They had found the book.
‘Well done, Bent!’ Hector said, as Bentley handed it to him. ‘Weren’t trying to hide it, were you, Mrs Small?’
Hector laid the large book on the table and flicked through it. ‘Just need . . . this!’ And he ripped a page out.
‘No!’ Mrs Small cried.
‘You can’t do that!’ Mr Small shouted. ‘That’s stealing. That’s destruction of Academy property!’
‘But I have and I did,’ Hector said. ‘And now, let’s see what it says.’ He looked up and down the page. Suddenly he roared with laughter. ‘Oh, that little rat! Stormy lied! He dared to lie to me.’
‘What does it say, Hector?’ Petra said.
‘Never mind, never mind what it says, what it doesn’t say is Starlight. It’s best no one else knows this. This can be my little secret.’
‘Watch out!’ cried Mrs Small. ‘The fire!’
‘Oh, mercy me, I’m so clumsy . . .’ Hector was holding the torn page over the flames. ‘The page has gone and fallen in the fire!’
‘No!’ The two littles rushed to the fireplace, but Bentley and Hector held them back.
‘Let me go!’ Mr Small cried.
No, please, no, thought Stormy, seeing the burning paper. That’s my last chance. He turned and looked at Maud; there were tears in her eyes. She knew how much hope he’d pinned on that book.
‘Hector, you are so naughty!’ Petra squeaked.
They watched the page burn.
‘If that skivvy comes along searching for it, he won’t find it. Will he?’ Hector said.
‘No, sir.’
‘And you won’t know where it went, will you?’
Mr Small shook his head.
‘Here, something for your trouble.’
Hector threw a coin onto the floor; Stormy and Maud heard it roll over the flagstones, followed by the clomp, clomp of three pairs of feet as they went out, slamming the door shut behind them with a crash.
Stormy and Maud hurried downstairs. The littles were scrabbling around in the fireplace. Mr Small was trying to lift out an ashy bit of paper with the fire tongs. Mrs Small was fishing through the coals with a long toasting fork.
‘What bad luck!’ Mr Small cried. ‘Why would Hector come tonight of all nights?’
‘It’s my own stupid fault,’ Stormy said. ‘I told him I knew where it was – I mentioned records.’
‘Oh, Stormy,’ Maud said in a hushed voice.
‘I know; I’m an idiot. I even told him I knew the spitfyre’s name and now of course he knows I was lying.’
‘The rotten thing,’ Maud said, kneeling down by the fire and grabbing at bits of burnt paper. ‘Oh dear, all black and scorched.’
‘Quick, here.’ Mrs Small held up some charred paper. ‘Look, it’s high quality; the very best parchment. We might save a bit . . .’
But there was almost nothing left of the page. Mr Small held up another fragment; Stormy peered at the faint lines on the grey paper. It was scorched right through, but because the paper was so thick it hadn’t disintegrated and some words showed like ghostly writing, but nothing that could be read clearly.
‘Was this the only time Al came into the Academy?’ Stormy asked.
‘Yes, like I said,’ Mrs Small said. ‘Only in, no one goes out. Specially Al.’
‘Al’s scared of Otto,’ Stormy said.
Mr Small nodded. ‘He says Otto’s waiting for him,’ Mr Small said, ‘that Otto stands guard on the path with a meat cleaver ready to chop off his head.’
It wasn’t true, but they weren’t that far wrong.
‘And the big D wants him here,’ Mrs Small said, ‘just as he wants us here. We don’t cause a fuss, you see. We let things be.’
Al let things be too. He let Ralf feed the spitfyres the powder and let the Star Squad behave badly, let the other spitfyres get poor care, let his own animal suffer . . . He had a lot to answer for.
‘I’m sorry for the trouble and the mess, Mrs Small,’ Maud said as she and Stormy left. ‘You were so kind to help.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear Maud,’ Mrs Small said. ‘Goodnight.’
The door closed behind them and Stormy walked Maud back to the house. ‘I hope no one missed you,’ he said.
‘Me too . . . I’ve heard the other students talking, Stormy,’ Maud said quietly, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘I’ve heard you’ve got a real way with flying horses – they say you could be a spitfyre whisperer. Even when you were just clearing them out, a skivvy, you got a reputation for being brilliant with them. They’re jealous, that’s why Hector did this. He doesn’t want you to have a chance.’
Stormy shrugged. His heart was heavy.
It was flattering to believe what she said, but flattery was no good right now. All he needed was the spitfyre’s name, and it looked as if his only chance of ever finding it had gone for good.
28
Nightmare
Stormy was woken by an awful scream. He went to the window and pulled back the curtains. Everything was bathed in a spooky silvery blue; the moon was high in the sky in front of him, shining right over his body so he glowed white.
There was another scream and a shout.
Stormy felt his pulse quicken.
He opened the window and leaned out as far as he could, staring into the night sky.
All of a sudden he heard the whoosh of wings nearby, like giant umbrellas violently opening and closing. Three winged horses came into view. Instinctively he ducked down and crouched there, watching.
The spitfyres were Bluey, Sparkit and Polaris – Star Squad.
There was another scream. Stormy peered up at them trying to see who – or what – it was.
For a moment the light shone on Bluey; he seemed to be carrying something in his mouth, something alive and wriggling, but before Stormy could work out what it was, the spitfyre flew over the courtyard and disappeared from view. The other two circled, criss-crossed and swooped lazily over the castle, and within seconds they’d disappeared too.
Stormy got back to bed and snuggled under the covers. He was shivering violently. He didn’t know what he’d seen, but his instincts told him it was bad. He pushed it to the back of his mind, refusing to dwell on it; it wasn’t his business. It was the Star Squad going about their secret work, their work to make a New World. Alone in his room he felt excluded, a little jealous, even. Perhaps one day, he thought, he might be part of the Director’s plans – even though he wasn’t sure what they were, wasn’t sure that they were even good, he needed to belong.
In the morning when he woke, he was able to tell himself that it had been a dream. That was all. He didn’t even call it a nightmare, though the truth was, it had felt like one.
Araminta searched him out after breakfast.
‘I hear you’ve adopted Al’s old spitfyre,’ she said.
‘You hear a lot of things, I expect,’ Stormy said. Had she perhaps seen Maud go to the Smalls’ house and sent Hector along? He wouldn’t put it past her.
‘Hector told me. He knows everything. Anyway, here’s something totally different. There’s a charity I support,’ she went on, ‘for old and injured spitfyres, and I was hoping you might contribute to it. It’s called the Happy Home for Spent Spitfyres. You could support it, couldn’t you, now you’re rich?’
‘I suppose I could. I’d have to ask Mr Topter.’
‘These poor worn-out spitfyres are kept on farms in the lowlands,’ she went on. ‘They can’t fly or make fire so they’re no use to anyone, but this refuge looks after them until they die a natural death. But of course it costs a lot.’
Stormy didn’t want to talk to her but found it impossible to get away. He was impressed she was involved in charity work.
‘Please, Stormy.’
‘Of course I’ll sign, and I’ll write and ask Mr Topter to give them some money.’
‘Oh, thank you, Stormy,’ she said, handing him the board. ‘That’s very generous of you. Just there, your full name and you
r signature, and over there the name of your spitfyre. Well, that doesn’t matter, just leave it blank. Or put thirteen, if you want.’
Stormy spent as much time with the neglected spitfyre as he could while trying to keep the visits secret. He told everyone that she was dangerous and that she’d tried to attack him. He didn’t want anyone going in and seeing the progress she was making.
These days the terrace was busier than usual as the Silver Sword Race was coming up and the sky-riders were training for it. A form had been pinned up in the hall and those wishing to enter the race had to put their names on the list. Hector had been the first to do so. Only a few other brave riders did the same.
One day Stormy went in to cave thirteen and the spitfyre was standing on her feet for the first time, wobbly, but standing.
He stood and gazed at her in delight and she looked back at him with a spark in her dark eyes that was quite new. He wanted to reach out and hug her but stopped, not wanting to frighten her. ‘Dear thing,’ he whispered instead. ‘It’s so good to see you like this. So good.’
Mrs Cathcart had once shown him a tiny dried seahorse sent from far away by her sailor brother. This thin spitfyre was delicate and beautiful like that, with an air of mystery, as if, like the seahorse, she had come from a long way off, seen a great many things and was very wise.
She puffed out two small clouds of green smoke and pawed the ground with her front hoof.
Stormy took the bucket across to her and she immediately started to eat, stopping every now and again to lift her head and look at him.
‘You look so much better,’ he told her. ‘I can hardly believe you’re the same creature! I’ve just got to get all that dirt off you. Your tail is solid with muck and your hooves . . .’
She tossed her mane and flicked her long tail. He couldn’t be sure whether it was a yes or a no.
‘If only I had a name for you,’ he added. ‘Your name.’
Stormy racked his brains to try and think of any other way of finding it now the paper record had been burned. Who else might know it? The littles didn’t. Ralf didn’t. What about Otto? They’d worked at the circus together, so he just might remember it.
Later, when he was back in the servery, Stormy composed a note:
Dear Otto,
Please help me if you can. Remember you told me about the circus? And Renaldo? Do you remember the name of the flying horse that caused all the trouble? Al keeps that spitfyre here and won’t tell me her name. Please, please, if you can remember it, let me know. It’s a matter of life or death.
Love to Sponge.
Best wishes,
Stormy
Stormy put the sealed note into the food lift, tucking it behind the dirty dishes. He had no way of knowing if it would reach Otto; he just had to hope that it would.
A magnificent black and gold carriage, drawn by six ordinary white horses, was standing in the centre of the courtyard when later Stormy went that way to his lessons. The name GRANT was written in gold letters on the side. Hector’s parents had come for a visit. There was a small crowd of students and staff beside the carriage, chatting.
Stormy sidled by, wanting to keep out of the way, but Araminta, who was talking to Hector, called him over.
‘Hey, Stormy, come here!’
Stormy did not think to disobey her.
‘Think you’re grand enough for this sort of company, do you?’ she whispered when he joined her.
He shook his head, ready to go; she was so confusing.
‘This is Stormy,’ Araminta said to Hector’s father.
Mr Grant looked just like his son, with the same crinkly hair pulled back from his forehead, only his hair was grey. He leaned back and looked down his nose at Stormy as if he was a very long distance away.
‘Sky-rider?’ he asked.
‘Well, not quite, you see –’ Stormy began, but was interrupted by the Director.
‘This is one of our most promising students, Mr Grant,’ he said, patting Stormy on the shoulder. ‘He’s new. He has a secret benefactor. Very wealthy,’ the Director told Hector’s father with a wink. ‘We are very delighted to have him join us.’
Stormy felt his face freeze into a stupid grin and tried to think of something to say.
‘I don’t know how good a rider you can become,’ Mr Grant said, ‘with the skills not being in the blood. Hector has the history, you see: generations of sky-riders.’ He turned back to the Director. ‘It’s not long to the race now, is it?’ he said. ‘Is Hector still favourite to win it, eh? Want his name in the gallery, don’t we?’
The Director nodded. ‘Of course he will win. Of course he will.’
‘Like father like son,’ said Hector’s father. ‘I’ve got money on him bringing back that sword, a lot of money. There is no such thing as failure in the Grant family.’
‘You won’t be disappointed,’ the Director said. ‘I’m coaching Hector. Got money on him myself too.’
‘And of course I hope to have a new spitfyre in our stables,’ went on Mr Grant. ‘Hector will take the loser’s spitfyre for himself, won’t he?’
The Director nodded. ‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘That’s the rules.’
The gathering began to head towards the house and nervously Stormy began to move with them. I have every right, he told himself. I’m a student, Araminta invited me.
‘Look, there’s Tom! Come and join us, Tom!’ Hector called, walking straight across Stormy’s path. ‘And Bentley. Come over here, Bent!’
‘I think I’ll go,’ Stormy muttered. He didn’t belong. No one wanted him.
As he walked away, he heard the Director introducing Tom to Hector’s father, ‘This is one of our most promising students,’ he said.
He might just as well have stabbed Stormy with a knife.
Stormy had ‘borrowed’ a freshly made lavender wing-lotion from his care and hygiene class. Lizzie had concocted it and it had proved to be the most effective of all the lotions the class had made. He was eager to get the spitfyre’s wings clean and try it on her.
Ralf and Purbeck were sitting in the sunshine outside the servery. Ralf was playing his harmonica and Purbeck was balancing a plate of chocolate éclairs on his knees and slowly munching his way through them.
‘Hey, what are you doing, Stormy?’ Purbeck called as he went past them.
‘I’m going to my spitfyre.’
‘Ha! Joke!’
They watched him warily as he struggled with a big bucket of warm water.
‘Heavy, is it?’ Ralf said.
‘You could help,’ Stormy suggested.
‘We could, but we won’t, thanks all the same. Not on our list of duties, getting hot water for spitfyres and namby pambying them.’
‘Hey, don’t forget your thork!’ Purbeck shouted as Stormy made his way down the terrace.
‘Don’t need one,’ Stormy called back.
The stable was spotless and even smelling sweet now, with the fresh straw on the stone floor. There was just the spitfyre to clean; she was still caked all over with grime.
‘I’ll get all that dirt off you and then you’ll feel so much better. And you must go on eating to get strong,’ Stormy told her. ‘We’re going to fly, you and I; we’re going to fly together and be so good!
He went on talking to her all the time he cleaned, rubbing gently at her with a soapy cloth and warm water. She stood very still, letting him work the lather over her body as if he had done it a hundred times for her before. The dirt dissolved and underneath the grime her true colours gleamed.
‘Look at this! And look here!’ Stormy whispered, as more and more of her coat was exposed. ‘Who’d have thought it, hey? Who’d have thought you’d be the most beautiful spitfyre ever in the whole world?’
He used a shorthaired brush to massage her neck and shoulders and each delicate leg. She was a rainbow of purple and blue and pink, and as she shifted her feet and the lantern light caught her coat, she glimmered and shone like the pearly scales of a t
rout. Her wings were softest silver but they were torn and lacking in strength. They should have felt tightly drawn between the ridges of sinew and tendon; instead they were flabby and soft from lack of use. He spread the lavender lotion over her clean wings and worked it in circles into the dry, broken skin.
He scrubbed each hoof, which she lifted docilely for him, letting him pick out pebbles and straw that had lodged there. Her hooves were ragged, cracked and overgrown and he filed them down neatly for her. He shampooed her tail and beneath the dirt her tail was purple and fuchsia coloured, interlaced with silver threads. ‘You’re the best spitfyre in the world. The finest, most beautiful.’
Her mane had already begun to grow back and no longer stuck up in a tattered ridge. He brushed it and washed it and then combed out the silken violet-coloured strands against her neck.
The sunlight angled through the mouth of the cave and lit up two or three metres of black rock. ‘The sun would do you so much good!’ he told her. ‘And you could stretch your tattered wings! Oh, Al, how could you let this happen? Poor thing . . . I do believe he’s scared of you, Starlight, really, that’s the truth.’
Around her back leg where the shackle held her tight the skin was sore. Stormy needed the key to take off the cuff so he could bathe and clean it properly and put on a healing ointment. He had seen a key around Al’s neck when he first came and guessed it was for this leg iron, but how would he ever get it?
He stretched up to reach her ears and try and clean them. ‘You’re too tall, thirteen. I can’t, I need –’ He was about to say he needed a ladder, when he felt a blast of hot air down his back as she bent her head down for him.
‘Thank you.’
He rubbed and brushed around her delicate chin and mouth; the small leathery scales here were pale pink like the inside of seashells. He whispered into her ears that he loved her and she was his own dear spitfyre and he would never leave her. She lowered her head onto his shoulder, resting her chin so he could clean her forehead, between her eyes where the hair grew short and whirled around in a beautiful pattern. Finally, he wiped her crusty eyes clean, clearing her long eyelashes and bathing them with clear water.
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