Tomorrow she would put on a new play. It was a story about a knight and a sea slug, who were always trying to kill each other. Imogen would be the knight and Marie would be the monster, but the play wouldn’t end like the others.
The sea slug would be winning – it would be about to kill the hero – when suddenly it would reveal that it didn’t really like eating knights. Their armour was too crunchy and the sea slug had a sweet tooth. Then the knight would reveal that she was a brilliant baker and she would promise to make the monster a cake. They would both live happily ever after. Imogen couldn’t wait to see the look of surprise on Grandma’s face.
The night was warm so Mum had left the window by Imogen’s bed open. A gust of wind blew the curtains apart. Imogen sat up and found herself peeping outside. The garden was dark. She looked up at the sky. There was no moon, but the stars were out in force. ‘Goodnight, Miro,’ she whispered.
One of the youngest stars winked back.
Zuby stood alone on the side of the mountain. Across one shoulder he carried a long pole with a sack tied to the end. Within that sack was everything he owned.
There was a faint flutter in the darkness and Zuby looked up. ‘Hello,’ he said in his crackle-hiss voice.
A pearly grey moth landed on his hand and made a series of movements with its wings, meaning where are you going?
Zuby wasn’t surprised. After all, the Mezi Můra had updated him on the whereabouts and well-being of the little humans. It was only fair for Zuby to share his plans with the moth.
‘I’m going beyond the mountains,’ said the skret.
The insect ran up his arm in a zigzag pattern.
‘Not … pear …?’
The moth retraced its steps.
‘Ah – not fair! That’s where you’re wrong. The punishment for releasing prisoners without the Král’s permission is death by slicing and dicing. The Král is very kind to send me away.’
Zuby sucked in the cold air between his great tusk-teeth and gazed down at the forests. Then he looked back at his winged companion.
‘I have a question for you,’ he said. ‘I want to know why you showed those human pups the Unseen Door. They brought us the prince – that much I understand. Without him, we’d still be living with the Žal. But was that your plan all along? How did you know what would happen?’
The moth flew to a rock, one of the few places that wasn’t covered in snow, and began its dance. The skret watched intently.
‘You didn’t know the gut would fatten. You cannot feed the jaguars.’ Zuby scratched his head. ‘Well, that doesn’t answer my question.’
The moth did its dance once more, moving across the rock in an elaborate pattern. ‘You didn’t know what would happen. You cannot read the stars.’
Zuby let go of the pole, exasperated. ‘If you didn’t know what would happen, why did you let those humans through the door?’
The moth flapped in Zuby’s face as if it was exasperated too.
‘All right,’ rasped the skret. ‘But why them? I liked them very much, but they were runty, half-grown things. They should have been at home with their parents, not traipsing around in the snow.’
The moth danced in circles on the rock, waving its antennae and stamping its tiny feet. Zuby leaned in. ‘You were searching for someone to save us … and the girl, she looked like a hero.’
The moth turned clockwise, indicating yes.
The skret scratched his head. ‘All right, if you say so. I suppose they were brave … I suppose they did help things to click into place … but we all did our bit, didn’t we? Even old Zuby.’
He picked up the pole and slung it across his shoulder, turning away from the mountain he called home. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever see those little humans again.’
The stars did not reply.
Anneshka was supposed to be sitting on a throne in Castle Yaroslav, not on the back of a pony in the Kolsaney Forests. Yet here she was, riding deeper into the woods. She dug her heels into the pony’s sides, urging it on.
In the half-light of dusk, the forests were made of abstract shapes. No matter which way Anneshka turned, there was a never-ending pattern of vertical lines. The trees were repeating themselves.
If I was queen, she thought, I’d have them all chopped down.
Even here, miles away from Yaroslav, the air smelled faintly of smoke. Anneshka wondered if the castle was still on fire. She wondered who people would blame for the accident with the dragon.
It was no secret that Andel had built the beast. It was no secret that she and Drakomor had made him do it. But she thought it likely that the king was dead and soon all the things she’d done would come tumbling out … It was best to be far beyond the mountains when that happened.
The further she travelled from the city, the more the trees seemed to lean in, closing their twig-fingers over her head. Branches caught on her wedding dress. Cursing, she tore herself free. Despite the cold, her hands still felt like they were burning. The skin was turning to blisters.
When it was too dark to continue, Anneshka slid off the pony and tied it to a branch, securing the pillowcase to the saddle. She collapsed at the foot of a tree. Her petticoats had lost their shape and her silk skirts were in tatters. She looked like a wilted lily with giant droopy petals.
When the darkness was complete, Anneshka’s mind started to drift. The trunk against her back was her only anchor. Without it, she could be anywhere. She could be floating in a starless sky or down at the bottom of a well. She could be a speck of dust or a grain of sand. She felt smaller than she’d ever felt before. Anneshka didn’t like feeling small.
Something blinked in the blackness and she turned, but she couldn’t see what it was. ‘There are no more wolves in the forests,’ she whispered, trying to reassure herself.
Eyes watched her from above. She glanced up and they disappeared. Then Anneshka saw it. Straight ahead. Gleaming in the darkness. An eyeball the size of an apple.
She struggled to her feet. ‘Whoever you are, I have nothing of value.’ Another eye appeared above the first. The pupil was slit like a snake’s.
‘You can have the pony,’ she stammered, ‘and the clock.’ Several more eyes blinked themselves into being. There were two to her left and three to her right. Some were high above her head. Others were down among the bracken.
‘Please!’ cried Anneshka, her voice catching in her throat. ‘Whatever you’ve heard about me, it’s not true!’
A hooded figure, carrying a lantern, emerged from the shadows. In the yellow light, Anneshka saw that the floating eyeballs weren’t floating at all. They were embedded in the bark of the trees.
‘Out so late, child?’ said the stranger in a woman’s voice. She pushed back her hood and Anneshka recognised her at once. The black hair plaited down her back. The eyes as dark as rosewood. The skin as pale as silver birch. It was Ochi the forest witch.
‘You!’ gasped Anneshka. ‘You said I’d be queen. You said it was written in the stars.’
‘And so it was,’ said the witch. She untied the pony and it nuzzled her as if they were old friends.
‘Well, what happened?’ said Anneshka, not bothering to hide her bitterness. ‘Did the stars change their minds?’
‘The stars do not change anything much,’ said Ochi. ‘But your story’s not over. Why don’t you come and warm yourself by my fire?’
The witch began to walk away, swinging her lantern back and forth.
‘Besides,’ she said, her voice disappearing into the forest, ‘the stars said you’d rule. They did not say where.’
The pony followed the witch. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Anneshka.
The trees watched her leave.
Thank you to …
Mum and Dad for a childhood full of stories. Thank you for the birthday pantomimes, for ‘the classics’ on cassette, for queuing at ASDA at midnight. Thank you for giving me the confidence to write.
Joe for upping my downs, for the walks and
the wonder. For the good coffee, the terrible jokes and the brilliant ideas. Without you, this book would be little more than a squiggle in the sand. Miluji tě.
Bonnie and Mini, my first and last readers. Thank you for your support, for the art and the plays and the never-ending games. Thank you for the strawberries. I hope you’re not too traumatised.
Josef and Edita for the writing retreat. I have so many happy memories of visiting you and working on this book.
Nick Lake, my editor, for that initial encouraging message and for being my fairy godfather ever since. Thank you for making this book better.
Claire Wilson, my agent, for your wisdom and kindness. You’re all the best bits of a grown-up rolled into one.
Chris Riddell for the out-of-this-world illustrations.
Samantha Stewart, Lowri Ribbons, David McDougall, Elorine Grant, Deborah Wilton, Nicole Linhardt-Rich, Alex Cowan, Jo-Anna Parkinson, Sally Wilks, Jane Tait and Mary O’Riordan at HarperCollins Children’s Books. Miriam Tobin at Rogers, Coleridge & White.
Inclusive Minds for connecting me with their Inclusion Ambassador network, especially Lois Brookes-Jones.
Lucy Holloway, Emily Kerr, Aisha Bushby, Damian Le Bas, Georgie Strachan and Sebastian Umrigar for your thoughtful and thought-provoking feedback.
The writers of WOW, who have taught me so much. Mr Craig, for another kind of teaching.
The friends who’ve encouraged me along the way, including Stuart Whyte, Charles Leveroni, Anna Rawcliffe, Joe Nicholson, Alyssa Hulme, Helen Bowen Ashwin, Kirsty Egan and Suze Goldsmith.
Denis Pavlov and Eva Maillebiau, for your early reviews.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
A Clock of Stars Page 27