This was Hometrain, a mode of transport and home-away-from-home exclusively for them, the 919th unit of the Wundrous Society. Painted on its side was the familiar W symbol and the number 919, and hanging halfway out the door was their conductor, Miss Cheery. She ran in with seconds to spare-thick black braid whipping behind her, long brown limbs taking great strides-and arrived just as a single, slightly battered train carriage chugged into view, trailing puffs of white steam. Archan Tate-who was always impeccably mannered and dressed-took half of Hawthorne’s teetering pile of kit for him without a word and gave the badly buttoned shirt a discreet nod.Ĭadence Blackburn was the last to make it this morning. Hawthorne Swift, Morrigan’s best friend, arrived in his typical morning state-unbalanced by armfuls of dragonriding gear, gray shirt not quite properly buttoned, unbrushed brown curls sticking out at wild angles, blue eyes sparkling with some mischief he’d either just dreamed up or just committed (Morrigan didn’t want to know which). The rest of her unit began arriving, shattering the peace and quiet as the remaining eight doors were flung open up and down the platform-from Mahir Ibrahim’s ornate red door at one end, all the way to Anah Kahlo’s small, arched, unvarnished wooden one at the other-and the tiny station filled with chatter.
Ready to carry millions of people all over the city of Nevermoor on a complex tapestry of tracks. Like mechanical dragons waking from slumber. She liked to close her eyes for just a few seconds, listening to the distant rumbling of trains in the Wunderground tunnels. Most mornings, she was the first to arrive at Station 919. These quiet, still moments had become Morrigan’s favorite time of day. Finally, she pressed her fingertip to the shimmering circle, and just as if she’d turned a key in a lock, the door swung open onto an empty train station. Morrigan Crow finished buttoning her starched white shirtsleeves, pulled on a black overcoat, and carefully fixed her gold W pin to the lapel. On a glossy black door inside a well-lit wardrobe, a tiny circle of gold pulsed with light, and at its center was a small, glowing W.Ĭome in, it seemed to say with each gentle beat.
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