Mica poured himself a mug of hot chicory and gulped about half of it, making a face as he set it down. ‘I brought coffee back from Redruth,’ he said. ‘Why are you still making this muck?’
‘If you don’t like it, make the coffee yourself,’ said Ivy. ‘Why are you changing the subject?’
Mica shot her a baleful glare. Then, with a glance at Cicely’s curtained alcove, he leaned closer and muttered, ‘Gem and Feldspar spotted someone — or some thing — sneaking about the Engine House last night.’
Ivy’s lips formed a silent oh.
‘But it disappeared before they could get a proper look at it. So Gossan sent a few of us out to see if we could track it down, but…’ He shrugged, and took another swig of chicory. ‘No luck. Whatever it was, it came and went like the wind.’
‘You think it’s another spriggan?’ asked Ivy. She’d been so caught up in watching the swifts, she’d forgotten that Keeve’s murderer could still be out there.
‘Maybe.’ Mica dropped the empty mug onto the worktop and picked up his hunter’s knife. ‘But we’re not supposed to say anything about it yet, so keep that to yourself.’
‘Ready, Mica?’ The question came so quietly through the crack in the door that only piskey ears could have heard it. It always amazed Ivy that a boy as big and broad-shouldered as Mattock should be so soft-spoken.
‘I’m coming.’ Mica swung his pack over his shoulder, gave Ivy a last warning glance and disappeared.
Ivy returned to the hearth and stirred the porridge, her brows creased in a frown. Who was the shadowy figure that Gem and Feldspar had seen creeping about the hillside? Could Richard have had a companion, who was now looking for him? It seemed unlikely that two strangers would turn up around the same time, if they weren’t somehow connected…
‘Is there any porridge left?’ asked Cicely, climbing out of her alcove. But her gaze was downcast, and she spoke without her usual spirit. Had she overheard Mica talking? Or had she merely sensed Ivy’s troubled mood?
‘Yes, of course,’ Ivy said, doing her best to sound cheerful. ‘With berries and cream too, if you like.’
The two of them were sitting down to eat when Flint emerged from his bedchamber, dressed in the same dusty clothes he’d worn the day before. Once he had been handsome, and so like Betony that the two of them might have been twins. But now his features sagged as though his skin were too big for him, and his eyes were dull as pebbles.
‘Come and have some porridge, Dad,’ Ivy said, offering him her bowl. But he shook his head, and reached for his thunder-axe.
Ivy wanted to grab her father and shake him, but she knew it would do no good. She heard him coughing in the night sometimes, but he’d never let her give him any of Yarrow’s herbal remedies to make it better. His hands shook whenever he gripped anything lighter than a pick or shovel, and his teeth had turned yellow with neglect — yet he didn’t seem to care about those things, either. So why should he bother eating a proper breakfast?
‘Take this, then,’ she said, pushing the packed lunch against his chest. He curled his arm around it, swung the magical pickaxe onto his shoulder and walked out without another glance.
Oh, Mother, Ivy thought, leaning wearily on the edge of the table. Even if you stopped loving him, surely you never wanted him to end up like this?
Going up to the surface today could be the biggest risk Ivy had taken yet, especially with the hunters already on the alert. But she couldn’t let that stop her, especially now. Because if Marigold was alive, she needed to know how much her family missed her, and how desperately they needed her to come back.
Ivy waited until Cicely went off for her lessons, then crept out of the Delve with all her usual caution. All seemed well at first, though as she turned into the Earthenbore she had an uncomfortable suspicion that she was being watched. But no one stepped out to challenge her, so after a brief hesitation she ignored the feeling and kept on.
Once outside she found a good spot on the hillside from which to launch herself, and went through the steps Richard had taught her. Picture the swift. Focus on the swift. Become the swift. Yet after several minutes of jaw-clenching effort, Ivy knew it was no use. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much magic she put into the effort, she was still the same wingless piskey-girl as before.
Ivy hugged her knees to her chest, doubt snaking into her mind. When she’d seen her first swift and felt that powerful sense of connection, she’d felt certain that she was meant to fly. But what if Richard had been right all along, and she couldn’t change shape? What if her piskey blood, or some quirk of her female nature, made it impossible?
Well, she’d know tonight, one way or the other. Maybe Richard was right, and moonlight was the key. But after so many failed attempts, it was hard to believe that such a small thing would make any difference.
Ivy was back in the cavern, making a fish pie for supper, when Cicely came in. ‘Did you have a good lesson?’ she asked, but Cicely didn’t reply. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into her bed-alcove, pulling the curtain shut.
That wasn’t like Cicely at all. Ivy wiped her hands on her apron and followed. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ She opened the curtain and found her little sister lying on her side, her eyes squeezed shut. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead warm to the touch.
No wonder she’d been so quiet earlier. ‘Does your stomach hurt?’ Ivy asked. ‘Or is it your chest? Shall I get Yarrow to make you a potion?’
‘No,’ mumbled Cicely. ‘I just want to rest. Please go away.’
With some reluctance Ivy stepped back and let the curtain drop. Perhaps her sister had become overheated running around with the other children, and would be better in an hour or two.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ she said. ‘Drink as much as you can. If you’re not well by suppertime, I’ll call for Yarrow.’
To Ivy’s relief, Cicely seemed to have recovered by the time supper was on the table. She still wasn’t her usual talkative self, but she ate a generous helping of fish pie, and helped Ivy clean up afterwards. She spent the rest of the evening working on the jumper she was knitting for Mica, then climbed into her bed-alcove without complaint.
By the time Mica returned, Ivy had snuffed out the day-lamps and was pretending to be asleep. She waited until his breathing deepened into the usual full-throated rumble, then dropped lightly to the rug and tiptoed out.
All seemed quiet as she made her way through the tunnels, but halfway up the Hunter’s Stair she froze, her skin prickling. Had that been a footstep? She turned, ready to confront her pursuer and brazen it out. But she saw nothing in the darkness behind her, not even the tiniest flicker.
Ivy set her jaw and climbed faster, silently rebuking herself for letting her nerves get the better of her. Yes, it would be disastrous if she were caught sneaking out of the Delve, but she’d already taken that risk three times by daylight and survived.
When she emerged onto the hillside, she had to turn nearly a full circle before she spotted the moon. Only half-full, and dimmed a little by the ragged clouds, but it would have to do. Now, where to begin? She couldn’t return to the launching place she’d used earlier, with its too-gentle slope that reeked of fear and failure. If this were her last chance to change shape, she had to be bolder than that. Ivy set off at an angle across the hill, crunching through the heather and bracken.
After a few breathless minutes she reached a spot where the rocks broke through the soil and the ground dropped steeply away. It would have been a long jump to the bottom even for a human, and at piskey size it was high enough to make her nervous. But it was the perfect place to launch herself from, if she became a swift.
Ivy tilted her head back, closing her eyes as the moonlight tingled on her skin. Summoning the familiar image in her mind, she spread her arms wide, stepped forward…