Shadows of Winterspell

by Amy Wilson

  I hit the dusty old books over the rest of the weekend, while storms rage about the house. There’s little else to do. Nan is recovering from Mrs Mandrake’s visit and only really emerges at mealtimes to make sure I’m eating my greens, and the rain drives down into the soil and makes a swamp of the garden.

  I want to know more about fae curses, and the grief of kings, and how we’re going to fight the shadows. Something like this must have happened before, somewhere. But the books that line the study shelves aren’t exactly organized, and many of the covers are so worn, it’s impossible to make out the writing along the spine.

  Peg pretends he’s scandalized by the turn of my study. He thinks I should leave the whole thing alone, but I can tell he’s not really that cross. He loves the old books – a little too much, actually.

  ‘Peg!’

  ‘It just smelt so good,’ he manages around a mouthful of paper. It smokes a bit in his mouth.

  ‘I might need that page!’ I stare at him. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Change,’ he says. His eyes glow. ‘It’s uncomfortable – good for the soul, I always thought.’

  ‘Well I don’t know about that, I’m trying to find some actual solutions here. What if you’ve just eaten the spell I need?’

  ‘It was a diary entry about tatting lace,’ he says, smacking his lips. ‘Was that how you were planning to wage war against the forest?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know what lace . . . tatting is, and now I never will.’

  He belches and doesn’t look sorry at all. ‘Lace tatting is the construction of particularly durable lace. It’s useful for making doilies.’

  ‘Doilies –’ I spread my hands – ‘are what, exactly?’

  ‘Those little frilly mat things that go under sugar bowls.’

  I huff at him and pull my book closer. ‘Please don’t eat any more. You never know. Maybe lace tatting is really good for anti-shadow armour . . .’

  ‘They’re not clouds, Stella. They have teeth. Real teeth, real claws. You’re going to need more than a lace doily against all that.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  For a few minutes, there’s silence while I try to translate some old Germanic that seems to be hinting at something to do with the blood of a yew tree. But I’m too distracted to concentrate.

  ‘Peg?’

  ‘Yes, dear Stella,’ he replies from the nearest pile of books, reaching into a small copper bowl of pumpkin seeds.

  ‘Why are you going along with this? You didn’t exactly like it when I started school.’

  ‘Change,’ he says, tossing a bunch of seeds up into the air and sending them spinning with a gesture of one small hand. He huffs, and they form a smouldering ball, which fragments piece by piece as each finely toasted seed falls into his waiting mouth, until only a crescent-moon shape remains.

  I breathe a few spell words, and the crescent becomes a fiery bird that swoops down over our heads before collapsing into ash on to the table. Peg watches me.

  ‘Sometimes, it’s inevitable, and you may as well just go along with it. You wouldn’t have tried that spell before. Last week, you wouldn’t have called the school. Last year, the shadows hadn’t spread the way they have now. We are drawing closer to our futures, Stella. May as well read up on it.’

  ‘Very sage advice,’ I say. ‘Coming from a paper-eating, seed-shuffling imp.’

  He grins.

  But it’s not quite funny. The way he said it, the flicker in his eyes, there was something dangerous there. Something different, even in him.

  Peg was Nan’s familiar when she was alive. When my parents died, Nan was called upon by my mother to look after me, and he came with her. I don’t know that she could have done it without him. And I don’t know why my mother didn’t linger as a ghost. Why all this happened in the first place. I have wondered. More than wondered – I have felt it burst from the hollow place deep inside that hurts, when the dusk is yellow, and the swifts gather in the sky in tumbling, swooping tides, and summer is over. A why and a where and a how – but mostly the why. Why did it happen? Why is Nan a ghost and my mother isn’t?

  Nan says it’s because my mother was a better person than she is; her spirit went straight where it was supposed to go. I wish it hadn’t gone anywhere. If she had survived the Plaga, everything would be different. My father did survive it, but not really. His illness, combined with his grief, cursed everything in Winterfell. Why? Why did he descend so deep into shadows that he couldn’t even see me? Does he even remember I exist?

  So many questions and no answers. Even if I had answers, they wouldn’t bring my family back. That’s what I tell myself when I check the wards one last time, trudging through the wind and the rain, bitter-cold fingers touching every glass vial, every brass bell, every silver coin. I know the pattern of them so well, I could do it in my sleep. Sometimes, I do dream of them. But in my dreams, my mother walks with me. Here and now, it’s just me, and the fog of my breath. And a glimmer, a flicker of red light blooming between the trees, and the darker shades that nestle between. There’s a howl, and the enraged call of a stag. Thunder of hooves, flash of movement, and then the slightest whisper of song, low and haunting . . .

  I used to fall asleep to those songs.

  I hold my breath, straining to hear more, my hands still on the silver wire—

  ‘Stella! I made hot chocolate!’

  It’s a rare treat, Peg’s hot chocolate. He does something to it that makes it spicy. I catch up the last charm, a small wooden acorn, and breathe the old words of protection over it, satisfied when it flickers with the amber mist of spell-magic. And then I dash back through the puddles to the warmth of the kitchen, and Nan is there, curled into her old blue armchair with the frayed cushions, bickering with Peg.

  When she sees me, her eyes light up. I shut the door behind me, shuck off my boots and my coat, and pull on my thick wool socks, then I dive into the other deep chair by the fire – this one of soft green cord. Nan sits opposite me, and in the flickering light, she’s as vivid as any living thing. Peg stretches out on the mantelpiece with a deep, dreamy sigh, and I reach for the wood bench and my hot chocolate, curling my cold, brittle fingers around the heavy mug as Nan clears her throat to begin.

  ‘Long ago, when the stars were young, and the world was greener . . .’

  I lift my knees and curl them under me, and I let her words do their magic.

  Monday morning, and Nan doesn’t exactly wave me off from the front door, but she does flutter about making suggestions of more fruit while I make my lunch, and she wishes me a day without drama. I hunch into my coat and shift my bag on my back, and bird-Peg flies over me in loops and whorls, showing off to the rest of the dawn chorus, until I reach the river road.

  Mrs Mandrake stopped by to drop in my supplies last night, and though Nan made a point of tutting, I could tell she was curious as I unwrapped paper parcels to find a new pencil case, a neatly folded PE kit and a whole hoard of sparkling things: silver pencils, miniature star erasers, a pencil sharpener in the shape of a rainbow cloud.

  ‘Very fancy,’ Nan had said after a while.

  ‘I picked them out myself,’ said Mrs Mandrake, looking satisfied as I unwrapped a flexible blue ruler and a tube of glue.

  ‘Thank you,’ I’d said, and her eyes twinkled, but she’d not stay for tea, thank you – there were other errands to be done.

  Now, I race up the steps to reception and dart past Mrs Edge. And then people turn as the door clatters shut behind me, and my footsteps slow. I don’t know quite what to do, without Zara or Yanny by my side. It’s fine, I tell myself. I can’t be with them all the time. But I’ve noticed that some of the other kids sometimes stare at me a bit, and they’re doing it right now.

  Zara says it’s normal for a new kid, and she’s glad I’ve taken over the role. But it makes my skin itch, so I’ve taken to staring back at them when they do it.

  Then.

  I smile.

  A
really slow, impish sort of smile.

  And that normally makes them stop staring, even if it’s just to turn to the next person and start whispering. I wonder what they see. I wonder if it’ll always be that way. Would people have stared the same if I’d started in year seven, instead of partway through year eight at the grand old age of twelve? If I’d gone to school at four, like everybody else? Sometimes, I wish Nan’s glamour upon me would slip, just a little, so that I could see the sprite in me – but right now, I’m glad of it.

  I head for the form room, hoping Zara won’t be long. I should have waited for her – I understand better now why she waits out the front in the mornings. I finger the new pencil case, wondering if she’s waiting for me somewhere, and then she bursts in, late and flushed.

  ‘OK?’ I ask as she slides into the chair next to mine, Yanny following after her.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She hates being late,’ Yanny says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. ‘And it wasn’t my fault this time . . .’

  ‘Mum’s started night shifts, so I had to get the bus, and I miscalculated,’ she says. ‘That’s all. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘How was the bus?’ I ask.

  ‘Smelly,’ she says. ‘And it seemed to go so slowly. Anyway, I made it. How was your weekend?’

  ‘Good.’ I think back to my studies with Peg, and Mrs Mandrake’s visit, and the rain. ‘Wet.’

  ‘You went shopping!’ she says, noticing my new things. ‘Mum and I went back to the city to see some friends, and Dad took me bowling –’ she rolls her eyes – ‘which we were both rubbish at because we’d never done it before. Then we went for pizza, which was pretty good. Anyway, we only got back last night . . . What about you, Yanny?’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, offering nothing further.

  Zara tuts and starts investigating the contents of my pencil case, and I look up to see one of the girls staring. I stare back with a nice smile.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Zara asks, catching me at it again later in our English class.

  This whole new-girl thing is getting old.

  ‘She’s giving them the imp,’ says Yanny.

  ‘What?’ Zara looks baffled.

  We both turn to look at him.

  ‘The imp. Staring at someone, smiling, giving them the creeps.’

  ‘I’m not sure the creeps is what I was aiming for . . .’ ‘Well, you weren’t being friendly,’ he says.

  ‘They were staring at me first!’

  ‘This is a very strange and immature conversation,’ Zara sniffs. Then her eyes sharpen on Yanny. ‘What’s that about imps? Are they real?’ She leans in closer to us. ‘They’re real, aren’t they! I know there are strange things going on here . . .’

  ‘It’s just a turn of phrase!’ Yanny says, shaking his head and picking up his rather battered book.

  ‘Nope. Try again.’

  ‘It’s a thing,’ I say, feeling my skin heat. ‘You know, like an impish grin. You’ve heard that before . . .’

  Zara frowns, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything more because Mrs Arnott is giving us all a stare that has nothing to do with imps, and we spend the next half-hour writing about the downfall of humanity in Animal Farm. Well, I do, and Zara does. Yanny spends most of it pretending not to stare at me, until I give him the imp.

  ‘Where did you say you live?’ he whispers, as soon as we sit down in history. His eyes glow, and there’s a tiny little pull, deep in my chest.

  Magic. He’s using magic on me.

  ‘Just outside the forest. How about you?’

  ‘On the other side.’

  ‘The other side?’

  ‘Of the forest.’

  ‘I didn’t say which side I was on?’

  ‘Well, we clearly don’t live on the same side, so it must be the other side.’

  All the time, that little glow, that smile, that pull of power.

  There are different kinds of magic, Nan says. There’s the kind that comes from within, when you are a creature of fae, that is in your blood and your soul and in everything you do. And then there’s the kind you can learn from books – words of power that can be used to make spell-magic with just a little bit of heart. I can do a little of both, same as she could. But Yanny’s definitely using the first kind right now – I’m sure of it.

  ‘Stop it,’ I whisper.

  He pulls back. ‘So you do have magic.’

  ‘Enough to know when it’s being used on me!’

  ‘You should be enrolled.’

  ‘No I shouldn’t! . . . Enrolled into what?’

  I stare at him, while the teacher starts talking about Joseph Lister, but he doesn’t answer. My hand reaches for a pen, and when Mr Allen starts making notes on the board, I follow the rest of the class in writing them in my book.

  Yanny does really have fae magic.

  ‘What should I be enrolled into?’ I ask him again as we make our way to the cafeteria.

  ‘Can’t tell you if you won’t do it.’

  ‘How can I do it if I don’t know what it is?’

  He spreads his hands. ‘Frustrating, isn’t it.’

  ‘How would I? When?’

  ‘Meet me in the science corridor, after school.’

  ‘What about Zara?’ I ask, as I spy her through the glass doors of the cafeteria. She’s already grabbed a table, and she’s shoved all her stuff into the two seats beside her, a fierce look on her face. ‘She hates not knowing things. She’ll hate it even more if it’s the two of us . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But we can’t tell her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s part of the enrolment. One of the rules.’

  ‘But I haven’t enrolled yet.’

  He pulls me aside, behind a wave of kids who bang their way through.

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Stella. I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but if you’re even part fae, then it’s your job to play by the rules. You don’t tell a human about magic. And you don’t let them see you when they stray into the forest.’

  ‘So you do live in the forest!’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says, and his voice shakes.

  ‘Why are you at school if you’re fae?’ I demand.

  ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’

  I don’t have an answer for that; I’m way out of my depth here. He looks utterly furious and not at all friendly right now.

  ‘Zara’s my friend,’ I say. ‘Can’t we trust her?’

  ‘Just wait,’ he says under his breath as we enter the room. ‘Wait until you’ve seen what you’re doing. Come with me after school. I’ll show you, and we’ll talk then.’

  ‘And then I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Then you can decide.’

  But my stomach is full of wiggling nerves, and lunch tastes dry and strange. I don’t know how to look Zara in the eye when there are secrets between us. I tell her I’ve got a headache, and try to lose myself in the food, but Yanny’s pastries are definitely unsatisfying today. They turn to dust in my mouth as soon as I bite into them, and I notice he barely touches them, preferring the red apples and buttered rye bread I brought, and Zara’s tiny round cheese biscuits.

  He doesn’t show a sign that he’s bothered about anything, and that only makes me worry more. If he’s truly fae, and my Nan’s books are accurate, he could probably hide just about anything and never let it show on his face.

  I have to head out with Zara at the end of the day. She’s been so sweet about my pretend headache all afternoon, I genuinely now feel a bit sick. I walk with her to the gate, and then she spots her mum waiting down the road.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Hope you feel better.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage, and I watch as she bolts down the road. I stand for a long while, watching her get into the car, watching it manoeuvre into the busy road, wondering what I’m doing. I came here for school. For humanity. For a friend like Zara. That’s all I wanted. But I als
o want to know what’s going on in Winterspell. I want to know what it means to be fae. And since I can’t go in there, this is my chance.

  I whip back in through the gate and race up the steps to the lobby before I can change my mind. Mrs Edge watches me crash through reception and shakes her head, but she says nothing. I head up the wide enchanted staircase to the first floor, and then on to some older, worn steps, where Yanny is waiting.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t like lying to Zara.’

  ‘If you weren’t ready, you wouldn’t be here,’ he says.

  And there doesn’t really seem a good answer to that. I nod, and he whispers a word at the top of the steps, and the old wooden door swings open. On the other side, candles flare in sconces on the walls of a narrow corridor. It’s cold up here, and draughty. It’s like another school entirely. I pull my coat tight as Yanny walks on.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ I whisper. The candles gutter as we go, making shadows swoop and dance.

  ‘Just have a look around so you know what you’re missing. Don’t worry – nobody’s going to eat you!’

  He grins, turning to me, but the grin is full of sharp teeth.

  ‘Yanny!’

  A man swoops down the corridor to us, cloak flying, his small round face creviced and pitted with scars.

  ‘Ooh, a new student!’ the man says, coming to a stop and peering at us with his head to one side.

  ‘Ah, not really,’ says Yanny, looking between us with an awkward grimace of a smile. ‘At least, she is new, but . . . I was just showing her around. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here, sir.’

  ‘And yet, here I am!’ The man gleams. ‘You have been caught out, Yanny.’ He gives me a sharp look. ‘Perhaps you had reason. Stella, is it?’ he asks. ‘I heard about your trial period. Mrs Edge was most curious about you.’

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  ‘She says she doesn’t know much about fae magic,’ Yanny says. ‘But there’s something there. So I thought . . .’

  ‘Quite right,’ the man says with a brisk nod. ‘So, Stella – not a forest dweller, then?’

  I shake my head, trying to calm the fizz in my blood. Whoever this man is, whatever this place is, there is power here. How are these worlds colliding? I thought the forest was magic, and that school would be . . . not magic. I stare into his unblinking gaze.