The Girl Who Fell (The Chess Raven Chronicles)

by Violet Grace

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘The Temple,’ says Gladys without further elaboration.

  ‘I didn’t know Fae were religious. Seems odd if you’re all amoral.’

  ‘We worship the laws of nature and the universe that provides,’ Gladys replies, weaving her way through the trees towards the building’s door. ‘The Temple is a sacred place where we go for spiritual reflection. And practice. The magical energy from the hundreds of thousands of spells that have been conjured in here over centuries should awaken the Art in you. It’s the perfect place to practise using your instrument.’

  Gladys flicks her wand and the thick wooden doors creak open. I shiver as I adjust to the unexpected warmth inside.

  Inside, the building’s arched windows are a dark red colour, making it impossible to see outside. What little light penetrates through the trees outside reflects off hundreds, possibly thousands, of red stones lining the walls. I take a closer look – I swear they are rubies. Each one of them contributes to the blood-red gloom that chokes the space.

  Bench seats line both sides of the Temple, making it appear like a gothic church. An altar sits up the front, covered in more rubies arranged in celestial patterns. Between the altar and the bench seats is a circle about a metre in diameter, marked out on the floor in yet more rubies.

  My skin prickles with a sense of danger. Before I can work out why, a flash of golden fire shoots out from behind the jewelled altar at the front of the Temple, directed straight at me.

  chapter 17

  Gladys is in front of me in an instant, blocking the energy and redirecting it to a window.

  I drop to the ground as another flash flies towards me. Gladys again deflects the flaming gold; it hits the ruby-studded wall and is absorbed with a crackle and a singe. She lowers her wand and makes a ‘tut-tutting’ noise, the kind you’d make to bickering children.

  ‘Show yourself,’ Gladys orders.

  I lower my hands from my face and see … Abby. The apothecary. She’s changed her dress. This one is covered in so many rose petals it looks as though Valentine’s Day threw up on her. The playfulness of her dress is at odds with the sneer on her pretty face.

  ‘That’s enough mischief, my dear,’ Gladys says. To my amazement there’s the hint of a grin at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Mischief!’ I protest, standing up. ‘She just tried to kill me!’

  Gladys fixes her wand back into her bun. ‘If she’d been trying, dear, you’d be dead. Since you’re here, Abby, you can stay to help.’

  ‘Help her? Again? Never!’ Abby says, her words dripping acid. Her delicate features contort so much that her ice blue eyes look cross-eyed. I can’t decide if she’s furious or completely unhinged – or both.

  Gladys raises her eyebrows at Ms Psycho-Walking-Floral-Arrangement. ‘What specifically are your accusations against Princess Francesca?’

  My attacker points her trembling finger at me. Despite her girly appearance she looks utterly terrifying. ‘She ruined my brother’s life. Twice.’

  My jaw drops and my legs go weak. She’s Tom’s sister.

  ‘Twice?’ Gladys whirls to me, her eyebrows arched questioningly. I realise that, despite her air of omnipotence, she doesn’t really know anything about my life that happened outside of her laundromat. She clearly doesn’t know that Tom cast a cataclysmic spell to save me. Or that he had to go into hiding after it.

  I cross my arms defiantly. She has no right to demand full disclosure when she has withheld so much from me for so long. Besides, if Gladys had helped me all those years ago, Tom wouldn’t have had to perform that spell, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  An unwelcome thought resurfaces: if Gladys was my protector, why didn’t she protect me?

  I close my eyes and push the thoughts back down. I can’t go there. When I open my eyes again, Gladys is still staring at me but her expression has changed. It’s a look I’ve never seen on her face in all the years I’ve known her. It’s not probing or angry or concerned. It’s just, well, blank.

  Abby walks around to the front of the altar and pulls herself up onto it. ‘I’ll stay for the show, but I’m not helping. I’ve already done more for her than she deserves,’ she says, looking pointedly at my perfectly healed legs.

  Gladys directs me to stand in the centre of the ring made out of rubies laid into the floor. ‘Rubies contain chromium,’ she explains, ‘so the Fae consider them to be sacred and spiritual.’

  I rub my hand over the amulet dangling from my neck. I guess that explains why it’s a ruby.

  Gladys demonstrates by shooting little sparks out of the tip of her wand. She tells me it’s the magical equivalent of practising scales on the piano and it’s supposed to be simple.

  Except it’s not. Not for me, anyway. I faithfully follow her instructions, visualising the moral energy channelling through the air, into my core, and then up through my torso and arm and out through the wand. But the wand is unresponsive, just like in the library. Nothing happens.

  ‘She must take after her father,’ Abby says to Gladys as if I’m not there. And then to me, she says, ‘What a disappointment you turned out to be.’

  Gladys ignores her. ‘Open your mind, child, welcome the energy into your body and then expel it out through your wand.’

  I try. I strain, I grunt and I sweat from the effort. I try to work out what I did – how I felt – locked in the cage at the Agency.

  I’m about to throw the wand on the ground in frustration, when there’s a slight tingling feeling at the tips of my fingers. Looking down, I think I see a glimmer of blue light radiating from my hands. But then it disappears and the tingling fades.

  Laughter erupts from the altar. ‘There’s so much magical residue in these walls that a lobotomised frog could activate a channelling instrument if it tried hard enough.’

  Gladys makes no attempt to silence Abby. In fact, her eyes twinkle with amusement.

  ‘The only thing regal and powerful about her is the amulet dangling from her neck,’ Abby continues.

  Irritation kindles in my gut as I watch them share a joke at my expense. Isn’t Gladys supposed to be on my side? Heat rushes through my veins. My hands grow so hot and stiff that the wand tumbles from my grasp and clatters onto the floor.

  Before I can stop it, a searing bolt of blue surges from the ends of my fingers.

  Abby shrieks and dives to the floor.

  She’s too slow. The stream of fire connects with her skirt. I scream as flames race up Abby’s dress, filling the temple in thick smoke.

  The fire is extinguished just as quickly. I turn to see Gladys standing calmly, hairpin in hand. With a slight swish of her wand, Abby’s dress is completely restored. Her sense of humour is going to take longer to recover.

  ‘She just tried to kill me!’ Abby shrieks, looking even more furious than she did when we first came into the Temple.

  Now it’s Gladys’s turn to laugh. ‘If she had, dear, you would be dead.’

  Touché.

  ‘In all my years,’ Gladys murmurs, taking me over to a bench seat. ‘To channel flames without an instrument …’ She stares at me in awe and wonder.

  I’m barely listening as I sit down next to her. It feels like I just had a massive static electric shock, only a hundred times more intense. I inspect my hands, expecting to see burns and blisters. But despite the heat and the pain, the skin is unbroken. Aside from a residual tingling, there’s nothing wrong at all.

  ‘Even I could not imagine you would have such extraordinary power,’ Gladys continues.

  I don’t share her excitement.

  ‘But, but, I don’t even know how I did it,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘I really could have killed her.’ And the worst bit is that I don’t know how not to do it again.

  ‘You are still fearful of your power so your body tries to suppress it. It only surfaces when the anger wells up inside you and you lose control. Embrace your power and you will control it, just
as a rider guides her steed.’

  I watch my wand rise from the floor at Gladys’s command, float over to me and settle in my palm.

  ‘And you must learn to hold on to your wand,’ Gladys says.

  We’re interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. I turn towards the entrance of the Temple to see the Chancellor, looking as pompous as I remember. He lowers his head and does some sweeping gesture with his arm that looks like an elephant’s trunk, but which I suppose is a bow.

  ‘Your Highness, forgive the intrusion, but I wanted to share my great pleasure at seeing you in Iridesca again.’ He shuffles towards us, beaming a warm smile. ‘By the authority of the Order of the Fae, I have set in train preparations for your big day.’

  I lift an eyebrow. ‘Big day?’

  ‘Why, your coronation, of course,’ he says, a self-satisfied smile crossing his face. ‘Surely you did not expect to take the throne without proper ceremony?’

  ‘No,’ I say, trying to play it cool. I’ve been so focused on learning enough of the Art to rescue Tom that I’d almost forgotten about the whole crown thing. ‘It’s just so soon.’

  ‘Ah, the luxury of time,’ he says, as if recalling some fond memory. ‘Regrettably, it is one we do not have. The date is set for the next full moon. Nine days hence.’

  I look at Gladys in horror. How could she have forgotten to mention that I’m supposed to be a queen and ruler in just over a week?

  ‘I can barely manage my own life, let alone lead an entire realm,’ I whisper to Gladys.

  But the Chancellor hears. ‘Technically it’s three realms, Your Highness. The Fae in Volgaris and Transcendence are your subjects as much as those here in Iridesca.’

  ‘We really need to talk about this,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘I fear that will have to wait, Princess,’ says the Chancellor, turning to Gladys. ‘I must claim the Luminaress for urgent business. The Order of the Fae has convened a crisis meeting to discuss reports of’ – he looks at me and then Abby, choosing his words – ‘recent mobilisations.’

  Gladys stands to leave and I go to accompany her. If I’m supposed to be Queen, I’d better start learning about Fae politics.

  The Chancellor wags a jewelled finger at me. ‘Until you have sworn your oath at your coronation, you are not permitted to enter the Circle of the Order.’

  ‘Keep practising with your wand until I return,’ Gladys instructs. She steps through the door of the Temple and then turns back to Abby, who has been observing us silently from the altar.

  ‘I know your mind, my dear, and I counsel you to let it go. Persuading anyone to save your brother will be a long and fruitless task.’

  It’s a good thing I’m already standing because Abby runs towards the bench seats and kicks the first one in the row. Her kick is so forceful that the seat flies forward and smashes into the seat in front, creating a domino effect of crashing pews. When the last seat in the Temple has collapsed, Abby falls to the ground. She cradles her foot in her lap and tears stream down her face.

  She looks utterly exhausted. Defeated. My heart breaks for her and I don’t care anymore that she was horrible to me or that she may or may not have tried to kill me. I understand her devastation. I would cry too if I thought I would never see Tom again.

  I keep a safe distance in case she wants to do to me what she did to the chairs. And I wait until the torrent of tears slows to a trickle and then dries up. It kills me to know that I’m responsible for her distress. I want to say something to comfort her but I can’t find the right words.

  ‘I’m going after him,’ I say eventually.

  Abby looks up at me. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the only reason I’m here, trying to learn to use this stupid thing.’ I nod at the wand. ‘As soon as I’ve learned enough, I’m going back for Tom.’

  She stares at me, incredulous. ‘You think it’ll be that easy, do you? And you think the Order will let you?’

  ‘I’ll find a way.’

  ‘You’re not what I expected,’ Abby says, smoothing out the folds of her gown.

  ‘What did you expect?’ I say, wishing I didn’t suddenly feel so self-conscious.

  She shrugs. ‘I thought you’d be more like a fairy.’ She flicks her wand again and a photo appears in her hand. It’s in a ceramic photo frame in the shape of a dragonfly. ‘This was taken the day Tom went into hiding in Iridesca. I didn’t see him for two years after that, until I was able to move here to join the Apothecary Guild.’

  I stare down at the photo of a gangly boy trying to look braver than he feels. He has his arm flung over Abby’s shoulders. I begin to realise just how much Tom gave up for me.

  ‘How old are you in this photo?’

  ‘We were thirteen.’

  We? It’s a sucker punch to the gut. I broke up a pair of twins. The last remaining resentment I’ve been feeling towards Abby evaporates. No wonder she wanted me dead.

  Abby sighs as she clasps the photo. A tattoo of a passionfruit vine winds around her fingers.

  ‘I know it’s not really your fault,’ she says.

  My eyes mist over. I would give anything for those words to be true. If I hadn’t asked Tom for help, he would not have lost years of his childhood and Abby would still have her brother.

  ‘One thing I know about my brother is that he’s his own person,’ Abby says, her pride dressed up as exasperation. ‘He makes his own decisions.’

  ‘Why did he do that spell for me?’

  ‘My family’s wondered that for years. He didn’t tell us you were Princess Francesca.’

  ‘He didn’t know. I didn’t know.’

  She taps her wand on the photo frame and it vanishes. ‘Tom didn’t explain his reasons. Never has. Probably never will. But as far as I can tell, he’s never regretted it.’

  I wish I could believe her, but the look on Tom’s face after he saw the news report tells a different story. He was so angry with me he couldn’t even make eye contact. I guess even he has his limits, and being wanted for murder all over again and having his face splashed across every TV and newspaper in the country is a bridge too far.

  We sit in silence for a minute. I suspect we’re both thinking about Tom. He needs me. He needs me to get better at the Art so I can save him.

  ‘How did you learn to use a wand?’ I ask Abby.

  She scrunches up her nose, looking slightly puzzled. ‘I don’t remember. It just happened.’

  ‘Is that the way it is for all fairies?’

  Abby nods and looks at me like I’m a loser.

  ‘Why won’t it just happen for me, then? And where are my wings? Aren’t fairies supposed to have wings?’

  ‘You have wings. Didn’t you use them when you escaped the Agency? Everybody’s talking about it.’

  ‘I did. But that was the first and last time. They’ve disappeared and haven’t come back.’

  ‘Well, you have to want to fly,’ she says, amused. ‘They’ll only appear when you want to get somewhere. It’s like walking. You don’t consciously think about walking, do you? And your legs and feet aren’t constantly moving, are they? You want to go somewhere, you just walk. It’s the same with wings – except they’re tucked away until you need them.’

  I reach around to touch the centre of my back, but feel nothing. I’m not convinced by Abby’s explanation. I mean, I can at least see my legs when I’m not walking.

  Before I can voice any of my doubts, Abby is up on her feet. With a mischievous look in her eye, she grabs my hand.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  My vision blurs momentarily, then refocuses and the Temple is gone.

  chapter 18

  Razor-sharp pellets of icy rain buffet us.

  The wind is so strong I’m sure the next gust will sweep us away.

  I look up at three enormous spikes fashioned from thick glass soaring to the sky, the kind that has a greenish hue.

  The Shard.

  We’re at the top of London
’s – and Trinovantum’s – tallest building. Without a safety harness. I take a step backwards, putting as much distance as possible between me and the precipice.

  The city stretches out 300 metres below us. It’s the London I know, only this version looks like it’s been rebuilt with medieval technology and has a serious weed and flower problem. From where we stand, I can see the extent of the damage from the fighting. The V&A and Albert Hall weren’t the only casualties; St Paul’s dome has been reduced to a crown of thorns. The familiar shape of the Gherkin remains, but it’s a skeleton. The glass has gone. One of the towers of Tower Bridge lies in the Thames, as if a child has kicked half a sandcastle version over and hasn’t finished the job. The bridge itself is a tangled mess of cables, wood and steel. The clock face of Big Ben is an empty, blackened socket, while the brickwork of the tower is pockmarked by gashes and what looks like the carbon residue of fire. The walls of the houses of parliament are mostly intact, but even from up here, it’s clear they’re ruined, wrecked shells. Overgrown flowers with stems as thick as tree trunks push their way through the roof.

  Not a single building appears to have escaped some kind of damage.

  The streets look deserted, but you get the feeling there’s life – just not out in the open.

  Looking across the horizon, long columns of smoke climb into the air. My guess is that they’re cooking fires; people trying to eke out an existence amidst the carnage. At least, I hope they’re cooking fires and not smoking ruins of recent battles – or worse, funeral pyres.

  Abby appears unmoved by the scene of desolation below. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s seen all of this before and it’s old news, or if it’s the same fairy indifference to the wellbeing of others that I’ve seen in Gladys.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ I shout at Abby. I’m struggling to even hear myself over the howling wind.

  ‘You wanted to fly, didn’t you?’ she says, stepping perilously close to the edge. She gives me a smile that reminds me of Tom.