretty! And they look so soft!"

"No."

"But, Riiiiiiigeeeeee—" Rigel's wings slapped him up the back of his head as they folded back into his shoulders. A feather, midnight blue with veins of gold around the calamus fluttered to the floor, Hawthorne reached down and picked it up looking at Rigel with a pleading expression.

"No."

"But—"

"No."

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 Rigel might be onto something."

Morrigan snorted, shooting him a strange, almost teasing look, a mixture of smugness and gleeful joy rushing through her. "Of course you do."

Hawthorne's cheeks went red. A wave of embarrassment rushed towards him and Rigel furrowed his brows, glancing between the two like he'd missed something. "I—"

"I know," she said quietly, turning to face the gloom outside her window. "I have to talk to Jupiter."

Hawthorne muttered something about Crow's cutting him off and Rigel let out an undignified snort. 

(He left with the feather clutched gently in his hands. Rigel pretended not to notice. He didn't acknowledge the weird warm feeling the tingled under his skin at the thought of Hawthorne liking his wings.)

...

Morrigan knocked tentatively on the door to Jupiter's study, Rigel beside her.

"What?" grumbled a voice that certainly didn't belong to their patron. He raised a brow as 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 the twins. "What do you want?"

"Where is he? I need to see him. It's urgent."

"Who?"

"Jupiter," Morrigan answered, rather snippily.

"Not here."

"Yes, I can see that." She gestured to his empty study. Rigel lifted another brow, mildly impressed at her savage. "Where is he, the Smoking Parlour? The dining room? Fen, this is important."

"He's not. Here. He's not at the hotel."

"He—what?"

"He left." Rigel's gaze snapped upwards, towards the Magnificat. Anger smouldered beneath him. How could Jupiter just leave? The trial was tomorrow, Morrigan was counting on him. Rigel was counting on him.

Morrigan's voice grew soft. "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.

A wave of terror rushed towards Rigel, and he swallowed, brain working a thousand miles a minute in an effort to plan. He hesitated.

 When Jupiter left the Deucalion he was sometimes gone for hours, or sometimes for days, or sometimes for weeks at a time. Neither twin ever knew when he'd be back, nobody ever knew, and the thought that he might not return in time for the Show Trial filled both him and Morrigan with icy dread. Childish as it was, Rigel couldn't help but feel like he'd been betrayed one more time.

He'd promised them. He'd promised.

Just like he'd promised to take you to the Nevermoor Bazaar. And look how that turned out. A part of him whispered.

This was not the same thing. This was different, it was important. It wasn't some childish indulgence, it was his responsibility as their patron. Jupiter had fulfilled all of his responsibilities as their patron. But... Rigel glanced at the expression on his sister's face, a mixture of terror, disappointment and uncertainty.

"Fenestra, please!" Morrigan pleaded, the Magnificat 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."

Rigel's heart sank. He'd tried his best to understand Jupiter. Accept him. Get along with him. But what was more important than being there for the most important day of their life? More important than keeping his promise?

He felt... off-put. Unsteady on his own feet.

They were on their own. They would have to do the Show Trial without him. 

Morrigan slumped down into one of the leather armchairs by the fire and Rigel's stomach sank. 

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 the 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. Rigel burned. "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." Rigel didn't. Rigel didn't but he trusted him anyway. That scared him.

Fenestra was silent for a while, and the twins thought she'd fallen asleep standing up. Then her tongue darted out, licking the side of Morrigan's face. She sniffled again, and Fen's big grey head rubbed her shoulder affectionately. She turned to Rigel.

He narrowed his eyes, stepping away. "Don't even think about it."

"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."

("He's my friend. I know my friend.")

Rigel paused as the door clicked shut behind them. "Morrigan?"

She glanced up," Ryj?"

"I have a plan." He stepped forward," Do you trust me?"

(He didn't deserve her trust.)

...

Rigel glanced at Morrigan as she shivered beside him, the door clicking shut lightly. She winced. "Why are we on the rooftop?"

He straightened and pulled his coat off, draping it over her shoulders," I'm going to teach you how to control fire."

Morrigan's head snapped towards him, excitement and curiosity lacing her features. "What do I do? How—"

"No questions about the why," He paused, swallowing heavily. "Choose a song."

Morrigan blinked," I don't... know any songs."

"Yes, you do." He pressed.

"I don't."

"You do." He nodded," Think about Mrs Duffy."

She hesitated. Rigel burned with rage. He'd hated that bitch.

They had been young—maybe six or seven. Before the asylum, before the execution. 

Their tutor at the time was Mrs. Duffy, the latest in a never-ending string of hapless men and women Corvus had brought to Crow Manor to teach the twins reading, writing, and arithmancy... or, more truthfully, to keep them out of his way so that he could carry on pretending they didn't exist. 

Most of their tutors had been content to avoid direct contact with them and never meet their eyes during their lessons. Some had gone further to protect themselves from the curse—Miss Linford had insisted on keeping a door between herself and the twins, just to be safe. But this one was different. Rather than avoiding them, Mrs. Duffy seemed to feel it was her duty to constantly remind them both of the drain they were on society and on their family. And that was said in the loosest possible term. 

She'd gone out of her way to ensure they both knew what a dreadful burden they were, what a danger they presented to everyone around them—to everyone in the Unnamed Realm—just by having been born. Mrs. Duffy had taught them a song, and whenever they failed a quiz, or misbehaved, or spoke out of turn, she would make them sing it. Over and over again, until the tutor told them to stop. Rigel wished that was all, but Mrs. Duffy had been the one to give him his quivering hands, not permanently. That had happened because of Corvus—but she caned them enough that on occasion they would start trembling and cramping for hour long intervals at a time.

That hadn't been what made Rigel hate her. What made Rigel hated her, more than perhaps any one in the world, was how much she had terrified Morrigan.

 It had been an awful, frightening song to Morrigan when they were young. Rigel was used to awful, frightening things, but he'd always been able to protect his big sister from them. And yet, he hadn't been able to protect her from it. Not that time. He'd felt it cruel of her, to force Morrigan to sing. To force any child to sing such a thing. To treat them in such a manner. And his... loathing had only grown since he'd volunteered at the orphanage.

The idea of any one doing that to those kids made him burn. He knew that if any one ever did such a thing to his kids, he would be apocalyptic with rage.

A part of him resented Corvus for the fact he wasn't. So much of what they'd been through should've made any parent furious to see happening to their child, and yet, with Corvus he was the one doing it to his children.

The idea of her having to sing it to summon Wunder made him angry, but it was the only song she knew all the words to. They were burned indelibly into her brain. And he was always angry.

She began to sing in a quiet, hesitant voice.

"Morningtide's child is merry and mild." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "Eventide's child is wicked and wild." 

Rigel closed his eyes, a deep frown etching itself onto his forehead.

"Morningtide's child arrives with the dawn," Morrigan continued. Her singing was dreadful, and clearly Rigel had inherited most of their vocal talent, but he couldn't help but feel it beautiful any way. Her voice projected into the night and only grew stronger with every note. "Eventide's child brings gale and storm."

"Where are you going, o son of the morning?" He sang softly, reminiscent of what little childhood he had ever had. Of that horrid, pathetic child all those years ago with that stupidly bright grin and cheerful laugh and infectious optimism.

Something ugly and hurt burned in the back of his throat, his blood boiled and he seethed. But he was glad it was just the two of them up on this rooftop, him and Morrigan. Morrigan who was utterly unaffected by his voice and who would never say a word of it. The two of them against the world. As it should be. As it would always be. A few tears trickled down his face.

A wave of guilt came from the corner of the roof. He ignored it, focusing all his attention on Morrigan as he refused to acknowledge the grotesque being in the corner.

"Up with the sun where the winds are warming." Morrigan paused, wanting to stop, but then... there was a sudden feeling like static electricity in her fingertips. A slight hum of resistance, like pressing into a strong wind. She looked up at her brother. 

He nodded his encouragement, tears trailing down his cheeks , and sang through a sad, nostalgic smile, "Where are you going, o daughter of night?" 

Morrigan waved her hands back and forth a little, testing the sensation. It felt like beams of moonlight were dancing through her fingers. "Deep down below where the pale things bite."

"Focus," He ordered," Don't let it go. Watch me, do not copy. Watch."

She blinked, brows knit together in determination as she glanced ahead, looking at something he could barely see.

Rigel hummed beside her," Is it just you and me in a world so cold and torn? That must be such a burden, for a boy so broken and worn."

His voice grew more powerful in the night, wings unfurling behind his back," The shadows whisper secrets no daylight could mend."

The familiar tingle prickled his fingertips and the worn boy focused, imagining the feeling spreading up his body and all the way to his lips. He waited, letting it grow stronger and stronger until they burned.

And then, he breathed a flame.

...

"Ooh, fairy floss," said Hawthorne, waving over a uniformed Trollosseum worker selling treats. "Want some? I've got Christmas money from my granny."

Rigel spared the boy a small smile," No, thank you."

Beside him, Morrigan shook her head. There was only so much room in Morrigan's stomach, and at present the entire space was taken up by nerves, nausea, and the growing certainty that today was going to be the most humiliating day of her life. Rigel would know, because he was feeling what Morrigan was feeling easily a hundred times over, from patrons and candidates all around the Trollosseum.

 "Aren't you nervous?" She asked softly.

Hawthorne shrugged as he tore off a huge strip of fairy floss with his teeth. Rigel cringed, wondering how he could possibly eat something so sickly sweet.  "A bit. I s'pose. I'm not doing any new tricks today, though. Nan thought I should stick with my best ones. I just wish I could pick which dragon I'm riding."

"Won't you be riding your own?"

Hawthorne gave a short, sharp laugh. "My own dragon? Are you mental? I don't have my own dragon. Whose parents can afford to buy them a dragon?" He licked remnants of sticky pink spun sugar from his fingers. "I ride one of the Junior Dragon-riding League's featherweights when I'm doing tricks. Usually either Flies Effortlessly Like a Discarded Sweet Wrapper on the Back of the Wind, or Glimmers in the Sun Like an Oil Slick on the Ocean. Oil Slick is definitely the best trained, but Sweet Wrapper's much braver. She's good at pulling out of steep dives."

Rigel listened attentively, he'd read up on the dragon riding of course. He read up on everything. But... listening to the way Hawthorne spoke about it was... different. There was this childish joy about it, this true, powerful, lightness. Like every-time he spoke about it he made that spark of excitement that appeared in his eyes transform into the most captivating, enrapturing words.

He'd never seen any one or anything quite like it.

"Why can't you use one of them?"

"You know what the Society's like." Rigel had a fair idea, pretentious, arrogant and so very controlling. For the life of him he didn't understand why some one like Morrigan and Hawthorne, the freest spirits he knew, would want to be stuck in such a place. But it wasn't his job to understand, it was his job to earn a place in their stupid society so that Morrigan could have her shiny golden pin. "They think their dragons are better than the League's dragons. Nan says it's best not to argue. I hope they don't give me a highland breed, though—they're so bulky, I can never turn them properly. Ooh, look—it's starting."

About time, Rigel thought snippily as he watched the Elders enter the Trollosseum. A cheer rose from the stands. Elder Quinn held her hand up for silence and spoke into a microphone.

"Welcome," she said, her voice booming from the speakers, "to the final trial for Unit 919 of the Wundrous Society."

Another cheer. Rigel cringed, he'd gotten better with crowds, a perk of living at a hotel. His panic attacks weren't as frequent, but even he couldn't help the anxiety that prickled at him. Nausea settled into the pit of his stomach.

The stadium was packed with not only the remaining candidates but also their patrons, other Society members who'd come to scope out the new talent, and of course friends and family. Hawthorne's parents were up in the stands somewhere, as was Jack, who'd come home for the weekend specially to support the twins—which Rigel found surprising and, actually, quite touching, but he would never admit that. 

There was an air of festivity in the Trollosseum, as if this were a normal day out and they were about to watch two trolls bash each other's skulls in. Rigel still couldn't figure out why any one would garner amusement from watching something so... crass, but he digressed.

"Welcome, esteemed members of the Society. Welcome, patrons. But most of all welcome to our candidates, the seventy-five brave young souls who have come so far, accomplished so much, and made my fellow Elders and me so very, very proud." Elder Quinn began. Rigel wondered if she took charge naturally or the elders elected a spokesperson among them.

"Candidates, when you arrived today you each were randomly assigned a number to determine the order of your trials. A Society official will come to collect you from your seats in groups of five. Be prepared to move quickly when your number is called, and follow the official down to the gate, where your patron will meet you and escort you into the arena."

"Yeah, if we're lucky," Morrigan muttered, and Hawthorne snorted, smiling at her sympathetically. He would be eleventh in the trials today, but the twins had been assigned numbers seventy-two and seventy-three... which at first Morrigan had been unhappy with, as it meant a long, nervous wait ahead. But as Hawthorne pointed out, the later they were on, the more time Jupiter would have to get there.

"If, after your trial," continued Elder Quinn, "you have earned a place in the top nine candidates, your name will appear on the leader board. If not, well... we will wish you all the best for your future, somewhere else. Good luck, girls and boys. Let us begin."

The first candidate to enter the arena was Dinah Kilburn of Dusty Junction. Before she began, her patron fussed about arranging chairs, tables, and ladders in haphazard towers to create a sort of makeshift jungle gym.

Dinah was a brilliant gymnast, her movements were all-planned and agile—fluid and powerful, each limb moving with perfect coordination. But Rigel didn't think the elders were looking for this—the job of the Eid toys society was to disguise and distract. To help fight the last remnants of the days of Wundersmiths from the shadows, and yet everything about her performance was loud and conspicuous. 

"A monkey?" Morrigan asked. Rigel whacked her upside the head.

Hawthorne laughed, though he had the decency to look around guiltily after he received his own whack. "Morrigan. You can't call her that. She's not an actual monkey. She just has a tail."

"Monkeywun, Morrigan." Rigel corrected," She's a wunimal. A monkeywun minor. Try to avoid calling wunimals animals—most would forgive you ignorance since it stems from a lack of education, but it's still rather disrespectful."

"Oh." Morrigan said softly. "Sorry."

"You didn't know," He scoffed," Just try to be more mindful and respectful in the future, now that you do know."

The pair behind him gave an approving nod—the old man and the foxwun he recognised vaguely form that stars-be-damned garden party. The foxwun grinned at the man leaning on his cane beside her, like she was elated. Rigel didn't know why, it was just basic decency. A part of him felt a little sad that she lived in a  world where she had to regard basic decency as a kindness, but another part of him, felt mildly satisfied to know he had likely made the stranger smile. 

He shoved it down.

Dinah swung neatly from one tower to another, balancing on top or hanging upside down by her tail, and finished with a perfect landing. But, as he had expected, the Elders took only a minute to reach their decision, waving her out of the Trollosseum without adding her name to the leader board. She looked crushed.

A wave of pity flooded through him and he swore he wouldn't let that expression cross Morrigan's face. He vaguely wondered if perhaps he could reach out to the girl later? Jupiter had been pressing him about making friends—granted only towards the start of the year... and he and Cadence were only loose acquaintances.

He shoved the thought aside. There was no need to get sentimental.

"Ooh," said Hawthorne, cringing. "Tough start."

"Yes, well," Rigel sniffed, brushing a imaginary piece of lint off his shoulders," She's not got the right skillset for what the Wundrous Society demands of members."

"What do you mean?" Hawthorne asked, tilting his head with wide, curious, eyes.

"She's not subtle enough. Her movements, while coordinated, are loud and noticeable," He explained," The Wundrous Society focuses on subtlety to achieve their goals." 

"What goal?" He asked.

"Did neither of you pay attention to the candles at The Fright Trial?" He asked with a scoff, eyes still glued to the arena. The old man and foxwun behind him stilled," What they attracted? What flickered in the shadow—" He cut himself off with a sigh," Nevermind. It was better you didn't see them, they're rather difficult to unsee."

"What are?" Hawthorne furrowed his brows," Ryj?"

"I'll explain later." He said," Somewhere more private."

Hawthorne muttered something about excessive secret keeping under his breath, coupled with several... choice words that Rigel slapped him up the back of his head for, blushing in embarrassment at the indignity of it.

Morrigan was flummoxed—clearly wondering what the elders could be looking for. What sort of person they considered Wundrous Society material. Rigel had not really really told them that much, just enough to get them off his back. It was probably best he didn't elaborate on The Unresting, traumatising children was only fun if they were children he wouldn't have to deal with and didn't like.

He sighed, reaching a shaking gloves hand on her should. He frowned as he noted absently just how hard it quivered—it had gotten worse after his... meltdown. He wasn't entirely sure it would get better. Morrigan looked up at him," Calm down." He told her," It's not about the knack. It's about the presentation of the knack. It's about appearing powerful. All you have to do is breathe. I'll handle everything else."

She nodded. The pair behind them glanced at them slightly and Rigel could feel the man's eyes on him, as though seeing something others could not. He ignored it.

The performances only went downhill from there.

None of the next four candidates—a landscape painter, a hurdler, an illusionist, and a boy who played the ukulele—ranked in the top nine. When they brought forward the second group of candidates, there were still no names on the leader board.

In fact, nobody ranked at all until the ninth candidate, Shepherd Jones—a boy who claimed he could speak to dogs. He performed an incredible series of tricks with a dozen canines, big and small. He barked commands to them and the crowd cheered as the dogs jumped through hoops, walked backward on their hind legs, and danced with each other. The Elders remained sceptical, however.

"Send one of the dogs over to me," commanded Elder Quinn. Shepherd barked at a blue cattle dog and it ran up into the stands to Elder Quinn, who showed it the contents of her handbag and sent it back to him. "Now tell me what the dog saw."

Shepherd knelt down to have a short conversation with the dog. "A coin purse, a ham sandwich, an umbrella, a lipstick, a rolled-up newspaper, readin' glasses, and a pencil." The dog barked once more. "Oh, and a piece of cheese."

Elder Quinn nodded, and the audience applauded. Rigel narrowed his eyes, glancing at the elders lips and noting the colour, his mind flashed back to the daily news, and he made note of the contents of her purse, in case he ever ended up in a conversation with her.

The dog barked twice. Shepherd glanced up at Elder Quinn shyly. "Er—he says can he have the ham sandwich, please?"

Elder Quinn beamed and tossed the sandwich down to Shepherd. "Here, he can have the cheese too."

Rigel noted that the woman liked dogs, she seemed the kind to respect a well bred hound. He was starting to respect the elder. 

The cattle dog whined a little and barked three times. Shepherd's face turned red. "I ain't tellin' 'em that," he said quietly.

"What did he say, boy?" asked Elder Wong.

Shepherd Jones ruffled his hair, looking at the ground. "He says cheese makes him constipated."

Shepherd Jones was the first candidate added to the leader board, and the audience applauded as his name appeared on the big screens at either end of the Trollosseum.

As he walked past the dog let out a bark and the boy went red as he ran up to Rigel," Sorry 'bout him. He don't mean no harm. He jus' wants some pats."

Rigel was already down on the ground, holding out a hand to the majestic cattle who sniffed it and nuzzled him eagerly. Rigel couldn't fight the tiny smile that danced across his face.

"He likes ya'."

The boy huffed out an almost-laugh," Well, I like him."

The dog barked a few times and Shepherd blushed a bright red. Rigel turned to him curiously," What did he say?"

"He uh, he said you smell like bird."

The boy stilled," Ah."

"S'rry, 'bout tha'." Shepherd said," We'll be on our way."

...

The tenth candidate, however—a girl named Milladore West, who made three extraordinary hats in eleven minutes and presented one to each of the Elders—was not awarded a place.

Next it was Hawthorne's turn. The wished him luck as he was ushered down to the arena with the next group of five. He was dressed head to toe in soft brown leather, Rigel was pleased to note it was from an ethical brand, and as Nan Dawson introduced him ("Hawthorne Swift of Nevermoor!"), Hawthorne fastened his shin guards, wrist guards, and helmet. The audience gasped as a Wundrous Society dragon handler led in a twenty-foot-tall dragon with iridescent green scales and a long, jewel-bright tail.

Rigel had seen pictures of dragons, of course. (They were considered both a Class A Dangerous Apex Predator and a Plague Proportions Pest in the Republic, and the Dangerous Wildlife Eradication Force often made headlines in culling season. Either for successfully destroying a nest or for having their faces burned off, Rigel preferred when it was for the second. It was no less than what they deserved for going around and killing a bunch of creatures who were just minding their business.) But nothing compared to seeing the real thing, he suddenly felt rather disappointed by his fire dragon and hoped he could do the weaving stunt he was planning well. 

Hawthorne had offered several times to sneak them into a dragon stable under cover of night, since he wasn't allowed to invite them to training sessions. But Jupiter had said no, he'd prefer the twins kept all four of their original limbs, thanks. 

Rigel had pouted for weeks.

The dragon emitted steaming-hot air in great bursts from slit-like nostrils as it swung its head from left to right. The crowd leaned back in their seats.

Hawthorne seemed entirely unfazed by his proximity to an ancient reptile that could burn him to a crisp if it sneezed the wrong way, and Rigel couldn't help but glance at the way the tight leather clung to broad shoulders and lean but muscular arms, he vaguely wondered if Hawthorne would let him attend the training sessions when the trio were accepted into Unit 919. He took a few minutes to acquaint himself with the animal, allowing it to get comfortable with his presence and patting its flank gently but firmly. The dragon watched him closely through one fiery orange eye.

Hawthorne walked around it in a circle, trailing his palm over the dragon's rough hide so that it knew where he was and wouldn't get skittish. 

Rigel used to use that trick when training the newer, more anxious hounds and Corvus's carriage horses. The Elders leaned forward, watching this interaction very closely. Elder Wong looked especially impressed and kept nudging Elder Quinn and whispering in her ear. Rigel smirked, puffing up pridefully.

That was his friend. And future Unit Mate. He was glad the boy was getting the recognition he deserved, he put a lot of hours into training and exercise and he was very good at it. Rigel may not have been allowed to see his training, but he knew if some one as esteemed as Nancy Dawson couldn't find something to critique, there likely wasn't anything.

He vaguely wondered if the boy would like flying with him, then furrowed his brows at the casualness of such an idea. He'd been so indignant when Morrigan had innocently begged, snippily retorting that he wasn't a carnival ride... but, Hawthorne hadn't exactly asked. 

Perhaps it wouldn't kill him to offer at some point. 

Hawthorne took a large piece of raw meat from the Wundrous Society handler and fed it to the dragon, patting it more roughly now on the neck until finally—without hesitation—he took a running leap and climbed up into the saddle that had been fitted between the dragon's shoulder blades. He snapped the leather reins and lurched forward in his seat as the enormous green reptile beat its wings and took off into the air.

Hawthorne and his dragon soared in a wide circle above the arena before beginning their show in earnest. Hawthorne yelled a command Rigel couldn't quite make out and dug his heels into the animal's sides, and they were off—rolling into tight somersaults, swooping over the stands, and taking steep dives down to the ground, only to pull back at the last second. They sped in a straight line with the dragon's wings outstretched as Hawthorne stood up on its back, mimicking the movement with his own arms out, as if he were flying. Then he abruptly took his saddle and called out a command, and the dragon pulled its wings in tight and tumbled over in a 360-degree turn before outstretching its wings again without losing any height at all.

Rigel had never seen Hawthorne like this—completely confident and in control, as if he were doing the thing he was born for. Shoulders back, eyes ahead. He commanded the dragon masterfully; it could have been an extension of his own body. Hawthorne was every bit the champion Nancy Dawson had described.

It was... the most admirable, awe-inspiring thing Rigel had ever seen.

The response of the audience confirmed it. Everyone—including the Elders—was in Hawthorne's thrall, gasping and screaming as he sped downward to the ground and cheering when he pulled out of a dive or glided around the Trollosseum stands mere inches above their heads.

Rigel was unsurprised by their friend's talent. For all the crass afternoons spent showing the twins how he could make fart noises with his armpits, when it came down to it, the boy was brave, quick-witted, intelligent, courageous and unbelievably kind. 

He had this brilliant, contagious joy that made any one around him feel infinitely more alive, his walnut curls bounced and when he laughed he threw his head back, revealing dimples carved into his face like gemstones in the side of a mountain and watercolour eyes alight with glee that you couldn't help but stare at, mesmerised by the purity of every inch of him.

And for all his jokes, Hawthorne was one of the most talented, complex people Rigel knew—infinitely kind but utterly unafraid to call you out on poor behaviour.

(Hawthorne scoffed," Sorry we don't all spend our time reading because we're friendless losers who think they're better than every one else despite the fact that all they do is spend their free-time judging how smart people around them are and wandering around doing whatever they want without telling any one and acting all secretive about it like some shady weirdo.")

Rigel had been furious at the boys words, but brutal as they were, they came form a place of concern for his friend—Rigel's sister, not from a place of cruelty. And they hadn't been entirely inaccurate.

As his final flourish, Hawthorne steered the fire-breathing creature high up in the air and seared his initials into the sky with flames.

The audience and the Elders leapt to their feet to cheer Hawthorne as he climbed down off the dragon's back and took a bow. Nobody cheered more loudly than Morrigan, and Rigel beamed (or, well, gave a small smile, but for Rigel that was a beam) as he applauded politely.

The Elders conferred briefly but seemed to be in perfect agreement; Hawthorne's name went straight to the number one spot.

But the quality of the trials stalled again after that, and nobody from the next three groups was added to the top nine.

Finally it was time for the candidate Morrigan and Hawthorne had been waiting all year to see. When Baz Charlton announced "Noelle Devereaux of the Silver District," Deveraux entered the arena like a queen at court. After a minute of preening she opened her mouth to sing, and Rigel cringed.

The girl's voice was all natural talent and it showed, her breath went up higher towards the end of sentences in a way that signalled she obviously didn't sing with her breathing, but rather held it, which was just wrong. She clearly had no technique, and Rigel could hear the strain on her vocal chords from across the room, for a girl who was so loud and high-pitched to sing with so much effort and so little technique, all it showed was that it took more than a pretty voice to be a soprano.

Her melody was more of an instrumental acoustic and while the sound her voice made was admirable, it was ill-practised and poorly performed. Yet, the audience was lacking in vocal experience, so they were enraptured by the melody—a clear, sweet lullaby that seemed to surround Hawthorne like a bubble of perfect contentment.

Morrigan didn't seem entirely unaffected by it, but she was hardly enraptured by the same trance as the rest of the crowd.

Aside from a few people whom he noted as having some kind of instrumental experience—A boy with his violin, Dame Chanda with her powerful voice and a young boy who from what he knew had some kind of multilinguistic talent—there were glazed eyes and tranquil smiles everywhere, as if Deveraux's voice had cast a strange, blissful spell. For all her inexperience, Deveraux's knack was breathtakingly good to the untrained ear.

How annoying.

The entire stadium—even Morrigan—applauded wildly as the obnoxious girl bowed and curtsied, blowing kisses into the crowd and beaming at the Elders. Hawthorne nudged the twins and made gagging noises. Rigel had already seen him wipe away a sneaky tear when the song ended.

Elder Quinn waved a fragile hand at the leader board and the names rearranged themselves so that Noelle the songbird was now in second place behind Hawthorne, with Shepherd the dog whisperer close behind. Deveraux's face fell for the briefest moment, as though disappointed she wasn't number one, but she quickly recovered her poise and left the arena with her nose high in the air. 

Rigel smirked, of course she wasn't number one. She, like every one in the world, was utterly incomparable to his friend.

"It's easier to rank high near the beginning," Hawthorne said, elbowing Morrigan in the ribs as he took a long slurp of peppermint fizz. Rigel glanced up, lip quirking at the sight of the boy comforting his anxiety-riddled sister. "There are plenty of people left to knock Noelle off the board. They'll probably knock me off too."

That was just blatantly untrue, but the modesty was respectable.

"You know you'll get in," she said, elbowing him back. "You were amazing."

"Your performance was rather impeccable." Rigel acquiesced. Hawthorne's cheeks burned and he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully.

"Thanks." He grinned toothily.

Rigel's cheeks dusted pink and he rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced away. Morrigan glanced between the two, a strange looking on her face—a mixture of exasperation and affection radiated from her. 

The boy stilled suddenly, posture growing rigid as a wave of guilt rushed towards him. Something grey and painful wrapped around wrist and he glued his eyes to the leader board as dark satisfaction and jealousy rushed through him.

A girl, no older than seven, was dressed in a black pinafore with a long sleeved collared white undershirt and plain black necktie was standing beside him, clutching his wrist tightly, her nails digging into his skin. Blood turned black, thick and chunky oozed down form a torn hole straight through her head. 

She smiled up at him and his eyes remained glued to the leader board as her blank gaze locked onto him.

("Come on," A honeyed young voice called with a practiced laugh," Just a little farther!"

"Rose, slow down!" A man called, wild black curls mussed by the wind. His black trousers were paired with a long collared white shirt, the arms pushed up to his elbows and top few buttons undone, along with an untied tie hanging around his neck. A young toddler clung to him, ridiculously long lashed paired with wide blue eyes and an adorable gummy smile.

"But dadddyyyyyy!" She giggled over her shoulder as she raced up the rocky cliffs.)

Rigel didn't know what exactly happened in the next moment, his body moved on auto-pilot as he murmured something about finding a restroom and fled before Hawthorne and Morrigan could respond.

...

The girl followed him and he kept his gaze looked to the floor as envy and hatred filled him, burning through his veins. Blood trickled down his arms and pain—unbearable—unending—flooded through him, like his blood was aflame with cruelty and cunning. Something twisted in his stomach, cruel and bitter and ugly and so foreign that bile rose to his throat.

The visions came on just as he found the emergency exit, leading to a staff parking behind the building. The door slammed shut beside him but Rigel couldn't find it in himself to care.

("Silly Daddy." A smirk at the gasping man, tie held tight around his throat.)

A sob tore from his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to look away from the sight blearing through his mind.

(A toddler clutched tightly in a falling man's arms. He curled around the boy protectively as he gasped for breath and gravity pulled him to his doom.)

Bile rose to the back of Rigel's throat and satisfaction and hatred flooded through him at the sight. 

(A man's body, wrong and twisted, bones sticking out and blood pooling on the concrete beneath him. Limbs warped unnaturally, cracked bone poking out of torn flesh. A toddler, crying into his chest, bruised and dirty but still alive. A polished black shoe kicked the broken form.)

Rigel vomited, the image burned into his brain. His palms found his knees as he doubled over the pavement.

(The toddler, gasping for breath under the salty water, crying and screaming. The girl, rock raised high above her head.  A baby's skull. Blood and brain littering stone and water.)

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate—

(A shotgun. A hole through the head. A girl laying on the ground, blood oozing from a hole in her head. A woman with dirty blonde waves collapsed onto rock and sand. Agonised screams tearing from her lips, echoing around the empty space—echoing through Rigel's head.)

His hands reached up, clawing at his eyes violently, blood crested under his finger tips as he scratched violently. The boy retched, dry heaving until his throat burned and scratched as though torn. 

Shaking hands scratched and tore at his eyes, his face stung and tore every time he squeezed them shut tighter. 

(A woman. A gun in her mouth, a—)

No no nononononononono—

"Don't—"

(Blood everywhere, scattered throughout the clearing. A head, torn and gory and missing chunks of flesh. Flesh painted the walls, a mural of tragedy and heartbreak that would be seared into Rigel's brain forever.)

It was all around him. It wasn't in his head anymore, he was there. He was there and he was screaming. He was not okay. He was not okay. Nails dug into his eyelids, reefing them and scratching, tearing violently.

He didn't want to see. He didn't want to see. He didn't want this—

A haze of warmth overtook his brain and the boy knew no more.

...

The stadium had quietened when Rigel re-joined them, having applied some concealer and colour corrector in the mirror of one of the back bathroom. He received a strange look form Hawthorne who asked what took so long and responded with a murmured excuse about there being a long line and him taking a break from the crowd. The boy seemed mostly appeased.

More so, Rigel felt, then he would have been if Rigel had told him that the ghost of a psychotic six-year-old girl who had been murdered by her mother after she killed her father and young brother had haunted him and he'd tried to gouge his eyes out and almost succeeded had it not been for the sentient city they live in dragging him into unconsciousness.

The leader board had shifted, Hawthorne had been knocked down to fourth place, which Rigel felt was stupid and tasteless, but he was a child so his opinion didn't matter, a young surgeon named Anah Kahlo—the cowardly little girl his siter had stood up for that he recognised from The Wundrous Welcome—was in first, and a pickpocket held the second place candle. Third place was taken by a multilinguist named Mahir Ibrahim, and Rigel raised a brow as he noted that he knew more languages than the boy did, as was shown int he short summary of his knack on the leader board. In fifth was a wrestling girl from the Highlands named Thaddea MacLeod , sixth was taken by a boy named Francis Fitzwilliam who was a gastronomist, and in seventh place was Deveraux, the bratty girl Rigel's sister loathed.

Rigel turned to the arena as he noticed Cadence entering alongside Charlton, who looked like as much of a bumbling fool as ever.

"That's her." Morrigan nudged Hawthorne. "That's the girl we saw in the courtyard during the Fright Trial. Remember? Oh, what was her name...?"

"Cadence." He supplied helpfully," Cadence Blackburn."

She was, apparently, the eighth candidate Mr. Charlton had presented that day—that was assuming Morrigan and Hawthorne were correct, he truly didn't care about the man enough to keep track; of his group it was Deveraux who'd come the furthest. Morrigan glanced at Deveraux; she was watching her friend with a blank, disinterested expression—like she was just any other candidate. Then again, Rigel supposed as far as the whiny girl was concerned, Cadence was just another candidate.

Hawthorne shook his head. "What are you going on about?"

"Do you really not remember her?"

"Remember who?"

Rigel ignored their conversation, too intrigued by the show to really care about their own words.

Bored, distracted murmurs rippled through the rows of candidates when Baz Charlton announced his candidate as Cadence Blackburn of Nevermoor. His voice was nearly drowned out by the restless audience talking among themselves. But unlike everybody else, Rigel was paying close attention.

"Cadence! That's her name. I forgot. How did I forget that?" Morrigan said to Hawthorne, who shrugged.

"Proceed," said Elder Quinn, pouring herself a cup of tea. The Elders too were beginning to show signs of weariness; after several hours of judging, there were glances at wristwatches, chins leaning in hands, and long, open mouthed yawns.

Charlton gestured to somebody in a small windowed room at the top of the stands. The floodlights dimmed, throwing the audience into darkness, and a film was projected onto the big screens.

...

The scene that flickered into life was one Rigel recognized instantly: Proudfoot House gardens, on the day of the Wundrous Welcome. The camera panned shakily across the sunny lawn and bustling dessert buffet queue, before zooming in on two people: Deveraux and Cadence. They stood near a huge green gelatine sculpture, which the boy instantly recognized. Hawthorne was a few steps behind them, predictably piling his plate high with cake and pastries.

"Tacky," Deveraux was saying on the screen. She poked the gelatine, making a face. "Horrid. Who serves this stuff at a party? We're not in nursery school."

"Right," Cadence replied. She had been about to grasp one of the miniature moulded gelatines surrounding the bright green behemoth, but she changed strategy at the last second and began spooning bread pudding into her dish instead. "Tacky. They're so stu—"

"Mother would have a fit," Deveraux continued, talking over Cadence. "Can you believe they're making us serve ourselves, Katie?"

"It's... Cadence," said the other girl, her face falling. "Remember?"

"Do you know how many servants the Wundrous Society employs?" Deveraux continued as if she hadn't heard. "And they put on a buffet? Don't they know buffets are for poor people?"

Something flickered in Cadence's eyes but was quickly gone. "Yeah, exactly," she said, her hand hovering over a serving spoon, suddenly unsure.

"Forget it. Come on." Deveraux dropped her own dish in the middle of the table, then snatched Cadence's pudding from her and tipped it upside down on top of a delicious-looking chocolate fudge cake. She flounced out of the tent, evidently expecting her friend to follow.

Cadence took one longing look at her ruined pudding, breathed in deeply, and made an abrupt turn, coming face-to-face with Hawthorne, who'd overheard everything and was trying not to laugh.

Cadence leaned in close to Hawthorne and spoke in the same flat, husky voice Rigel recalled her using on the twins at the Book Trial, and again on the Society official at the Chase Trial.

"Don't you think somebody ought to drop that big green thing right on her head?"

Hawthorne nodded solemnly.

Rigel raised his brows, impressed, and turned to the real Hawthorne sitting beside him. He looked deeply confused. "I don't remember that," he murmured.

The scene changed to show Deveraux, Cadence, and a group of children—including Morrigan—gathered on the front steps of Proudfoot House. The image was partially blocked by a blur of green leaves. Morrigan supposed that the camera—and the person holding it—had been hidden behind a tree.

"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?" 

Cadence giggled helplessly, but not—as Rigel had thought at the time—at Deveraux's cruelty. She kept glancing upward, to where Hawthorne was positioning himself in the window with the gelatine. She was laughing at what was about to happen to Deveraux.

Morrigan hunched in on herself before squaring her shoulders and speaking in what was obviously meant to be a low, cold voice but only came out as soft and somewhat questioning. "I suggest you consider your next words carefully."

It was no less adorable than the first time around. Beside him Morrigan blushed and shrank in her seat.

"Ha!" The bratty girl exploded with laughter, followed by her friend and all the other candidates surrounding her. As they fell over themselves laughing.

The real Morrigan sitting in the Trollosseum stands felt her face flush. It'd been bad enough hearing that the first time, surrounded by a dozen strangers. Hearing it again in the presence of hundreds was close to torture. She slid down in her seat, trying to make herself invisible.

The scene unfolded exactly as Rigel recalled it, him stepping in to verbally decimate the girl—he could feel a few people glance at him with unease and admiration and masked his discomfort with a self-satisfied smirk and  a raised brow—with the ease and casualness of commenting on the weather and climaxing with Hawthorne's gelatine drop, at which point the Trollosseum exploded with laughter. Hawthorne grinned at Morrigan.

"Might not have been my idea, but it was still brilliant." Rigel's lip quirked, even when the boy was robbed of his own credit, his only response was to offer it to those deserving.

Several rows in front of them, Deveraux was glaring at the screen and shaking her head, her eyes narrowed to slits. She seemed utterly shocked—obviously she'd had no idea about the knack of her so-called friend.

The next few minutes of film showed an incredible scene in which Cadence wandered down a posh street with a can of bright red spray paint in her hand, spraying rude words and pictures all along the immaculate white façades of the houses. By the time she was stopped by a brown-coated officer of the Stink, almost the entire street had been vandalized.

"Stop right there! What do you think you're doing, you little menace?"

"Art," she said flatly.

"Oh, art, is it?" the officer asked, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "Looks like crime to me. Maybe I should slap you in handcuffs!"

"Maybe you should slap yourself in handcuffs," Cadence suggested. And the woman did, tightening them around her own wrists without a second thought.

Cadence put the can of spray paint into her hands. "Number twelve needs a bit more red. Have a nice day."

"Have a nice day, ma'am." With that final, dead-eyed statement, the officer's gaze slid past Cadence like oil over water and landed on the glossy white front door of number twelve, which didn't stay white for much longer.

Rigel smirked in amusement.

Thought, it was quickly snuffed when he had the uncomfortable experience of watching himself on the big screen yet again when Cadence's film showed the debacle of the Chase Trial in its entirety, from the stampeding rhinoceros to his and Tiberius's daring rescue to the moment of devastation when Cadence convinced the race official that it was Rigel who had hit the golden target in Courage Square and she, the pink one on Roderick Street.

Scene after scene of manipulation and trickery followed. The film showed that it was Cadence who had convinced the high-five twins, way back at their very first trial at Proudfoot House, to quit before they'd begun. She'd even persuaded Elder Wong to act like a chicken during her Book Trial (a scene that was received with uproarious laughter from everyone but Rigel—who didn't think it was a good look to laugh at an elder or just very polite to laugh at any one in general and personally didn't find it all that funny—and Elder Wong).

Predictably, Cadence ranked number one. Rigel almost felt bad for the fact they were going to push her out of her position. He vaguely wondered if she would need a safeguard pact, and just how many signatures it would be,

"Number one!" Hawthorne exclaimed as Cadence's name lit up on the leader board, bumping Anah down to second place, Hawthorne to fifth, and Deveraux to eighth.

There were only three groups of five to go. Beside him, Morrigan had given up looking for Jupiter and started looking for an escape route. As soon as her failure and humiliation in the Show Trial were complete, she'd have to make a run for it.

At last the final group was called. The twins made their way down to the arena gates with four other candidates. Hawthorne tried to go with them, but the ever-present clipboard-toting Wundrous Society officials shooed him back to his seat.

They were on their own.

The pair stood in silence as the first three candidates performed. The girl with very long hair stood in the arena and—to the horror of the crowd—chopped it all off, just above her ears. Moments later the hair began to regrow itself, and in mere minutes had fully replenished to its former length. Rigel raised an unimpressed brow, wondering why on earth the girl had thought that would work to convince the elders. It would only be useful under very specific circumstances.

Naturally, she did not make it onto the leader board.

A ballet dancer. No place on the leader board.

A boy who could breathe underwater. No place.

Then it was the twins' turn. The Wundrous Society official held the gate open for them.

Morrigan was hesitant, frozen beside him and Rigel rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Ready?" Jupiter's voice came, his hand resting on her other shoulder. He winked as the two glanced up at him. 

"Yeah. I'm ready." She hesitated and then asked—one rushed, desperate, final attempt to get an answer, stars knew she hadn't managed to pry one for Rigel. "What is it, Jupiter? What's my knack?"

"Oh, that." He blinked owlishly at her, as if she'd asked the least important question in the world. "You don't have one."

Rigel rolled his eyes, staring at the man.

"Morrigan," Jupiter and his sister looked at him with matching curiosity, but he ignored the ginger," You remember what we practiced? Just breathe. I'll handle everything else.

The ginger man shot the twins a strange look before giving an accepting shrug as he stepped into the arena, fully expecting them to follow.

"Captain Jupiter North presents Morrigan and Rigel Crow of Nevermoor."

Chapter Text

"Mastery is not about force, but about control over perception."

...

The mood in the Trollosseum shifted when Jupiter stepped into the arena. The hum of distracted chatter turned to whispers. People actually sat up straighter. One of the Wundrous Society's most celebrated sons had finally taken a candidate. And not just one, two. They were dying to see what their knacks were, the children who had tempted the great Jupiter North into patronage.

Rigel too, was dying—but not from curiosity. Humiliation and Anxiety combined into a foul tasting chew sitting at the bottom of the boy's stomach and he tried his best to project the exact confidence Jupiter had, squared shoulders, head high, back straight and stride long. If not for presenting himself well, then at least for preserving his dignity. He could say with absolutely certainty that he would never recover if he puked or had a panic attack in front of all these people.

Morrigan's own humiliation and anxiety bombarded towards him, along with hundreds of waves of curiosity, bitterness and jealousy.

He sighed, forcing himself to calm down. The pair had stayed up until 4 a.m. practising,  Rigel demanding that they push themselves until Morrigan had mastered her part of the routine perfectly, and until she was able to transfer control of her flames to him if need be. He'd been rather worried, and then remembered that it wasn't exactly like his sister would be growing in the time she was asleep—stars knew they'd both realised she was going to be positively miniscule—still, they'd had to be up at seven-thirty to get ready so they arrived at eight. Well, she had. Rigel just pulled an all-nighter, which in retrospect probably hadn't been a good idea given that meant he'd been awake for just over ninety hours, but caffeine was a wonderful thing, and Rigel had experience with masking sleep-deprivation, so really, he was fine.

"Morrigan." He said softly, she glanced up at him. "Now."

A few notes were hummed under her breath as they stopped in the middle of the arena, Jupiter glanced down at them in confusion from where he'd been just about to head over to the elders but the twins ignored him, following Rigel's plan perfectly.

They'd spent more than enough time trusting him, it was time for him to return the curtesy. 

Rigel wated until he could see the wunder, see the flames gathering before they were even lit and beside them, Jupiter gave a sharp inhale as he took a single step back—not in fear or caution, more... knowledge. Understanding. He was letting the twins take charge.

Morrigan's brows were scrunched up in concentration and she finally took a deep breath and breathed out a long, burning stream of fire. The audience gasped, but the twins were nowhere near close to finished.

Rigel stepped forward, humming a single note under his breath, the beginning of his—rather twisted—lullaby and he stretched his arms out, gloved hands reaching for the flame like an invisible force, he twisted his hands and stretched them upwards, letting the flame turn towards the sky into a wide arc. The elders leaned forward, captivated, but Rigel's attention was focused solely on the flames, entranced by the power coursing through him as he twisted them the arena, allowing the long stream to slowly take a serpentine shape—growing steadily in size as an oriental dragon formed, twisting and turning as it scaled through the air, like a thread lead by an invisible needle.

The creature twirled and twisted with ease, the flame growing wider and larger, its small legs steadily grew out into raging claws, wings stretching into a larger, more stereotypical design. He could vaguely notice Jupiter moving towards the elders, who stared just as mesmerised as the rest of the crowd at the twisting, tunnelling flames before them, expressions of awe and shock etched onto their face.

The flames turreted and the dragon—now a large Hungarian breed shot high up into the sky, performing a loop-de-loop and tucking its wings tight as it dived, pulling up just before it hit the ground to glide along the bottom of the arena, form splitting into three wild, spiralling miniature versions of itself that danced around the elders table. 

Elder Quinn reached a hand out to hover just above the flaming species and Rigel narrowed his focus. One of the dragons twisted smaller, thinner, flame tightening until it wrapped around her outstretched fingers, then drifted up her arm, curled behind her neck—and flew upward, merging with its sisters back into one large beast as it climbed the sky. The dragon dove upward, high and higher, growing larger and larger until it spread over the entire stadium, the crowd stared up at the majestic beast in awe and fear. Rigel could just make out a positively gleeful grin on Hawthorne's face as the dragon increased in size with every second it flew upwards, then split into five distinct balls of fire. The lights in the stadium flickered out, their heat siphoned into the flames, feeding them. Each ball swelled—slowly, steadily—until they burst like fireworks overhead.

Darkness encompassed the stadium, the only illumination the small flickering candles as thousands of small, flaming ashes floated down into the audience—no, not floating ashes, swarming fireflies that danced around each member of the crowd as they scattered, their small sparks the only illumination in the stadium which quickly disappeared as they scattered out of windows and doors all around.

With a wave of his hand, Rigel relit the bulbs in the lamps around the Trollosseum to reveal thousands of shocked, astonished expressions.

"May I approach?" Jupiter asked the Elders, stepping froward. Rigel knew, having sat through more than seventy of these by now, that this was an odd request. But Elder Quinn gave a dazed nod and beckoned Jupiter forward.

One by one, he held Elder Quinn, Elder Wong, and Elder Saga by their shoulders and pressed his forehead to theirs. They emerged from this odd exchange blinking and dazed, shielding their eyes, and stared at the twins for a long time in silent astonishment.

And then Rigel and Morrigan's names went to the top of the leader board, a single long bar split in two—one placement shared between two candidates—Rigel next to a bright golden one and Morrigan beside a silver two.

Jupiter strode over and took each of their hands in his, sweeping them along with him through a door at the back of the arena.

"Come on, Ryj, Mog. Let's get out of here." He shot them a grin," Maybe you can explain to me where on earth you learned that."

...

The greenroom backstage was blissfully empty. There were a single couch, a tray of sad-looking sandwiches, and a jug of watery lemonade. Here and there on the walls were posters for past troll fights and dragonriding tournaments. Inoffensive panpipe music played in the background.

The room's lone attendant, a young man in a Trollosseum uniform who appeared to be at least half troll (his knuckles dragged on the floor), offered them the tray as they entered. "Sammich?" he grunted.

"No, thank you," said Jupiter. Rigel and Morrigan shook their heads, Rigel declining politely and the man nodded as he walked away.

Beside him, Morrigan took a deep breath, clenched her hands into fists, and was just summoning the right words to express her rage when Jupiter spoke up. "I know—I know. I'm sorry. Please, Mog, I'm so sorry. I know how confusing this is." He was all remorseful eyes, appeasing voice, and shielding hands—Don't hurt me, don't shoot. Rigel was more amused by this whole situation—not that he would show it, but well, Morrigan had every right to her indignance. "But listen. It's about to get even more confusing, and there isn't time to explain properly now. But I swear—I swear—when this is over, I will answer each and every one of your questions in excruciating detail. And then you can explain where you learned to breathe fire. But I need you to be patient and trust me, even though you might not think I deserve it, just for a little while longer. Okay?"

Morrigan  hooked Jupiter's little finger forcefully with her own, looking him dead in the eye. "Every question. Excruciating detail. Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise."

"Yes," he drawled blandly," Because pinky promises are a legitimate foundation of trust."

Th two shot him scarily-matching deadpan looks, and for a moment the boy found himself questioning if perhaps his mother had slept with more than two people while pregnant. He promptly shoved the thought aside, utterly repulsed by the idea of Jupiter and his unknown mother doing... that and returned their expressions with a single raised brow. 

It was a genuine concern. Who still used pinky promises as a legitimate foundation of trust? He made a mental note to ensure he was always there if ever Jupiter or Morrigan needed to extract a legal agreement form some one. 

Seconds later the doors burst open and the Elders swept in, their faces schooled and emotionless, their cloaks billowing behind them. Each wore a golden W pinned at the throat.

"How long have you known?" demanded Elder Quinn. "Obviously since before Eventide, but how long before? Days, weeks? Months? Years?"

And this—this was why Rigel had never been angry at Jupiter for lying to them about being Wundersmiths. He smirked as the man offered a hesitant smile, shrinking back from the severe woman like a chided puppy.

Jupiter held up his hands. "Elder Quinn, I understand you're surprised, but—"

"Surprised! Surprised?" The tiny old woman seemed to grow three inches as she squared off to Jupiter, pointing her finger in his face. Indignation, shock and fear radiated form the trio of elders, and from Morrigan there was nothing short of amusement almost matching Rigel's. The boy smirked as he cheered the woman on. You tell him, Elder Quinn! "Jupiter Amantius North, I taught your patron. I taught your patron's patron! I've known you since you were eleven years old, saved you from expulsion on countless occasions—I even recommended you to the League of Explorers, and this is how you repay me?"

"Forgive me, but what difference would it have made?" Jupiter ran a hand through his hair, shrinking a little as the older woman paced angrily before him. "What could you have done about it? Could you have changed anything?"

Rigel's smirk grew as he leaned on his arms behind him, resting on the table as he lounged back and watched the Elder chew into his patron.

Elder Quinn sputtered and stopped in her tracks. "Well—no, of course not, but a bit of warning would have been nice! I'm an old woman, North, you might have given me a heart attack out there."

He raised an impressed brow. she was guilt-tripping him now. This was great. He munched on some popcorn sitting in a bowl on the table behind him. Elder Wong held out his palm, eyes glued to the exchange, and he handed some to the man. 

He looked guilty, so it had worked. "I'm sorry, Elder Quinn. I just didn't want to do anything that might disrupt the gathering, I didn't know if—I mean, it's not exactly..." He trailed off with a helpless shrug. "I've never done this before."

"When did the gathering begin?" asked Elder Wong, straightening, and staring at the twins as he shoved his popcorn filled palm behind his back.

"Hard to pinpoint," said Jupiter. "A year or two ago? Winter of Ten, perhaps, or Spring of Eleven? I've been paying staff in the Crow household for information here and there—tutors, cleaners, that sort of thing. Trouble is, they're all so superstitious, it's hard to sort out actual Wundrous events from silly stories. The cook was convinced the twins had killed the gardener by sneezing on him. Ridiculous."

"Actually, it was because Morrigan told him the garden looked nice a year prior," He supplied helpfully," I wasn't even there at the time. I did clear it up, later though, explaining about the hex I placed on him."

Jupiter and the others shot him an alarmed look, and Morrigan facepalmed silently. 

"Kidding!" He defended. The audience sighed in relief, though they tensed when he muttered," ...Sort of."

"Were there others?" asked Elder Quinn.

"Others?" Jupiter looked at her in surprise.

She raised an eyebrow. "You know exactly what I am asking you, North."

"Right, others." He cleared his throat. "Yes. Three others registered."

"And they...?"

"Didn't show any signs," Jupiter said resolutely. "Not worth pursuing." The twins frowned, exchanging looks. 

Three others registered...Was he talking about the three other children on the Cursed Children's Register? Had he saved them and left them to the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow because they were "not worth pursuing"? Rigel wasn't sure he wanted to believe that.

"And aside from your superstitious household spies, North," said Elder Wong, "any hard evidence?"

"According to the Wintersea News Network, Wunder shortages in Southlight and Far East Sang began around eighteen months ago. Yet from Winter of Ten through Winter of Eleven, The twins' hometown experienced record highs in Wunder density and remained untouched by the Republic's energy crisis. Until Eventide, that is, when Wunder readings in Jackalfax showed a sudden drop." He paused, his eyes flickering over to Morrigan. "Eventide night, to be precise. Around nine o'clock."

Winter of tenth through winter of eleventh. That was when Rigel had returned from the asylum... Morrigan shot him one of those stupid, cautious, pitiful looks she always spared when the topic was brought up and he glanced away in shame.

"How in heaven's name did you get them into the Free State?" asked Elder Quinn, then changed her mind. "Wait. Forget it—I don't want to know. I'm sure it's something illegal."

Jupiter pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Elder Quinn. Truly I am. Like I said, I was scared to do anything that might disturb the gathering—I know it's stupid, I know it makes me just as silly and superstitious as the Crows' kitchen staff, but I worried that if I spoke of it aloud, I might... scare it off."

"Well, perhaps that might have been for the best," muttered Elder Saga, the great shaggy bull. Rigel's head snapped up and he glared at the bullwun heatedly. 

 Elder Quinn cut him off with a sharp look, but Rigel's glare remained fixed on him. He shifted uncomfortably. 

Had he seriously just said that it would've been for the best if the twins had died on their eleventh birthday? That it would've been better than being Wundersmiths? 

"So I didn't tell a soul." Jupiter looked at the ground. "Not even Morrigan and Rigel."

The Elders went silent. Elder Quinn looked horrified, turning from Jupiter to Morrigan and back again. "You cannot mean—are you saying the children don't even know—but how—"

"I... put a few pieces together," Rigel admitting, sparing a glance in Morrigan's direction to signal that she didn't know," Last night I taught her that inferno trick and took care of the rest. She doesn't know."

The Elders nodded, pleased.

"It was greatly inconveniencing to my research though," He huffed," I can't believe it took me until Hallowmas to put it together."

The Elders looked reluctantly impressed.

"Really, North, this is unacceptable, entirely against Society rules," huffed Elder Saga, rounding on the ginger once more. "To enter a child into the trials without them knowing why—unheard of! If your patron were here—"

"What about a safeguard pact?" Elder Wong interrupted. "We've just allowed a dangerous entity into the Society and nobody has thought to inquire about a safeguard."

"I'm not dangerous," Morrigan objected. Rigel gave a non-committal shrug, and she turned to him.

"We're not dangerous." She insisted.

He hummed," I mean... we did just summon a giant flaming dragon over a stadium full of innocent people."

"Oh, this is absurd. Gregoria, Alioth—are we insane? What have we done?" Elder Wong threw his hands up. "There isn't a citizen in the entire realm who would sign such a pact, let alone three reputable, upstanding—"

"Three?" boomed Elder Saga. "Heavens, no. A three-signatory safeguard would be fine were the child merely a conjurer of hurricanes or a mesmerist or some ordinary dangerous entity. For this, I suggest five signatories."

Dangerous entity. Rigel supposed the descriptor was accurate, regardless of how insulting it was. A part of him was surprised Elder Saga—someone who had likely experienced unfounded fear and hatred fuelled in racism was hurling the exact insults he likely received at them but he supposed he had every right to be fearful.

Like it or not, the truth was; Rigel and Morrigan were people to be feared.

"Nine," said Elder Quinn. Saga and Wong looked at her in surprise. "And that's non-negotiable, Captain North. We cannot accept fewer than nine signatories. Not for a—" she cut herself off, shooting Morrigan a fretful glance. "Not for this."

"We might as well take their names off the leader board now," said Elder Wong. "He'll never get nine."

"I have seven so far."

The Elders looked taken aback. Jupiter retrieved a scroll of paper from his coat and handed it over. Rigel didn't bother trying to catch a glimpse of it.

Elder Quinn raised an eyebrow as she examined the scroll. "Senator Silverback? Queen Cal? You do have friends in high places. And they don't know—?"

"They know enough to be sufficiently warned," said Jupiter, though he sounded slightly doubtful. "But... no, nothing specific."

"But they have met the children?"

"They will," Jupiter assured her. "Soon. I promise."

Rigel raised his brows. This was news to him. 

"They certainly trust you. And they appear to be qualified, at least," said Elder Quinn, trailing her finger down the list.

"Qualified for what?" asked Morrigan, unable to keep quiet any longer. But if any of the adults heard her they paid no attention.

"Qualified to sign the safeguard," Rigel responded absently, eyes still glued to the exchange. Elder Quinn's gaze remained locked on him," They have to meet a certain criteria for their signatories to be valid, you can't just go up to a stranger on the street and have them sign."

"What's a safeguard?"

"A safeguard pact is a document designed to ensure the safety of an individual or society that can be signed in collections of three, five, nine, twelve, and fifteen. The amount of signatories depends on the subject of the contracts knack and the criteria of the organisation or individual demanding a safeguard." He spoke as if reciting from a book—he was," A safeguard may only be demanded of knacks which fall under the Lightly Dangerous & Risk of Circumstantial Damage classification—those deemed unlikely to cause direct harm under normal conditions, but which may pose a threat when triggered by stress, emotion, or environmental extremes—or higher. It ensures that a collection of esteemed individuals who meet a certain criteria offer signatories swearing to take responsibility for preventing harm in the event of accidental or deliberate physical incident and to take action to stop an individual who they intend to cause harm deliberately to an individual or society through whatever means necessary. At least that's what The Ethical Regulation of Knacks and Wundrous Talents by Elladine Volker, Chapter Seven, Paragraph Three, says."

The Elders looked impressed. He could practically see Elder Quinn filing the information away so she could see if he had been bluffing.

"Oh." Morrigan said softly, perhaps the least.

Elder Saga turned to Jupiter. "None of this matters, North, if you cannot find an eighth and ninth signatory."

Jupiter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm trying, believe me. That's why I was late to the trials today, I thought I had an eighth but it fell through. If I could just have a few more days—"

"I will sign the pact," said Elder Quinn. The other Elders looked at her with alarm. "It's not against the rules."

"This is highly unusual, Gregoria," said Elder Wong. "Are you certain?"

"Quite certain." She pulled a pen from the folds of her cloak and signed her name briskly at the bottom of the scroll. "At least someone on this list will know what they're getting themselves into. Send me the paperwork this evening, North."

Jupiter was momentarily silent, his mouth hanging open in shock. "I—th-thank you, Elder Quinn. Really—thank you. I promise you won't regret it."

Rigel wondered if he realized why Elder Quinn had just signed the document or what he'd done by allowing her to. He wondered if Elder Quinn realized what the document allowed her to do and if that was why she'd signed it.

A part of him admired the woman for it, it was an intelligent decision—but just as much of him resented her for the consequences that could bring. Still, his mind wandered to Hawthorne... Hawthorne who always tried to see the best in people and he decided to give the Elder the benefit of the doubt.

Elder Quinn sighed deeply. "I doubt that very much, dear. Nevertheless, we shall give you until Inauguration Day to find your ninth signatory. If you cannot find one, the Crow's place in Unit 919 will be forfeit. That's the best I can do."

They left the Trollosseum through labyrinthine halls plastered with old posters and photographs of famous troll fights, Morrigan fighting to keep up with Rigel and Jupiter's urgent pace.

"I'm sending you and Jack back to the Deucalion with Fenestra, Mog, Ryj," he said, a few steps ahead of the twins. "I've got to get that last signature, and I'm running out of options. I have one last lead, but it's a long shot, and I need—"

"But you promised to tell us—"

"I know I did, and I will, but—"

"There they are! I found them!"

Baz Charlton stomped down the hallway, followed by a flouncing, furious Noelle Devereaux, a bored-looking Cadence Blackburn, and the familiar face of a moronic fool, Inspector Flintlock. Behind them, at least a dozen brown-uniformed officers of the Stink.

"Foul play!" cried Mr. Charlton, pointing at Jupiter and shaking with self-righteous rage. "Arrest these people, Inspector! Foul play! What was that, eh? What'd you do to the Elders? Some sort of sorcery? Those flames of yours not enough?"

Jupiter tried to push past. "Not now, Baz, I don't have time for your blithering."

"Oh yes you do have time for my blithering!" said Mr. Charlton, moving to block him. "You might have hoodwinked the Elders, North, but you can't fool me. You two have stolen the rightful place of my candidate, Noelle." He pointed fiercely at the twins, Rigel raised a  brow—last he'd seen, Noelle was just barely clinging to ninth place. He was unsurprised to find she'd been knocked off the leader board, there had been an oracle in the final group and there was no way the elders could refuse that. "This little black-eyed beast and her cripple brother don't belong in the Society, and I'll be going straight to the Elders to tell them that they're—"

"Filthy illegal's," interrupted Inspector Flintlock, hitching his pants up and puffing out his chest. He looked back at the other officers, making sure he had their full attention. His moment had arrived, and he was going to savour it. "Smuggled in from the Republic and enjoying unlawful refuge in the den of a criminal element."

Jupiter looked pleased. "I've never been called a criminal element before. How exciting."

"Do you not recall those lovely green cards I showed you?" Rigel asked boredly," Why on earth would you call us illegal—"

"Shut up," snapped Flintlock. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and held it up for them to see. "Illegals, immigrants, they're all the same. And now that I think about it, I hardly got a look at those so-called green cards of yours. I've got a warrant here. Now, I want to see some hard, physical proof that you are who you say you are, that you belong in the Free State and aren't just Republic scum trying to take advantage of our hospitality, or worse—spy on us for the Wintersea Party."

Rigel scoffed, reaching into his coat pocket for the card only to freeze halfway through. He'd left his wallet at The Deucalion, not wanting to take it into a large crowd full of people where it would be rather easily pick-pocketed. And Morrigan's green card had been in his wallet directly beside his own.

"Come on, Flinty, this is embarrassing now," Jupiter said impatiently. "I told you already—Wundrous Society members are outside your jurisdiction. You could lose your badge for this, pal."

"That would be true, pal, were it not for the fact that the trials have now ended," said Flintlock, looking extremely pleased with himself. He pulled out a second piece of paper and read from it. "You need to brush up on your Wun Law handbook, North. Article ninety-seven, clause H: 'A winning candidate is not an official member of the Wundrous Society until receiving his or her golden pin on completion of the unit inauguration ceremony, and until that time his or her provisional membership may be revoked without due process if deemed necessary and appropriate by the High Council of Elders.'"

Jupiter sighed and shook his head. "We've been through this, Inspector. Article ninety-seven, clause F: 'A child who is participating in the entrance trials for the Wundrous Society shall for all legal purposes be considered a member—'"

"'A member of the Wundrous Society for the duration of said trials or until he or she is removed from the trial process,'" Flintlock recited over the top of Jupiter's voice. "For the duration of said trials, North. The trials are over. The leader board is full. The Elders have gone home."

"And the unit inauguration is weeks away," added Mr. Charlton, barely containing his glee.

"I believe that puts your wretched little stowaways well and truly within my jurisdiction," finished Flintlock. His eyes had taken on a manic shine. His moustache quivered. He held out his hand. "I'll be seeing those papers now, Captain North."

Jupiter had nothing to say. Rigel weighed his options, counting the surrounding officers, looking for an escape route. Could he summon his wings here? Where would they go, though? The silence stretched, and Flintlock kept his hand out, waiting patiently, a triumphant glow lighting up his horrible face.

Morrigan slumped against the wall beside him, defeat and sadness radiating from her.

Rigel paused, his gaze sliding over to Cadence, brown eyes locked onto brown and the two stared at each other. She hesitated as he silently pleaded but he could see her resolve waver and saw the exact moment it cracked. She gave him a nod, and he knew he would owe her for this.

"Here they are."

Cadence's voice echoed in the hallway. Rigel's expression contorted into relief as the girl waved a worn piece of paper with one of the corners ripped off, right underneath Inspector Flintlock's nose.

"What's this?" said Flintlock, confused. "What am I looking at?"

It was an old troll fight poster advertising an "epically gory battle" between Orrg of Clorflorgen and Mawc-lorc of Hurgenglorgenflut. Orrg and Mawc-lorc, two spectacularly ugly trolls, were pictured snarling at each other, and in colourful fonts the poster promised two-for-one ales, a dazzling halftime show, and free entry to anyone who could prove he or she had troll blood.

"It's their papers," said Cadence in her low, flat voice. "See? It says right there: Morrigan and Rigel Crow are citizens of the Free State."

Flintlock shook his head woozily, as if trying to dislodge something that was stuck. "It—what? Where does it—"

"Just there," Cadence insisted, not even bothering to point at anything. She sounded bored. "It says, 'Morrigan and Rigel Crow are citizens of the Free State and weren't smuggled in illegally so why don't you just get over it so we can all get on with our lives.' There's a government seal on it and everything."

Rigel let out a short huff of laughter.

Baz Charlton snatched the papers from her hand. "Let me see that."

Noelle and Flintlock crowded around him, putting their heads together and squinting at Orrg's and Mawc-lorc's pockmarked, drool-soaked faces.

Baz frowned, blinking repeatedly. "This isn't—these aren't—this is a troll fight—"

"No it's not," Cadence said. "It's a passport. It's Rigel and Morrigan Crow's Free State passport."

Passports weren't even combined, you get two separate passports. Cadence's knack truly was amazing.

"It's not, it's—it's a troll—it's... Morrigan and Rigel Crow's Free State passport," he repeated, his eyes glazing over.

"Everything appears to be in order," said Cadence. Her voice hummed like a beehive. "So you'll be on your way, then."

"Everything appears to be in order," echoed Flintlock. "So we'll be on our way, then."

He let the poster float to the ground as he marched down the hall, Baz and Deveraux following dumbly behind. The Nevermoor Police Force officers hovered uncertainly, completely mystified by this strange turn of events, before obediently trailing after their commanding officer.

Cadence turned to the twins. "You owe me."

"Thank you," The boy sighed with relief, shoulders sagging—if only because he knew no one would remember this interaction beyond Cadence and Morrigan," Truly Cadence."

"Why did you help us?"

"Because..." Cadence hesitated. "Because I hate Noelle. I don't like you much either, but I really hate Noelle. And also because..." Her voice grew quiet. "You remember me. Don't you? You both remember me from the Chase."

"You saved Rigel's number one spot in the trials."

"And Hallowmas night. Do you remember that, too?"

Morrigan glowered. "You pushed me into a pond. It's not something I'm likely to forg—"

"Nobody ever remembers me," Cadence interrupted, speaking in a rush. She looked at the twins strangely. "People forget mesmerists, that's the whole point. But you remembered." She glanced up the hallway. "Gotta go." She ran to catch up with her patron and had disappeared around a corner before Morrigan could think of what to say.

"What an odd little girl," said Jupiter, staring after Cadence with a puzzled frown. "Who is she?"

"Cadence Blackburn." Morrigan picked up the discarded poster, folded it, and put it in her pocket. "She is odd, yeah."

"Hmm?" Jupiter shook himself out of his reverie and focused his gaze on Morrigan.

"I said she is odd."

"Who's odd?"

"Cadence."

"Who's Cadence?"

The sighs the twins released were so perfectly synchronised they could've come from the same person. "Seriously? Never mind."

...

Jupiter sent for Fenestra, who reluctantly met them at the entrance to the Battle Street Wunderground station. She was to escort Rigel, Morrigan, Jack, and Hawthorne back to the Deucalion while Jupiter attended to the mysterious business of the safeguard pact, whatever that was.

"Don't let them out of your sight," Jupiter told Fen for the umpteenth time as he returned from the ticket desk. "No detours, no distractions—straight home to the hotel, no side trips or delays of any sort, understand?"

Fen rolled her eyes. "Oh, but I was going to stop to buy ice cream and puppies."

Rigel perked up," Puppies?"

"Fenestra..." he said warningly.

"All right, keep your beard on."

He turned to the quartet. "Right, you three. It'll be crowded down there. Stay close to Fen and don't wander off. Fen, best take the Rush Line to Lilith Gate and then change onto the Centenary Line. That'll get you to Island-in-the-River; you can catch the Brolly Rail from there straight to Caddisfly Alley. You lot—got your brollies?"

The children nodded.

"But the Viking Line goes directly to Island-in-the-River," said Fen.

Jupiter shook his head. "Chap at the ticket desk says there's a delay due to a Viking horde attack in one of the tunnels. They'll be hours sorting that mess out."

"Rush Line it is," she agreed. "Come on, you three."

"Ryj," Jupiter bent down to the boys height as Fenestra ushered the trio away," When we get back, you and I need to have a proper talk, okay? " Rigel tensed and the man sighed, rubbing a hand down his face and muttering something like I should've done this earlier before he fixed his piercing blue eyes on the boy," I have to give you your Christmas present."

Rigel gave a jerky nod.

Jupiter smiled tiredly," Makes sure Morrigan and Jack don't kill each other and... try not to let Hawthorne rope them into anything too dangerous?"

Rigel's gaze flickered over the man's hideous suit and to the pocket—a small fuchsia pocket square with familiar pink glass shards stitched into the pattern of a sailing ship identical to the chandelier rested in it. His lip quirked up.

"You're wearing your pocket square." He said softly.

Jupiter blinked, and smiled hesitantly," Yeah," He admitted, voice softer than Rigel had ever heard it," I'm never gonna go anywhere without this, Ryj. I think this might be one of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever received."

His fingers traced his umbrella absently, though his gaze didn't falter. Rigel briefly wondered if it had been a gift from his own patron. 

He let out a scoff, uncomfortable at the eye contact and just general sentimentality, and glanced away," That's just depressing."

Jupiter barked out a laugh.

...

They descended into the busy station and pushed through the turnstiles. Fenestra, who was too large to go the normal way, jumped over the top. An indignant ticket collector made to tell her off, but she hissed at him and he immediately went about his business. Rigel was too tired to bother hiding the amused smirk that flickered across his face. He tilted his head back against the wall, letting his eyes slip shut as they waited for the line to proceed.

"Hey," Hawthorne whispered," That thing you did with the fire was really cool. I loved the dragons, and the fireworks, and the fireflies, and—"

"The fire?" Rigel asked, raising his brows and shooting the boy a lop-sided smirk. He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

"Yeah."

"Nghhh," He hummed, his eyes slipping shut as he tilted his head back against the wall once more," Thanks."

"You okay?"

"Jus..." He made a vague gesture with his hands, not bothering to open his eyes,"...tired."

Hawthorne's worry washed over Rigel with a comfort, dissimilar to most emotions he felt," How much sleep did you get last night."

"All-nighter," He murmured, already half asleep. He shivered, it was cold and he'd given Morrigan his coat.

"You should sleep," Hawthorne said, surprisingly soft for the usually hyperactive boy. He pulled off his brown jacket—a leather letterman-style aviator that Rigel knew the brand of to be ethical with their resources—and draped it over the boy," when we get back, I mean. Here."

Rigel smiled, though it quickly vanished when Morrigan, Jack and Fenestra called out for them to catch up, the line having finally moved forward. Rigel pulled his arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulling the folds tight around him as he inhaled the smell of Hawthorne's awful cologne. 

As they traversed tunnels and stairwells, Hawthorne kept looking over his shoulder at the boy in concern and curiosity, and for the first time Rigel noted there was an undercurrent of affection there. He furrowed his brows, confused. When had that appeared?

When they finally got to the platform, Fenestra pushed through the crowd to the yellow line at the front, parting the commuters like wheat stalks in a field. Hawthorne, Morrigan, and Jack each grasped a tuft of her fur and tried to keep up, apologizing to people as they elbowed past.

Rigel just trailed beside them casually, receiving a trio of envious looks which he ignored, because he was Rigel.

"Slow down, Fen," said Jack. "You're going to trample people."

"If people are in my way they deserve to be trampled," grumbled the Magnificat. "This is just what I need, after the ridiculous day I've had—to babysit you three in a packed Wunderground. The Deucalion's been a mess all day, people coming and going and making noise. We've had workers in to sort out the wiring in the south wing, and Kedgeree's had those ridiculous ghost hunters back yet again."

The brown haired boy tensed, only to wince as exhaustion seeped into his bones. It had been a long dad. He was tired and hadn't slept in well over ninety hours and just... needed to fall asleep for a few days and not wake up to a god-awful nightmare.

"Ghost hunters!" said Hawthorne, looking excited.

"I thought they got rid of the ghost," said Morrigan. "Back in summer, remember? They did that exorcism."

"And yet despite their really top-notch sage waving," Fen said dryly, "our gray man is still hanging about the south wing, spooking people. Walking through walls and disappearing around corners. The staff have even given him some funny name—oh, what was it?"

"I haven't seen any gray man," said Morrigan, sparing Rigel a glance.

"So you shouldn't, you've no reason to be in the south wing while these damned renovations are going on." The trio exchanged guilty looks but said nothing, Rigel didn't have the energy to roll his eyes. They still hadn't told anyone about Morrigan's accidental visit to the south wing on the night the shadow escaped. "It's the builders who keep complaining about him, they say they hear him from the next room, and when they rush in to see who's there, he just disappears into the Gossamer."

"Hear him doing what?" asked Jack.

"Singing or—no, humming. 

"The Humming Man." Rigel murmured, mostly to himself.

"That's what they call him." Fenestra said," The Humming Man. Ridiculous."

Suddenly, everything clicked for Rigel. Squall. The Gossamer. The Humming Man. A grey silhouette. The golden eyes. Disappearing through walls. Realisation dawned on him the exact moment it crossed Morrigan's own features and rushed in his direction.

"The Gossamer Line!" Morrigan cried.

"The what?" said Hawthorne.

"The Gossamer Line—that's how he's doing it, that's how he's getting into Nevermoor," she said.

"How who's getting into Nevermoor?" asked Jack. "What are you talking about?"

Whatever Morrigan said next was lost beneath a high-pitched whistle and whoosh of steam as their train pulled up to the platform. Scowling, Fenestra nudged Morrigan and the boys into the first carriage. They had no trouble getting seats, since the other passengers had huddled at the opposite end, happy to give the giant yellow-eyed Magnificat a wide berth.

When they were settled, Fenestra leaned in close, shoving her great grey head between them. "Watch what you talk about in crowded Wunderground stations," she growled. "The Gossamer Line's supposed to be top secret."

"But Ezra Squall is using it," hissed Morrigan, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "We have to tell Jupiter. There is no ghost, Fenestra, it's Ezra Squall—he's the grey man!"

"Ezra Squall?" Fenestra dropped her voice even lower. "The Wundersmith Ezra Squall? Nonsense. He was banished from Nevermoor Ages and Ages ago."

"It's not nonsense! I saw him myself. He was in the lobby the day the chandelier crashed, and I spoke to him in the south wing one night last summer—"

"What were you doing in the south wing?" Fen demanded.

"—and he came to watch the Black Parade on Hallowmas."

"It's true," said Hawthorne, nodding fervently. "He was there, I saw him too. And Rigel... Rigel stayed back to talk to him. You knew!"

Rigel shrugged. He hadn't told them about The Gossamer, or the fact they were Wundersmiths or his different paternity—the last part was mainly because it was none of their business," Yeah. It wasn't that hard to figure out."

"Dame Chanda showed me a picture of Squall from a hundred years ago and it's him, Fen—he looks exactly the same, he hasn't aged a day! That's how he's gotten around the ban, by leaving his body in the Republic—the border guards, the Ground Force, the Royal Sorcery Council—none of them could detect him floating around Nevermoor, because technically he was never here."

"If that's true," said Jack, with a deep frown, "if it really is the Wundersmith and he really is getting into Nevermoor on the Gossamer Line, then... why?" His wary eyes flicked over to Morrigan. "What does he want?"

"Maybe he's trying to find a weak spot," said Hawthorne. "Somewhere he can break back into Nevermoor." He gave the twins a significant look, silently encouraging them to tell the others about Squall's apprenticeship bid. Rigel scoffed, no way in hell.

However; Morrigan had other plans. 

"Fen, I think I know what—" Morrigan began quietly, but the Magnificat cut her off.

"This is rubbish! Even if he was riding the Gossamer Line, he couldn't hurt anyone. He couldn't even touch anyone. It's impossible to make physical contact with anything through the Gossamer."

Not for a Wundersmith, Rigel bit back the words before they could slip from his lips.

"Fen, listen," said Morrigan. "I know what Squall—"

"He is the Wundersmith, Fen," Jack interrupted. "There must be plenty of stuff he can do that other people can't."

"I'm telling you, it's impossible."

"Fen, listen to me!" Morrigan shouted.

Suddenly the lights in the carriage flickered and the train slowed to a halt. The passengers all groaned.

"Why have we stopped, Daddy?" asked a little boy halfway down the carriage. "Why aren't the doors opening?"

"Just another stupid delay, son," said the man, sighing the defeated sigh of a seasoned commuter. "Mouse on the tracks or something."

The lights flickered again, fading to black and then stuttering half-heartedly back to life. There was a mechanical-sounding squeal and a voice spoke over the public-address system.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Seems we have some sort of signal interference up ahead. Shouldn't be long before we're moving. Thank you for your patience."

The lights flickered again. The seats vibrated and the handrails shook.

Rigel's brows furrowed as he glanced around uncertainly. Nobody but he and Morrigan seemed to notice. The twins traded looks as the tunnel rumbled and Morrigan moved to the back of the carriage to press her ear against the wall. He sighed,  mind conjuring a thousand scenario's at once.

"What are you doing?" demanded Fenestra, looking at the girl like she'd gone mad.

"Can't you hear it?" Morrigan asked.

"Hear what?" asked Hawthorne.

"It sounds like... like..."

Hooves. It sounded like the rumble of hooves bearing down the Wunderground tracks, echoing in the tunnel—then the screeching bray of a horse, the baying of hounds. The sound of a shot being fired. Rigel paled.

Morrigan stumbled backward, falling over the seats. "Run!" she yelled. "Everyone get back, they're coming!"

Rigel froze, as dozens of confused faces glanced at his sister.

But there was nowhere to go. The carriage was packed, and the train was stopped in the middle of the tunnel. And the crowd was surrounding her, dozens of puzzled faces—including Hawthorne, Fenestra, and Jack, all looking worried.

"Morrigan, what are you talking about?" Hawthorne asked, voice distant and lost over the thundering rush of the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow. "I can't hear anyth—"

And suddenly, nothing but smoke, nothing but a thick, swirling mass of shadow and smoke surrounding the twins, filling their lungs. His feet were swept from under him and he was lifted into the air, carried along by the Hunt, the triumphant sound of horns deafening. He knew he should've been scared, should've been terrified, but he didn't fear The Hunt. He didn't fear Ezra Squall. He'd been through far too much in life to be scared of someone who thinks a tragic backstory excuses war crimes, guyliner and bad fashion.

But, he was not unaffected by the actions of the failed motivational speaker with murderous tendencies.

Rigel had never been in the ocean—neither of the twins had ever even seen it in real life, but this, he imagined, this was what it would be like to drown, to be swept away by a violent wave and tumbled over and over and over until there was nothing, only darkness and shadow and black, black, black...

...

The twins awoke on an empty platform. Morrigan gave a quiet groan as she tried to sit up, and it said more than it probably should've about Rigel that his response was only to release a pathetic huff and try to go back to sleep, utterly unphased by the location and comfort levels of said location. He'd truly been in worse conditions than laying on a cold tiled floor.

Morrigan's twisting stomach made it very hard to focus. He huffed, grunting as he pulled himself up and glanced around through groggy eyes.

They were at the Gossamer Line platform, the same cracked tiles coated the floor, the old-fashioned posted and adverts hadn't changed over the week and the same wooden bench sat over forty yards away.

The only difference? They weren't alone.

Forty yards along the platform, sitting on aforementioned wooden bench, was none other than Ezra Squall.

He stared across the rail tracks at the tunnel wall, lost in his thoughts, humming his strange little tune. It sounded like a nursery rhyme, but wrong. It wasn't the same twisted, fucked up one he used to sing to Rigel either.

Morrigan glanced at Rigel, fear and uncertainty twisting within her, and the boy stepped in front of her slightly, placing himself between her and anything that could harm her.

A loud growl echoed through the platform, wisps of black smoke feathered out from the gaping mouth of the tunnel, and pinpricks of red light peered through the blackness. Morrigan jumped as a high-pitched whinny cut the air and Rigel flinched slightly. The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow waited patiently in the dark... for what? For an order from their master, the Wundersmith?

There was only one way out.

Rigel squared his shoulder, holding his head high as he absently noted he was still wearing Hawthorne's leather letterman jacket over his suit, before he and Morrigan walked slowly down the platform, footsteps echoing purposefully. Ezra Squall was unnervingly still. He just kept humming, kept staring at the wall.

If they could just get past him, they could get away—up and up the maze-like stairwells and hidden pathways of the Wunderground until they found a Nevermoor Transportation Authority officer or a friendly crowd of passengers, or until they stumbled outside into the bright, noisy safety of a Saturday night in Nevermoor. Rigel never thought he'd consider bright and noisy safe, but then again... wasn't safe a rather apt sentiment for what he felt around Jupiter?

Perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising.

He took another tentative step, and another, Morrigan clutched tight to his hand and he winced slightly in pain as they cramped at the feeling, though, he didn't have the heart to pull away or tell her.

"Little crowling, little crowling, with button-black eyes," Squall sang softly. A smile crept across his features, small and slow, never quite reaching his eyes. "Swoops down into the meadow, where the rabbits all hide."

Rigel paused. Hadn't he heard this song before? Perhaps he'd learned it in nursery school, before they'd been kicked out for being cursed. Or perhaps it had echoed through the halls of the asylum at some point. He shuddered at the thought of that place. Squall's voice was high and clear. Sinister in its sweetness.

"Little rabbit, little rabbit, stay by Mother's side." He turned to look at the twins, and as he did, one by one the green and white tiles that lined the platform walls turned gloss black, as if by some silent command. Rigel shoved Morrigan behind him, hands twitching with every intent to summon a flame at the slightest sign of trouble.

"Or the crowling, little crowling, will peck out your eyes."

He finished his song, but the chilling smile remained as stared almost through Rigel at Morrigan. "Miss Crow. You look like a person who's figured something out."

Neither of the twins uttered a word.

"Go on," he prompted, his voice barely a whisper. "Show me how clever you are."

Chapter Text

"Every one has a thousand wishes before a tragedy, but just one after."

...

"You... you're Ezra Squall," Morrigan said, stepping out from behind Rigel. "You're the Wundersmith. There is no Mr. Jones, it was all a lie."

Rigel tensed as Squall locked eyes with him, staring into the depths of his soul. His gaze did not waver, still fixed on Rigel as he spoke and Rigel knew it was a message. That he knew something Morrigan didn't, that Rigel didn't want Morrigan to know... and he wasn't afraid to use it.

"Good." He nodded. "Very good. What else?"

Morrigan swallowed. "The Courage Square Massacre—that was you. You murdered those people."

He inclined his head ever so slightly, gaze still fixed on the Crow boy. "Guilty. What else?"

(Was he really a Crow though? His wings were that of an angel—)

"It was you who sent the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow after us." The lights on the station platform flickered. Tendrils of black smoke drifted from the tunnel, curling around the walls and the ceiling, choking out the light. Morrigan trembled, but Rigel remained rigid, taught with... something akin to fear, but not. He couldn't describe the emotion. 

(He felt the darkness might devour him too.)

"Correct. You and every other child unfortunate enough to be born on Eventide. It was meant to be a mercy."

A... mercy? A mercy? Killing children was a mercy? 

Rigel's face contorted with rage and hatred, this... monster knew nothing of mercy. A sneer, ugly and ice cold etched itself onto his features as his eyes filled with unadultered loathing.

(Isn't that the exact mercy you wished for? For many years did you yourself not consider death to be merciful—

I considered death an end to my pain. I considered it an escape. I considered it the better option out of two awful choices. I did not consider it a kindness. No child should consider the embrace of death a kindness.)

"A mercy?" said Morrigan. "You tried to kill us!"

He closed his eyes as if disappointed and finally tore his gaze from Rigel as he looked away with an almost mournful expression. "Wrong. I don't try to kill people, Miss Crow. I simply kill them. You may have noticed that you both are still alive. Not, I assure you, because your Captain North made his daring rescue, but because I intended for you to live."

"Liar!"

"I am a liar. Yes. But not always, and certainly not this time." He rose from his seat and stepped closer. "You were only half-right. I sent the Hunt after you, both of you, but not to kill you."

At the mention of their name, the black-smoke hounds emerged from the tunnel, stalking low to the ground, followed by a wall of hunters on horseback. They moved slowly, dreamlike. Waiting for an order to attack.

Morrigan stepped backward. Rigel drew himself up, feet rooted to the spot as he placed a protective arm in front of his sister.

"Don't run," Squall warned her. "They love it when children run."

Morrigan froze, eyes glued the Hunt in a manner very similar to the way Rigel's own gaze was locked onto Squall. Her pulse was thrumming all the way down to her fingertips.

"Quite frightening, I agree," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. "Some of my best work. They are the perfect murder machine—ruthless, unfeeling. Unstoppable. Believe me, Little Crow's, if I had ordered them to kill you, you would not have lived past Eventide. You would be nothing but a pile of ash. The order I gave was not to kill. It was to herd."

He smiled. The skin on the back of Rigel's neck prickled. And he could see the Wundersmith etched onto Squall's face, tearing itself out of his human mask. Black eyes and black mouth and sharp, bared teeth. The hollowed-out face of a creature who was neither man nor monster, but something else Rigel dared not imagine.

(What if he ended up as that something else? What if he was like Squall?)

It simmered beneath the surface of his flesh, ugly and monstrous as what lived inside the man and utterly unseen by any body else. It made the Unresting looked slightly less grotesque, made the shadows looks slightly lighter, made the cold feel warmer. It made every awful, terrible thing in life feel slightly more beautiful with its own lack of.

"They failed the first time, of course, allowing that abominable ginger to spirit you away in his ridiculous mechanical spider." Rigel glared at the insult. Jupiter was not abominable. He was better than Squall could ever hope to be—not that he did hope to be better. He seemed perfectly content with life as a monster. "But I knew they wouldn't fail again, not once I finally found a weakness to exploit on the Gossamer Line. It's taken most of the year and one or two minor Wunderground disasters—"

"That was you," said Morrigan. Her voice was shaking. "Those derailments. People kept saying it was the Wundersmith, and they were right. You killed two people!"

He killed their parent. He killed Lizzie, Andy, Theo, Matteo, Felix and Elliot's parents. He orphaned six brilliant, beautiful children. He left them alone in the world with no one but each other!

"Trial and error," he said with a shrug. "All in the name of rounding you up like a lost sheep. And now, little lambs, it is time to go home."

He turned to them and held out his hand. A train whistled in the distance.

Morrigan took another step back. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Neither of us are." Rigel sneered.

"I respectfully disagree." He scoffed, Squall wasn't capable of doing anything respectfully.

The sound of an engine gaining speed echoed throughout the platform. A silvery-gold light shone from the depths of the tunnel, growing brighter and brighter, piercing the wall of blackness that was the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow until it finally broke through, shimmering and pearlescent, too beautiful and too terrible to look upon.

The Hunt scattered, evaporating into thin air and reappearing on the platform like a tornado with the twins at its eye. The oilskin umbrella tumbled from Morrigan's hands and Rigel slipped off his gloves, an anchor. They spiralled around and around them, binding them in black ropes of shadow and smoke, pushing and pulling them deep into the blinding golden light of the Gossamer train.

A whistle blew. The train departed.

There was a chill in the air, and Rigel could feel it even through the Gossamer. It was cold outside Crow Manor. The lawn was covered in a layer of frost. Behind the tall iron gates, the house was a black silhouette against the darkening sky.

He turned to Morrigan, glancing at her in concern.

Squall stepped forward, gazing up at the house with manic, shiny-eyed anticipation. Rigel went rigid. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be here. "Let's pay a visit, shall we?"

He wanted to go back to The Deucalion. He wanted to go home.

("You don't have a home, little boy—")

The Wundersmith was no longer a bodiless entity, floating on the Gossamer and unable to affect the things around him. He was back in the Republic, back in his body, and relishing his freedom.

He cracked his knuckles and stretched out his arms, and with one precise flick of his wrists, the gates opened—but no, they didn't just open. They peeled back, rail by rail, the solid iron groaning as if bent by some giant invisible hand.

The hounds came running around the side of the house, barking viciously at the noise.

"Woof! Woof woof!" Squall barked back at them like a madman. The dogs flew backward through the air as if thrown, landing with dull thuds on the lawn and then running away, yelping.

"You've no idea what agony it is," he said, turning to Morrigan as he crunched up the gravel drive, "to be there, right there in my city—my city, my beloved Nevermoor—and unable to do anything. Unable to use my talents, to affect the things around me... even to touch anything." He swallowed, staring into the distance. "The Gossamer Line is a wonderful thing, Miss Crow—I should know, I created it—but sometimes it's a prison." His face brightened. "Let me show you how that feels."

Rigel knew all about prisons. About barred windows and burning metal. About canes and belts and Squall's only prison was one of his own making. One he chose to return to.

He did not have a prison, prisons you were trapped in. The only thing Squall was trapped in was the pathetic cycle of ego-centric narcissism and self-pity he inflicted on himself.

He turned to the house, raising his arms in the air like a conductor ready to command an orchestra, and began.

The bricks and stones that made up Crow Manor began to shift, turning and scraping against each other, churning up clouds of dust, reassembling themselves until the twins' childhood home—Rigel's childhood hell, more like it—was unrecognizable. It groaned and stretched into a tall gothic cathedral, looming above her more frighteningly than ever.

"An improvement, no?" Squall said, coughing as he waved the dust away from his face.

"Stop," said Morrigan. Rigel glared ahead hatefully, hateful towards Squall, towards Crow Manor, towards Corvus.

"I'm only getting started."

With a snap of his fingers, the dark grey stone of the transformed house began to glow, lit by a million golden fairy lights. It was... almost ethereal in its beauty. 

It was suspicious. Rigel eyed Squall cautiously. He gave them a questioning look and held out both hands, as if seeking their approval. Rigel stared, unimpressed. He never thought there'd be a day he thought of his childhood hell as beautiful. Then again, Rigel had a talent for finding even the ugliest, most agonising things beautiful.

Hell, some of his most beautiful creations stemmed form self-inflicted agony. He rubbed his hands absently, still trembling violently, much than they should have been, and still aching from dozens of hours of non-stop writing and sleep-deprivation.

"This is what you want, isn't it, Little Crow's?" Another snap, and a flagpole sprouted from the uppermost spire, a black flag bearing Morrigan's face on one side and Rigel's on the other waving proudly in the breeze. "This is why you chose that ostentatious fool, isn't it, with his Wundrous Society and his arachnipod and his jumping off the roof at Morningtide?"

Rigel crinkled his nose. Was Squall... jealous? He sounded like a slightly maniacal, jealous nine-year-old. Like a mildly psychotic teenage girl having a total breakdown after being rejected one too man times. He wouldn't tell the man that, of course. 

No need for a temper tantrum.

A flick of Squall's wrist, and a bright neon sign on the rooftop said WELCOME TO CROWLAND in enormous flashing letters. It was really fucking weird. Rigel was beginning to wonder if perhaps the sleep-deprivation was finally getting to him and he was hallucinating. It had been what... a hundred plus hours? That would do it. That would totally drive somebody insane. 

Sure, him being celestial probably made him slightly more tolerant of it, but still...

The boy might have laughed if he hadn't been so thoroughly concerned about the mental state of both himself and Squall. For the first, and perhaps only time, Rigel rather hoped the murder that had kidnapped them was psychotic. If only because it was a better option than him having a psychotic break. 

Ezra Squall, the evilest man who ever lived, had just turned their childhood home into a Rigel and Morrigan Crow theme park.

He turned to her. "All style, no substance. That's what Jupiter North is. Has he even told you yet? Has Rigel?"

"Told me what?" Morrigan asked, turning to Rigel. Rigel was still, gaze still locked numbly on the Manor/

"No, of course he hasn't. But you have a moderately functioning brain in that dear little head. You must have figured it out." As he spoke, Squall fluttered his fingers and made jets of water shoot up from the fountain and freeze in mid-air, like ice sculptures. He wasn't even looking. Rigel wasn't certain he even noticed he was doing it. "Tell me, Morrigan Crow: Why did I ask the two of you to be my apprentices?"

Morrigan swallowed. "I don't know."

"Nonsense," he said softly. He lifted his hand and made a pattern in the air. The neon sign and fairy lights stuttered and died. The spire began to crumble. A few gray stones tumbled down to the ground. "Tell me."

"I don't know," she repeated. She jumped aside just as a large chunk of stone fell where she stood.

"Think."

She froze, staring at the building before them alongside Rigel. Crow Manor was crumbling right before their eyes. Rigel should've been scared, but he was just... numb. Achingly, paralyzingly numb. The outer walls turned to piles of dust and debris, revealing the warmly lit rooms inside, untouched by Squall's destruction: a tableau of life as normal for the Crow family.

Closest to where the twins stood, Corvus, Ivy, and grandmother sat in comfy chairs in the parlour, oblivious to the fact that Crow Manor was turning to ruins around them. Ivy fed one of the babies; Corvus rocked the other to sleep. Grandmother was reading. A fire burned in the hearth.

Rigel wanted to see it burn. He wanted to see it destroy something. It wanted to destroy something.

"Do I really need to tell you?" Squall said, coming to stand beside her with a look of puzzled amusement on his face. "Miss Crow, you and your brother are Wundersmiths. Just like me."

Rigel felt his stomach sink. Felt the betrayal coursing through Morrigan. The fear. The terror. The hurt. He felt it all. He put it there. He made his sister feel like that. 

"No," she whispered, and then, more firmly, "No!"

"No, you're right." He tilted his head. "Not quite like me. But one day—if you work hard and pay attention—you might come close."

Morrigan clenched her hands into fists. "I'll never be like you."

"It's perfectly charming that you believe you have a choice in the matter. But you were born this way, Miss Crow. You both were. You are set on a path from which you cannot diverge."

"I'll never be like you," Morrigan repeated. "I'll never be a murderer!"

Squall chuckled. "Is that what you believe a Wundersmith is? An instrument of death? I suppose you're half- right. Destruction and creation. Death and life. All tools within your grasp, once you know how to use them."

"I don't want to use them," Morrigan said through gritted teeth.

"What a dreadful liar you are," said Squall. "You must learn to deceive more skilfully, Miss Crow, like your brother. You must also learn what we shall call the Wretched Arts of the Accomplished Wundersmith, and I will gladly be your teacher. Let us begin with lesson one."

Squall stepped into the room and whispered something neither of the twins could quite hear. The fire leapt from the grate and spread instantly, encircling the Crows. In moments, the parlour was ablaze from curtains to carpet. Morrigan's family sat still, completely unaware of the danger they were in. Rigel sat, just as still. Numbly watching the events unfold, as though there was a fog between him and the rest of reality. 

As though he was floating above his body, watching his life unfold from afar. He knew he should do something. Stop it. Stop this. Knew he should... he should... what should he do?

Shout? Beg? Plead? Call out to wunder? He couldn't. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't exist. Couldn't do anything but stare ahead vacantly, waiting for life to just stop. Just for a moment.

"Stop!" Morrigan shouted over the roar of the flames. "Please, leave them alone!"

"Why do you care?" Squall sneered. "These people hate you, Little Crows. They blamed you for everything that went wrong in their lives. When you died—when they believed you to be dead—they were relieved. And why?"

The fire crept closer, closing in on the Crows. A bead of sweat rolled down Ivy's forehead, but Ivy herself seemed to feel as little as Rigel did. Deep down Rigel knew Squall had no intention of killing them. Not really.

He was just tormenting the twins.

Beside him, Morrigan tried to pick something up—anything, a pebble, a piece of crumbled stone—to throw at Ivy or Corvus or Grandmother, to warn them. But she couldn't grasp anything. Her hand went right through.

"Because of a curse," Squall continued, "that never even existed."

The twins swallowed, watching him through the flames. "What do you mean, never existed?"

He laughed. "The 'curse' was nothing more than a convenient way to explain why all you Eventide-born have such a nasty habit of kicking the bucket before you come of a troublesome age. Before you start attracting and absorbing too much of my precious Wunder, like the greedy little lightning rods some of you have the potential to become. I couldn't have anyone diluting the source of energy that's made me obscenely wealthy and powerful, could I? If I am the only conductor of Wunder, its power resides with me. Of course I had to eliminate any potential threats. You can't blame me for that. It's good business sense."

Hatred. Overwhelming, incessant hate. So. Much. Hate.

"There's no such thing as the curse," Morrigan said. Rigel finally understand. Jupiter had told them, but neither had believed him. It was hard to forget something every one had sent your entire life telling you, especially something like that. Something you had to want to forget. "You're the curse."

Rigel had never wanted to forget the fact he wasn't a good person. It was far too painful when he was inevitably reminded. He'd rather cling tight to it and never let the truth go.

(If the truth never stopped hurting you, could it ever start again?)

Rather remember painfully that every one was going to leave than get hurt when they did.

Squall continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Over the years, the curse took on a life of its own. People are so dramatic. Once upon a time you little wretches were a cause for pity and compassion, having your insignificant lives snatched from you at such a tender age. But somewhere along the way, the heinous true nature of humanity kicked in, and people began to see cursed children as convenient scapegoats. Someone to point the finger at when things went wrong. Why did my crops fail? Blame the cursed child. Why did I lose my job? Blame the cursed child. Soon the cursed child was to blame for all sorts of mischief and strife. The legend grew and grew until cursed children were not only the sorrow of their families, but the bane of everybody else's existence."

Squall took the baby from Corvus's arms. Corvus remained still, his eyes glassy and unseeing, reflecting the bright orange glow of the fire. The parlour had become a furnace, and the flames were throwing up billowing waves of smoke. The smoke became swirling black shapes, weaving in and out of the fire. A how echoed throughout the clearing.

The baby tried to grab at Squall's nose with his fat little fingers. The Wundersmith made a funny face and the tiny snowy-haired boy squealed with laughter. Rigel tensed, not liking the idea of Squall anywhere near a child.

"So you see, Little Crow's, I didn't make your family despise you. They did that all on their own." He made the baby wave his little hand at her. "Shall I kill them for you?"

"No!" cried the twins, and Rigel realised it was perhaps the first word he'd spoken throughout the interaction. "Please—no!" Squall dropped the baby in mid-air, but instead of falling, it floated slowly to the floor. 

Suddenly, the world seemed to click back in place for Rigel. Like he was in his own body once more. Like rather thank readin the scene through a book or watching through a screen or seeing it through a fogged haze like one of his visions he was living it.

They had to do something, had to stop him, but how? What could he possibly do, through the Gossamer? He was powerless.

"No? Are you certain? I'm not sure I believe you." He watched them with a tiny, teasing smile on his lips. "Tell me, little crowlings. Why do you think I let you live?"

Rigel glared, eyes narrowed and an expression just short of a snarl on his lips. Morrigan sais nothing. The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow was taking form around them. Snarling hounds and faceless men on horseback grew out of the flames and surrounded the unguarded family. Closer and closer, waiting for a command from Squall. Waiting to kill.

"I've destroyed so many others. Been so patient all these years, waiting for the right one. A lesser man would have given up, but I knew... I knew that you would come. That one day, a child—children—born on Eventide would rise to take my place. Children filled with dark promise, in whose eyes I would see a reflection of my own. My true and rightful heirs." He knelt down to bring his face level with theirs. His voice was so soft and his smile so sincere that for a moment Rigel could feel Morrigan's familiarity. Could see some of Mr. Jones in the wretched man. "I see you, Little Crow's," he whispered, his eyes glittering. "There is black ice at the heart of you."

"No!" Morrigan shouted, stumbling back. She threw her arms out, as though that would shield her from the words and Rigel felt it. Felt something in her snap, felt power course through her.

Felt the force of a thousand oceans crash through the room, a tidal wave of pure power.

A bright, blinding light filled the room, obliterating the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow and dousing the flames with one booming golden-white pulse that wrapped Rigel in a chokehold, power tightening around his throat. It lasted several seconds, or maybe several days, or maybe an entire lifetime, and then was gone.

In its wake, silence. Air.

The Crows, still shrouded in blissful ignorance, stared sightlessly.

Squall, wide-eyed and lightning-struck, sprawled on the ground as if he'd been thrown there. Staring up, gaze flickering from Morrigan to Rigel as if he'd just now been given the gift of sight.

And the twins themselves, trembling with the aftershock of... whatever that was.

She'd banished the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow. Confusion, relief and uncertainty trickled towards Rigel and he knew Morrigan had no idea how she'd done it, how she'd made the light come.

Picking himself up off the floor, Squall found his voice at last.

"You see, Little Crow's," he said, eyeing her warily. "You should have accepted my offer, but the truth is I don't need you to. You have already apprenticed yourself to me, simply by living past your eleventh birthday. The gathering is under way. Wunder has noticed you, and you are at its mercy."

"What does that mean?" Morrigan asked. "What's the gathering?"

"You were born a Wundersmith, but if you do not learn how to harness Wunder, it will harness you. If you do not learn to control Wunder, it will control you. It will burn you slowly from the inside, and eventually... it will destroy you." He shook his head, one side of his mouth curving into a rueful smile. Rigel hated him so much. "I told you—it would have been a mercy, letting the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow kill you. But, alas, you seem to have driven them away, at least for now. Never mind. I didn't bring you here this evening to harm you. Or your family."

"Then why did you kidnap me?"

"Kidnap you?" He looked amused and perhaps a little offended by the idea. "Kidnap is just another word for steal. I'm not a thief. This isn't a kidnapping. It's your very first lesson in how to be a Wundersmith. A master class, from a masterful teacher. Lesson two will take place as soon as one of you requests it."

Morrigan shook her head. "I won't ever request anything from you. There's nothing you can teach me."

Rigel glared hatefully.

Squall laughed softly as he stepped through the dying embers, kicking up swirls of ash and sparks. "I am the only person alive who can teach you anything worth knowing. One day, very soon, you will both come to a deep understanding of that terrible truth. My monsters and I will make sure of it." He tilted his head to the side, all traces of amusement gone from his black, fathomless eyes.

"Until then, Little Crowlings."

Without looking back, he walked down the long gravel drive, disappearing into the darkness. In his wake, the last remnants of the fire were gently extinguished, the curtains and furniture unburned, the shattered windows unshattered, the stone walls of Crow Manor rebuilt themselves, and the mangled iron gates unbent, closing with a soft clang.

The twins stood in the middle of the now-peaceful parlour. She watched the oblivious Crows and Rigel could feel a strange, yearning homesickness blossom inside her, embracing him. 

"You knew." She whispered.

He nodded, staring at the Crow's. 

(Always on the outside. Always looking in—)

"I did." His features twisted into a frown," Go home, Morrigan. I... I'll return to The Deucalion later."

In an instant, her figure vanished and he was alone. The boy wandered over to the parlour, just as Ivy rose with the twins in each arms and followed the woman to the nursery. He watched from the doorway silently as she rocked them back and forth and quietly set them in their cots, and only when he was gone and the door clicked tightly shut behind her did he appear.

One of the twins, Wolfram, peeked his eyes open and cooed lightly, peering at him through stormy blue baby eyes. He cooed lightly, chubby palms reaching up to grab at the boy, only to fall right through the finger Rigel offered him.

He didn't know how long he stood there, mesmerised by the sight of the children before him, but as some point Guntram's eyes peered open and he joined his brother in cooing at the boy.

(A woman hung above the crowd, noose wrapped tight around her neck. A young boy hung beside her. Rigel stared at the scene hollowly, tears trailing down his cheeks as Corvus's hand rested on his shoulder.)

He smiled, sad and watery,  as he realised what he wanted to do with his life. As he realised the one thing he valued more than any amount of knowledge or power in the world.

"I'll protect you," He whispered, tears of sorrow and joy trailing down his cheeks," I'll protect you and even though you're not really my brothers, one day you'll meet your niece's or nephews. One day I'll have children of my own. And they'll have the childhood I never did. They'll have what I never did. I swear it."

He was lying, of course. But it felt good to lie to himself for once. Easier than facing the truth.

(He'd never be able to have children. Not if it meant they had to live their lives seeing what he saw. And it would. It absolutely would.)