by Amy Wilson
Peaceful, they may be – but ware, fisherman, to ask for permission before you plunder a water sprite’s river. And ware, woodcutters, for the wood sprite’s rage is as vast as all of Winterspell, if harm should come to its dearest. A wood sprite who has lost its tree is a terrible, howling creature. A monster made, indeed.
It’s dark when I leave for school, and the ground is winter hard. My breath steams against the brittle cold air. Teacake follows me all the way down the lane to the river and when I look back the house is just visible, lights glimmering in the windows, frost sweeping down over the roof. I reach down and give her a fuss and tell her to head home. Green eyes linger on mine, and then she turns and starts to head back.
‘Good girl,’ I whisper with a smile, watching her go. She’s a tiny bright figure trotting down past the unruly hedgerows. I wonder where she did come from. As I stand there watching, I can just make out the call of the centauride, deep in the woods. Winterspell is a dark sweep up Cloudfell Mountain from here, a chill mist gathered about the lower reaches, and folds of new snow at its peak.
Teacake stops dead, her ears pricked. And the dawn chorus begins with a clamour. I take a deep breath and turn my back on all of it, heading into school, and up the stairs, through the charms to the hall in the round tower for my first magical assembly.
Principal Ashworth is like a cricket at the front of the room, constantly moving, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his cloak. I scoot in, find Yanny, and take a seat in the rickety wood chair next to him. Round windows look out to a still pink sky, and the metalwork on the spines of all the books in the twisting vaults of the tower gleams.
‘Morning,’ I whisper.
I’m shaky with nerves; it feels like the first day all over again. There are about a dozen kids in here, and most of them are looking at me. I smile, and a couple smile back. Others definitely don’t look as friendly.
‘Drop your glamours, if you’re still wearing them,’ Principal Ashworth says. ‘Save your energy. You are among friends!’ He beams.
‘How do we know that?’ asks one girl sitting towards the back of the room, looking at me with a scowl on her face. Her dark hair is piled up on top of her head, held there with what look like ice-blue knitting needles.
‘Because you put your trust in me, and I have kept your safety for generations,’ snaps Principal Ashworth. ‘A little scepticism can be forgiven. But a lack of manners, Tash – that is an ugly thing indeed.’
She folds her arms and slouches down in her chair, letting her glamour slip. Her features change by infinite degrees, so that her eyes are silver, with narrow, catlike pupils, and her hair is roped like fine looping vines around the needles. She glares at me as I watch and bares her teeth at me; they are steel-bright and dagger-sharp. I turn back to the front of the room, trying to repress a shudder.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Yanny says. ‘She’s always grumpy in the mornings. Moon sprites don’t like daylight.’
‘She’s pretty fierce,’ I reply, stealing another glance and wondering if I’d look anything like she does without Nan’s glamour.
There are so many fae here, it’s a bit like a dream, or like one of Nan’s stories got tied up with one of my favourite books about human schools. There are some who look a little like Yanny – perhaps fairies too – and there’s a girl who looks like she could be Tash’s cousin. There’s a boy with a greenish tint to his skin and hair like dark moss, and a couple of others who seem entirely human, save for their pointed ears and shadow wings, and a girl with golden skin and the same tiny horns as Principal Ashworth. A couple of adults, who I guess must be teachers, sit to one side looking faintly bored. One has the same neat, twisted horns; the other is grey-skinned and stocky, with curling silver hair and the most beautiful dark lacy wings. He catches me looking and winks.
‘That’s Mr Flint,’ Yanny whispers. ‘And that’s Miss Fern. She’s a sprite—’
‘Our new girl here is Stella Brigg,’ Principal Ashworth booms over him, gesturing at me with an outflung arm. ‘Welcome, Stella. We are excited to have you with us.’ He grins, and the whole room is silent as everybody turns to stare at me.
‘What sort of a fae is Stella?’ asks Tash, her voice all innocence and curiosity. ‘Might we be permitted to know?’
Principal Ashworth glares at her, but it’s clear everybody wants to hear my answer. What am I going to say?
‘I’m not fae,’ I whisper eventually.
‘Stella hasn’t worked that out yet,’ Principal Ashworth says. ‘Our lives are not all so simple – so cut and dried. Stella has some magic, or she would not be here. That is enough for me, and it will be enough for all of you.’
He pivots on one heel and makes for a whiteboard in the corner of the room, where a new timetable has been drawn in wavering lines, and gets everybody to copy down the revisions while he talks about Mrs Ingot, who will be joining the school next week to cover Ms Spicer’s maternity leave. It’s a lot like an assembly downstairs, to be honest, only there’s the odd warning about glamours easily slipping during PE, and about the spell room, which must not be used without a teacher present.
‘Finally,’ says Principal Ashworth, ‘end of term is coming up, and I’m sure you’re looking forward to some well-earned rest. Be warned, there will be homework – you must not let all the work you’ve been doing go to waste over the break!’
‘How can you stand keeping secrets from Zara like this?’ I whisper at Yanny as we head back upstairs to history later on. Zara was definitely suspicious earlier, when we’d clattered in late together after the assembly, and I can’t help feeling it’s only going to get worse. ‘It’s making me feel horrible.’
‘It’s just necessary,’ he says. ‘It’s not against her; it’s just not anything to do with her either. Some humans have magic – you know that, apparently. If she has any in her, she hasn’t worked it out yet. Most people never do.’
Miss Capaldi is the languages and history teacher. She has pale, wiry hair that spirals down over narrow shoulders, and silver eyes that flash, and she welcomes me with a hungry grin that sends jagged splinters down my spine.
‘New blood, I see,’ she hisses, tilting her head as she studies me. ‘Have you all met Stella Brigg, my dears?’ She glances around at the rest of the class. Everybody is here – all staring, as usual. ‘Isn’t she quite the enigma? Neither fae nor fully human . . . And what a name! A star and a bridge. What do you bridge, little star?’
If I ever knew words, I do not know them now. They have left me entirely. I barely remember how to breathe.
‘Well, we shall see,’ she says, releasing me from her stare. I stumble to the nearest seat and fall into it, ignoring Yanny and everybody else. My heart is thumping like a drum through my body. ‘For now, our studies turn to darker things than stars, my dears.’
Miss Capaldi turns to the blank wall at one end of the room and raises an arm. A map of what I suppose must be Winterspell rolls out across the white space.
‘We come to the place where few stars now shine. You have all heard of our generations of peace under the Cloudfell Mountain. That was before the Shadow King; before the stag came upon us and brought ruin in his wake. Who can tell me how such a thing occurred?’
Nobody stirs.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose you want to. However, we must. Through history, we learn. Through mistakes. What were the mistakes?’
‘They thought they were safe!’ Tash calls out from somewhere behind me.
‘Yes. Under the king and queen, they thought they were safe, all those fae folk. They knew that danger may come from humanity, and so that is where they fixed their eyes. The danger came from the wilderness itself. From the Shadow King, fae through and through. Our own king, torn asunder by sickness and grief. Who hides in the cursed palace that none can find, and who has blighted our own Winterspell with shadows, thick and fast as the cruellest beast. And so we fight, especially in the night, when they obscure the moon and all the sta
rs. The days are hard; the nights are harder. That is why your parents take such care. Why so many of them spend their nights out in Winterspell. Sometimes we win, and sometimes we lose. But you already know that much . . .’
She is quiet for a moment, and the class is silent before her. Yanny’s eyes are lowered, his hands clasped tight on the desk. Sorrow shudders through the room and makes my eyes sting.
Why did I not know how bad things were?
‘And so. To legends!’ Miss Capaldi turns the mood with the bright silver of her voice. ‘Remind us, Yanny.’
‘The Lost Prince.’
Yanny says it quietly, but it sends a rush of energy through the room, and his voice is echoed by all the others. It isn’t just a name, or an idea; it’s a bolt of iron, welded to them with absolute certainty. Miss Capaldi nods, her eyes glinting.
‘His arrival will herald the change we need. Some doubt he exists – and who knows the truth of it? Legends were ever vague and quite often completely wrong. Some say he is the one who will find the palace and challenge the Shadow King. In the meantime, it is our job to live. To fight and to keep our homes and our children – you – safe. To prepare for our futures, no matter where they might lie. And so, children, we will today be looking at the history of tree preservation, our most important role.’
She stares about the room. I slide low in my chair as the map on the wall redraws itself so that we are now looking at the swaying forms of bright oaks and willow trees.
Who is the Lost Prince?
I have a horrible, terrible feeling that it might refer to me.
Is that why Nan was so keen to keep me away from everybody? Because she knows they’re waiting for some fictional child who definitely isn’t me? I breathe through a wave of panic, relieved when Miss Capaldi turns to the illustrations on the wall and begins a fierce lecture on the patterns and preservation of the oldest trees in the woods.
There’s a strange silence between her words, and the light filters through old windows almost like mist. There is no sniggering, no shuffling or whispering – just her warrior voice blooming through us all, speaking of the greatest bonds between trees and ancient heroes. I watch as the scenes come to life on the wall by her side, as she twists from the images to us, her hands spread, her eyes flashing.
I need to know about that legend.
‘Nan!’ I clatter into the kitchen, and she blooms through the fireplace, bright eyed. Teacake is perched on the hearth by the embers of this morning’s fire, and Peg is swinging from the copper chandelier, eating tiny fish from a little porcelain dish.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘What is this about a Lost Prince?’
Peg chokes on his fish, and the dish crashes down towards the table. Nan catches it, and then settles herself at the table, gesturing for me to join her.
‘Haven’t you worked that out?’ she asks.
‘But you’ve never told me anything about it!’
‘I needed to hide you,’ she says. ‘From your father, and from the shadows. From all of the fae, for goodness knows none of them can keep a secret. So I hid us here, and I glamoured us all . . . and I left behind me the legend of the Lost Prince. So that they would know we had not forgotten them, and so that if they should ever catch a glimpse of a small brown-haired girl playing near the forest, should my glamour fail for even a moment, they would not suspect. You are the Lost Prince they speak of. But –’ her eyes narrow – ‘how do you know about this, Estelle?’
‘It was just . . . something I picked up.’ I wince, realizing too late that I’ve given myself away. She only calls me Estelle when I’ve done something wrong.
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s lots of talk about Winterspell at school,’ I say. ‘I mean, there’s bound to be. It’s right on the doorstep of the village, and they think it’s haunted. The kids talk about the strange lights, and the sounds of battle . . . How they have to avoid the whole place. And the legend of the Lost Prince . . .’
Peg glowers, but he doesn’t say anything, and Nan seems to be satisfied with my rushed explanation.
‘People talk.’ She nods. ‘And so close to Winterspell, there has always been fae blood in the village. People with a little magic, a little faith in what they can’t see – like Mrs Mandrake. I suppose it’s no surprise the children would have heard the legend.’
‘Lost Prince,’ I say, looking down at myself. ‘Oh, Nan.’
‘You’ll see.’ She smiles. ‘Just give it time, my love.’
But she obviously doesn’t know how bad it is in there for the fae. She’s been away so long, she doesn’t know they send their children out to a human school just to give them a chance of a future. She’s spun them a lie about a Lost Prince, but he’ll never come for them. I don’t have that kind of magic, that kind of power.
I don’t belong in there at all.
The week rushes past in a tumble of falling autumn leaves, bitter frosty mornings, and the dash from lesson to lesson, from magic to non-magic, from ancient legends to the tinkle of glass beakers in science lessons. By Thursday morning, my head is buzzing. Assembly is fraught with tension after another bad night in the forest, and Tash is looking more venomous by the day. Yanny stays close, but he looks troubled, and I cannot keep this up.
Of course I can’t. Ever since I heard of Nan’s ridiculous legend, it’s been haunting me. How can I let them wait for something that doesn’t exist? That will never come to pass?
‘What’s going on with you?’ Yanny asks as we scramble up from our seats after a grim-faced lecture from Principal Ashworth about staying out of the forest canopy. The gathering winter, he told us, has made it more brittle than ever, and shadows are waiting to catch those who fall. Playing up in the higher branches, we were warned, is strictly forbidden. ‘I know this stuff might not seem important to you, but you should know it anyway. If you’re ever in Winterspell, it could save your life. Did you even hear a word of what he said?’
‘Of course!’ I say. ‘I was just . . . I was distracted. Sorry.’ I take a deep breath while Yanny stares at me. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But not here.’
He pauses at the door by the charms to settle his glamour over himself. It’s a bit of a struggle, by the look of it. Tash glares at me, and he turns to talk to her in a lowered tone that sounds part angry, part reassuring.
‘Later, then,’ I say, leaving them to it, feeling guilty. I can see how it strains them all to hide their best, most magical features.
Would people really be that horrified if they saw Yanny for who he really is? Or me, for that matter? What is the difference in me? What am I, underneath Nan’s glamour? I’m starting to wonder if I’m the monster my father is. Why have I let this carry on? Why didn’t I tell Yanny right from the start?
Because I was afraid.
I dig my nails into my palms and swear to myself that I won’t waste another moment, but Zara is hovering when I get downstairs, and she spots me as soon as my feet land on the shining wood floor.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Stella!’ she says. ‘There you are. Did you get past me? I’ve been here for ages!’
‘I didn’t see you. I got swept in the tide.’
She seems to accept it easily enough, and we head off to tutorial, and for a while, I think I’m going to get away with it. But Zara is no fool. And Yanny knows now that I’ve got something to tell him, so his eyes blaze every time he looks at me.
By lunchtime, it’s clear to Zara that something is going on, and I don’t know how to steer us all back in the right direction.
‘What?’ she demands, once Yanny is done hoovering up all our food. ‘What’s up with you two?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, focusing on very neatly refolding the wax paper I’d wrapped my sandwiches in.
Zara scowls at us and folds her arms.
‘It’s fine,’ Yanny says through a yawn. ‘My mum knows Stella’s nan, and she’s invited them both for tea to
night. And Stella’s just worried that you’ll feel left out.’
‘Oh!’ says Zara. ‘How weird that they knew each other all along! Did you know, Stella?’
‘No!’ I squeak.
‘Well of course I don’t mind,’ she says, looking between us with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She packs up her lunchbox, taking a really long time to file away all the little pots. ‘Maybe we could all do tea together another time?’
‘Yes,’ I say, relief coursing through me as her face brightens. ‘Come to mine next week. I’ll check it out with Nan, but I know she’s really keen to meet you.’
It should be OK. As long as Peg stays a bird, and Nan stays in her chair . . .
After school, I head back towards home with Yanny. Zara waved us off cheerfully enough, and we live in the same direction, so the lie looks true enough. I’ve promised to talk to him, but the words won’t come, and the further we go, the harder it gets, until even my footsteps are clumsy, and the space between us is full of tension.
‘Are you waiting for a written invitation?’ he bursts out eventually, as we reach the lane by my house. His eyes are brighter, his hair glints with gold strands, and the shadow wings are just about visible against the darkening day.
‘What? No!’
‘Then tell me. Tell me what you are, Stella. I knew from the very start that you were something. I tried to tell myself I was wrong – but I wasn’t, was I?’
I take a deep breath. Finger the acorn at my throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
‘For what?’ he demands.
‘For lying to you. I wanted to make friends, and I didn’t know when I started at the school that you’d be there. That fae would be there. I just wanted . . . I wanted to meet people . . .’
‘So you are fae?’
‘Yes. No. I . . . Yes. I’m a sprite.’
‘So why do you live out here? Why don’t you live in Winterspell?’
‘My nan took me in, when my mother died. She raised me here, to keep me safe from the shadows. The house was built by her grandfather – he was a human. And Nan glamoured me when we fled. She used the last of her magic to do it, and it’s stuck. I don’t even know what I truly look like!’