And a scream rang out from behind her.
Startled, Ivy twisted around — and her foot slipped. Arms flailing, legs tangled together, she let out a cry of her own as she toppled over the edge. But the shout became a shriek, keening high in her ears, and her skin changed into feathers even as she fell. She skimmed a hand’s span over the rocks and zoomed upward, into the open sky.
She was flying! Joy filled Ivy from her crown to her forked tail-feathers. Even though she’d never flown before, she felt no fear or awkwardness; her new body was the perfect shape to bend the air currents to her bidding, and she could change speed or direction with the merest flick of a feather. How could she ever have thought of wind as an insubstantial thing? The updraught beneath her wings felt as solid as the earth itself.
Daring, she rose higher, the landscape dropping away beneath her. Her swift’s eyes were as sharp as her piskey ones had ever been, and she could pick out every feature of the countryside below — hills and valleys, cottages and barns, and here and there the silhouettes of old whim-engine and pumping-engine houses, remnants of the hundreds of mines that now lay abandoned and overgrown. Lights dotted the ground and sprinkled the horizon like bits of shattered crystal — not merely the small clusters of human dwellings she’d grown accustomed to seeing from the hillside, but entire towns and cities glittering in the dark. And in the distance lay more cottages, more towns, more stretches of open country both wild and tame…and beyond them, the grey rolling line of the ocean.
Excitement surged in Ivy’s breast. She could go anywhere she wanted now. In fact, if she’d known where Truro was, she could have flown to her mother this very minute…
Then she remembered the cry that had startled her off the ledge, and the warmth inside her turned chill. It might have been an animal or the shriek of a passing bird, but what if it wasn’t? Ivy doubled back towards the familiar hillside, searching for signs of life. But she saw no frenzied movements or splashes of unexpected colour; all that met her gaze were the dull hues of wild greens and shrubberies, earth and clay and stone. And though she listened closely with her bird-keen ears, the only sound was the wind whispering through the leaves.
Perhaps Ivy had only imagined the scream — it would be a relief to think so. She’d hardly begun to stretch her wings, and there was still a glorious infinity of open sky to explore. But the night wouldn’t last forever, and now that Richard had proved himself a man of his word, Ivy owed it to him to set him free. Maybe, if she moved quickly enough, there’d still be time for him to take her to her mother.
Ivy hurried towards her home cavern, still giddy with the thrill of flight. Before heading underground she’d transformed into a swift and back again several times over, until she could leap into flight as easily as blinking and land with barely a stumble. Changing shape was so easy now, she felt certain that even without moonlight she’d be able to do it again.
I can fly! Ivy’s heart sang out. She wanted to burst into the cavern and shout her triumph, wake up Mica and Cicely so they could see the miracle. But she couldn’t do that yet — it was too risky. She had to at least free Richard first. Dimming her glow to the barest hint of luminescence, she eased the door open and tiptoed in.
Flint’s thunder-axe was propped against the wall in its usual place, with his well-worn boots beside it. Ivy glanced at the bed-alcoves, reassuring herself that all the curtains were drawn. Then with painstaking care she lifted the magical pickaxe, and carried it out the door.
Lowering herself and the thunder-axe down the Great Shaft at the same time was an agonising business. Every time the pick’s weight shifted Ivy held her breath, fearing the precious tool would slip free of her makeshift harness and drop into the flooded depths below. But at last she made it safely to Richard’s cell.
‘I did it,’ she panted as she loosened the ropes around her chest and lifted the thunder-axe free. ‘Now let’s get that iron off your ankle.’
Richard looked blank, and Ivy wondered if he’d understood. ‘I said,’ she began more loudly, but he cut her off.
‘I heard you,’ he replied. ‘I’m just a bit unused to pleasant surprises, that’s all. Are you really planning to strike off my manacle with that thing? From the way you’re staggering about, it seems more likely that you’re going to smash my foot to bits with it.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ said Ivy tartly. She crouched beside him, examining the iron band. ‘How did they put this on you?’
‘I don’t know. I was unconscious when-’ But then Ivy slipped her fingers between the manacle and his skin, and his words ended in a gasp.
‘Did I hurt you?’ Ivy pulled her hand away. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘No, not that.’ Richard sounded shaken. ‘It’s — you. You touched iron on purpose.’
Oh, of course. She’d forgotten what a shock that would be to him. ‘My people have been working with rock and metal for centuries,’ Ivy said, feeling her way around the band. ‘If we lost our magic every time we touched iron, how would we get anything done?’ She sat back. ‘I can’t find a hinge or a keyhole anywhere. They must have spelled it right onto your ankle.’
He stared at her. ‘You mean piskeys can use magic on iron, too?’
‘Some of us can. Unfortunately for you, I’m not one of them. That’s why I borrowed this.’ She nodded at the thunder-axe. ‘But we’ll need to put some padding around your ankle first.’
Without hesitation Richard pulled off what was left of his shirt and handed it to her. His skin was sickly-pale beneath the bruises, his collarbones jutting and his ribs clearly visible. ‘Try not to swoon,’ he said dryly.
‘I’ve never swooned in my life,’ said Ivy. She tore the shirt into strips, and pushed as much of the worn fabric as she could between the manacle and the faery’s ankle. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
Richard looked apprehensive, but he nodded.
‘Just one thing,’ Ivy said as she hefted the pickaxe. ‘And I want you to tell me the truth. When you came here looking for me, on Lighting night — did you bring someone else with you? Or did you tell anyone where you’d gone?’
She watched his face, searching for even the tiniest hint of guilt or fear. But he only looked puzzled. ‘Your Joan asked me the same thing, this morning,’ he said. ‘But no, I came alone. And the only one who knew I was coming here was Marigold.’
If he was a liar, he was a very good one. ‘All right,’ said Ivy, and swung the thunder-axe down.
The blade struck with a ringing clank and a spark of brilliant blue light. Richard made a strangled noise, and she knew the blow had hurt him — but when Ivy’s dazzled vision cleared, the band was still intact.
Obviously she hadn’t figured out how to use the magical pickaxe quite right. Maybe if she pushed a bit of her own magic into it first… With barely a pause, Ivy raised the thunder-axe and brought it down again.
This time the spark was so bright, Ivy stumbled and nearly dropped the pick. The iron manacle cracked in two, and clattered onto the stone at Richard’s feet.
‘Finally,’ the faery breathed. He slid away from her and rubbed his ankle, which was cruelly blistered where the iron had pressed against it. She waited for him to do something magical — heal himself perhaps, or spell himself clean, or mend his tattered clothes. But all he did was sit there.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are we going to fly? There might still be time, if we hurry.’
Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘After wearing iron for over a week? It’ll be hours — maybe even days — before I can do magic again. I’m not flying anywhere tonight.’
Ivy recoiled as though he had slapped her. ‘You…you can’t be serious. You said-’
‘I said I’d take you to your mother if you let me go. I never said I could do it right away.’ But there was no triumph in his tone, only resignation. ‘I’m not going to try and escape, if that’s why you’re still gripping that pickaxe. I can’t even get out of this tunnel, unless you lead me out yourself.’