by Amy Wilson
‘If only we all had enchanted houses to hide in,’ he says, his eyes flicking up at the red brick house and the smoke curling from its chimney.
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘You may as well come back,’ he says, registering the charms on the silver wire fence around the house. ‘If you want to. Aren’t you curious about your true home?’
‘Ye-ess . . . but what about the shadows?’
‘The shadows I fight every day?’ He shrugs. ‘You’ll survive them.’
I stare at him, and then Peg comes wheeling over, landing on my shoulder and staring fiercely at Yanny. Of course, he can’t say anything, because he’s pretending to be a normal never-before-seen breed of bird, but his claws dig into my shoulder like curving question marks, and I’ve had enough of deceptions for the day.
‘Yanny, this is Peg,’ I say, as Yanny watches intently. ‘Peg, this is Yanny. He’s a fairy.’
‘Well I guessed that much,’ says Peg, as Yanny’s eyes widen. ‘What sort of a fairy is he?’
‘Um . . .’
Peg glares at Yanny.
‘I’m a fire fairy,’ Yanny says. ‘And . . . what sort of a bird are you?’
‘Ha!’ caws Peg. ‘You think I’m a bird!’
‘I think you’re parading as a bird,’ Yanny says. ‘It seemed rude to ask what sort of imp you are.’
Peg mutters something under his breath and then sighs as Teacake charges up to us, winding around my ankles with a yowling sort of purr.
‘And who is this?’ Yanny smiles, crouching.
‘I call her Teacake.’
He gives me a quizzical look, tickling Teacake behind her ears. She scooches in close and gazes at him adoringly, her green eyes flickering like cold fire.
‘It seemed to fit, at the time,’ I say.
‘I think it’s fitting; she’s got about as much brain as a teacake,’ Peg says. ‘Caught her attacking her own tail earlier and looking surprised when it hurt.’
I sigh. ‘She’s a kitten, Peg. Playing.’
He mutters again, and I wonder if Nan is about to join us at the gate, just to make this whole experience fully surreal, but as I stare towards the house, Peg announces that she’s resting. Mrs Mandrake called in earlier with some more bits for me and tired her out. We’re on our own for tea.
‘Ah, actually,’ I say, watching as Teacake licks Yanny’s hand and makes him laugh. The sky is leaden over our heads and our house looks cold; he’s the brightest thing for miles. ‘I’m going to go to Yanny’s for tea.’
‘In the forest?’ Peg demands, lifting from my shoulder and hovering in my face, golden eyes sparking.
‘Yes.’
‘But, Stella! Nan wouldn’t like that!’
‘I won’t be late,’ I tell him, reaching out and cupping him in my hands. ‘Promise, Peg, dear.’ I lean in and kiss him.
‘I forbid you to go in,’ he says.
‘Peg! If you’re that worried, you should come too . . .’
‘Ah, no. I can’t. I told you – I’m not allowed in there now.’
I stare at him. ‘You didn’t say you weren’t allowed! Why?’
‘I’ll tell you –’ he sighs – ‘inside!’
‘Later, when I’m back,’ I say, steeling myself and setting off before he can say anything else.
I’m tired of his secrets. The sun is low in the sky, and shadows stretch across the golden plain, and when I dare to look back, he’s watching us, a darting, whirling thing among the brambles. Why can’t he come with us into the forest? I should have stayed and found out. I hesitate, full of guilt and tangled feelings, but Yanny walks on, and Teacake looks up at me with a questioning chirrup.
‘I’m going in,’ I whisper, steeling myself. ‘I need to, Teacake. You understand?’
She sits down and winds her smoky tail neatly over her front paws.
I sigh.
Yanny reaches the edge of the forest and turns, raising one eyebrow as if in challenge, as the shadows cluster behind him. It’s only tea with a friend, for goodness sake. Most kids do that all the time. I blow a kiss at Teacake and walk to Yanny, to the forest.
‘OK?’ he asks. His shoulders are set and stiff, his face drawn. ‘You don’t have to come in. I shouldn’t have pressured you.’
‘It’s fine,’ I manage.
If he can do this every day, I can do it too. They’re only shadows after all.
In the deepest dark of day, and in the starless night, there he shall be. Noble – once – and full of pride: the Stag who is the Shadow King.
He treads light upon the roots of Winterspell, and he fears nothing, for he has nothing. The shadows who surround him are his subjects, and they are borne of his own misery and malice. He surrounds himself with them for he cannot bear the light. The Stag is lonely, an angry figure of loss, but his power is dark as the antlers that twist over his brow, and so destruction follows in his wake and spreads from his every touch.
The trees of Winterspell grieve to see him, and the fae of the forest fight. They fight with all that they are, and they hope for the Lost Prince, whose arrival will change everything.
The grass gets deeper as we go, and the sound of the place fills my mind. It’s a whispering song, of autumn leaves drifting, of streams rushing over rocks, of starlight through a canopy of winter branches. Yanny’s feet are silent over a carpet of leaves and soft bracken, and I try to tread as carefully as he does as we enter the dark heart of the forest, but every move I make feels clumsy and distorted, as if I’m walking for the first time. The shadows flutter at the edge of my vision, and there’s a strange vibration through the air that doesn’t seem to bother Yanny.
‘Steady!’ he says, as I trip over the outstretched root of a towering oak with a glittering golden trunk. He catches my arm and stops me from falling.
‘Sorry!’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve spent all my life here; you haven’t. Keep to the path – look.’
And there it is: a narrow spiral of harder ground leading further into the shadows, bordered by tiny ghost-pale flowers that swing their heads in my direction. Their voices are like chiming bells, but there are shadows that call louder. Between the trees and shuffling in the wind, they flit, in dark spaces, and the further in we go, the faster they get through the trees, just out of reach and almost out of sight, filling the air with darkness.
‘OK?’ Yanny asks, looking back.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say, training my eyes on the path.
‘That might be easier if you could stay on your feet!’ he says with a surprised curse as I slip on some black ice and career into him, sending us crashing into the low-hanging, spiky branches of a nearby bush.
‘So . . . sorry!’ I manage, trying to repress sudden giggles that are mostly jangling nerves.
He grins, his teeth sharp, even as his eyes flick to the patches of darkness between the trees. And then there’s a shuddering bellow from somewhere in the deep.
‘No,’ breathes Yanny. ‘That’s the Stag. We need to run.’
But the roots writhe beneath our feet, and the ivy that clings to the trees is a wild, snaring thing, and even Yanny is less sure-footed now. Ice gathers in sharp splinters on the path, and we slip and slide as we head further into the darkness. He grabs my hand as the ground around us begins to rumble, as the shadows clamour closer to the path. They are alive, gathered into the shapes of wild creatures, and they open their yawning mouths wide.
I should have stayed away.
‘Here!’ Yanny shouts, diving down beneath the reaching branches of a willow, fumbling with the latch of a trapdoor.
Golden light spills out. Voices – and the smell of food.
‘Come on!’ he says, breathing hard. ‘Why are they so crazed about you – get in here!’
But something’s making it hard to move forward. Something reaching, grasping. Something that cries through the trees and stampedes over the ground. A rush, coming harder and closer, that pulls at me and makes my ey
es sting.
‘Stella!’ Yanny pulls me through the hatch, panic in his eyes, and the trapdoor slams shut over my head as he rushes me down shallow steps that have been cut into the earth.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, recovering myself.
We’re in a small, rounded hallway lit with veins of quartz, a corridor leading off in one direction. Tiny flowers nestle in the fine cracks, and ivy trails along the earth floor.
‘They were so strong, Yanny . . . Did I make them worse?’
‘I don’t know about worse,’ he whispers, looking from me back up to the hatch. He takes a deep breath and smiles, though he still looks a bit freaked out to me. ‘We’re here, now. Forget about it. Come and meet the others.’
He leads me down the corridor, past little alcoves where stacks of books and coppery pine cones nestle, and the quartz in the dark walls gets brighter as we go, until we arrive at a door that opens into a kitchen area. At one end, round windows look out on to the glittering stream. Heavy iron pans flash in the light of the glowing veins that criss-cross the ceiling, and beneath the windows, a long wooden table is laden with steaming copper dishes of knobbly potatoes and long-stemmed brown mushrooms, pale fish and sprouting green vegetables.
‘Where is everybody?’ I whisper.
Yanny grins. ‘You can’t see them?’
‘Should I?’ I ask, straining my eyes.
Here and there, a flash of movement, a swish of light. Then I hear a tiny, bright giggle, a spoon dances and falls to the floor – and there they are. A whole flock of near-Yannies staring at me from the benches that line the table, wide smiles mirroring his own.
‘They were practising their glamouring,’ Yanny whispers. ‘Stella, meet my brothers, Fin, Dart and Ro – and my sister, Willow . . .’
Four small, freckled faces look up at me, and tiny hands shove at each other as they all squiggle together on the bench beneath the window.
‘Fin is six; Dart and Ro are five; and Willow is four.’
I give them a smile, noting the whisper of wings at their backs. And then a woman with the same chestnut hair woven into elaborate braids charges in from the back of the house. She startles as she sees me standing there with Yanny, but recovers quickly, walking over and raising her hands to cup Yanny’s face. Her cheeks are bright, her smile warm, but her eyes are troubled. Her own wings are faded, folded like lace at her back.
‘Home,’ she says. ‘My lovely boy. I was worried, you didn’t take your faelight, and the nights are drawing in. Who have you brought with you?’ She turns to me.
‘This is Stella,’ he says. ‘She’s new to the school. She lives outside the forest with her nan. So I thought I’d show her what she’s missing . . . Stella, this is my mother, Elowen.’
‘Ah!’ She fixes her eyes on me, and the smile meets her eyes. ‘Welcome, Stella. It is good to meet one of Yanny’s school friends. Take a seat, both of you. I’m afraid it’s fish again, and there is no butter, but I have a little rosemary and some oil . . .’ She rummages in one of the cupboards as Yanny and I settle in beside one of his brothers on the bench facing the river, and takes out a dark, round loaf of bread, clattering it on to a board.
‘What about Pa?’ Yanny asks.
‘Resting,’ Elowen says. ‘He had a tricky night last night.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ she says, making her voice bright as she dishes food on to plates. ‘Not for worrying now, Yanny. Eat your food. Rest. Your day has been just as full as anybody else’s.’
He visibly unwinds at her words, and I realize there was just a touch of magic in them. The light in the room changes as we start to eat and fills all the corners, becoming a rosy glow that takes the edge off the lines on Elowen’s face. Fin and Ro get into a bicker about who caught the best fish, and Willow stares at me while Elowen tries to feed her vegetables.
Yanny is quiet beside me, and when I look at him, I realize the glamour is fading. His eyes are brighter, his features sharper, and the magic that comes off him is wilder than ever. He flashes me a fierce grin, winking, and my throat is suddenly tight. It’s so warm here, so noisy – so full of life. It’s just how I imagined a big family might be, and even with the tension bubbling underneath, it still feels like a good place. Like home.
Would my family have been like this if my parents were still here? Would there have been this tide of chatter, this easy rest of a hand on a shoulder, of outrage turning so quickly to laughter? Would I have had brothers and sisters had the Plaga not struck? . . .
I force myself to eat while I watch them, and then there’s a clatter and a shout that breaks through all the peace and makes the veins in the walls flicker with red.
Elowen puts a restraining hand on Yanny’s arm as he darts up from the table.
‘No. You have company. I’ll go.’
‘But you’ve been here with him all day.’
‘It’s fine, Yanny.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Stella wants to know all about the fae; she doesn’t need to be sheltered. I’ll go.’
He rushes up the corridor, and Elowen stares at her plate for a long moment before fixing her eyes on me. ‘His pa is a bit under the weather. He works nights, and Winterspell isn’t an easy place for fae at the moment, especially when the sun has set. You live outside?’
I nod.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘You’re a sprite – I can see it in you, though it is faint!’
‘It’s a glamour,’ I say. ‘My . . . my nan did it, and it’s quite strong.’
‘Isn’t it,’ she agrees, studying me.
She looks like she wants to say more, but then Yanny comes back in, an older version of himself following in his wake. The similarity is uncanny, and it sends a pang through me; his father is so thin and worn, his wings, like Elowen’s, faded and tucked away.
‘My pa, Fen. This is Stella.’
Fen smiles. ‘Welcome, Stella. That’s some name you have there.’
‘Is it?’ asks Ro.
‘Stella means star. We could do with some more of those around here . . .’
‘I’m not sure I’m that useful, really,’ I say, and Elowen laughs, and the glow returns to the room as Fen takes his seat and praises his kids for the fish they caught while he slept.
Willow scooches up close to him, and he eats with one arm around her, but the weariness doesn’t quite leave his eyes, and Yanny never visibly relaxes. He doesn’t join in the laughter, and he takes the smallest piece of fish, so Elowen frowns and makes him have an extra potato and tells him to stop being such a martyr about everything.
There isn’t much, for a family of seven. But what there is tastes like magic to me, fresh and wild and dark as the berries on the vines outside our house. After a while, even Yanny relaxes, and it’s kind of wonderful. I’m in a fairy house, deep in Winterspell, having the first big family meal I’ve ever had. The thought makes me smile, until I notice the shadows at the windows. More, and more of them, leering in, their blank eyes wide, claws scratching at the glass. Elowen notices as I do, and she lowers the lights and draws blinds at the window with a flick of her fingers.
‘Stella?’
‘The shadows . . .’
Fen’s face tightens, and the children are sent to play in their bedroom.
‘We don’t talk about them,’ Yanny says.
‘I’m sorry.’
Fen frowns. ‘They don’t normally cluster like that around the house.’ He looks at me, and then to Yanny. ‘It’s difficult to keep up the barriers, and it was a hard night of fighting last night. I’m sorry.’
‘You should let me help,’ Yanny says. ‘I could do a shift for you sometimes.’
‘You are worn thin enough, glamouring all day,’ Elowen says, and her tone is sharp. ‘They will do us no harm; the house is sound. If they are outside the windows, well, they may wail all they like – they still will not get inside.’
‘I don’t have to go to school.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Fen say
s. ‘You all do. Whether it is easy or not, you will all do it, and you will get out of here.’
‘I don’t want to get out of here,’ Yanny says quietly. ‘This is my home.’
‘And I hope it always will be,’ says Fen. ‘But it has been a decade already, of fighting and hiding, and hoping for change. The Shadow King’s subjects are wilder and stronger than ever, so we must make our own changes, prepare for our future. For your future.’
‘My future is here!’
‘Enough of this,’ Elowen says. ‘Stella doesn’t need to hear all of our family dramas. I’ll make us a hot drink, and then, Yanny, you can walk Stella home.’ A flicker of doubt crosses her face. ‘The nights are so dark now, you’ll need your faelight.’ She looks from Yanny to me and frowns. ‘Stella – are you all right?’
‘Oh! Yes, of course – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause such trouble.’
‘You haven’t,’ she says, her brown eyes glowing with golden flecks. ‘You are most welcome here.’
But she doesn’t know who I am.
How would she look at me if she did?
The walk through the forest is quiet. Yanny holds the wand-like faelight high above our heads, and mist drizzles through its light, so that a nimbus cloud surrounds us. My fingers find the silver acorn around my neck, and there’s reassurance in its familiar weight, even if nothing else is familiar. Even if the shadows crow and call and slither on either side of us.
‘Thank you for having me,’ I whisper, to distract myself from thin, leering faces and the tread of the shadow wolves by my side.
‘It didn’t go quite the way I thought.’ Yanny sighs, looking sideways at me. ‘Nothing ever seems to, around you.’
‘I’m sorry things are so difficult here . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘What’s it like living with ghost nan and a cat and an imp?’
‘Ha.’ I think about it for a moment, fresh from all the joy and the worry of his home. ‘It’s quiet. In a good way.’