A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

  Lofkinye stopped by the trees that held up her house. She could hear the children laughing and she wondered if they were hungry. Tonight, she’d cook something she hadn’t made for a while. Tonight, they’d feast on rabbit stew.

  The children made dumplings to go with Lofkinye’s stew. Miro made the dough, Marie rolled it into a sausage, and Imogen boiled and sliced it up. She couldn’t help thinking that she had the most difficult job.

  ‘I didn’t know lesni ate dumplings,’ said Miro, leaning over the pot so the steam wafted up past his face.

  ‘What did you think we ate?’ said Lofkinye, raising an eyebrow. ‘Old leaves?’

  ‘I don’t actually know what I thought …’

  Miro glanced at the girls. He looked self-conscious. Imogen tried to look like she wasn’t listening.

  ‘Lofkinye, I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry for the things that I said about the lesni. I was wrong. You’re not liars at all.’

  ‘Well, some of us are,’ said Lofkinye, ‘but then so are some město.’

  Imogen thought of King Drakomor and the terrible lies he had told. Perhaps Miro was thinking the same because his face turned scarlet.

  ‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘Some město lie … Do you think you can forgive me?’

  Lofkinye stopped stirring her pot and bent down so her face was level with Miro’s. ‘You’ve said some bad things, little prince. You didn’t question what you were told about people who are different to you. You didn’t see us as people at all … and for that I accept your apology. But never forget that you’ve done good things too.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Of course! You risked a lot to help your friends and who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t picked that lock for the Král. The Sertze Hora would have been destroyed and then we’d all be in trouble – lesni, město and skret. You’ve been very heroic … in your own strange way.’

  ‘But I didn’t believe you,’ said Miro. ‘I didn’t even think the Sertze Hora was real.’

  ‘Even heroes get it wrong sometimes.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  Lofkinye frowned. ‘I’m not going to say it again.’

  Imogen, Marie and the huntress sat down to eat while Miro trotted upstairs to fetch extra socks. The evenings were getting colder.

  ‘I still can’t believe that Drakomor lied for so long,’ said Marie, glancing at the stairs to check that Miro wasn’t coming back down.

  ‘I’m not sure I can forgive him,’ said Imogen, ‘even though he’s dead.’ She took a mouthful of the stew. It was a bit like her mum’s chicken casserole, but not quite as good. Nothing was as good as Mum’s chicken casserole.

  ‘I’m not sure I can forgive the king either,’ said Lofkinye, spearing a dumpling. ‘But there’s no point in holding on to the past. You can’t go back.’

  Imogen froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. What if Lofkinye was right? What if she couldn’t go back?

  There’s no point in holding on to the past … Imogen repeated the sentence in her head.

  When she’d first arrived in Yaroslav, she’d been so angry that Mum had a new boyfriend.

  There’s no point in holding on …

  Now she’d put up with one hundred Marks to see Mum. She wanted to tell her that it was all okay, that her casserole was the best, that she didn’t care if Mum had a boyfriend, so long as Imogen had her.

  ‘There’s no point,’ muttered Imogen, putting down the spoon. The thought had robbed her of her appetite.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Marie. Her cheeks were stuffed, hamster-style.

  ‘We can’t find the door without my moth,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s what Zuby said … So what happens if it never comes back?’

  Marie frowned. ‘The moth brought us here to help the skret,’ she said. ‘So surely, now the skret have the heart, the moth will take us home.’

  Both girls looked at Lofkinye. ‘I don’t know,’ said the huntress, shaking her head. ‘You’d have to ask your moth.’

  A few nights later, Imogen was woken up by a faint tickling on her arm. It was just a moth. She brushed it away and rolled over.

  Hang on a minute. It wasn’t just any old moth – it was her moth! Her moth with its fleecy body and extravagant antennae. Her moth with its lovely grey wings. Imogen sat up in bed.

  The shadow moth settled on Marie’s cheek. It twirled its antennae as if saying hello.

  ‘Hi,’ whispered Imogen. ‘Sorry about that. It has … it’s been a while.’

  The moth flew towards the bedroom window, which was very slightly ajar, and Imogen knew what to do. She picked up the candle that was burning low, next to the bed, and pushed her covers off.

  Her boots were by the door. As she tiptoed towards them, a floorboard squeaked. Marie didn’t wake. Imogen hesitated. In the old days, she would have gone without so much as a backward glance. These days, things were different.

  The moth was fluttering about on the other side of the window. ‘Yes, I’m coming,’ said Imogen. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  She shut the window. Lofkinye didn’t like it when she let out warm air. Then she crept back to the bed and shook Marie by the shoulder. ‘What is it?’ murmured Marie, with her eyes still closed.

  ‘We’re going outside,’ said Imogen.

  ‘What for? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘For an adventure.’

  Marie’s eyes snapped open. Imogen pointed out of the window at the moth. ‘What about Miro?’ whispered Marie.

  ‘Go and wake him,’ said Imogen.

  The three children pulled on their fur coats and laced up their boots. They lowered the ladder and climbed down from the tree house. When Imogen reached the ground, she removed three fresh candles from her pocket and lit them, handing Marie and Miro one each.

  They set off into the night, following the moth through the forest.

  ‘How do you know it’s the same moth that you saw before?’ said Miro.

  ‘I just do,’ said Imogen. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘Where will it take us?’ said Marie.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why it’s an adventure.’

  After they’d been walking for a few minutes, Imogen spotted another moth flitting about between the trees. This one was pale grey, almost white. It greeted her moth with a circular dance and then they flew on together. The children followed. The last leaves fell from the trees, as silent as feathers.

  The next moth they saw was a shimmer of gold. It glittered like a secret in the velvet night. ‘That’s my favourite,’ said Marie. ‘That’s my moth.’

  Imogen noticed that the ground beneath her feet was ever so slightly tilted. They were walking uphill. Two more moths joined the parade. From one angle, their wings blended into the night. From another angle, they were blue. As they flew, they seemed to flicker on and off and on and off.

  Soon Imogen’s moth was leading a long trail of followers. Their wings formed a fluttering canopy above the children’s heads. Marie stretched up, but she couldn’t quite reach. Miro walked with an open mouth. ‘I’ve never seen so many,’ he said. ‘I wonder what it means.’

  The trees grew closer together and the children stopped walking. They were surrounded by hundreds of moths. The moths hung on to branches like leaves. They flew in whirling circles round the children’s heads. They weren’t interested in the candlelight at all.

  Imogen’s moth settled on a tree trunk and she gasped. ‘Marie! Look at that!’

  The sisters walked up to the enormous tree. Miro waited a little way back. The shadow moth crawled across the rough bark and the girls watched. Soon it wasn’t crawling on bark any more, but smooth, polished wood. Imogen ran her finger across this new texture. She knew what it was. She said it out loud. ‘There’s a door in this tree.’

  ‘Is it the same one?’ called Miro.

  ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ said Imogen.

  The grey moth crawled down to the k
eyhole, folded back its wings and wriggled through. Imogen tried the door. It clicked open. ‘As easy as that,’ she laughed.

  On the other side of the door there was a garden. It looked overgrown, but it was nowhere near as wild as the forest. ‘I know that place,’ said Marie. ‘It’s Mrs Haberdash’s gardens.’

  Imogen looked at Miro. A scab had grown over the cut on his cheek. His face was pale and serious. Imogen felt awkward.

  ‘So,’ said Miro, ‘I suppose this is goodbye.’

  ‘But what about Lofkinye?’ said Marie. ‘Shouldn’t we say goodbye to her too?’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Imogen. ‘We’ll never find our way back to the door.’

  ‘Imogen’s right,’ said Miro. ‘This is your chance to go home – you should take it. I’ll tell Lofkinye what happened.’

  Imogen started biting her nails. She hated goodbyes. She wanted this over. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Thanks for having us.’ She blew out her candle and held out her hand.

  Marie rolled her eyes. ‘That’s not a proper goodbye.’ She dropped her candle and launched herself at Miro, giving him a hug that almost knocked him off his feet.

  Imogen stamped out the candle’s flame.

  ‘We don’t want to leave you behind,’ said Marie, still hugging Miro. ‘You’re a good friend – the best of friends. Why don’t you come with us? I’m sure Mum would love you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s a great idea.’

  Now it was Miro’s turn to look awkward. ‘Th-thanks,’ he stammered. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say yes,’ said Marie and she threw up her hands, making the moths on a nearby tree take off.

  ‘But I can’t,’ said Miro.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got responsibilities.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Imogen.

  ‘Now my uncle is … gone, technically speaking, I’m king.’

  ‘Oh right …’ Imogen trailed off.

  ‘Everything’s a bit confused in Yaroslav right now, but sooner or later I’ll have to go back to the city.’

  The girls processed this information in silence.

  ‘I hope your mother isn’t too angry with you,’ said Miro, ‘for running away, I mean.’

  Imogen wanted to say that they didn’t run away, but she decided against it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Oh! I almost forgot,’ said Marie. She unbuttoned her coat and reached into an inside pocket. ‘There’s something I want to give Miro.’

  In the middle of her palm there was a small stone. It had a beautiful silvery shine.

  Imogen recognised it as if from a dream. ‘Is that –’ she searched for the right memory – ‘is that from my rock collection?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie sheepishly.

  ‘You kept it all this time?’

  ‘I thought it would be a nice present,’ said Marie, visibly shrinking.

  But Imogen didn’t explode. She didn’t even get angry. She smiled at her sister. ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’

  Marie put the fool’s gold into Miro’s hand and closed his fingers round it. ‘Thank you,’ he said with a solemn face. ‘Now I’ll always remember.’

  Imogen took one final look at the forest and the moth-cloaked trees. She took one final look at the boy who was king. His fingers, wrapped round the candle, were still clustered with rings. His ears still poked out. His eyes were still far apart. Imogen would miss him enormously.

  She waved. The boy waved back. Then she pushed the door open and stepped through.

  The girls stood in the Haberdash Gardens. It was summer and it had been raining.

  ‘Do you remember the way to the tea rooms?’ said Imogen.

  ‘I think so,’ said Marie. ‘Follow me.’

  PART 5

  The bear soon lost her human clothes. First they turned to rags and then they were no more.

  It felt good to be back among the trees. It felt good to roam. To put her paws on moss instead of cobbles. To hide in caves.

  It felt good to find an interesting smell and to track it for hours. It felt good to be all beast. There were many things she remembered.

  But, most of all, it felt good to be home.

  The girls soon lost their fur coats. Imogen shook her arms free from the sleeves as she walked through the Haberdash Gardens. The coat fell to the ground.

  All around, water dripped from leaves and vines. It was light, but Imogen had no idea what time it was and, once again, her moth had disappeared.

  The fallen tree still lay across the river. Marie climbed on and helped Imogen up behind her. Together, they edged along the trunk and hopped down on the other side of the water.

  Here it smelled like summer. Flowers were in bloom and bumblebees hummed their wordless tunes. The birds were louder and more numerous than Imogen had ever thought possible.

  And there was the gate. It was wrapped in plastic tape that said POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. The rusted lock was still on the floor where Imogen had dropped it. She pushed the gate open and crawled under the police tape.

  The car park was empty. The girls ran to the tea rooms and Imogen threw the door open. ‘Mrs Haberdash!’ she called. There was no answer. ‘Mrs Haberdash, we’re back!’

  She peered round the room. There were no cakes on the counter and it smelled kind of musty. ‘How long have we been gone?’ whispered Marie. ‘Do you think … could she … is Mrs Haberdash …’

  ‘Dead?’ finished Imogen.

  A yapping sound made both girls jump. Along the corridor, behind the counter, came the scampering of feet and a series of high-pitched barks. Mrs Haberdash’s dogs came racing into view. They jumped up and licked the girls’ hands.

  Behind the dogs came the electric whirr of a mobility scooter. ‘Children!’ cried the old woman as if it was the most beautiful word in the world. ‘There are children in my tea rooms!’

  Mrs Haberdash was wearing a big cotton nightie and her grey spiral hair hung loose round her face. She looked different without all her finery. ‘There are children …’ Her bottom lip trembled. Imogen rushed forward and threw her arms round Mrs Haberdash’s shoulders. The old woman felt small and frail; her bones seemed as light as a bird’s.

  ‘We thought you were gone,’ sobbed Mrs Haberdash. ‘We thought you’d never come back.’

  When the hugging was over, Mrs Haberdash whizzed over to her phone. It was the old-fashioned kind, with wires. She dialled a number off by heart. ‘Cathy,’ she said, her voice high and wobbly. ‘Cathy, I’ve got the children.’

  Imogen and Marie waited for their mum by the window. A dog climbed on to the chair next to Imogen and she stroked its head nervously, wondering what her mum would say. Would she be angry? Would they be in trouble? Mrs Haberdash fussed around them, asking where they’d been and whether they were all right and could she get them a cup of tea?

  A car pulled up, tyres crunching over the gravel. ‘Whose car is that?’ said Marie. It had one of those roofs – the type that came off – and there was a man in the driving seat. The dogs ran outside, barking.

  The man stepped out of the car. It was Mark. A woman got out of the passenger seat. It was Mum.

  ‘Your parents are here,’ said Mrs Haberdash. The next moment, Mum was in the tea rooms. She bent down and opened her arms. Imogen and Marie ran to her.

  ‘My girls!’ she cried. ‘You’re alive! You’re home!’

  Imogen buried her face in Mum’s shoulder. She was crying, but she didn’t know why. She wasn’t sad. The tears ran down her face, into Mum’s T-shirt. She couldn’t see Mum’s face, but she knew she was crying too. She was crying in big sobs that made her body shake. Imogen held on to her tightly.

  ‘You’re alive! You’re home!’ Mum repeated the words between sobs.

  Mark stood by the door. Not quite in. Not quite out. Not quite sure what to do with his hands. ‘Always the three of us,’ mouthed Imogen.

  Eventually, Mum started breathing mo
re normally. She released her grip on Imogen and Marie. ‘What happened?’ she said, looking at her girls’ faces. ‘Did someone hurt you?’

  ‘No one hurt us,’ said Marie. ‘We’ve been having an adventure!’

  ‘W-what do you mean?’ said Mum. She really did look bad. She looked like she’d been awake for centuries.

  ‘Imogen found a door in a tree and we went through it and it took us to another world and—’

  ‘Who told you to say that?’ snapped Mum.

  ‘No one.’ Marie looked crestfallen.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Mum, softening. ‘The police will get to the bottom of it. All that matters now is you’re back. You’re home!’

  ‘She’s telling the truth,’ said Imogen. ‘We did go through a door in a tree.’

  Mum stroked Imogen’s cheek. ‘My poor darlings. What on earth have they filled your heads with?’

  ‘They could be in shock,’ said Mark.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘That’s probably it.’

  She looked at Imogen’s star-embroidered tunic. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘The prince gave them to us,’ said Marie.

  Mum glanced over her shoulder at Mark. When she looked back, she was frowning. ‘Well, isn’t that nice of him? I’d like to hear more about this prince. Perhaps tomorrow, when you’ve had a good sleep, you can tell me and the inspector all about him.’

  The police searched the Haberdash Gardens. They couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary, apart from a pair of manky fur coats. They couldn’t find a door in a tree. And they certainly couldn’t find any trace of the kidnapper whom the newspapers were calling ‘the prince’.

  Meanwhile, Imogen and Marie settled back into life at home. It had been the beginning of the summer holidays when Grandma first took them to the tea rooms. Now the holidays were almost over. School would be starting in less than a week.

  Imogen lay in her bed, content. She was full of ice cream. Mum had taken them to the cinema and let them eat whatever they wanted. Grandma had come too and now she was talking to Mum in the kitchen. Imogen snuggled down under her duvet. It was nice knowing that the house was full of people she loved.