“In the faerie circle, Gran? What is it? Maybe I can help?”
“Ah, I don’t even know for sure.” I sigh, “Alex says it’s important that I get there, that’s all I know. He says he can’t do it without me.”
“You four and your secrets!” She is referring to Oliver, Alexander, me and Lucy, “You know, my mum and her brothers and cousins, they don’t ask questions. They grew up in that wood, so they have an understanding that we grandchildren don’t. But we ask the lot of you anything and all we get for answers is a load of muttering. I’d love it if you’d tell me some of the secrets you keep about the wood.”
“The secrets of the wood?” I shake my head, still chuckling, “Now, those would make a long story and if I told you, you might not believe me.” I think about telling her everything for a moment, but say, “Any time we tried to tell anyone about what goes on in the wood, they walked away thinking we were mental. At first I even thought Oliver had cracked his pot, all his talk about elves and magic and missing socks. But he never doubted it, he just had faith that it was all real and we were all part of it.”
“What was real?”
I finger the locket around my neck. “Faith, love, magic, destiny…it’s a long story, all which happened in the wood. It’s our whole lives.”
“We have time,” She says softly, “And a stay over at Nigel’s for me to boot. Tell me, please. Tell me about your lives,” She looks at me and sees my hesitation. Her voice drops to a sincere tone just above a whisper, “Gran, I know he was your husband, but he was my grandfather, too. His life meant something to me as well. He told me things, but I was so little and I couldn’t understand half of what they were. I only knew they had to do with magic and honouring promises and why he wouldn’t leave the wood.”
“Did you ever ask him why he never left it?”
“I did, toward the end when he was so sick and it seemed it would make better sense for him to go somewhere where he could get more help.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He said that there’s magic in the wood. Old magic. And that there are things that go on there that just don’t make any sense if you say them out loud. He said some things are real and true even if you can’t see them. I know he was talking about the faeries. I remember hearing their voices in the cabin. I remember dropping chocolates into the faerie circle and having my dollies reappear in the bathtub. I knew something incredible was going on, but I never understood just what it was.”
I look at my granddaughter and I see the hope in her eyes. It’s sincere. She honestly wants to know who we were and where we came from. I think of my father and how he refused to discuss our mother with Lucy and me. We were robbed of our mother twice, once when she died and once when he kept her memory from us. I don’t know why I never told Kitty the story of her grandfather and me. I suppose it just seemed so personal, but she’s older now and the truth is, it’s as much her story as it is mine and Oliver’s. If not for our story, she would have none of her own.
“It’s about more than the faeries, Kitty. It’s about so much more. It’s a long story, but I’ll tell it. Where to start is the question.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“Then at the beginning, while I’m still young enough to remember and stronger than my arthritis to think that far back,” I tell her with a quick smile, “Make sure we have plenty of tea, yeah? You’ll want it.”
CHAPTER TWO
I don’t honestly remember a day before I met Oliver Dickinson. I think my life must have started right then on my arrival to Bennington College, the boarding school my father decided to send me to that year. I had been boarding since I was seven and, to be honest, I quite preferred it to the summers I spent sitting around our cottage in Edinburgh having to be perfectly quiet while Dad was working. Boarding school was much more fun than home. I always had at least two friends every year to spend time with and no one bothered me for wandering off alone to study. I was most happy about being at Bennington, actually, because there were both boys and girls who attended. At fifteen years old, I was rather interested in boys after having gone to all girls’ school for the last eight years.
Anyroad, my first day I was sitting on a stone bench in the second quad reviewing my afternoon schedule. Schools are always the same. You can tell each and every clique from the next by the looks of them. I had always been quiet and spent much of my time observing those around me. At Bennington, the athletes were all clean cut, shirts tucked in, hair respectably short for the lads and pulled back in barrettes for the girls, who stood rather more boyishly than they should have in their skirts. The brainy kids were all in a huddle beside the statue of a woman walking with a book in her hand and were talking excitedly and waving their schedules at each other. The princesses all stood together in a tight circle and distinguished themselves from the rest by their sparkling barrettes, perfect make up, expensive bags, and manicured hands. The princes were the same, sans make up and sparkling barrettes. They all wore the same expression on their faces as if they smelled something horrible. The misfits, which were the crowd I always fell into, were spotted here and there, individuals who weren’t really interested in what was happening around them, but were more involved in taking in the warm rays of the sun. I was watching one of them…a girl, blonde, who was holding a bottle of water in one hand while trying to open her purse without spilling her drink inside. I was wondering why she didn’t just put down the bottle when…THUNK! Something that felt like a stone hit me on the back of my head.
“Oh! Ow!”
“Oh, great galloping grey goats!” A loud voice came from behind me as a figure rushed around to my front. I had my hands over the back of my head deciding if I were injured or just surprised when I realised a boy had put an arm around me in apology, “I am so sorry! I’ve hit you with the ball! I smacked it right at you, I did! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I looked up and I swear time stopped. It was not that he was the most traditionally handsome boy I had ever seen, although I can’t say he wasn’t attractive. He was simply out-and-out adorable, so bloody cute he immediately made my insides wiggle. He was one of the misfits, I surmised instantly, and a popular one at that. He had a long neck from which hung a loosened black tie and the top two buttons of his white uniform shirt were undone. His dark brown hair was an intentional mess, obviously kept just short enough to meet regulations at the school. I noticed straight away he had nice skin, a smooth, olive complexion, even though I there was a small nick on his chin from having shaved. He had a straight nose, high set cheekbones, and, I glanced at his hand where he was still holding my arm, long fingers and a very gentle touch. I peeked back up at him and he blinked as my eyes met his, looking at me as if he knew me from a time long ago and was shocked to see me again so soon. Neither of us knew what to say.
“No.” I answered suddenly, moving my hand from the back of my head. My mouth had gone dry, “No…I mean…no…I just…no, not at all…”
“Sorry?” He was amused, still keeping his eyes locked with mine, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He stood straight and peered down at me with his head cocked as if he wasn't sure what to do. We were lost in an odd moment set apart from time and trying to find our way back to where we had started. “No what?”
“I mean…no. I’m not hurt. Not at all. I’m fine. I’m just…I’m…” He grinned at me crookedly and I felt my face flush as I returned the smile. “I’m just Silvia,” I said finally, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m just Silvia Cotton and I’m just fine, thank you.”
He took my hand in his and held it for a second without shaking it. He just sort of let the weight of it fall against his palm and kept looking at me with that sideways grin. He could have had the devil inside of him with all the mischief of that little smile, but it was too sweet to belong to anything more than an ornery angel. It was at the moment he spoke that I noticed that he had two dimples, one on the left cheek and one on the chin, and that his las
hes were long and black. His eyes were the exact colour of baking chocolate melted in a silver bowl, but they sparkled in the sunlight, “I’m Just Oliver Dickinson,” He told me brightly, “It’s nice to meet you, Just Silvia Cotton. Sorry about that, you know. I hope I didn’t tick you off.”
“No,” I started giggling like a mental, like the girls you see in films making fools of themselves, but it seemed perfectly OK since he was still smiling. “I’m not ticked off.”
“Not hurt and not ticked off. Just Silvia. Just Silvia Cotton, eh?” He sat beside me on the bench. It was a few more seconds before he released my hand, “You’re new here. What year are you?”
“Fifth year.”
“Ah, me as well. We’re bound to have loads of courses together.” He glanced at my schedule, which was open on my lap. “Well, maybe not then. You must be clever.”
“I get good marks.”
“What’s that accent?”
“I’m from Scotland.”
“Lovely!” He said sincerely, “No other Scots here that I’m aware of, you’re the only one! Have you met many people at the school yet?”
“No, I haven’t had time. I wasn’t here last night. My father dropped me off this morning right after breakfast.” I couldn't believe I was actually sitting on a bench having a conversation with him. I was usually very shy, but there was something about him that set me completely at ease. Whether it was the kindness in his eyes or his disarming smile I am still not sure, but whatever it was, I felt like I'd known him for a long time and not at all as if we'd just met.
“Oh, well then let me help you meet some,” He turned and gave a friendly wave at someone who had just called out a hello to him, “I know everyone at this place for the most part. I’ve been coming here since I was eleven,” He turned back to me, “You’ll have to meet my brother, Alexander, first. He’s my twin, but don’t think we’re all that much alike. Only just exactly,” He jerked an arm at a group of teenagers across the quad as if to invite them over. I could pick Alexander out from a distance. They could have been the same person. Tall, long limbed and dark haired with a loose tie and his shirt undocked, he gave a short wave of acknowledgement and began to amble toward us. Oliver continued, “The lovely lady beside him is his current flavour of the week, but don’t tell her I called her that. She’s a nice girl, which is a switch for my brother, lemme tell you! Her name’s Sarah Farnsworth. She’s rich as the queen and has the brains of a rabbit,” The group began to approach, appearing to be a friendly bunch, “And that is Merlyn Pierce, the black kid with the hat on crooked. Nothing bad to say about him, he’s a right decent sort. He fancies being an opera singer, but he can’t sing. He goes off into the fields and belts out Puccini every so often and clears the sky of birds,” He paused to shake his head with a mock frown on his face, then turned his head back to me and grinned. Our eyes locked again for several seconds before he broke away, “The one with the scarf is Lance Crosby,” He continued, “He’s a fantastic bloke. Alex’s and my dorm mate. He actually knitted that scarf himself. Can you believe it? Happy colours, he says! He’s quite the quilter from what I gather, too,” Oliver looked at me and winked, “Just don’t ever mention it to Lance that he’s short. In fact, when you greet him, just say, ‘Hello! You’re looking quite tall today!’”
I found myself giggling again.
“Everyone,” Oliver stood and put his hand on my shoulder, “This is Just Silvia Cotton and she’s just fine!”
Those were my friends at Bennington, the five of them I met first on the quad. I quite liked Sarah Farnsworth, but it was not long before she moved away to Canada, leaving Alexander somewhat heartbroken. That is to say he was as heartbroken as he was capable of being at the time, which did not add up to devastation. He rebounded quickly and within a few weeks he had a new flavour du jour.
Merlyn Pierce was a lovely bloke, handsome in an offbeat way. When I think of how he looked the first thing that comes to mind is that he had smooth, velvety skin. I swear he never had a blemish on him. His colour was dark and really beautiful, like creamy chocolate mousse spread flawlessly over his bones. His nose may have been a bit bulbous, but he had beautiful brown eyes and was always friendly and forever quick with a joke. Although he couldn’t carry a note and was not as great a violinist as he dreamed of being, Merlyn’s love of music blurred the lines of obsession. He could tell you at any moment what was happening in the World Opera scene and what the latest jazz artists were up to, as well as what was topping the pop charts in the UK, Western Europe and the US. He had connections that got him tickets to just about any show in Cardiff or London, so none of us ever lacked something to do on the weekends when we could leave grounds.
“We’re going to a show this Saturday,” He told me casually on my third day. I had been officially inducted into their midst, “I can get another ticket if your parents would give you permission to go. The thing is we don’t know if you’d want to.”
“Well, who are you seeing?”
“Motorhead,” Alexander answered as he playfully, but quite firmly, slapped his brother across the face. They had begun rough housing the moment they entered the common room. Oliver slapped him back harder and they both turned to me.
“Motorhead? Are you bloody joking? I love Motorhead!” I exclaimed. They all seemed shocked. Even Oliver gave me a great expression of surprise, “What?” I demanded, looking between them as they stared, “Just because I dress in skirts and wear lipstick doesn’t mean I don’t own a pair of Docter Martins or don’t love Lemmy! Who don’t love Lemmy? Lemmy is God!”
“Lemmy is God?” Oliver asked with an approving smirk.
“Damn right Lemmy’s God!” I swore, “He’s my boyfriend, too!”
“Lemmy is your boyfriend?” His eyes widened and his brows went up. Oh, he was adorable when he did that.
“Well, yes,” I began to laugh, “He is my future ex-husband, you know!”
This Alexander seemed to like. He laughed out loud and tossed an arm over his brother's shoulder with his hand dangling in front of his chest, “So you’re not one hundred percent committed to Lemmy then?”
“Well…you know...he’s very busy with Motorhead…”
“Not to mention being God,” Oliver interjected, “Blimey!”
And, thus, my first rock concert was front and centre at Motorhead, crushed against the stage right before the mosh pit, pinched in front of Oliver, who happily beat off the moshers. I very much enjoyed watching him block and shove people away from doing me harm. It made me feel quite special, not to mention that he seemed to be having the time of his life doing it. Often the onslaught caused us to be pressed close together. Merlyn and Alexander, however, abandoned us both and were in the thick of it, caught in the mosh with the other hell raisers.
Sometimes I think my ears still ring because of that show, it was so bloody loud. Years later, Oliver told me he considered it our first date.
Lance Crosby had opted to go and see his mother for the weekend rather than come with us to Motorhead. Lance was more difficult to sort out than the rest. He was a diminutive young man, almost freakishly small, with dusty blonde hair and fresh green eyes that were nearly too big for his face. Not a great looking chap at all, though, plus he was only five feet tall and shuffled when he walked, which was a bit annoying. Still, he was kind and quiet and kept to himself for the most part. I think he was really shy, especially with girls, even the ones like me who wanted nothing other than just to be his friend. Lance never talked about himself in conversation. Everything I knew about him was what the other boys had told me, like he was rich as hell, but never acted it, and lived on a medieval estate in Caernarfon with his mother. He had a good heart and the right idea about family and country. He wanted to join the military after he graduated, then go to university and find a wife and raise a family. Very simple man, Lance Crosby was. If he hadn’t been so loveable, I’d have thought him boring, except that he was usually found glued to the side of Alex Dickinson, who wa
s always getting involved in one form of mayhem or another.
“Oh, Lancelot!” Alexander would call in the tone of a mother hailing a child. That particular day he was motivating down the corridor at a casual speed, hands jammed into his jacket pockets.
“Yes, Alexander?” Lance would counter as if replying to his mother.
“You’ll never guess what I have!” Alex would sing this part like a show tune.
“What do you have?” Lance would sing back.
“Balloons, Mate! Loads of balloons!” He pulled handfuls out of his pockets, “We’ve just enough time to fill them before the first years leave the North Tower!”
Lance’s horns, tiny as they may have been, would poke out from beneath his mop of hair and off they’d go to declare war on unsuspecting eleven year olds making their way from class.
I was a little surprised at how quickly the lot of them took me under their wings. In truth, it was immediate, which was a great comfort since I was not only in a new school, but as well in a country I had only lived in for a few weeks. It was Oliver and Merlyn who showed me about the school that first day and made sure that I knew where all of my classes would be. They gave me the guidance and warnings I needed on which professors to watch out for and which to kiss up to, as well as the heads up on the more troublesome students. I shared my lunch hour with them, Alex and Lance, and then spent the remainder of the day on the quad in their company as well. Having been called to a meeting for the girls in my dormitory to discuss the rules, I got separated from them just before dinner and when the meal bell rang I found myself standing in the cafeteria alone in a busy crowd of students. There seemed to be no vacant tables where I could sit by myself.
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