‘Hmm?’
‘You and Principal Ashworth – you both have the same kind of magic. Only, not the same . . .’
He turns back to me. ‘How do you know we’re not the same?’
‘It just feels different.’
He frowns.
‘You’re very perceptive for someone who claims to have so little magic of their own.’
‘We have books. Words. I know the old legends.’
‘Ah well, then you should know what I am,’ he says.
And he marches off again.
I watch him go, registering the lightness of his tread, the length of his limbs, the way his shadow on the wall is not quite a true reflection. It flickers at the edges, dancing and shifting as he moves.
‘Well, you’re not a centaur,’ I say, catching up with him. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m a fairy,’ he says. ‘And you’re taking all the fun out of this.’ He scratches at the back of his neck. ‘We should have done this in the morning. . . I need to get home.’
‘I thought fairies were smaller.’
‘That’s because you’ve only seen pictures in books. Are we supposed to wear bluebells on our heads too, as hats?’
I try to hide a smile; he looks very cross about it.
‘No . . . but I thought you had wings.’
He winces and keeps on moving.
‘So –’ he indicates a darkened room on the right of the corridor, empty and lit only by a red-filtered lantern swinging from the ceiling – ‘this is history. Lessons are on Mondays, after last bell.’
‘OK,’ I say, drawing my timetable out of my bag and grabbing one of my new sparkly pens to make a note of it.
He rolls his eyes and moves on again. ‘Next is earth science. Trees, water, elements, the natural world.’
‘Does that mean things like mer-fae . . . and dryads?’
‘Your books are getting old,’ he says, and there’s a shiver in his voice.
‘Yanny?’
‘What is it?’
‘You’re angry. I’m sorry if I’m not saying the right things . . .’
‘Dryads are mostly in hiding these days, and nobody has seen a mer-fae for years. Your books clearly don’t cover recent history. Let’s just get this done.’
He flits up the rest of the corridor. There’s a room for fae ethics and practical magic, glamouring and bewitching; and another, where the walls glow in soft amber shades, and low chairs are arranged in small huddles.
‘What’s this for? Why is it so dark up here?’
‘No electricity,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t work well around magic. This is time-out. Most of the fae kids are glamouring while they’re downstairs, and it gets hard.’ His voice sounds strained.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says. He looks at me, gives a shadow of a bleak, sharp smile. ‘I just need to get home.’
‘What’s it like, in Winterspell?’ I ask carefully. ‘Are the stories about the shadows true?’
His face tightens, and I immediately regret asking.
‘I don’t know about stories,’ he says. ‘The shadows are real.’ He winces, arching his back. ‘And I’m not talking about that now.’
‘Sorry – I just wondered . . .’ I frown, as his eyes flash amber again. ‘Does it hurt, to glamour? You don’t need to do it in front of me. I’m all signed up now, remember?’
‘It isn’t about you,’ he hisses. ‘I need to get through the school, and town, and home.’
‘Should we sit here for a moment, then? It’s safe here, isn’t it?’
His shadow writhes behind him, and there’s a dark flash of tattered shadowy wings.
‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘Got to get back. I should’ve done this another day . . .’
‘I’ll come with you.’
We rush through the corridors, down the shining steps, and he is a bright force beside me, static like a silver needle pricks through the air between us.
‘How many magical kids are here?’ I ask, as we get out of the front gate.
‘Thirteen.’ He grins. ‘Lucky to have you, makes fourteen.’
‘Thirteen is lucky in some cultures,’ I say, making my voice bright and chatty. ‘In China, and the—’
‘Not in ours,’ he cuts me off.
‘That’s why you wanted me to start lessons?’
‘Partly,’ he says. ‘Also, because you have magic. I can feel it, and so can you.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I huff, as we dash through the streets, and the lights of the shops make the pavements shine beneath the pale mist of rain. Our footsteps are quick and light, and Yanny is panicking, I can feel it. We cross the road by the bakery, and he stumbles on the kerb.
‘I’ve got to run,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow – 7.30. Ashworth does assembly on Thursdays. The others will be there.’
‘OK.’
‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘Grumpy.’
‘It’s OK. See you tomorrow.’
He nods, and the air around him vibrates. Then he’s gone, fleet-footed, darting between cars and away towards the forest.
I stand there in the rain for a moment, my feet are numb, my hands prickle.
There were wings. Flimsy things that curled over his shoulders, broader than his back, but hardly more than shadows. I saw them unfurl and snag at the air. Saw the way they fluttered as he fled, with nothing more than an echo of movement.
What happened to his wings?
One of the boldest, most mischievous of the fae, the fairy is large in number and of earth, and air, and water, and fire. They tend to have large families, and some would say more courage than sense. It is they who defend the fae realm, and they who play tricks on passing humans. They are the ones most frequently spotted, but they are very good at glamouring, which means they may easily hide or change their appearance.
There is tell of earth fairies who live in the human world as humans, using their magic to round their ears and veil their wings. Hiding magic, though, is no mean feat, and fairies are prone to sickness. Their bodies are fragile in the world of men.
12
It’s getting dark as I reach home, the forest is more shadowed than ever. I skirt the house and linger on the moors by the river for a while, knowing Nan and Peg will be full of questions about my day, and not having a clue how I can answer them truthfully.
As I watch, I spot movement between the trees. Something small and bright bursts out and races fast as lightning towards me. I squeal, staggering back as it bounds up to my chest, all sharp claws and static and . . . soft fur. A small, vaguely triangular face looks up at mine, claws latched firmly into my coat, green eyes flashing.
It’s a cat!
What kind of a cat bounces out of the forest like that?
‘Hi,’ I say, reaching out and untangling it from my coat, holding it at arm’s length. It’s a tiny little tabby, its fur striped in shades of white and silver-grey flecks glinting in the darkening light. ‘Who are you?’
It doesn’t answer; it just stares at me. I put it down on the cold grass, and it walks around my ankles, before sitting on my left boot.
‘Oh!’
Then another wild creature bursts out from the direction of the house and whizzes to my shoulder. Peg, being a bird.
‘Look, Peg,’ I say. ‘It’s a cat!’
‘Is it though?’ he demands, his golden beak snapping by my ear as he peers down.