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The man who called himself Mr. Jones did not make a habit of socializing with the families of politicians, particularly in the wake of a recent tragedy. But the man who was Ezra Squall, chained to the side of President Wintersea’s metaphorical throne...well, that man occasionally had to make sacrifices.
Such as appearing at a dinner party at Crow Manor, thrown scandalously soon after the tragic widowing of the up-and-coming politician Corvus Crow. He’d known them vaguely; he was sure he could’ve identified young dead Meredith Crow on sight, a bright ray of sunshine next to her dour husband. He’d arranged his face into an appropriate mask of grief as he shook Corvus’s hand, grateful to still be wearing gloves.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he’d murmured. “And on Eventide, of all days.”
Corvus’s face had twitched, but he’d only murmured a stiff, “Thank you,” before they’d all sat down to dinner. There’d been no hint of grief in his voice.
Dinner was stiff and awkward. He was sure he’d been more bored in his life, but he couldn’t imagine when. (Before, maybe, when he’d been commissioned to beautify the Silver District—no, don’t think about that.) He was seated next to Ornella Crow, who kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye but was so scrupulously polite in her conversation that he couldn’t possibly call her out on it. He wondered, briefly, if she looked at him and remembered the younger Squall who’d danced with her while her own betrothed had been sulking in corners. (Doubtful. It had been so long ago, and he’d made tweaks to his preferred public guise since then.)
Corvus, at the head of the table, was monosyllabic until another guest commented, “At least you have a healthy child. A daughter, isn’t it?”
The man’s face twisted like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Not for long. They say it will be a twelve-year Age.”
Ezra took a slow bite of his insipid boiled potato, barely tasting it.
There was a child. He hadn’t known there was a child. And there was only one reason the length of an Age would matter. His hounds would feast, and it would be a mercy. It would.
When politeness dictated that the men separate for port and cigars and the sort of politics one did not discuss in mixed company, he made his escape. It was easy to step away for a moment and wrap himself in shadow, seeking...what? He wasn’t sure. But he didn’t care to sit in Corvus Crow’s presence any longer than he had to, no matter how good the man’s wine cellar was.
He wandered without a plan. Away from the party on the ground floor, the rest of the house was almost eerily silent; for all the fleet of servants that had been attending them at dinner, it seemed none had been spared for the rest of the house. Still, the place was lavishly appointed, with flickering gaslights and lustrous patterned wallpaper. He ran his hand along it as he walked, feeling the slightly raised birds and flowers that made up the pattern. His heels sank into the plush carpet until he met the uncarpeted stairs and took them up to the next floor.
This was where the family lived, and clearly Meredith had had the run of the place in terms of décor. He wrinkled his nose as he took in the pale pink wallpaper and deep pink carpet. He was fairly sure she would’ve painted the woodwork pink if she could’ve gotten away with it. Still, there was no sign of life. He amused himself by poking his head into the unlocked master bedroom (black, dramatic) and the locked study (brown, black, somehow even more depressing than his own office) in search of anything interesting. Blackmail material, preferably; he didn’t need it, of course, but it was always fun to watch fools sweat.
Nothing. That fool at dinner had mentioned a healthy child, but a casual glance into the exceedingly pastel nursery showed it to be empty. There weren’t even any toys. Logic said he should go back downstairs and rejoin the party; maybe it would be more palatable if he let himself get slightly drunk. (Or considerably drunk. Crow did have a very nice wine cellar.) But something else—Wunder, maybe, or sheer bloody-mindedness—urged him forward.
He blew out a long sigh and slipped through a hidden door. The next floor was the servants’ quarters, all unfinished wood and drafty windows. As a breeze whispered past his ears, he mindlessly Wove himself a coat and scarf. Now, here, was a sign of life—a door at the end of the hall, left ever so slightly ajar as though its previous occupant hadn’t cared to close it.
He stepped inside.
The room was nearly empty; he saw only a rocking chair, a chest of drawers, and a whitewashed crib. The fire had burnt down to embers, barely warming the room. And in the crib was a child—no, an infant—fast asleep. He saw no signs of a nursemaid. He held his breath, frozen half in the doorway.If the brat starts screaming...
He should leave. This child was doomed; even if she wasn’t a lightning rod for his precious Wunder, sucking away all the scraps he needed to run Squall Industries and be Maud’s good little lapdog, the life of a cursed child wasn’t a life worth living. But the air was lighter here, the dust motes pirouetting through the shafts of moonlight, and so before he knew it he was standing down at the side of the crib looking down at her.
She was dressed warmly, at least, in layers of lace-trimmed gowns and tiny little socks. He had a feeling she’d take after her father; he could already see a few wisps of black hair. But she was so small. Were babies always this small? Odbuoy had been bigger when they’d found him.
Don’t think about that.
He set a hand on the edge of the crib, watching her for a moment. He could end it here. He didn’t even think Corvus would mourn. Surely it would be better for this child than to grow up feared and despised by the small-minded idiots around her for nothing more than the day of her birth.
Wunder twined around his fingers like an affectionate serpent, and the babe’s eyes opened. They were mirrors of his own.
Time stretched on forever as he waited for the wails. The screams. The nurse rushing in—where was she? Surely they were feeding the child?—and demanding answers as to what he thought he was doing here.
“Gaba!” said the infant, and stretched up her pudgy little arms to grab at him.
He exhaled. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered, feeling like an idiot for trying to reason with a baby.
“Bag!” she proclaimed, and now her face was screwing up in the beginnings of a sob.
Cursing all Nine Divinities, the Wundrous Society, the Wintersea Republic, and himself, Ezra Squall bent to scoop her up. It was pure instinct, a century-old memory of Baby Odbuoy—who’d been Baby Odbuoy until he was five and old enough to complain—waving his arms the same way when he wanted one of his new siblings to pick him up and carry him. Ezra had always obliged. He’d had seven siblings before the Society found him, and it had been nice to be an older brother for a change.
His eyes burned. It was the dust. Only the dust.
She fit into the crook of his arm, warm and alive and surprisingly heavy. Now that she was being held, she seemed calmer again, though her eyes were still wide and fretful. He wondered if Meredith had had time to hold her. He wondered if Meredith had had time to name her, or if she was going to be saddled with something terrible like Badbh or Branwen.
Wunder purred through his veins like a cat. He took a long, slow breath. Maybe the Hunt wouldn’t come to feast after all. Maybe in another decade or so they’d come to bring him an apprentice worthy of the name, and his long wait would finally be over. (Maybe he could take her now—no. What would he do with an infant? He’d never had a child of his own. Far better to hope she grew up.)
But for now, there was a baby in his arms, and he rocked her and sang the only lullaby he knew.
“Little crowling, little crowling, with button-black eyes,
Swoops down into the meadow, where the rabbits all hide.”
Wunder answered his song. It always did. This time, he made it soft. Quiet. The fire rose to a merry blaze; as he paced the floor, the room warmed to something he might’ve called comfortable. The child’s eyes reflected flickers of gold.
“Little rabbit, little rabbit, stay by Mother’s side,
Or the crowling, little crowling, will pluck out your eyes.”
Her eyes were fluttering shut. “Buhbuh,” she mumbled, cuddling into his coat. She was well on her way back to sleep, knowing no better than to trust this stranger who sang to her and kept her warm. This murderer of hundreds, this monster of childrens’ nightmares.
Something twinged in his chest. It might’ve been his heart, if he still had one.
Eventually, he set her down and slunk out of the room. She didn’t so much as twitch.
Downstairs, the party was still in full swing. When he slipped back into the room, nobody remarked on his disappearance. He doubted they even noticed he’d been gone. In fact, he was almost sure of it; when he reappeared at Corvus’s elbow, the man actually jumped and almost spilled wine down his shirt. “Ah, Mr. Squall, I didn’t see you there.”
He arranged his face into a polite smile. “No harm done, Crow. Now, about that bill you mentioned…”
He’d find out the daughter’s name later. He had his ways.
And he’d have his new apprentice.
&
Eleven years later, Morrigan Crow stood frozen in dawning horror in an empty Wunderground station, staring down the Wundersmith as he sang. His voice was high and clear and sweet, and...and she knew the words. Why did she know the words? Had someone sang them to her once? She thought she could remember...something. Being warm. Being held. Someone’s wool coat under her head.
But she’d felt safe then, and she knew she was the very farthest thing from safe now. She was almost too terrified and too cold to think. Like a rabbit, she thought, half-hysterical. And he’s the wolf.
The green and white tiles on the walls were turning black, a slow flood of ink. Of shadow. She saw teeth in it. The Wundersmith was turning around to face her fully, his smile never reaching his eyes.
“Miss Crow,” he said lightly. Calmly. As though this was a normal conversation, as though he wasn’t a monster. “You look like a person who’s figured something out.”