“Once again, we request that all visitors please evacuate this section of the building via the nearest exit. This area of the gallery is now closed. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
With one last look at the exit, Jamie took a deep breath and headed for room sixty-one.
The girl had stopped in front of one of the Busati oil paintings. If she heard him come in, she didn’t show it. Jamie cleared his throat, not entirely voluntarily: the hot dusty smell was stronger in this room, and the air felt thicker and heavier – like the morning after Bonfire Night.
She still didn’t seem to know he was there, and it didn’t look like she was planning on leaving any time soon; she was studying the painting closely, while pulling on a pair of delicate red leather gloves.
Jamie cleared his throat again. “Hi…” he said.
She looked round at him, her long dark hair flowing across her back as she turned, and she smiled. “You might want to get down.”
“I’m sorry…?”
“Get. Down.” She pointed to a bench in the middle of the room as she turned away again, her attention already elsewhere.
“The bench? You want me to… What is that?”
He’d been hearing a faint hissing noise since he stepped into room sixty-one. Mostly he’d ignored it, assuming it was something to do with the faulty air conditioning… But now, it was louder. Nearer. And it didn’t sound so much like air, as like sand running through an hourglass.
“Actually, I really think you should leave.” Her back was to him, and her floor-length coat blocked his view of most of the painting – but not all of it. And even from where he was standing, he could see what was happening.
One of the two little cherubs painted at the bottom of the panel was…disintegrating. There was no other word for it – as he watched, pieces of it seemed to crack and collapse, turning to dust and tumbling out of the frame to land in a neat pile on the floor.
“The painting…” He couldn’t manage any more than that: his voice simply stopped working. But the painting! Something was wrong with the painting – it bulged outwards in the centre, as though the paint was trying to pull itself away from the canvas it was bound to.
As though something was trapped behind it, and was forcing its way out.
“Are you still here?” She had to raise her voice over the noise now, which had climbed from a hiss to a steady howl. Jamie opened and closed his mouth in protest, but nothing came out.
The girl shook her head and reached under her coat, pulling out a small, battered brown leather pouch on a long cord which she slung around her neck and across her body. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” She tugged the little bag open and reached in, pulling out a handful of black powder that trickled to the floor from between her gloved fingers.
The painting bulged even further; the roar around them was joined by the sound of splintering wood… And as Jamie dived for cover under the bench, the girl threw her handful of powder into the air.
When, later, Jamie looked back at what happened in that room, he could never explain it – not even when he knew precisely what she’d done. Because the first time he saw Lizzie at work was the first time he ever believed in magic.
The black powder hung there. It did not fall or drift; it simply stayed, even in the wind that seemed to have come from nowhere and was whipping her hair out in long, straight lines. From his spot under the bench, Jamie watched her lean into the gale, pull out another handful of dust from her bag and launch it into the air – where, just like the first, it hung motionless – and he watched the painting creak outwards, a long split appearing down the centre of it like doors waiting to open.
This can’t possibly be real. It can’t.
And just when he thought it couldn’t get any stranger, she started to draw in the air; her fist making huge, sweeping strokes through the black cloud as she moved. It was like watching a dance, like watching an artist sketch on a giant canvas. She whirled this way and that, and everywhere her hands touched the air, it lit up.
The dust sparked, turning from black to brightest white until the air was thick with stars – a whole miniature cosmos hanging in the gallery – and, in the middle of it all, she stopped, and glanced over her shoulder…and winked at him.
And then she clapped her hands and everything – the room, the world, Jamie’s whole life until that point – was lost in blinding, blinding light.
Piecekeepers is Haydn Swift’s debut novel. Haydn enjoys reading, writing and spends most of his time travelling between Bath and London.
A pineapple plant only produces one pineapple every two to three years. Once a pineapple has been picked, it won’t get any riper. (Though it will begin to perish after two days.)
The top of a pineapple can be cut off and planted in soil. With some water, care, light and a bit of luck, a new pineapple plant should start to grow…
A pineapple is not an apple, or a pine… It’s a berry!
The pineapple is native to South America, and Christopher Columbus became the first European to come across one when he visited Guadaloupe in 1493.
Between the 17th and 18th centuries, pineapples were very expensive and a real rarity in Britain, and as a consequence, they were seen as a huge status symbol. They became an emblem of hospitality and a successful venture, dating from the times when sailors would bring home one of these exotic fruits on their return from a voyage. Placed on the front porch, the pineapple was a sign that they were safely returned and an invitation to friends who might like to visit.
However, given their expense, the pineapple was out of reach for all but the wealthiest, as well as these fortunate sailors. And, as a result, a booming pineapple rental economy developed – allowing the fashionable to hire pineapples by the day for the centrepiece of their social gatherings…
As a measure of its sought-after status, a pineapple can be seen atop the Wimbledon Men’s Singles trophy, which was designed and made in 1887.
It is an urban myth that you can dissolve your fingerprints using pineapple juice. Pineapples contain an enzyme called bromelain, which breaks down protein. While continued exposure to a pineapple (or its juice) would mean that the bromelain might wear away the ridges on your fingertips, these ridges would continue to grow back.
June 27th is International Pineapple Day and is celebrated across the world.
A book – any book – is like a house. To some people, it’s just a building you pass on the street: it’s got the usual house-related bits like a roof, walls, windows…maybe a few flowers growing outside…and that’s it. But to others, that house is more than the sum of its parts: it’s home. And it takes a lot of work from a lot of people to make a home.
This is where I get to thank them.
My wonderful editor Rebecca Hill, who leaned forward instead of backing away when I said: “So, I’ve got this idea…” and who understood Lexi in an instant. I’m not quite sure how you do it, so I’m just going to assume that you’re magic.
Becky Walker, whose emails brighten the whole process, and who is always happy to rigorously discuss the most bizarre questions: did we ever decide whether moshing and pogoing are the same?
Juliet Mushens: agent and hand-holder; cheerleader, oracle and voice of sanity. You really are a war-time consigliere and I don’t have the words. (You might see this as a plus.)
Enormous thanks to everyone at Usborne: to Sarah, for pointing out when I’ve been an idiot and making me do something about it; to Kath, Will and Sarah C for turning a bunch of words into an actual book (more magic!); to Amy D, Stevie and Alesha – geniuses all the way down to the last pineapple bullet point. Thank you, too, to Helen Crawford-White for a beautiful, beautiful illustration: if books are judged by their covers, this one’s in good hands.
Special thanks to Will Hill – who was the only person I told about this book for the longest time, because he gets it all – and to Non Pratt and Melinda Salisbury for not even hesitating when I asked them to be a part of it
. (Read their books. They’re brilliant.)
To my convention family: you know who you are and you know what you mean to me, even if we don’t see each other as much these days. We’ll always have 2 a.m.
To my actual family: I love you. Thank you for…well, all of it, really. Because any home would be nothing without you.
Maggie Harcourt writes about a lot of different things. She also reads about a lot of different things, and will always be a fan girl at heart. Maggie lives in Bath with her family.
1) WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE BOOK, MAGGIE? Either Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, or The Three Musketeers. (I think Strange just wins.)
2) WHAT’S THE BEST THING ABOUT CONVENTIONS? They’re all about celebrating something you love – with other people who love it too.
3) IF YOU COULD SPEND ONE NIGHT ON A ROOF WITH ANYONE, WHO WOULD YOU PICK? Someone who’s as much of a geek as I am. And has brought a blanket.
4) WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE THING ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE? Falling in love makes us see the world (and ourselves) differently for a while.
@maggieharcourt
maggieharcourt
maggiehaha.tumblr.com
by Maggie Harcourt
The air smells of hot, dry grass trampled underfoot. It smells of diesel, of cider and cigarettes and burgers and ice cream and the ends of things. The end of the summer. The end of us: of Steffan and Jared and me.
This is the story of a road trip.
The story of three best friends crammed into a clapped-out car full of regrets and secrets, on a journey that will change their lives for ever.
A story of love, lies, grief, friendship and growing up.
A story you’ll never forget.
“Exquisitely sad and yet touchingly beautiful. And so, so real.”
Holly Bourne, author of “Am I Normal Yet?”
#UNCONVENTIONAL
GET IN TOUCH ONLINE:
@USBORNE
@USBORNEYA
FOR MORE FABULOUS USBORNE YA READS, NEWS AND COMPETITIONS, HEAD TO USBORNEYASHELFIES.TUMBLR.COM
First published in the UK in 2017 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com
Text © Maggie Harcourt, 2017
Cover illustration by Helen Crawford-White, studiohelen
Cover illustration © Usborne Publishing, 2017
Author photo © Lou Abercrombie
The right of Maggie Harcourt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
EPUB: 9781474936460
Unconventional Page 29