His nurse shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘Oh, I know that’s not your real name,’ she said. ‘But I had to call you something, didn’t I? I’ve been boxed up in here with you for five whole days.’
‘Five …’ He felt a stab of pure panic.
Time is short …
He should not be lying here. There was something he had to do. Something vitally important.
‘Now, don’t you fret,’ Petronelle scolded, as he started up on his pillows. ‘You’ll make yourself ill again and undo all my good work! So, what is your name? Can you tell me?’ She put her head on one side, and waited.
He thought. Nothing came to him.
‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘I cannot remember it. I cannot remember anything! Only running to Zak and the beast …’
A shadow flickered in the old woman’s strange, odd-coloured eyes but her smile remained in place. ‘Never mind,’ she said comfortably. ‘It’ll all come back to you soon enough, and in the meantime you can be Keelin. It means “young dragon”, so it suits you. Brave as a dragon, you were at Fell End, and that’s the truth.’
She pulled the covers back in a bustling way that stopped him saying any more. ‘Now, let’s get you out of bed for a while. That’ll do you good. And I’ll wager you’re hungry as a dragon, too!’
In a few minutes ‘Keelin’ was sitting by an empty fireplace, next to the window he had watched from his bed for so long. The sea breeze was cool on his flushed face, but he was warm in a striped cotton dressing gown, with a light rug over his knees.
A fragrant smell rose from the corner of the room where Petronelle was clattering dishes. In the darkness of the fireplace something chattered and squeaked. Keelin caught a glimpse of a twitching pink nose.
Clink he thought, and was absurdly pleased to have remembered the word.
As he leaned forward in his chair to see the little creature more clearly, something crackled in the pocket of the striped gown.
Curiously he pushed his hand into the pocket and drew out a scrap of paper. It seemed to be a message of some kind. He blinked at it, the angrily scrawled words blurring before his eyes.
8 - Keelin
Fighting down a wave of sickness, the boy whose name for now was Keelin crumpled the threatening note in his fist. Who am I? he thought frantically. What have I done to make someone hate me so much? His head began to swim. He shut his eyes, ordering himself to relax.
And as his mind steadied, he realised with grim amusement that he had learned something new about himself, at least.
He was not used to being hated. Not like this. Not so personally. Otherwise, the loathing in the message would not have shocked him so badly. Whoever he was, he had been used to being liked—even loved.
So he did not need to fear. Deliberately he opened his eyes, smoothed out the paper and read the words again. This time, he took in the points that should have struck him from the beginning.
The writer of the message thought he was only pretending to have lost his memory. The writer knew him. And the writer had been in this room, for how else could the message have been placed in the pocket of the gown?
Keelin’s thoughts ran on, suddenly clear as a bubbling stream.
He had a secret enemy. If he could unmask that enemy, he would get what he most wanted—knowledge of who he was, and, with luck, what he should be doing.
Petronelle turned and began stumping towards him carrying a steaming bowl. Hastily Keelin stuffed the note back into his gown pocket. He did not want her to see it, to exclaim, to make a fuss. He wanted to think about the problem in peace, at least for now.
Murmuring his thanks, he took the bowl of rice porridge sprinkled with dried berries and drizzled with honey.
Petronelle peered at him. ‘You’re looking a bit feverish,’ she said, frowning.
‘I am well,’ he assured her, and took a spoonful of the sweet, gluey porridge to prove it.
Petronelle waited till he had taken another spoonful, then whisked away to pull open the door of the apartment.
Watching from his chair, Keelin was surprised to see that a strapping young man with a scarred face was standing on guard outside the door.
‘Jett, please tell Chieftain Farr that the patient is awake,’ Petronelle said crisply.
The man nodded sullenly and marched away.
Petronelle closed the door again with a slight flounce. She looked round and saw her patient staring, the spoon halfway to his lips.
‘I had to tell, Keelin,’ she said. ‘I swore to Farr that I would.’
‘I did not know this room was guarded,’ said Keelin. ‘Is that to keep me in, or to keep others out?’
The old woman shrugged. ‘A bit of both, I daresay. Eat up!’ She went to his bed and began straightening the covers with sharp, cross little tugs.
Keelin ate a little more porridge. It was very good. The clink in the fireplace chattered and he threw it a scrap of dried fruit.
‘That guard—Jett—did not seem friendly,’ he ventured.
‘He’s not,’ snapped Petronelle. ‘Not to me, in any case. It’s my eyes.’
She turned away from the bed. In the light streaming from the window, the difference between her two eyes, one green, one brown, was very noticeable.
‘The mismatch happens in my family from time to time,’ she said. ‘Some say it’s a curse because of a wrongdoing long ago, but I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s always been.’
‘I think it is interesting,’ Keelin said loyally, tossing another scrap to the clink. ‘Jett is a fool to dislike you because of the colour of your eyes!’
The woman smiled without humour. ‘He’s not the only one. Finish your breakfast, Keelin. Farr will be here soon. And stop feeding that clink!’
She turned back to the bed. Keelin ate the last of his porridge and put the empty bowl on the floor. He felt restless and uneasy. Suddenly the familiar room seemed more like a prison than a refuge.
On impulse he pushed the rug aside and stood up, holding on to the arm of the chair for support. His bare feet felt tender on the wooden floor. His legs were wobbly. He glanced guiltily at Petronelle, but she still had her back turned. He edged to the window, leaned on the deep sill and looked down.
He was high above the ground. The street below was broad and busy. Horse-drawn carts clattered to and fro in the centre. People strolled by on either side, stopping now and then to look in the windows of the shops that lined the road. Wooden barrels planted with flowers stood by many of the shop doors. Everything looked very clean, very bright, and totally unfamiliar.
Voices whispered in Keelin’s mind. His eyes watered in the sunlight. As he straightened he caught sight of his own reflection in the window glass—a ghostly face framed with a broad strip of white bandage. He turned away from it, reaching blindly for his chair, and winced as he trod on something small and hard.
He looked down to see what had hurt him. It looked like a bead—part of an earring, perhaps. Taking care not to lose his balance, he bent and picked it up.
It was a pebble—a bright blue pebble. He looked down at it, cupped in his palm. It stirred something in him—something deep and very powerful.
He felt a thrill of excitement. The pebble meant something. For some reason it made him feel strong, warm and safe. But how had it come here? And when? Every evening, just before settling him for the night, Petronelle swept the floor. She did it thoroughly, chasing down every crumb, thread, and speck of dust. She would not have missed a pebble.
So the pebble had come in the night. Either someone had come into the room while he and Petronelle were sleeping, or …
Keelin looked back at the window—the window that was always left open at night. He imagined the pebble sailing into the room, thrown by someone standing in the street below.