The dragon’s wings twitched and Phoebe winced into her coat. She hadn’t meant to blurt out one of her made-up words – she had been trying so hard not to accidentally murder the English language during her adventure – but the dragon was smiling, his snaggled teeth aglitter in the moonlight.
‘I was thinking just the same thing, Phoebe.’
And Phoebe’s heart danced.
‘Howling on three, then?’ the dragon asked.
Phoebe nodded then the dragon counted them in and at ‘three’ Phoebe cupped her hands either side of her mouth and emptied her lungs into the mountains and the sky. The dragon howled, too, and Herbert barked, and for a few minutes it was just the three of them sending their voices out into the wilderness as if they were a part of the ice and the rock and the swirl of colours around them.
Phoebe panted as her echo trailed through the peaks and was lost.
‘That felt like – like what I imagine Miracle Day might feel like,’ she said. ‘Only with less shouting.’
The dragon rubbed his head gently against Phoebe as she settled herself back on his neck and though she tried to stifle her yawn, it squeaked out. He dipped down to gather strength in his legs, then pushed off from the crag and they skimmed over the mountains – south this time – but Phoebe noticed they were not following the route they had taken before.
‘I prefer to fly in loops,’ the dragon said, ‘because sometimes the best route home isn’t always the straightest one.’
They curved over glens and moorland and castles perched on lochs until they reached the coast and were whizzing just centimetres above the silver sea. The dragon’s talons tore through the surface and Phoebe swung a hand down to touch the water so that she would know and remember, days later when she was trapped behind the orphanage wall, that she had ridden a mighty dragon over the North Sea. The chill bit her fingers and she gasped, then the dragon rose up, and from the distant waves Phoebe watched a porpoise arch out of the water and disappear into the depths.
‘Happy Christmas, dear Phoebe,’ the dragon whispered.
And Phoebe ruffled his ragged ears. ‘Happy Christmas, Snow Dragon. It’s been the best one of my life!’
Herbert did a little jig on her lap and then they sat watchfully as the dragon glided back over the countryside towards Griselda Bone’s Home for Strays. The stars were still shining when they flew over the orphanage wall and as they touched down in front of her kennel, Phoebe suddenly wondered whether any time had passed at all.
‘Thank you,’ she said as she slid down the dragon’s leg, ‘for the adventure and the talking and all the other bits in between.’
The dragon dipped his head and Phoebe took a step forward. She stroked his jaw and felt the tiny wisps of hair slip through her fingers then she wrapped her arms around his neck and the dragon closed his wings around her. Phoebe could have stayed like that for ever, safe inside the wings of the Snow Dragon, but after a while, he drew back and as he did, he spoke his truth in a low, rumbling whisper.
‘Some day your life will open up, Phoebe – far beyond the walls of this orphanage – and when it does, I want you to remember our adventure. Be content. Be watchful. Be brave.’ He glanced towards her kennel and the snow around his big, dark eyes gathered into wrinkles. ‘And never stop believing in miracles.’
The snow before Phoebe began to shift and swirl and as she blinked into the flurry of snowflakes, the dragon faded until all that was left was a patch of gravel scattered with snow. Phoebe’s fur coat had vanished, too, and she could feel the metal cuff clasped around her ankle again. She turned to Herbert, whose tail hung limp between his legs, and together they traipsed back towards the kennel.
As they stepped inside, though, Phoebe saw that the dragon had left them one last reminder of his magic. There were no longer dirty rags spread across the kennel floor. Instead, there were furs, great drapes as white as swan feathers and as beautiful as untouched snow. Phoebe crawled between the folds with Herbert, then they burrowed deep and lay their heads down to dream of skies that danced with colour and mountains cast in ice.
Phoebe woke to the sound of footsteps. The furs were all gone, the remains of her snowman lay strewn outside the kennel and she and Herb were now shivering beneath a bundle of rags. The footsteps crunched through the snow and Griselda came into view, a rigid block of pinstripe as she walked Slobber down the side of the orphanage.
Phoebe backed further into the kennel, but the movement had been enough to rouse Slobber’s interest and as he barked in Phoebe’s direction, Griselda jumped.
‘Runt! I had completely forgotten you were here,’ she tutted as she marched towards the kennel. ‘Tomorrow, I shall stick a Post-it note on my office door to remind me that you and your unforgivable brain do, in fact, exist.’
Phoebe tried to conjure up the Snow Dragon in her thoughts, tried to imagine herself soaring through the night sky on the dragon’s back instead of huddled on a cold kennel floor. The dragon’s magic had made her feel important, but as Griselda and Slobber advanced, a horrible emptiness spread out inside her. It was as if the night before had only been a dream.
Griselda stood in front of the kennel and raised her clipboard. ‘Slobber and I were just mulling over our latest policy for the War Against Childishness, weren’t we, boy?’ Slobber gnashed his teeth and the rolls of fat on his neck juddered. ‘It’s entitled: How To Stamp Out Word Murdering – Fighting The War From All Sides.’ She glanced at Phoebe whose teeth were chattering. ‘And as you’re sitting so comfortably, I’ll let you have a sneak preview.’ She cleared her throat and Slobber did a completely unnecessary howl. ‘Method One: ban any books containing references to mythical creatures. Method Two: force child to complete multiple tests – without breaks. Method Three: only feed child if they can recite ALL modal verbs, subordinating conjunctions and prepositions – without mistakes. Method Four: apply neck brace to child who daydreams. Method Five: set pit bull terrier on child if words like “flumping” are used.’ She looked up and beamed, her face almost sweaty with excitement. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Phoebe blinked and in that moment of not seeing she tried again to bring the dragon up in her mind, to remember the last words he had said to her. Be content. Be watchful. Be brave. And never stop believing in miracles. Phoebe glanced at Herbert shivering in the corner then at the snow sparkling on the trees outside and took a deep breath.
‘Happy Christmas, Miss Bone.’
Griselda gripped her clipboard with sausaged fingers. ‘Christmas?!’
She ground the word between her teeth as if chewing on a lump of fat and Phoebe suddenly wondered whether Griselda was going to bend down and eat her for breakfast. But then, quite unexpectedly, the woman smiled, a dark smile that festered in the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
‘I had forgotten all about our Christmas Hunt – the only thing that makes this miserable day even slightly bearable.’
Phoebe tensed. She had managed to avoid mentioning dragons and flumping, but in trying to be polite, she had only reminded Griselda of the Christmas Hunt. She edged backwards because the hunt was a truly terrifying event (last year a five-year-old boy had been chased up a chimney and hadn’t been seen since) and this year it would be unendurable – because Phoebe was alone.
Griselda did a couple of pinstriped lunges to prepare herself. ‘I had thought there wouldn’t be a hunt this year with all the orphans gone.’ She sniggered. ‘But Miracle Day didn’t come to everybody, did it, Runt?’
Phoebe looked down and shook her head.
Griselda performed several squats, and the pinstripe covering her bottom split with a great ripping sound. But she was too excited to notice. ‘No point adopting someone as forgettable and ridiculous as you now, is there, Runt?’
‘I suppose not,’ Phoebe said in a small, cracked voice.
Griselda stuck her hand into the kennel, knocking Herbert aside, and wrenched the cuff from Phoebe’s ankle.
‘Onwards, Runt!’ she boo
med. ‘I think we’ll do the hunt before breakfast to sharpen that appetite of yours.’
Minutes later, Phoebe was crouching at the top of the stairs on the landing, a bone clasped tight in her shaking hand.
‘That’s right, Runt,’ Griselda barked from behind her as she held the slathering pit bull terrier back. ‘Bend down into a sprint-start position! With only one bone in the hunt this season, it’s wise to set off at pace!’
Herbert peered round the banisters from the bottom of the stairs and did a little shoulder roll to cheer Phoebe up. Phoebe watched and tried hard to believe in the Snow Dragon’s words: Be brave, he had said, but as Griselda’s whistle blared through the house, Phoebe’s whole body trembled.
‘Run, Runt!’ Griselda yelled as Slobber thrashed about in her arms. ‘We’ll give you a few seconds’ head start before we commence The Rampage!’
Phoebe tore down the stairs, three at a time, before skidding into the hall and racing towards the grandfather clock. Herbert followed at a frantic pace, his little legs whirring like hummingbird wings. Phoebe turned the key in the door of the clock, her heart pounding as Slobber thumped down the stairs. She gathered Herbert into her arms, clambered inside and then pulled the clock door closed behind them.
Outside, paintings crashed to the floor, chairs splintered and doors were wrenched off their hinges. Phoebe hunkered down beside the pendulum bob of the grandfather and thought hard about dragons that appeared in the night and Miracle Days that came to forgettable children. She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the Snow Dragon’s words: Some day your life will open up. Phoebe willed that day on. Now, she said inside herself. Let that day be now. Let me be carried far away from the orphanage to a place where forgettable children aren’t left behind and Word Murderers don’t get punished.
‘To the attic!’ Griselda yelled suddenly. ‘Runt must be cowering up there!’
They tore from the hall, smashing vases and tearing down lamps, and it was perhaps unsurprising that they didn’t hear the doorbell ring. But Phoebe heard it and as she opened her eyes, a flicker of hope stirred inside her. Quietly, carefully, she placed the bone by her feet, pushed the grandfather clock open and tiptoed towards the door. She glanced down at Herbert and then hoping so hard that her toes curled up inside her trainers, she turned the handle.
A man and a woman stood before her and Phoebe was extremely relieved to see that they weren’t wearing pinstripe. The woman had long red hair beneath her bobble hat and a smile so full of warmth and kindness that Phoebe felt her knees wobble. She turned to the man beside her whose hair was dark, like midnight, but whose eyes were as bright and blue as his scarf. Phoebe glanced at the orphanage gates behind them – locked still – and yet this couple had come in . . .
The hunt raged on inside the orphanage as Griselda and Slobber crashed and clattered along the corridors, but the couple didn’t seem interested in any of that.
‘We received some paperwork this morning,’ the woman said, holding up a file.
For a moment Phoebe wondered whether the man and woman were the latest recruits to Griselda’s army fighting the War Against Childishness, but she noticed the woman’s voice was soft and thoughtful, unlike Griselda’s.
The woman went on. ‘These are the legal documents for the adoption of a ten-year-old girl with hair as white as snowdrops and eyes as large and round as puddles.’ She looked up and Phoebe’s heart fluttered. ‘It’s you – isn’t it? The child we’ve always been hoping for?’
Phoebe stayed very still and very silent. She didn’t want to ruin the most exciting conversation she had ever had.
The man put an arm around his wife. ‘The documents are signed by a lawyer from a firm called Snowdon Dragonis. And,’ he glanced behind him, ‘although the orphanage was locked and we didn’t exactly get invited in by Miss Bone, we climbed over the gates anyway because we knew – because we hoped – that you might be inside.’
There was a series of frenzied barks from somewhere high up in the orphanage, but Phoebe hardly registered them. Because standing in front of her was her miracle, a miracle that had climbed over a gate to find her and take her home.
Phoebe shut her eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again, half expecting the couple to have disappeared from the orphanage steps. But they were still there and the paperwork was still there and the possibility that she might be wanted and loved – that was still there, too. Phoebe felt her body sway and then her toes began to unfurl inside her shoes as she realized: her Miracle Day had come and it was more wonderful and more magical than anything she could have dared to hope for.
‘I’m Phoebe,’ she said quietly. ‘And this is Herbert.’
The man smiled and then, almost shyly, the woman held a hand out towards Phoebe. Phoebe blinked at the gesture – at the magic unfolding before her – then she slotted her own hand inside the woman’s and giggled. And while Griselda and Slobber stormed through the orphanage, the man, the woman, the sausage dog and the ten-year-old girl with hair as white as snowdrops and eyes as large and round as puddles climbed over the padlocked gates and walked out into the world.
© Marte L Rekaa, 2014
Amy Alward
Amy Alward is a Canadian author and freelance editor who divides her time between the UK and Canada. In 2013, she was listed as one of The Bookseller’s Rising Stars. Her debut fantasy adventure novel, The Oathbreaker’s Shadow, was published in 2013 under the name Amy McCulloch and was longlisted for the 2014 Branford Boase Award for best UK debut children’s book. Her first book written as Amy Alward, The Potion Diaries, was an international success and the second novel in the series, The Potion Diaries: Royal Tour published in August 2016. She is currently travelling the world, researching more extraordinary settings and intriguing potions for the third book in the series. She lives life in a continual search for adventure, coffee, and really great books. Visit her at AmyAlward.co.uk or on Twitter: @Amy_Alward.
© Charles Sinclair, 2013
Emma Carroll
Emma Carroll has worked as an English teacher, a news reporter, an avocado picker and the person who punches holes into filofax paper. She now writes full-time, which is a lifelong dream come true. Emma’s books are usually historical, often mysterious, and full of strong female characters. They include ghost story, Frost Hollow Hall, the circus adventure, The Girl Who Walked On Air, and In Darkling Wood, which is based on the true mystery of the Cottingley Fairies.
Her next novel, Strange Star, is set on Lake Geneva in the summer of 1816, and takes inspiration from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
Emma lives in the Somerset hills with her husband and two terriers. Follow her on Twitter: @emmac2603.
© Berlie Doherty, 2014
Berlie Doherty
Berlie Doherty was born in Knotty Ash, Liverpool, the youngest of three children. She always wanted to be a writer, but when she was little there were many things she wanted to be – a singer, ballet dancer, air hostess, librarian . . . Her serious writing started at university, where she trained to be a teacher. Now she lives in an isolated cottage in the country and writes in a barn overlooking the Pennines. Visit her at berliedoherty.com.
© Edo Salvesen, 2016
Abi Elphinstone
Abi Elphinstone grew up in Scotland where she spent most of her childhood building dens, hiding in tree houses and running wild across highland glens. After being coaxed out of her tree house, she studied English at Bristol University and then worked as a teacher in Africa, Berkshire and London. The Shadow Keeper is her second book (The Dreamsnatcher was her first) and a third book will complete the Tribe’s adventures in 2017.
When she’s not writing about Moll and Gryff, Abi volunteers for Beanstalk charity, teaches creative writing workshops in schools and travels the world looking for her next story. Her latest adventure involved living with the Kazakh Eagle Hunters in Mongolia . . .
You can find more about Abi at www.abielphinstone.com or follw her on social media: Facebook: www
.facebook.com/abi.elphinstone; Twitter: @moontrug; Instagram: @moontrugger.
© Fred Chance, 2016
Jamila Gavin
Jamila Gavin was born in Mussoorie, India, in the foothills of the Himalayas. With an Indian father and an English mother, she inherited two rich cultures which ran side by side throughout her life, and which always made her feel she belonged to both countries.
The family finally settled in England where Jamila completed her schooling, was a music student, worked for the BBC and became a mother of two children. It was then that she began writing children’s books, and felt a need to reflect the multi-cultural world in which she and her children now lived. Visit her at jamilagavin.co.uk.
© Charlie Hopkinson, 2008
Michelle Harrison
Michelle Harrison is a full-time author who lives in Essex. Her first novel, The Thirteen Treasures, won the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize and is published in sixteen countries, including the UK. It was followed by The Thirteen Curses and The Thirteen Secrets. Michelle has since written Unrest, a ghost story for older readers and One Wish, a prequel to the Thirteen Treasures books. The Other Alice is her sixth novel.
For more information visit Michelle’s website: www.michelleharrisonbooks.co.uk or find her on Twitter: @MHarrison13.
© Andrea Reece, 2015
Michelle Magorian
Michelle Magorian began writing fiction between acting in plays and musicals. She is the author of Goodnight Mister Tom and the books it has led to, Back Home, A Little Love Song, Cuckoo in the Nest, A Spoonful of Jam, Just Henry and Impossible!
She has written two poetry collections, Waiting for my Shorts to Dry and Orange Paw Marks, and the lyrics for four adult musicals.
Currently wearing two writing hats, she is working on a musical called Sea Change with the composer Stephen Keeling, and carrying out research for a new children’s book. Visit her at michellemagorian.com.
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