Nevermoor: Prologue–Chapter 4

“We wish to thank you, the citizens of our great Republic, for your support over the past eleven years,” he read in a clear, authoritative voice honed by years of demanding order in the Chancery.

The caseworker chanced a fleeting look at Morrigan, who was sitting beside her on the sofa and trying not to fidget.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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—”

“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...”

“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...”

“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?”

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

“I—I’m not sure...I’m not sure what you mean,” stammered Mr. Jones, sounding taken aback.

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

Her coarse, steel-gray hair was piled in a formidable bun atop her head.

“Heavens, no!” Ivy laughed, glancing at the maid who’d come to place a tureen of gravy on the table.

“Actually, sir,” said Right in a tentative voice.

Morrigan had been to Town Hall on several other occasions, usually when her father’s popularity was at its lowest ebb and he needed a public show of support from his family.

The riotous sound turned to a buzzing murmur as Morrigan and Corvus took their seats on the stage behind the podium.

Definitely front-page material, Morrigan thought—the doomed daughter and her soon-to-be-grieving father, a terrifically tragic pair. She tried to look extra forlorn, which wasn’t easy when she was being blinded by camera flashes.

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.

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.

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.

By the end of your apprenticeship you will be in command of Squall Industries’ mining, engineering, manufacturing, and technology sectors.

“I have been made a fool. It was all somebody’s idea of a joke. Humiliated! By my own constituency!”

Morrigan watched as the dusky twilight blue deepened to sapphire, to navy, and finally to a profound, unfathomable black.

Morrigan watched as the dusky twilight blue deepened to sapphire, to navy, and finally to a profound, unfathomable black.

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 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.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if warding off a migraine.

“Send them away with your most contemptuous sneer.”

Pinned to the lapel of his coat was a small golden W.

Ginger was an understatement, Morrigan thought, trying to hide her astonishment as the hat came off. Ginger of the Year or King Ginger or Big Gingery President of the Ginger Foundation for the Incurably Ginger would have been more accurate. His mane of bright copper waves could probably have won awards.

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

“I’m afraid we really do have to hurry, Morrigan. How many suitcases do you have?”
“Suitcases?” she echoed, feeling dim-witted and slow.

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.

“I am somebody’s patron, Chancellor Crow. I am the patron of this slow-moving but otherwise delightful child. It’s all legal and aboveboard, I can assure you. She signed the contract. I have it right here.”

They all watched her intently, uneasily, as if seeing her properly for the first time.

“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.”

The engine roared to life and the spider lurched forward, pitching Morrigan face-first into a wall.

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.

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.