Brave New Words

Brave New Words

MANAGING EDITOR

Charlotte Teeple-Salas

DESIGN & PRODUCTION Fabi Santiago

Becky Hamilton, Emily Grice, Laura Bridge

EDITING

Carmel Mallinson

Alison Parkes, Claire Halfpenny, Gill Stephenson, Matilda Southby, Miranda Nugent, Niamh Taylor

SOCIAL MEDIA

Alice Hodges & Samantha Tilzey LAUNCH & EVENTS Jo Simmonds

Alice Cardini, Becky Hamilton, Charlotte Teeple-Salas, Fabi Santiago, Faye Holt

WEBSITE & ART Fabi Santiago

Copyright @ 2023 retained by contributors

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor.

All characters in this anthology, except where an entry has been expressly labelled as nonfiction, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by Jim Smith Design Ltd.

CONTENTS

Foreword by Dr Alexia Casale 10

Introduction by C.J. Skuse 12

A Word from the Tutors 14

MIDDLE GRADE

Alice Cardini London Unleashed 19

Alison Parkes No-Merit 31

Becky Hamilton The Curse of the Bog Body 41

Carmel Mallinson The Fantastic Adventures 53 of Poppy Gillespie

Claire Halfpenny Revolution Boy 65

Emily Grice The Box of Life 77

Faye Holt The Ghosts of Père Lachaise 89

Gill Stephenson The Guardians of Betwixt 101

Julie-Anne Graham Ava and Luscious Gardens 113

Laura Bridge The Tangled Web 125

Matilda Southby Raven’s Guide to Monsters 137

Miranda Nugent Marvin’s Gift 147

Olivia Wakeford My Dog Worthington 159

Sarah Williams How to be Friends with a Star 171

Sophie Turner There Will be a Quest 183

YOUNG ADULT

Samantha Tilzey Crown of Memories 195

Niamh Taylor Florence + Kiran 205

Jo Simmonds The Dragon Girl 215

Holly Sparks Witch of Blood and Scars 227

Fabi Santiago Raising the Dead for Dummies 237

Charlotte Teeple-Salas Chimaera Moon 249

Bethan Croome Choke 261

Alice Hodges Where Our Truth Lies 273

Aidan L. Hiltermann The Cloak Guard 285

FOREWORD

Writing is impossible without bravery. The trouble is, it doesn’t just demand one moment of bravery, or even one type. Writers have to be brave at every step, in a host of ways, to get words onto the page, let alone traverse the rocky terrain between first scribbles and full draft, first edit and sending the manuscript to agents. Then, if everything goes to plan, it’s straight back into edit-land until the manuscript goes out to publishers. And then, even if everything goes to plan… The journey from idea to book-on-a-shelf often seems endless – the gap between here and there impassable, the obstacles legion. And yet here in this anthology are the words of twenty-four writers. Through books we get to live many lives instead of just one. But without bravery none of this would exist – not the feeling of wonder, or heart-warming comfort, or the sense of discovering that, yes, at least one other person has felt, thought, lived all the small, secret joys and pains that we sometimes fear are ours alone. Stories shape our lives, our understanding of ourselves and the world. They give meaning to what we suffer and offer hope for a better, happier future. They also bring us closer to each other: not only does reading fiction for pleasure enhance our mental health, physical health and various measures of attainment and success, it makes us more sympathetic and, above all, empathetic. Readers care more about others because stories teach us to do so. Neuro-imaging studies show that readers’ brains go through many of the same internal processes as people dealing with real fear or suspense: through vicarious experiences of lives different from our own we expand our ability to understand other people and the way they see the world.

But how do squiggles on a page or screen hold such power? Partly, it’s down to the reader, but all writers know the moment when a story goes from an empty series of words to something with a life of its own. That magic doesn’t lie in getting the order right, or the clever use of a thesaurus, or even a meticulously structured plot. It’s the result of the writer breathing life into the story by putting a little piece of their soul into it.

This isn’t to suggest that fiction is a form of memoir or autobiography: the novel-writer mustn’t put their life in the pages – and yet there must be a point at which the story and the soul of the writer touch without readers ever being able to put their finger on where or how.

To show those bits of ourselves to another person is to be utterly vulnerable. To do so through a book is to put a door to our deepest vulnerability out into the world. It’s the terrifying gift that gives fiction its unique power to transform readers’ capacity for empathy.

That is what every writer on the MA in Writing for Young People commits to – and it’s still only one of the many ways they must be brave on their journey to pursuing their dreams. Among all the usual challenges, this wonderful cohort also had to navigate and adjust to the myriad changes and uncertainties of the pandemic. At times very little went according to plan, but they always rose to the occasion with aplomb, determination and often laughter.

And as a result, here are twenty-four stories for you to live and love, disappear into and learn from because twenty-four people had courage enough to create and share them.

ALEXIA CASALE

DR

INTRODUCTION

BRAVE NEW WORDS FROM BRAVE NEW WRITERS

There is a quote by William Faulkner that I find myself leaning on in uncertain times: “You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.”

And it’s tricky as a writer, isn’t it? Sometimes, you want to cling to that shore with all your might. Stay in your comfort zone. Do what feels safe; what you know. Bury those precious tales deep like treasure for fear of thievery or critique by others. But that’s exactly what the students on our MA Writing for Young People do year upon year – they swim for new horizons. They battle against the strong tides of doubt and rejection. They share their treasures with the world. In short: they dare to be brave.

In my twelve years working on the MA, I have yet to see a pluckier cohort than this latest one, not least because they’ve had to write their novels on the backdrop of increasingly scary news stories about climate change, economic disaster and, of course, Covid. The Big C has knocked us all off course these past two years – I don’t think any of us have escaped its wrath. We’ve all lost something or someone, be it a person, a relationship, a job, a connection we once had or merely a hobby we used to enjoy. We all had to adapt to a new way of existing in 2020, and in 2021 it was all hands on deck as we acclimatized to those changes and sailed upon them like little boats setting forth on uncertain tides.

The MA itself has changed course in the past year with most of our crew leaving to conquer new lands (told you I wasn’t done with that metaphor yet), and the students have had lots of new shipmates to contend with, both in person and on screen. But with a little help from each other in their workshop groups and a renewed passion for the written word, these scribes have battened down the hatches and pushed the boundaries of their own courage like never before. They produce, they polish and they persist. And that takes true bravery.

Between these pages you will find magical mayhem, historical adventure, comic caper, war story, superheroes, time slip mysteries, science fiction odysseys, haunted houses, crime thrillers, the odd bone-crunching zombie or dastardly apothecary and some beautiful LGBTQ+ romance, all sailing together on these choppy writerly seas.

Are you brave enough to venture into these pages? I really hope so, and I hope you can see, as I have been privileged enough to witness, that these writers are the real deal. They not only deserve your attention but your admiration too. I don’t know what they will discover when they enter the publishing world but I wish every single one of them calm waters, fair winds, and welcoming horizons ahead.

I’m done with the seafaring metaphor now, definitely. Promise. Ahoy!

CJ SKUSE

(Have I beaten this seafaring metaphor to death yet? Possibly…)

A WORD FROM THE TUTORS

Inside this wonderful anthology you’ll find the impressive results of one or two years’ hard work from dedicated students. These stories are the result of the students’ commitment to nurturing creativity, of their passion for children’s literature and of their love of storytelling for the very youngest in our society. We hope you enjoy reading these pieces as much as we enjoyed teaching these writers.

LUCY CUTHEW

What a pleasure to work with these talented students and see their writing develop over the course of the MA! Congratulations to them on their hard work, determination and bravery in putting themselves on the page. I wish them all the best as they take the next steps in their varied writing journeys.

TRACY DARNTON

It has been a pleasure to work with so many talented writers and watch them develop the smallest spark of an idea into fully formed stories of breathtaking scope and imagination. The work here is full of energy and heart and deserves a wide audience – I can not recommend it too highly and if you enjoy reading these stories half as much as I have then you are in for a rare and rewarding reading experience . . .

STEVE VOAKE

This anthology means a lot to me because I joined Bath Spa along with many of these authors, at a time when world events often seemed beyond our control. And their stories – of young people befriending monsters, rescuing bears, dealing with dementia, fighting fascism from underground sewers, restoring the reputation of ancient Bog Bodies, discovering magic over walls and beyond garden gates, and defeating scary fairies armed only with inside-out pants and lemon cake – gave me hope and strengthened my belief that anything is possible.

Bravery means different things to different people; but, to me, courage lies in stepping out of our comfort zones to tell truths that need telling. So, I congratulate every single one of these twenty-four authors for telling their truths, and I look forward to watching them find their place in the world.

RACHEL HAMILTON

ALICE CARDINI

Alice grew up on an old farm, wandering the fields with her dogs, making up poems and dreaming of adventure. Until a real adventure came her way when her family moved to Tokyo, and her experiences there ignited a belief that unfamiliar cultures teach us a lot about ourselves. She became hooked on travel, continuing to live around the world, and London Unleashed is inspired by her experiences as an American in London. She’s a former speech writer, public speaking coach, and Asian investment advisor. She lives in London with her Italian-British-American family and their three dogs.

LONDON UNLEASHED

When a young, dog-obsessed, feisty New Yorker starts a dog walking business in London, her barking, pooping, runaway canine crew lead her on a madcap adventure. Funny and fast-paced, The Baby-Sitters Club for dogs meets The Super Miraculous Journey of Freddie Yates. To twelve-year-old Kitty Parker, her chaotic, self-absorbed parents totally lack the loyal instincts of a dog. Determined to take back control, and focus on creatures who appreciate her, she starts London Dog Walker Incorporated. But when an elderly customer accuses her of stealing his dog, she must confront her ideas of loyalty and trust, and in the process discover that maybe people are not so bad after all.

London Unleashed

CHAPTER ONE

THE DECISION

Dad was chasing dragonflies in the Amazon, so I ended up chasing dogs in London. Did that make any sense? No. But sometimes a chain of events starts and it’s impossible to know where it will lead you.

For years I’d begged for a dog, but Mom had the “no dog” excuses on an endless loop: “A city is no place for a dog.” “We have no space.” “Poor thing would be alone all day.” It didn’t matter that I was a walking Google of dog facts, or that my first words weren’t “Mamma,” “Dada” or “bye-bye” like other babies. No. I said “doggie, “collie” and “poodle.”

It made no difference. I wasn’t getting a dog.

But when I was unpacking in my new London room, surrounded by my shattered New York life – cluttered clothes, dog figurines, broken pencils, scattered trainers – an idea came to me which changed everything. It shone like a clear blue sky from the chaos of my life.

I was rummaging through boxes, searching for my word-catcher diaries, and found Dad’s ridiculous postcards. They shouldn’t have been with my stuff. My whole life was crammed into those boxes, and the postcards were Dad’s life. Not mine. The strange images of Bolivia, Peru, Thailand … were jarring, like wild wolves in a dog kennel.

Shuffling through the cards, I heard Grandma’s words spiral through my head, “Kitty, your father didn’t leave you. It’s just that sometimes in life we need to lose ourselves in order to find ourselves again.”

But I knew Dad wasn’t lost. He was strutting around like Bear Grylls, exactly where he wanted to be: anywhere but home.

He said he’d come back. That was three years ago.

Three birthdays. Three Christmases.

Fourth, fifth, and sixth grades with a disappeared dad. I flipped over his latest card.

Dear Pat and Kitty! I’ve made it to Madagascar! Did you know there are more than 100,000 species of insects here? Today I found a long-necked giraffe weevil! This place is a goldmine of new species!

Love, Dad, Entomologist Extraordinaire

At the bottom he’d doodled a dancing beetle holding a heart balloon. I cringed. Staring at his goofy handwriting, groggy with jet-lag, confusion spread through me. I looked around my strange new room and felt lost.

The window was open and a muggy summer breeze, carrying a continuous chatter of English accents and buzzing car engines, invaded the tiny space. The noise mixed with a clacking coming from the ceiling. Someone was walking around with loud shoes on the floor above me. The humid air was sticky with the smell of fried fish from the pub below the flat. My tummy lurched. The clock said it was lunchtime, but my stomach said it was too early even for breakfast.

I shook my head. How did I get here?

Parental midlife crisis x 2 = Kitty ends up in London, that was how.

I could still see Romi’s bafflement when I told her I was moving to London. Her mouth dropped, and she put her fists on her hips like a New York traffic cop. “Whoa! First your dad goes off chasing his dream, and now your mom wants to move to London? Kitty, your parents are having a major midlife crisis.”

But it was more like a whole-life crisis. Mom and Dad always did what they wanted, like bloodhounds focused only where their noses pointed. They didn’t notice if my life got trampled along the way. But if they were bloodhounds, there was one dog trait they were sorely lacking: loyalty. It appeared to be a biological fact that people just didn’t have the loyalty instincts of dogs.

Dad’s postcards were mocking, like an advertisement of how happy he was without us. I flung them across the room and watched them flutter down into the rubble of my life. And at that very moment, a dog started barking. Its sound was like a crystal bell, the waves travelling in through the window straight to my brain. I gasped, opened my eyes wide, and the idea was born.

It was time to take control.

I had my own dream. I wouldn’t be left behind by Dad’s dream or forced to tag along on Mom’s. Maybe London was my big break? The English were famous for their love of animals. I thought about the nature shows narrated by the sweet-voiced Englishman, David Attenborough; about Jane Goodall, the brave gorilla lady; and about how the first animal protection society was in England. And then there was the famous Crufts Dog Show – also in England!

London would be full of dogs, and dog-owners wanting exercise and fresh air for their furry babies. Maybe I couldn’t have a dog of my own, but I could start a dog walking business and have a hundred dogs in every shape and size. Fluffy, curly, tail-wagging, drooling,

shedding, barking, panting, ball-catching, wet-nosed, sweet-eyed, licking, loving dogs. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs.

I could have them all.

CHAPTER TWO

PASTA FOR BREAKFAST

The next morning, I’d inform Mom of my business plan, and I wouldn’t let her stop me. She could move me across the Atlantic and stop me from having my own dog. But she couldn’t prevent me from borrowing other people’s dogs.

But when I stepped into the kitchen, it looked like a blender had exploded. Onion skin and grated cheese covered the floor. The stove was splattered with sauce and scattered with spatulas and serving spoons. The counter was lined with plates of pasta and piled with pans. Mom was experimenting again.

Foggy-headed, eyes half-closed, I shuffled toward the table, and … whoa! Ambushed by Mom. She was always energetic and spritely as a whippet but was so extra perky she was sparking. Wisps of brown hair frizzed wildly around her face. She danced across the floor on her toes, and continuously wiped her fingers on an apron covered with tomato sauce.

“Kitty! I’m so glad you’re finally awake!” She began stacking plates on her arm like a waiter. “I need you to taste these dishes.”

“I feel like cereal,” I moaned, flopping down in a chair and plunking my head on the table. “Anyway, aren’t you cooking for a pub, not an Italian restaurant?”

“It’s a gastro pub. We can serve any kind of food, and the more

creative the better.” Then she did a little victory jig, bopping her shoulders up and down. “I’ve come up with some new dishes to give the Swanky Swan even more flair.” She smiled way too wide. “Have a taste before Helena arrives. Here, start with this one.”

She plopped a stinky pasta plate on the table next to my napping nose. “It’s penne with onion, bacon, mozzarella and pomegranate seeds.” Mom was talking like someone who’d drunk way too much Coke. “But don’t eat too much. Save room for the second one with broccoli, garlic, parmesan…”

“Eat too much? Only if it’s got cornflakes in it, too?”

“Take it seriously please. Helena will be here any minute. She’s dying to meet you.”

She waved a fork with a spiralled nest of spaghetti next to my half-opened eyes. “Kitty, this is important to me. And anyway, I think you’ll love it. The pomegranate seeds give a nice sweet and sour pop next to the crunchy, salty bacon.”

I took the forkful and shovelled it into my mouth. “Actually, that’s good – the bacon can count as breakfast.”

“You see?” Her eyes were shining like a six-year-old who’d baked cookies. Apparently, the time zone change had affected her sarcasm-detection abilities.

“Try this one.” She yanked away the bacon dish, replacing it with the garlic-broccoli mishmash, which was as far from my idea of breakfast as oysters and ice cream. Thankfully, I was saved by a loud knocking.

Mom sprang like a thoroughbred whippet to the door. Perhaps royal guests had arrived from Buckingham Palace.

She howled and threw her arms around a woman who looked like the human version of a French bulldog, short and blocky, like pasta with bacon was her usual breakfast. Not royalty. Helena.

I loved French bulldogs. They were gentle, but Helena, not so much. She jarringly swooped me into her pudgy arms and pillow chest and held me there like I was a precious show dog. Holding my breath, I waited to be released.

“Kitty, love! Let me look at you.” She stroked my hair. “Gorgeous! Exotic Italian – just like your mother.”

Freckles are exotic?

She turned to Mom and said, “Chocolate hair and sage eyes, remember, Pat?” And they both erupted in laughter at their insider joke.

They lined up Mom’s pasta plates, readying them for the serious business of ranking them on a scale of one to ten. Mom and Helena, like two kids deciding which puppy was cutest, were bopping and sashaying around in front of the contestants. I thought about faking a stomach ache so I could go to my room and start working on a dog walker advertisement. Besides I was starting to feel like I’d swallowed a dodgeball, but I didn’t have the heart to gloom up their pasta party.

Between forkfuls, Helena told me about her and Mom as students in London a million years ago, and that they were like twin sisters separated at birth so I should feel free to call her Aunt Helena. And wasn’t it so perfect that Mom could be a chef in Helena’s gastropub, and we could live right above it and I wouldn’t even need a babysitter, and I could help in the pub whenever I wanted, and I would never go hungry with all the leftovers, and blah blah blah.

There was no way I was calling her ‘aunt,’ even if I was a big fan of French bulldogs. And of course I didn’t need a babysitter! Didn’t Helena have any idea that I was used to Mom working a lot, and working late? That was the life of a chef. We had an arrangement in New York: after school and weekends, I could go around with friends as long as Mom knew where I was going.

It was obvious that I needed to start my dog walking business as soon as possible, or I’d be stuck in a shoe-box flat by myself; or if Mom and Helena had their way, I’d spend my first summer in London hanging around a hot oven. No thanks.

I’d wanted to fill Mom in, but as usual she was self-absorbed and her mind was all about the menu. And just then, she and Helena thrust two plates into the air like twin Statues of Liberty and shouted, “Ten!”

CHAPTER THREE STEP ONE

Sure, for Mom, everything was a ten: it was amazing impersonating a teenager with Helena, hanging around a pub. She seemed even happier than before Dad left. But if Mom was trying to replay her younger London days, she’d forgotten a small detail: me.

Did it even occur to Mom that on a scale of one to ten, my life was a negative ten? Even when she and Helena took me ‘sightseeing’ after the pasta-gorge-a-thon, it was non-stop talking about this memory and that memory. They dragged me to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, a pub where they used to ‘hang out all the time.’ At first I thought it was a bar, which would’ve been weird even for Mom. But apparently, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese was the inspiration behind the Swanky Swan, Helena’s oh-so-creative gastropub.

Helena put her hand on my shoulder. “Kitty, pubs are not like American bars. They have great food and they’re for everyone. And they’re practically on every corner.”

“I see, so pubs are an English version of Dunkin Donuts, only they serve battered fish and beer instead of doughnuts and coffee.”

She smiled weakly. “I suppose you could think of it that way, love.”

I stabbed my fork into a Yorkshire pudding, which wasn’t remotely pudding-like, and listened to Mom and Helena debate its crispiness. It was a thick disk of crusty bread plunked next to a hunk of beef roast and gravy. Mom and Helena’s time-capsule-trip-for-two was getting on my nerves, but I decided not to let them ruin my excitement about my big plan. And why did I have to tell Mom anyway? She wouldn’t care. She and Helena were all about their business. Well, I would be all about mine.

“Kitty, don’t you just love this?” Mom asked. “Love what? The Yorkshire pudding?”

“Everything! Isn’t London the best?”

I just stared at her and thought, we’ve only been here five seconds and already it’s better than New York?

Over the next few days, I got started. Mom was frenzy-busy at the Swanky Swan and had no idea I was spending hours on my logo. Logos could make or break a business. One eye-catching wave on a trainer and a business boomed. I wanted a logo that said: ‘dogs of all sizes welcome,’ so I sketched a huge Bernese mountain dog with a Labrador and Chihuahua. My Kitty Parker, Dog Walker advertisements were ready, and I had to admit, looked amazing.

Our building opened onto a busy high street, and two blocks down was a small corner shop. It was more overstuffed closet than store: drinks, magazines, and cards crammed in from floor to ceiling. But I’d seen a noticeboard by the entrance, advertising babysitters and plumbers, and I was sure it was perfect for my flyer.

Loud, tinny music piped from behind a man at the checkout. He was tapping a Sharpie on the counter like it was a drumstick. I cleared my throat, straightened my spine and looked him in the eyes. “Excuse me, can I put this on your noticeboard?” With a rush of pride, I held up my advertisement.

He stared at it, and his mouth twisted like he’d just eaten a lemon. He was quiet for a weirdly long time, and finally said, “What’s this? You park kitties and walk dogs? How do you park a kitty?”

Huh? Was this British humour or was he serious? “That’s my name – Kitty Parker. I don’t do anything with kitties or cats. I walk dogs!”

He raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d change the name then.”

I scowled. My company name was as important as its logo. Scanning the shop for ideas, I spotted a display stuffed with London postcards. “Can I borrow your Sharpie?”

He handed me the thick black marker, and I crossed out ‘Kitty Parker’ and replaced it with ‘London’, and for an extra touch of importance, I added ‘Incorporated’, even though I had no idea what it meant. I smirked and thought, just try making fun of that name, eh?

My chest puffing proud like a bulldog’s, I smiled at my new company name: London Dog Walker Incorporated.

Step one: done.

ALISON PARKES

Alison’s background is firmly based in stories: a childhood spent with her nose in a book, an adulthood spent at Radio 4 and writing freelance for The Guardian and Coast Magazine. Her journalistic ideas tend toward tales of underdogs and the unexpected, and she has finally concluded that children’s books are their natural home. She grew up on the Isle of Wight, surrounded by sea, and is now based in Haslemere, surrounded by trees. Alison graduates from the MA in Writing for Young People with distinction.

NO-MERIT

London, 1681. Fourteen-year-old No-Merit Johnson has always known what her Puritan father thinks of her: she’s worthless. After surviving the smallpox that kills her brother, she knows the wrong child has survived. Physically and emotionally scarred, No-Merit throws herself into rescuing sick animals. But when she starts work as an apprentice to the noted apothecary, Obadiah Clinch, she is horrified to discover that animals are used as medical ingredients. With the help of an unexpected friend, a female scientist, a rescue puppy and her loyal bullfinch, No-Merit endeavours to save the animals and uncover her own worth. parkesy2@gmail.com

No-Merit

CHAPTER ONE

No-Merit Johnson moved swiftly along the streets of Moorgate. Dressed demurely – as a good Puritan girl should – she could have been on her way to church, or to market to buy six fat herring, if it weren’t for her somewhat unusual companion.

‘Be still, Silas,’ she muttered.

Silas hopped from the top of her linen bonnet to her shoulder and began to pull at the wisps of hair that escaped it.

‘Ow! Don’t do that. Here, sit on my hand.’ Taking a few seeds from the pocket of her apron she raised her palm to the sturdy bullfinch that now pecked her ear. Silas fluttered onto her outstretched hand and settled to his breakfast as No-Merit hurried on.

Moorgate was waking. Women leaned out of timber-framed houses to empty the night’s slops into the gutters. Water sellers went from house to house with sloshing buckets. Carts, carriages, cattle and pedestrians wove through the dusty streets.

No-Merit’s feet began to cross the high street before her head had even thought about it, the better to peer into the window of Mr Obadiah Clinch’s Apothecary. She loved the blue and white jars with their peculiar names – Citrinum, Laudanum, Mumia – and the stuffed crocodile that hung from the ceiling, the bubbled glass of the windows giving the impression that he still moved through murky depths. She would have liked to step inside and breathe the spicy air, but there was no time to waste; who knew when Father would be home?

She went on, feet swift, until she neared the enormous city gate, a great stone edifice with thick oak doors. A gatekeeper lounged in the archway, a long white pipe dangling from his thin lips.

‘Going out to the meadow are you, little missy?’

No-Merit gave him a small smile, dipped her head and walked steadily on.

‘Take care out there,’ he called after her, and then with a mean, wheezy laugh, ‘not that anyone’s likely to bother you.’

She flinched, but let the words drift away on the breeze. It was easier that way. A particularly bad bout of smallpox, when she was no higher than her mother’s apron strings, had left No-Merit dimpled with a thousand pockmarks from the crown of her head to the knuckles of her toes. Running her fingers over the back of her hand she could still recall the tight red blisters, like lead shot under the skin of a hare, and her little brother’s feverish moans as he lay in the next bed. She stroked the soft brown feathers of Silas’ furled wings and hastened on.

City life seeped out beyond the gate. Men wheeled bricks in squeaking barrows from the kilns under the city wall. Women chatted amongst rows of communal washing lines, their bed sheets twisting in the wind. Pigs rooted amongst the city’s waste, a stinking mound of rotting vegetables, entrails and the emptyings of chamber pots.

No-Merit kept on walking, over a rickety wooden bridge that spanned the brook and, at last, into the meadow. Under a vast blue sky tall grasses swayed, dotted with cow parsley and pale pink cuckoo flowers. A thrush sang from the top of a hazel tree, its melody interspersed with the slow buzz of bumblebees and the rasping of grasshoppers. Silas chirruped in response and hopped up No-Merit’s arm to perch on her shoulder.

‘Right, Silas,’ she said with a brave smile. ‘This is where we part.’

She’d found him under a hawthorn bush four weeks earlier, fallen from his nest. He’d tried to get away from her, desperately flapping his fledgling wings, but one leg was injured and dragged uselessly behind him. No-Merit had scooped him up and nursed him back to health. At first he’d been terrified, pecking her and doing his best to get away, but she’d fed him little morsels of meat and whistled tunes to him and gradually he’d become stronger and braver. She’d bound his leg with a twig for a splint and given him willow water for the pain.

Bit by bit he had become her most loyal companion, singing her awake each morning and nestling up to the warmth of her at night. She knew she must return him to the wild, but her heart ached at the thought of it.

No-Merit reached up to the hawthorn bush and made her hand a platform for his return. Silas made no move.

‘Come on, little one, this is your home,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Time to find your family.’ Silas ruffled his feathers and turned his back to the bush. ‘You can’t stay with me; it’s been hard enough hiding you from Father as it is.’ She tipped her hand and gave Silas a gentle prod. He lost his footing and half-toppled, half-flapped onto a branch.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, stomach knotting, ‘but it’s for the best.’ Silas fixed her with his shining black eyes. ‘Please, don’t look at me like that.’ She reached into her apron pocket and offered him some seeds. He turned his broad, stubby beak away.

‘I’ll come and see you whenever I can. Honest.’ Forcing herself to stand tall she walked into the meadow, tears blurring its watery margins. One more task to complete and she would head for home: there were still all the other animals to look after. She’d used up her

supply of willow water treating Silas’ leg and the meadow was the place to get more ingredients. She reached into the deep pocket of her woollen skirt and took out a notebook on which she had written in careful looping script:

Granny Gibson’s Recipes of Physick

With Additional Notation by her Apprentice, No-Merit Johnson

Ever since No-Merit was small she’d been entranced by Granny’s stories. In her tall black hat, pipe in hand, Granny would rock in her chair regaling No-Merit with tales of grisly illness and smacking babies into life and her days as a plague watcher: locked in a house for forty days with the sick and the dying, tending their fevered brows and painful buboes.

Granny knew how to treat all manner of maladies: feverfew flowers for headaches, snail slime for burns, a poultice of clay and herbs for infections. No-Merit would sit, spellbound, breaking occasionally from her reverie to make notes of useful ingredients. When she was sick with the pox, Granny had sat at her side with willow water to ease the pain and lavender to drive out the bad air. It was like magic, though you’d never say so with the witchfinders about. No-Merit opened the book and checked the recipe:

Take wild garlic and hedgenettle, of each a handful and a half. Add parings of the bark of the willow tree, two handfuls. Steep all together in one gallon of spring water for three days; strain through a linen cloth. To be stored in a bottle of clear or green glass.

Wild garlic was easy to find, its scent curling out from the woodland at the edge of the meadow. She picked the star-like flowers and chewed one spicy leaf as she waded through long grass, collecting purple-flowered hedgenettle. Last was willow, which trailed its leaves in the slow running water near a bend in the stream. She walked to the water’s edge and, taking a penknife from her pocket, began to pare the knobbly bark from the trunk.

The water splashed along the stony riverbed, its gentle sound mixed with bird song. As she worked she became aware of a distant whining sound. A bird, perhaps? No, that didn’t seem right. The sound went and came again, scratching at the edges of her attention. She turned to see where it was coming from but couldn’t see anything beyond the bend in the stream. The sun was high now, it was time to head for home. Stowing away the ingredients and penknife, No-Merit followed the river.

As she came round the bend, she saw a jute sack caught on a root that projected from the far bank. The whining was clearer now. She slipped off her shoes and stockings and, hitching up her skirts, waded in. She tried to lift the bag, heavy with water and whatever was inside. The whining became more insistent. The sack was bound at the top, so she took her knife and sawed through the string. Inside were the soft, wet bodies of five puppies, just a few weeks old; all curved brown ears and small black noses and sodden white paws. No-Merit stumbled back, aghast, falling onto the bank and dropping the sack in the river. Again came the whining sound. She leapt forward and heaved the bag up onto the bank. As she opened it a puppy raised its head to the light and whimpered. No-Merit reached in and gently pulled it out, a shivering little thing, nosing her in search of milk. Cradling it in the crook of her arm she checked the

others for signs of life, but this was the only survivor. No-Merit took the shawl from around her shoulders and wrapped him in it.

‘How could someone do this?’ she said, half to herself, half to the puppy. ‘We must get you some milk.’ Just then she felt a light pressure on the top of her head and, reaching up, her skin brushed against feathers. Silas hopped down onto the puppy’s body, chirruping a snatch of the song she’d taught him.

‘Silas!’ she cried, delighted at the solace of her friend, before remembering herself and trying more sternly: ‘Oh no, Silas, you can’t come with me. You have to live your own life now. I need to get this puppy some milk.’ Silas flapped up onto her shoulder and nibbled at her bonnet strings. ‘Well,’ she sighed, part exasperation, part relief, ‘if you won’t stay then you’ll just have to come with us.’

She laid the other puppies under a bush so she could give them a proper burial later, then walked back as quickly as she could, past the squealing pigs and the washerwomen and the brick makers, through the gate – barely noticing the keeper – and down the dirt streets. Past the apothecary and along Laundry Lane, past the church of All Saints, right into Turnagain Alley and out into the sunlight of Golden Square.

A group of men congregated at the corner, voices raised. No-Merit put her head down instinctively and kept to the wall furthest from them, not wanting to draw their attention. Home was just a street away. The puppy slept in her arms, eyes fluttering as he dreamed.

She turned into the dimness of Motley Lane, home for the fourteen years of her life so far. It was a narrow over-hanging place, the upper storeys of the houses cascading into one another to form a tunnel that was dark by midday.

Silas flapped upwards, alighting on the eaves of the nearest house.

Perhaps he was ready to leave after all, she thought, picturing the life he’d lead, the adventures he’d have. She was lost in a dream, when her arm was yanked back so that she almost dropped the puppy. She snapped round with an angry ‘Hey!’, only for the words to die in her mouth. Standing over her was her father, six feet of black cloak and fiery face. No-Merit curled inwards and cursed herself for not noticing: the group in the square had gathered to hear her father preach.

‘What are you doing out at this hour?’ he rumbled. ‘You should be at home at your chores. And what,’ he jabbed his finger at the little bundle, ‘is this?’

‘It’s a puppy, Father,’ she said, trying to make it sound like a gift. ‘I found him in the river, half-drowned.’

‘What were you doing at the river? This had better not be more of your medical nonsense.’ His eye twitched as he held her gaze. ‘Well? Spit it out.’

‘I was…umm…’ Her mind raced, searching for a convincing lie. ‘I…took some sheets to dry…at the washing lines. I spotted the puppy as I was pegging out the last one.’

Her father looked at her long and hard, weighing up the likelihood of this tale. ‘Don’t think I won’t check with your sister. Get home and get on with your work.’

‘Of course, Father.’ No-Merit bobbed her agreement and started again for home.

‘Oh, and No-Merit,’ he called, in a low tone.

She stopped and half-turned, surreptitiously rubbing her arm where he’d grabbed her. ‘Yes, Father?’

‘If that dog isn’t gone by the time I get home, I’ll throw it back in the river myself.’

BECKY HAMILTON

Becky loves hunting for stories – under rocks, in old handbags, down the back of bus seats and is currently finding spooky, middle grade history-mysteries hidden in the past. She earned a distinction on the Bath Spa MA Writing for Young People. BA Hons English from Exeter and Golden Egg Academy graduate, shortlisted for SCBWI UV, Bath Short Story Award, and prize winner at Winchester Writers’ Festival. A creative copywriter pre kids, Becky now works in film production and lives in Bath with husband, teen daughters and cats. An incurable fidget and chatterbox, she enjoys yoga, gardening and festivals. A demon with the glue gun, her superpowers are imagination, crafting and mum-dance.

THE CURSE OF THE BOG BODY

It’s 1984. When Nic Mitchell unearths a body in the peat bog on Go to Work with Your Dad Day and unleashes an ancient curse, she suddenly has more to worry about than starting secondary school in September. Betrayed by her best friend and haunted by visions of the Bone-Man, a freak storm then puts Dad in hospital and destroys their home. Can Nic’s news reporter skills help her navigate the archaeologist’s scientific evidence, Auntie’s witchy pagan theories and big brother Keith’s bullyish buffoonery in time to discover the true identity of the bog body and stop the curse?

beckyfromthebasement@gmail.com

The Curse of the Bog Body

Based on the true story of ‘Lindow Man, also known as Pete Marsh, the preserved body of a man discovered in a peat bog on 1 August 1984 by commercial peat cutters.’ Wikipedia

CHAPTER ONE DOOMED

1st August 1984. Go to Work with Your Dad Day.

Some kids get to go to a flash car showroom, spend the day at the police station or a fancy office in town.

I get to go to a bog.

My dad’s ‘work-place’ is a wooden platform in the middle of Linton Moss peat bog surrounded by murky pools and marshland, tufty grass islands and rocks that, when I was a kid, I used to think looked like dinosaurs floating face down in a swamp. It smells like wet dogs, and nothing ever happens up there.

And I have to present a report about it on the first day at my new secondary school in September. In front of the entire year. Imagine.

“ Hello, my name is Nic Mitchell, I’m 11 years old and I’d like to tell you about the day I went to work with my dad, a peat worker, to watch mud .” Great.

My big brother, Keith, is watching me – over a box of Rice Krispies on the kitchen table. ‘You do realise you’re doomed, don’t you?’ he says, finishing his third slice of Marmite on toast.

I try to ignore him. Out of the window, I notice our old red swing, now faded pink and dangling by one rope from a branch of the big old oak tree in the garden. I remember me sitting, Keith standing legs either side of me and swinging us until I screamed to get off because it was too high. And Mum coming out to rescue me.

As usual, my annoying brother gets into my head. What if he’s right? What if I end up as the most boring kid in school? Worse still, what if Rachel dumps me and finds a more interesting best friend?

As I pour the milk onto my Rice Krispies, they start to crackle. ‘Who’s best?’ Keith asks. ‘Snap, Crackle or Pop?’

It’s a trick question. Whatever I say will be wrong. He’s got an answer for why each one is the best. Or worst.

‘Pop,’ I say.

‘Justify why Pop is the best,’ he says.

‘I can’t be bothered.’

My answer makes him cross. ‘You have to back up your opinions.’ ‘Says who?’ ‘Says me.’

Dad bounds down the stairs into the kitchen. He smells of aftershave and clean washing, even though he doesn’t need to make that much effort for going to work on a peat bog. ‘What are you two bickering about today?’

‘Keith says I’m doomed because my Go to Work report is about the boring peat bog.’

‘Don’t listen to your brother. He’s only jealous because he doesn’t get to spend a day with me. Besides, if anyone can write an

interesting story about anything, it’s you, Nicola Mitchell, news reporter extraordinaire.’

‘You mean like the newspapers do?’ says Keith. ‘She can make something out of nothing?’

‘Actually,’ I say, getting out my library book and reading, ‘ peat bogs are a great habitat for a huge variety of wildlife and famous for preserving some very important archaeological discoveries such as fossils and extinct species due to the unique anaerobic conditions of the soil .’

Keith yawns, extra loudly.

Dad takes the last gulp of tea from his BEST DAD ON THE PLANET mug. ‘Cheers to that, my dear. My thoughts exactly. Ain’t nothing boring about the bog.’ He dunks his mug in the washing-up bowl, shakes off the water and puts it on the drainer. He sweeps the toast crumbs off the side into his cupped hand. ‘Crumbs!’ he says, laughing at his own joke.

He opens the window and drops them onto the ledge. The birds are bantering as they flit in and out of the dense canopy of leaves on the oak tree.

‘Sounds like a bird block of flats,’ Dad says.

A robin lands on the window ledge and pecks at the crumbs. It looks up, swallows, then tweets right at us. To me, it sounds like the robin is reciting one of the sayings on Mum’s postcards in her dressing room – today is the first day of the rest of your life.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say. Typical of her to be so positive.

I notice Dad looking at the robin. His eyes have gone all watery. Keith looks up from buttering his fourth slice of crumby toast. ‘You do know birds can’t speak or understand humans.’

‘Actually,’ I answer with confidence, ‘it’s a well-known fact that some robins are people who’ve died but have come back to visit loved ones.

They can definitely understand.’

‘A well-known fact?’ says Keith. ‘More like total made-up rubbish.’

‘Is not.’

‘Is.’

‘Stop it,’ says Dad. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, as long as it’s not harming anyone else.’

There’s a knock and the back door opens.

‘Hi!’ It’s Rachel, my best friend. She’s going to work with her mum, who’s a dentist in town. I hardly recognise her all dressed up in her Mum’s black, tight skirt and silky blue blouse, with her golden hair flicked back and held in place with hairspray. And blue eye shadow.

‘Aha!’ says Dad. ‘Do we know this glamorous young lady?’

Rachel smiles. ‘I just came to say have a good day to Nic.’

Keith laughs. ‘On the bog.’

Dad clips him round the ear. ‘That’s enough, lad,’ he says.

A car horn toots from outside. That’ll be Jenny, Rachel’s mum. They live next door and, seeing as we’re the only building for miles and miles, I’m lucky to have my best friend so close. Up to now, me and Rachel have done everything together: riding to school on our bikes, watching TV, investigating fake murders and ghost hunting in the woods.

‘You too,’ I say.

As the door slams behind her, I really do feel doomed. Rachel’s meeting Victoria Hollister, one of the cool kids, during her lunch break. What if she likes Victoria Hollister more than me? What if secondary school ruins everything?

‘Come on you.’ Dad ruffles my hair like I’m a little kid. ‘Grab the packed lunches from the fridge and let’s get going. Peat waits for no man. Keith, keep the place tidy. There’s fruit in the bowl, help yourself but don’t stick orange pips up your nose.’

I laugh. ‘Yeah, or apple pips.’ Dad’s referring to an actual incident where Keith put orange pips up his nose when he was little and had to be rushed to hospital to have them removed.

Keith smirks. ‘Have a good day on the bog, Little Nic.’

He knows I hate him calling me that, so, pretending not to notice, I put on my wellies, grab my anorak and follow Dad out, shooting Keith my most evil look as I leave.

He laughs, a stupid showing off laugh.

I hate my big brother.

CHAPTER TWO SITTING ON THE BOG

So, I’m sitting on an upturned bucket on the wooden platform where Dad works, in the middle of a peat bog. There’s that wet dog smell, even though the sun’s already warm. The only noise is Dad crashing about in the shed where he keeps his chair and kettle.

My news reporter’s notepad is open on my lap. Ready to report. On the front is a quote I copied out of the book Dad bought me for my birthday, called How to be a Better News Reporter: “Everything has a story but it’s a news reporter’s job to find it.”

This is going to be a tough assignment because there is nothing to write about up here.

Uncle Henry, Dad’s brother, comes up the wobbly wooden path that leads up through the peat bog from the car park. He works up here too. ‘Bet you can’t wait to spend a day watching mud.’ When he laughs his face wrinkles. He pretends to wobble this way and that, like some kind of clown, one leg sticking up in the air, pretending to

nearly fall in. ‘But always stick to the path or the peat bog will suck you in faster than you can say rat down a peat pipe.’

The radio comes on. It’s a song called Holding out for a Hero that says he’s gotta be big and he’s gotta be strong as Dad emerges from his shed, doing strong man poses.

So funny. Not.

‘Morning, Henry!’ says Dad, handing him a grubby cup.

‘Cheers, Dez.’ Henry takes the tea. ‘See you later.’ He follows the path further up, until he’s out of sight.

‘So,’ says Dad, settling into his chair. ‘Henry’s working up top with the peat cutters, digging it up and putting the blocks onto this conveyor belt.’ He points at a black conveyor belt in front of us that stretches out of sight in both directions. ‘As you know, my job is to remove anything that’s not peat before it reaches the lorries down there that take it off to be sold for fuel.’

He dangles a long pole with a hook on the end over the empty conveyor belt, like he’s waiting to hook-a-duck at the fair. I notice a big red button on the control panel. With a squeak and a grinding sound the conveyor belt starts up noisily and square blocks of almostblack mud, the size of shoe boxes, start to trundle past.

I turn to a clean page in my notebook. ‘I’m going to write down everything that comes along,’ I say.

Dad laughs. ‘That should be quite simple – it’s usually peat blocks, peat blocks and more peat blocks. But here are a few interesting conveyor belt facts for your report,’ he says. ‘See that bit? With the zigzagged join. It ripped a few years ago when we found a piece of glass sticking out of a block. And wait for it, here comes the bit with the stain that looks like a chalk outline of Britain. There, see it? Paint spill. Write this down – it takes exactly 17 minutes for the peat conveyor to

do a full circuit from the car park right up to the peat cutters. You watch, in 17 minutes chalk Britain will be back.’

Dad picks a twig off with his hook. ‘Twig,’ he says, proudly holding it up.

Even I can’t make a twig interesting, but I write it down, my mind working overtime on how I’m ever going to find a story in this, even with my reporting skills.

The peat blocks continue to pass.

The sun gets hotter.

‘Nice day,’ says Dad, taking off his shirt to reveal chest hair sprouting out the sides of his vest.

Ugh. Does he have to?

I feel warm in my anorak. I’m wondering whether to take it off when something appears on the belt that’s definitely not peat.

Dad hands me the pole. ‘You get this one.’

I hook off the empty Monster Munch pack. Pickled onion. And put it in my pocket to make into a Shrinkie-Dink keyring later.

‘That’s Henry’s idea of fun.’ Dad laughs. ‘Putting stuff on the belt.’

‘Is that as fun as it gets?’

‘Cheeky,’ says Dad, pushing me off my bucket.

Karma Chameleon comes on the radio.

Rachel and I love this one.

Dad sings every day is like survival in a high voice. And he grins at me.

I bet every day is like survival, up here on his own.

‘Hang on, what’s this?’ Dad pokes one of the peat blocks with something that looks like a muddy stick poking out.

He tries to hook it out, but it won’t come free, so he lifts the whole block off and dumps it on the wooden platform where we’re sitting.

When he grabs the stick, it comes away in his hand. He bashes off the mud then lunging forward, slams his hand on the red button. The conveyor belt grinds to a stop.

He holds up a muddy bone. About the length of a school ruler. ‘If we find the remains of any living thing, we must report it. We find all sorts up here, you know.’

I do. And I seem to remember not long ago, they found a human skull.

Dad hands me the bone. ‘Put this back with the peat block, while I go down and tell the office. They’ll send someone to take the whole thing away. For testing.’

As soon as the bone touches my hand, a strange heat travels up my arm and fills my chest. The noise of the conveyor becomes muffled, like I’m hearing it from underwater, and my eyes blur out of focus like I’m being transported somewhere else.

I smell smoke. Hear chanting.

And, when my eyes focus again, I see something strange.

THREE VISION NO. 1

Fire. Food. Fear. Chanting, in the distance. Smell smouldering heather from smoke-spiralling fire. Bearded man with fur armband, crouched down beside flat-topped rock. Bites burnt bread, and turns towards the chanting, coming closer.

Cut. Chop. Choke.

Three hooded figures long, red robes. First has a knife, orange with rust. Second, an axe. Third, a leather rope with three knots. Bearded man swallows, but he does not run.

CHAPTER FOUR THE BONE

‘Nic! Love? Are you okay?’

I open my eyes. No bearded man. The smell of smoke has gone. ‘Are you okay love? You fainted.’ Dad helps me sit up. He hands me a mug of water that tastes of tea.

I spot the bone on the ground beside me and pull back.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, pushing it aside with his foot. ‘It won’t bite.’

‘When I touched it, something happened.’ I try to explain what I saw. It sounds crazy. ‘But it looked so real, like I was there, a part of it.’

He helps me out of my anorak. ‘Must be the hot sun and this thick old jacket. Touch of heat stroke maybe. Or a bad case of the over-active imaginations.’

Henry is running down the wooden path. He looks at me. ‘Are you okay? What happened?’

Dad points. ‘Nic fainted. Oh, and we found this.’

Henry shades his eyes against the bright sunlight as he inspects the bone. ‘Better call the police.’

‘The police?’ Dad looks surprised.

Henry holds it against his lower leg. ‘Can’t be too sure.’

My mind races with ideas for my report. And, for the first time today, I pick up my pen and make some notes: What type of bone is it? How did it get here? WHAT or WHO did the bone belong to? Are there more bones? What secrets lie beneath the surface of the peat bog?

CARMEL MALLINSON

Carmel loves writing funny, imaginative, and heart-warming stories for children. Especially stories with cats. She also likes long, rambling walks and can even be spotted out running from time to time, telling anyone who’ll listen, ‘It feels so good when you stop.’ Her favourite cake is coffee and walnut (she finds it’s often worth mentioning this). She lives in Dorset with her husband, three children and a strict limit of sticking to one cat. She’s agreed for now, but let’s just say she has plans. Carmel graduates from the MA in Writing for Young People with distinction.

THE FANTASTIC ADVENTURES OF POPPY GILLESPIE

Dad’s in hospital, and nine-year-old Poppy needs to be brave. That’s not easy when you’ve been sent to a strange new childminder with your baby brother while Dad awaits his test results. But, while playing in the garden with know-it-all ginger cat Lionel by her side, Poppy follows a magical butterfly over the gate and discovers a wonderful new world where she can forget her worries for a while. There she meets a talking squirrel, Tree-Dwelling-Ponies, raft-building gi-ants and raucous flum flum birds. However, it’s not long before wolves pick up her scent, and Poppy must conquer her fears, facing both the wolves and reality head on as she searches for a way home.

carmel.mallinson@gmail.com

The Fantastic Adventures of Poppy Gillespie

CHAPTER ONE

‘And then,’ boomed Poppy in her most dramatic voice, ‘the witch cast a magic spell over the whole village – kazam! And the cats and the dogs and even the horses flew up, up, up into the air.’ Poppy whirled her arms above her head. ‘And the babies too, Toby. How would you like that?’ Poppy reached across the back seat and tickled Toby’s tummy.

Toby clapped his pudgy little hands together and squealed.

‘Poppy, please,’ said Mum. ‘I’m trying to drive. It’s like having a couple of naughty squirrels in the back.’

Poppy rolled her eyes and Toby giggled.

‘I know,’ Poppy said to him, ‘let’s sing!’

Poppy sang Toby’s favourite song; the one Mum had sung to her when she was tiny.

Hey little kitten, don’t be afraid, There’s a world out there and a life to be made, If you’re brave little kitten and you face your fear, You’ll find your way and the path will be clear.

Toby shrieked with delight when Poppy did the actions too, making kitten paws with her hands and swiping at the air. He giggled and gurgled, kicking his legs.

‘Enough now,’ said Mum. ‘We’re almost there.’

Poppy fell quiet.

‘Ooo, ooo,’ said Toby with a pout as he started to grizzle. Poppy sighed. ‘That’s how I feel, too,’ she said.

‘Have you got everything you need, Pops?’ asked Mum.

‘I think so.’ Poppy opened the top of her bag and listed everything she’d packed. ‘String, torch, The Perfect Stick.’

Dad had found the stick for her on their last walk together before he’d gone into hospital. And it was perfect: it was strong, thick, and about two feet long so that it poked out of the top of her backpack. Dad said that even if a full-grown pig were charging at you, you’d feel much braver if you had a good stick.

But despite packing her stick, Poppy didn’t feel brave today. Mum was going to visit Dad while the doctors decided if he was well enough to come home yet. She’d wanted to go too, but instead she had to go with Toby to a childminder. One they didn’t even know.

Mum’s eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t look so worried, sweetheart,’ she said as she pulled the car over. ‘Ma Grindle is lovely. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.’

Ma Grindle. Who ever heard of a childminder with a name like that? She sounded about a thousand years old. She probably didn’t even have Wi-Fi.

Mum unclipped Toby from his car seat while Poppy stepped out onto the pavement. She smoothed down her red sundress, pushing back her mass of dark curls from her neck. It was hot today.

‘That’s not where we’re going, is it?’ she asked, glancing up at the house in front of her as she shifted her backpack onto her shoulder. Mum nodded and Poppy’s heart sank.

All the other houses on the street had neat front gardens with neat patches of lawn. It was as if someone had rested Ma Grindle’s

house between them while they searched for something else, then forgot where they’d put it. An untidy hedge ran around the front garden with two rusty posts where the gate used to be.

The house itself was old and tiny with a blue front door that leaned slightly to the right, so that the small bay window next to it didn’t sit quite straight. It looked like a witch’s house. Mum wasn’t really going to leave them here, was she?

‘Come on,’ said Mum, struggling up the garden path with Toby tucked under one arm, his bulging changing bag under the other. ‘Don’t dawdle.’

The path was lined either side with overgrown, straggly lavender; Poppy could barely make out the paving stones underneath. The rest of the front garden was a tangle of tall weeds and flowers.

As Poppy walked up the path, her dress brushed against the lavender, its strong scent reminding her of the little bags Mum kept under her pillow to help her relax.

Near the front door, the lavender was so thick that Poppy had to squeeze through. There was an awful lot of buzzing coming from its silvery-purple flowers. Poppy froze. There was no mistaking it; the lavender thrummed with bees. The buzzing grew louder and louder and so did the beating of Poppy’s heart.

First one, then two, then three bees rose from the green stems. More and more joined them until a cloud of bees swarmed around Poppy. She swatted at them, but they zoomed around her, faster and faster like a great, angry, buzzing tornado.

Poppy shrieked and flapped her arms. ‘Mum! Mum! The bees –they’re going to sting me!’ But Mum and Toby had already gone inside.

Through the blur of bees Poppy saw someone coming out of the door: an old woman with purple hair, streaked with silver.

‘Hello, lovey,’ she said calmly. ‘What’s the fuss there?’

‘The bees!’ cried Poppy, flapping even more furiously.

‘There, there.’ The old woman’s voice was soothing. ‘Good bees. You won’t harm our Poppy, will you? She didn’t mean to startle you. That’s it. Settle down now.’

The buzzing softened until one by one the bees settled back onto the lavender. Poppy stared at the old woman. How did she do that?

Ma Grindle was short and stout with a small round nose and jangly pink earrings. She wore a long orange skirt with green swirls that reached all the way down to a pair of glossy red leather boots. Around the old woman’s waist was a yellow belt and tucked into that, a sky-blue shirt decorated all over with tiny silver animals: horses and squirrels and little round, blue birds. Silver tassels hung from the shirt, snagged and torn as if teased out by a cat’s claw.

‘In you come,’ said Ma Grindle with a wide smile, ‘but carefully now, or you’ll frighten the poor things all over again.’ With that, she turned and went inside.

Poppy couldn’t believe it. She was the one who was frightened. She made her way up the path walking sideways like a crab, her arms held high above the lavender. She kept a wary eye on the bees, but they paid her no more attention.

Once at the front door, Poppy peered into a gloomy hallway. Its walls were covered in pictures of ponies and horses of every size and colour: black ones, brown ones, white ones, short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones.

She hesitated. There was no sign of Mum, or Toby, or Ma Grindle. Timidly, one hand on the wall, Poppy walked into the gloom. A hundred pairs of horsey eyes seemed to follow her.

And what was that? Poppy sensed a movement to her left.

Advancing stealthily down the wall towards her, and – horror of horrors – only centimetres from her hand, was a huge spider with eight long, thick, hairy legs. CHAPTER TWO

Poppy screamed and bolted for the daylight at the end of the hall, her heart hammering.

Mum looked up from settling Toby on the floor. ‘Poppy, what’s the matter?’ she asked.

Ma Grindle gave Poppy a grin. ‘I see you’ve met Archibald.’

‘A-archibald?’ said Poppy.

‘Yes, my spider,’ she said, as she warmed Toby’s milk.

‘Ah,’ said Mum, arching her eyebrows. ‘A spider.’

‘He’s very friendly,’ said Ma Grindle.

Poppy shuddered. Friendly or not, she wanted nothing to do with Archibald and would be happy to never see him again. Spiders were the worst.

She glanced around the tiny kitchen. Every surface was a jumble of blue-and-white bowls, mugs, and plates in tall, wobbly piles like stripy tights. The sink was no bigger than Poppy’s seaside bucket and as for the oven, it looked as if it had been squashed by a giant. By the back door, a large ginger cat lay asleep on a rocking chair. That, at least, seemed normal. Poppy could do without any more surprises, that was for sure.

And Toby seemed happy enough playing with his favourite bells. He held their long wooden handle and jangled them, gurgling to himself as Mum gave him a kiss on the head. Then she turned to Poppy.

‘I need to go now, Pops,’ she said.

Poppy bit her lip. ‘Do you have to?’

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Mum, stroking Poppy’s hair.

Poppy didn’t feel fine. This place was odd with its gloomy hallway and spider and creepy horsey eyes.

‘Ma Grindle will look after you, and I’ll be back to collect you at three o’clock.’

‘Bang on?’ asked Poppy quietly, dreading the thought of staying here a minute longer than she had to.

‘Bang on. Promise.’

‘Can you give Dad a kiss from me and Toby?’

‘Of course, now try not to worry.’ Mum gave Poppy a hug. To Ma Grindle she said, ‘I’ll show myself out.’

Mum’s shoes click-clacked along the hallway towards the front door as Toby jingled his bells. Poppy stared after her, tears pricking her eyes. When she’d seen Dad on Saturday, he’d given her a hug too and said they all had to be brave until he could come home.

Poppy took a deep breath. She could be brave, and Toby needed her: any moment now he’d realise Mum had gone. Poppy counted in her head, waiting for the gurgling to stop and the crying to start. Three, two, one …

But Toby didn’t grizzle. Smiling and dribbling, he held his podgy arms out to Ma Grindle. She picked him up, shooed off the ginger cat and sat in the rocking chair, Toby on her knee.

The cat gave a disgruntled miaow and leapt onto Ma Grindle’s orange-and-green swirled lap, which was already quite full of Toby. Poppy expected Toby to screw his face up and cry, but instead he giggled as the cat swiped at the tassels on Ma Grindle’s shirt.

Ma Grindle laughed, her pink earrings wobbling. ‘Lionel, my

lovely grumpy boy!’ She lifted the cat awkwardly with one hand and lowered him to the floor. ‘I thought you and Poppy could explore the garden while I feed Toby. What do you say?’

Lionel purred, curling around Poppy’s ankles. She bent to stroke him.

‘You like cats?’ asked Ma Grindle.

Poppy nodded.

‘Good, because babies make rotten explorers,’ said Ma Grindle with a wink. She rocked Toby gently from side to side and sang, ‘Hey little kitten, don’t be afraid …’

Toby’s plump fists opened and closed as he giggled with glee. Poppy allowed herself the tiniest of smiles. Ma Grindle knew their favourite song, and Toby seemed to like her. Besides, Poppy liked to be outside, and she had The Perfect Stick to protect her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad here after all.

Through the door, Poppy surveyed the back garden, which was so long, she couldn’t see where it ended. It was as neat and tidy as the front garden was tangled, which was odd. Why let one garden become so overgrown, but keep the other so carefully?

Poppy eyed Ma Grindle’s strange clothes and the silver streaks in her purple hair. ‘How old are you?’ she said, instantly feeling rude for asking.

But Ma Grindle chuckled, deep crinkles fanning out around her eyes. ‘Do you know, every child asks me that.’ She made a silly face at Toby, her mouth pulled into a big ‘O’. He giggled. ‘I’m as old as the sky,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eight and ten months and a week and – two days.’

‘Yes, I thought so.’

Poppy’s eyes widened. ‘Did you?’

‘Oh yes. It’s the sort of thing I know.’ Ma Grindle pulled another face, her lips thinned out into a lopsided grin. Toby squealed with delight. ‘Horsey, horsey, don’t you stop,’ sang Ma Grindle, bouncing Toby on her knee.

A thought popped into Poppy’s head. ‘Are all those horses in the hallway yours?’ she asked.

‘Oh goodness me, no! Where would I put them all in this tiny house? But that reminds me …’ Ma Grindle held Toby with one hand as she reached out with the other, feeling around the worktop between teetering mugs and bowls.

Poppy backed away; she was terrified they would come crashing to the ground, they wobbled so precariously.

‘Ah, here you are,’ said Ma Grindle, passing a small food bag to Poppy. ‘You’d better take a little something into the garden with you, just in case.’

Poppy peeked into the bag and counted five slices of apple. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’ve just had my breakfast.’

‘Ah. But you see there’s always an adventure to be had in my garden,’ said Ma Grindle, cradling Toby as he drank his milk. ‘And you never know, do you, when an apple slice might come in handy?’

Poppy thought that was an odd thing to say, but answered politely, ‘No, I suppose you don’t.’

‘And could you keep an eye out for my washing? A blanket went missing the other day and I still haven’t found it. Such a nuisance. But whatever you do, don’t go beyond the gate.’

‘Okay,’ said Poppy. It wouldn’t be much fun playing in the garden on her own. But at least she had the cat for company. She shoved the bag of apple slices into her sundress pocket and slipped out through the back door, Lionel at her heels.

Around the patio, shrubs bloomed in an explosion of red and yellow. Poppy breathed in the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine as she followed Lionel across the lawn and under an arbour smothered in enormous white roses.

The arbour opened onto a pond as big as five baths with tall blue irises growing around it. A large purple butterfly fluttered over the water, its wings shimmering as purple dust fell softly onto the pond.

Poppy gasped – it was so beautiful, its dust sparkling in the sun. But Lionel jumped, swiping at it. The butterfly took flight, and Lionel chased it.

‘No, Lionel!’ said Poppy, running after him. ‘Naughty cat. You mustn’t hurt it.’

Right at the end of the garden, the butterfly landed on a rickety wooden gate. As Poppy approached, with a flick of its wings, the butterfly took off into the trees beyond, leaving a sparkling trail of purple dust behind.

Poppy leaned over the gate, arm outstretched, reaching for the dust. She beamed with delight as the sparkles played around her fingers before fading to nothing.

The butterfly settled on a leaf in a patch of sunlight beneath the trees, its purple wings folded together. It seemed to be watching her.

‘Are you waiting for me?’ Poppy asked the butterfly as Lionel trotted up beside her and squeezed under the gate.

Poppy glanced back towards the house. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to follow him, just for a minute.

CLAIRE HALFPENNY

Claire writes about social change. She grew up in Manchester – home of the industrial revolution – and since reading Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Oxford University, she has been fascinated by the great epoch shifts in history. Her writing explores how these moments might look from a child’s point of view, and combines the natural world with the all-too human world of people and politics. Claire lives in Winchester with her family and, when she isn’t writing, she can be found walking up Winchester’s only hill with her none-tooobedient blue whippet, Poppy.

REVOLUTION BOY

Ross Partington’s parents want a better life for him, and for all of Manchester’s cotton workers. But after Mam is killed in the Peterloo massacre and Dad is overcome with grief, Ross doesn’t see the point in hoping for change. He just wants to be like the other boys, and for his dad to start talking again. But Dad, too, has given up hope, and the pair of them are under the control of Uncle Ellis. When Ross discovers his uncle has plans for Dad that will ruin their lives forever, he has to find a way to stop him, to save his dad, and to forge his own destiny.

clairehalfpenny@gmail.com

Revolution Boy

CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY 16TH AUGUST 1819

We start walking at eight in the morning, just as the sun’s breaking through the haze of another hot day. Mam’s packed ham to have with the bread and, when we finally stop to eat, it’s as good as I hoped it would be. Cold and salty, my tongue fizzes with the taste of meat. It makes a change from potatoes.

There’s a tap on my right shoulder and I turn to see who it is. There’s no one there, but I know immediately who did it. Joseph always plays this trick on me, so it’s hardly a trick at all, but I laugh anyway. It’s good to know he’s still got some fun in him; since he started work in the mill he’s been dog-tired and not fit for any sort of play.

‘Is that ham you’ve got there?’ he asks, his eyes huge at the sight of it.

‘Sit yourself down, Joseph,’ Mam says. ‘There’s plenty to go round.’

I know this isn’t true. Mam and Dad saved up for weeks for this picnic and there’s hardly anything left in the basket, but I also know Mam’d give up her share for Joseph any day of the week.

‘Thanks, Mrs Partington,’ he says, stuffing food into his freckled cheeks like a squirrel. ‘Is it okay if I walk with you from ‘ere? My sister’s whining about ‘er feet and I’ve got to get away before I wallop ‘er!’

‘Yes, ‘course it is,’ Dad laughs.

The day can’t get much better than this.

As we walk the final few miles from Harpurhey to Manchester,

me and Joseph talk and laugh and kick stones back and forth. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other and I almost wish we didn’t have to go to the meeting; it’ll just be more talk about getting the vote and workers’ rights, and I’d much rather be out on the street playing with Joseph. But on the approach to St Peter’s Field the roads become filled with people and there’s a hum of voices and cheers so strong it’s like the streets are alive. There must be thousands of folk here and it’s actually thrilling, even if it does mean I can’t play with Joseph anymore.

We cram into the field and find a space to stand. Mam’s clasping Dad’s hand tightly and the pair of them look full of excitement and happiness and…I don’t know what, but it’s good, and I want this moment to last forever. Mam, Dad, me and Joseph – together, and everything right with the world.

The crowd quietens as Mr Hunt, the leader of the meeting, stands on a high wooden platform to speak.

‘Come over here, Ross,’ Mam says to me. ‘You too, Joseph.’ She gazes towards Mr Hunt. ‘Just think, Ross; that could be you one day. If we can get you that bursary, and if you work hard, you could be up there, leading the people, just like Mr Hunt.’

I’ve never understood what people mean when they say someone looks radiant, but I know it now. Mam’s usually pale face is glowing. She’s going to apply for a free place for me at Manchester Grammar School, and I don’t reckon she’ll let anything get in her way. Not many boys from Middleton stay on at school – most of them go into the mill, like Joseph. But Mam and Dad think schooling is my ticket out of mill life. They’re probably right, although I feel a bit ashamed not working like everyone else. I love learning, though. I reckon it’d be nice to go up to the grammar school.

‘Can you ‘ear anything?’ Joseph asks. Mr Hunt’s started speaking but we’re too far back and, even though folk are quiet, there’s so many of us that the rustlings of cloth and the odd whisper come together like a small storm erupting from the earth.

‘No, not a word.’

Dad tells us to be quiet and Joseph gives him a mock salute behind his back. He’s daft is Joseph, and that’s why I like him. I’ll have to ask Mam later what Mr Hunt said.

Cutting through the hum of the crowd, a clanging rings out: metal on stone. It happens again and again, and I realise it’s horses trotting. I try to get a better view but I’m not tall enough.

‘What’s happening?’ I hiss. Joseph’s bigger than me – something he’s teased me about ever since the day we met in the woods, under an old beech tree. We were both digging for woodlice. I used to love doing that, and watching as they scurried away. I never hurt them, mind. I just liked watching.

‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘There’s someone coming…’

The mood of the crowd has changed. People seem on edge; looking round at each other, puzzled. Mam’s happy face has gone and there’s a deep crease between her eyebrows.

A cheer erupts from the people around me and my shoulders relax. It must be all right, if people are cheering.

Mr Hunt starts speaking again, but I can’t hear what he’s saying and his words are interrupted anyway by a new sound: the shriek of metal on metal.

‘Dad?’

Dad ignores me. He’s craning his neck to get a better view. All I can see is the sweat-stained armpits of the people bunched around me. There’s a new voice, though. I can’t see who’s speaking but it’s

not Mr Hunt. I think I hear the words ‘warrant’ and ‘arrest,’ and then Mr Hunt replying.

He sounds calm, though; it’ll be all right.

But then there are more voices, all uttering the word ‘arrest,’ and I’m not sure it will be all right.

‘What’s happening, Dad…Mam?’ I plead. They’ve moved forward, trying to see what’s going on, and Mam’s skirts disappear as the pair of them are swallowed up by the crowd.

There’s just me and Joseph left.

In one great sweep, the crowd parts and my first thought is one of relief; I’ll be able to find Mam and Dad again. But then I follow everyone’s gaze and I’m staring up, into the eyes of a cavalry soldier. He’s riding the biggest horse I’ve ever seen and I know I have to get out of its path, but my feet won’t move.

‘Ross, this way!’ Joseph pulls on my sleeve and I stumble to the side, just inches from the horse’s front hooves as it thunders past. What the heck is happening?

Joseph and me half-crawl, half-stumble under a cart – the very cart Mr Hunt arrived in. I peer out, and know in an instant that what I see will stay with me forever.

There are cavalry men on enormous horses wherever I look, and they’re not paying any heed to the people in their way. In fact, it dawns on me that they’re trying to mow them down. There’s a woman clutching a baby to her chest; surely the soldier won’t ride at her.

But he does.

The child flies out of the woman’s arms as she falls and, no sooner is the woman down on the ground than another officer’s sabre rips clean through her. The baby is silent where it fell.

That’s what the metal sound was: sabres.

But why are they using sabres? We’ve not done anything wrong. When Mr Bamford, who headed our group from Middleton, gave a speech this morning before we set off, he was strict as you like about that. There was to be no funny business. No weapons. Just peaceful protest. So why are we being attacked?

People can’t get out of St Peter’s Field – they’re hemmed in by buildings all around, and horses and soldiers are herding them this way and that. There’s no chance for them to run away, only to change course and duck and hide from sabre strikes and horses’ hooves.

A man not six yards away from me and Joseph is struck in the face by a sabre and, when the soldier’s ridden off and I look at the man’s face again, it takes me a few moments to realise that his nose has been taken clean off and blood is gushing down, over his lips and chin, and dripping onto the dusty ground.

My stomach churns.

With a hot panic, I remember Mam and Dad. They must be out there somewhere. I need to find them.

‘No, Ross!’ Joseph pulls on the back of my shirt as I try to stand. ‘You’re crazy! You can’t go out there.’

‘I’ve got to find Mam and Dad!’ I don’t even care that the soldiers have got weapons.

‘You’ll get yourself killed.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ I scream, but Joseph’s holding me tight and I can’t get away. ‘What about your parents, anyway? And your sister?’ Joseph’s eyes cloud over and he almost releases me.

‘We’ll find them. We’ll find them all. But not yet, Ross. We’re no good to them dead, are we? And if we go out now, that’s what we’ll be.’

Heart racing, I sit back down with Joseph, our thighs touching as we huddle together, watching the protestors scurry like woodlice.

Only there’s nowhere for them to go. The cavalry men are all around St Peter’s Field and folk can’t get out. They can’t escape.

CHAPTER TWO

What feels like hours later, we emerge from under the cart. There are bodies strewn around the field; some still, and some moaning in pain. Bloodied caps and bonnets and shawls have been trodden into the ground. We check every body and search every corner of the field, but there’s no sign of Joseph’s family, or of Mam and Dad.

A man from Middleton – Ezra, I think he’s called – rushes over.

‘Joseph, lad. Your Dad’s been lookin’ for you.’

‘Where is ‘e?’ Joseph’s voice cracks.

‘He started on the road home not twenty minutes ago. Your Mam an’ sister too.’ Ezra pats Joseph’s arms as if to make sure he’s really there. ‘If you hurry, you’ll catch ‘em.’

Joseph looks at me and I can tell he wants to go to his family but doesn’t want to leave me.

‘Go on,’ I say, trying to keep my own voice steady. ‘Go and find them. I’ll catch you up soon. I’ll just check down those alleyways first.’

‘All right. You’ll follow on?’

‘’Course.’

Ezra pulls Joseph by the hand. ‘This way,’ he says, and the two of them stumble towards the edge of St Peter’s Field and disappear through a gate, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

I wish it was my family Ezra had seen.

A howl echoes out suddenly and I recognise the voice at once.

It’s Dad.

When I turn to find him, he’s nowhere to be seen and I have to try two alleyways before I come to the right one. There’s no mistaking him when I do finally spot him, although there’s a part of me that wants to be wrong; that wants the man wailing in despair over the broken body of a woman to be someone other than my dad, crying over Mam.

‘Dad?’ My voice comes out in a whisper and I have to clear my throat and try again. ‘Dad. What happened?’

Mam’s lying on the ground, floppy like a baby.

‘What happened?’ I ask again. Dad doesn’t reply but gestures to Mam’s legs, and together we carry her onto the open field. He’s so careful with her, it’s as if she’s made of china. Panic rises in me like the swell of a river after rain.

‘Catherine?’ he says, careful and tender.

There’s no reply.

‘Catherine!’ It’s not a question this time, and he shakes her shoulders as if he’s trying to rouse her from a deep sleep.

‘Look, Dad! Look at her chest.’ I want him to stop shaking her. ‘She’s breathing. She’ll be all right.’ I’m not sure about this, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

Dad kneels next to her and strokes her cheek softly. ‘There was trouble at t’ meeting,’ he says to me. ‘Did you see?’

‘Yes.’ I say this so quietly I wonder if Dad’s heard, but he looks at me all strange so I think he must have. ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’

I pull on Dad’s wrist, trying to get him to look at me again, but he only has eyes for Mam. He puts his jacket over her stomach, where crimson blood seeps into the earthy fabric. She’s in her Sunday best – Mr Bamford told everyone to dress smart – but her dress is torn and bloodied and her limbs look all wrong. One knee is facing

inwards towards the other, as if in greeting. I wish I hadn’t looked at that knee. I wish I hadn’t seen it all twisted like that.

‘We need to get her to hospital,’ Dad says, suddenly decisive.

I help him scoop Mam into his arms; she’s like a baby again in his strong grip, and I don’t like it. She doesn’t look like Mam. At one point, Dad stumbles, and I fear he’ll tip her right onto the street. He doesn’t, but his knuckles whiten as he grips her even tighter.

When we arrive at the infirmary, there’s a wave of calm as two nurses come and take Mam out of Dad’s arms and lay her gently on a bed. I don’t hear what they say but a doctor appears soon and begins taking things out of his black leather bag.

She’ll be all right now. The doctor will look after her.

‘So, Mr – ?’ the doctor says.

‘Partington,’ Dad replies. ‘Arthur Partington. This is my wife, Catherine Partington.’

‘So, Mr Partington.’ The doctor’s tone is firm but kindly. ‘How did this happen?’

‘We were at the march, sir,’ Dad says. ‘Came in from Middleton this morning to hear Mr Hunt speak. And the cavalry, sir…they attacked us.’

I still can’t believe it happened and, by the looks of him, neither can Dad.

‘The march?’ The doctor’s voice has changed. ‘You attended the meeting in St Peter’s Field?’

Dad’s noticed the change too. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looks scared suddenly, and I can’t work out the reason. I don’t know why there’s all this talk anyway – Mam needs help now.

‘Please, sir,’ I cry. ‘Mam’s poorly. Can you help her?’

The doctor starts putting his equipment away again. His bag looks so polished, sat on the floor next to Dad’s tatty boots.

‘No, young man.’ The doctor turns to me and looks down over his glasses like an angry teacher. ‘I shall not be treating your mother. You and your father had best take her away. I shan’t be treating anyone from the march. A bunch of filthy peasants, that’s what you are. Trying to stir up trouble. Trying to start a revolution!’

EMILY GRICE

Emily grew up near Oxford, immersed in the city’s stories and history. She was most inspired by her childhood dream of setting off on an adventure to find a treasure box hidden by her Polish grandad in Lviv, before his capture in WW2. Curiosity about her heritage led her on travels to Poland and Ukraine. She wrote her novel The Box of Life at Bath Spa University, before graduating with distinction. Emily is a secondary school teacher and lives in Hampshire with her daughters and husband. The Box of Life recently won Wells Festival of Literature, Book for Children competition.

THE BOX OF LIFE

1941 Lviv, Ukraine. A professor’s dying wish is that his son protects the mysterious heirloom, Box of Life, from Himmler’s relic collectors. Thirteen-year-old Mikolaj runs, finding refuge in the city’s sewers. He must deliver the box to a secret place, deep inside the mystical Carpathian Mountains, by the night of the red moon. Using his wits to become part of a gang of child resistance fighters, he finds help, friendship and strength. But is it enough to outrun and outsmart the ruthless hunters? Especially when the truth about his family and the box reveals all is not as it seems.

emilygrice76@gmail.com

The Box of Life

CHAPTER ONE

THE CITY OF LWOW, JULY 1941

(now known as Lviv, Ukraine, formally Poland until 1939)

Sparrows might be small, but they’re strong. Mama believed they carry the brave souls of child soldiers who once saved Lwow from invaders. But Papa tells me the little birds survive because they look out for one another.

My short, sharp pencil strokes work fast to capture the bird’s brown plumage and unpredictable, jerky movements onto the pages of my notebook, as he hops from branch to branch on the beech tree outside the open window. I watch the sparrow from the window ledge while I await Papa’s return to the office from his afternoon lecture, which I’ve done after school every day since the Germans invaded. Papa prefers to know where I am. Besides, I’ve nothing else to do since my friends suddenly moved away. I miss them terribly – Jozef the most. I hate my life without them. I begged Papa to allow us to move with them, but he refused.

I add a final smudge of shading to the bird’s proudly puffed belly. At the bottom of the page, I sign Mikolaj Sadowski, aged thirteen. The grandfather clock chimes six o’clock. I unfold my legs and jump down from the ledge, landing with a thud on the Persian rug just as the door flings open and Papa fills the space.

‘Aah Mikolaj, you’re here.’ Papa paces past me.

My fingers fidget with my notepad because I’m eager to show off

my sketch, but I don’t speak. There’s something about his expression, the absence of his usual smile and rub of my cheek, which makes me slip the book into my shorts pocket. Papa glances uneasily at the window and places a small hexagonal box, the size of his palm, on his desk. My heart almost stops. It’s The Box of Life – our family heirloom. The rich grain of the wood shines despite the box’s age, but the edges are worn. There are spiral shapes and strange fork-like symbols carved into each side. The three crowns of our crest are inlaid in the lid. My whole life I’ve longed to see inside it but it has remained locked inside Papa’s safe.

Papa gestures for me to sit on the enormous chair. My bare legs squeak on the leather as I wriggle into place. Excitement flutters in my belly. Papa opens a silver case and takes out a cigarette, taps it on his hand, places it between his lips then strikes a match. Sulphur fills my nostrils and the paper crackles as he draws long and slow. A faint rumble of an engine drifts into the office. Papa’s eyes flit back to the window.

I will burst if he doesn’t speak soon.

He leaves the cigarette to burn in the ashtray, glowing fiery red like the flags which hang from every lamppost outside. They are branded with vicious jagged black crosses, reminding me of dripping blood. I glimpse a grey truck loaded with ten, maybe twelve soldiers slowing down. Is that what Papa’s looking at? Are they coming here? The truck casts a long, dreadful shadow across the cobbles. It stops. A black Mercedes Benz prowls behind.

The truck’s engine cuts out. Sweat forms on Papa’s brow. The soldiers file off the truck like well-trained pack dogs. My eyes flit to the box and then to the window.

Papa clears his throat and rests his fingers on the Box of Life. Hopefully, he’s going to open it and I shall learn secrets guarded by generations of our family. I should be elated, but a nagging thought is bugging me – why now? I gnaw my thumbnail.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Papa’s voice cracks.

‘Yes.’ My mouth dries. ‘It’s The Box of Life.’

He nods. ‘I’d like you to do a very important task for me.’ Papa stubs out the cigarette. The vein on the side of his head is pumping overtime and he avoids my eyes. The flutters in my stomach swell into waves. I sit to attention, puffing out my chest, just like the sparrow.

‘What is it?’ My voice is small, when it was supposed to boom, like Papa’s.

He continues in a brisk tone, ‘The Germans want this box.’ He grabs it but places it back down firmly. ‘I need you to take it to the cemetery. A guide will meet you at the family crypt. They’ll accompany you to a secret place to hide it. Do you understand?’ Papa asks with urgency.

All I can do is stare. The cemetery?

‘Do you understand?’ Papa repeats.

‘I …I…Yes. I think so.’

‘Leave the university by the side door.’

Papa presses the box into my hands. Excitement prickles my skin, but I feel sick.

‘Try not to be alarmed,’ he says, breaking my trance. ‘I’ve made all the arrangements, of course.’ Papa repositions a pen, leaving sweaty fingerprints on the desk.

Why doesn’t he look at me?

He swallows a few times.

I slide off my chair and thrust the box back into Papa’s hands. I notice they are trembling. I do something I’ve never done before.

I force out my chin and say, ‘No.’ Shakily, I continue, ‘I don’t want it.’ I can’t do it without him.

Papa doesn’t tell me off. He doesn’t even look disappointed. His eyes glisten and his brow furrows. Is he sad or afraid? I don’t understand.

‘Mikolaj, I wish I could explain more, but we don’t have time.’

Why does it have to be me? I turn away, hiding my tears and pick at the sturdy leather spine of one of his precious law books. Row after row, they sit like bricks on the solid wooden shelves, ordered like our lives were before the Russians came, before the Germans invaded. I inhale their comforting, musky scent to calm the shuddering breaths caught in my chest.

Papa’s large hand rests on my shoulder. Hesitantly, I turn and search his face for reassurance, but he pinches the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, a sign he’s worried. Then, crouching in front of me, he takes my hands. His voice shakes. ‘It’s an enormous responsibility, I know, but I’m told Himmler himself has ordered the requisition of the box. We can’t have that,’ he says with determination.

‘Why can’t you hide it?’ I ask. Papa smooths my defiant hair, but it fights back and sticks right up again.

‘If I could, I would. But, because you are just a boy, they won’t suspect you.’ He looks grave.

‘What’s inside that is so important?’ I ask.

He pulls me down to his level. ‘It’s better you don’t know. It’s safer that way.’

A rhythmic pounding echoes around the marbled hallways. Jackboots? Are the soldiers inside the building? Panic steals my breath.

‘But Papa…’ I blink away tears. My bony white knees poke out of the top of my grey school socks, and he re-sticks the plaster he stuck

over a graze yesterday. Why’s he bothering? Germans are coming. We need to run, but we don’t. Instead, Papa removes his prized watch from his waistcoat. It’s all he has left of his brave older brother. He pushes it into the inside pocket of his light woollen jacket, which he wraps around my hunched shoulders. It smells of tobacco, books, and Papa’s cologne. Dread sinks to the pit of my stomach. Why isn’t he gathering his things to leave? His face is grim. Terror churns with the dread and I swallow rising vomit. He’s not coming. Why isn’t he coming?

‘There is so much to explain,’ he says. His tone is all wrong. It’s too final. ‘So much to learn; so much you’ll find difficult to understand about the box. About our family. But –’ He glances at the door. He looks afraid.

‘What is it? Please tell me,’ I beg.

‘There’s no time. When the war is over, retrieve the box, learn its secrets, restore our family name, our fortune. Go… now! Run and don’t look back.’ He grips the top of my arms. ‘Promise me you will live.’

‘Come with me,’ I plead.

‘Promise me.’

‘I…I promise, but Papa, please?’

Sobs choke me as he pushes me towards the window ledge where I was sketching happily only moments ago. I stumble.

‘Get up,’ he yells. Eyes darting back to the door. Papa pulls me to my feet and slides the box into the pocket where it knocks against the precious watch. I reach for him, but he bundles me out of the window. I shudder another sob. Papa tries and fails to shut the window completely behind me.

I grasp the bar on the rickety fire escape, but it squeaks and sways freely from the wall. I cry out and grab a branch of the sparrow’s beech

tree, but I slip and swing. My legs dance and the ground swirls far below. Stretching my foot, I manage to reach a fork in the tree trunk and step onto it. Shaking with fear, I wrap myself around it, press my wet face against the bark, dig my fingers into the moss and try to catch my breath.

Through criss-cross twigs and leaves I can still see Papa, standing behind his desk. His face is ashen. He lights another cigarette.

‘Tell me to run all you like, but I’m not going to the cemetery alone,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll hide the box together.’

Papa puts his cigarette in the ashtray and runs a finger over the picture of Mama and me as a baby, taken in the mountains. He looks composed and I feel relief because I’m certain he knows what to do. He always knows what to do.

Then he hangs his head and his shoulders shake. I think he’s crying.

There’s a crash and thud. Papa spins to face the door. Two metal-helmeted Nazis and an officer tramp across the Persian rug. Each beat of a boot reverberates through me, to my very core. They salute with straight arms, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Spit sprays at Papa, but he doesn’t flinch.

The officer removes his hat and gloves and smiles at Papa. Then oddly, he studies the painting of the Battle of Grunwald which hangs above the fireplace. It’s only a copy, but Papa’s favourite. Still studying the painting showing a fallen knight, the officer removes his gun from its holster, then turns and takes aim… at Papa. NO! I screw my eyes shut so tight it hurts.

I hear the German say to his men, ‘Find the box and bring it to me immediately. Then destroy all this Polish Intelligentsia filth before it can infest the land further.’

‘No.’ Papa protests.

A gun fires.

A heavy thud. The sparrow darts from the branches and crashes into the window.

CHAPTER TWO

The sound of gunfire rings in my ears and vibrates through my body, making me numb all over. I stare through the window. It can’t be true. A burning smell alerts me to Papa’s half smoked cigarette which has dropped from the ashtray onto a pile of papers. It takes only moments for the tiny blue flames to curl around the pages, crawl along the rug and catch the curtains.

I force my frozen limbs to move. I want to drag Papa out, but I can’t. I climb down the tree branch by branch, until I reach the ground. I duck behind a bush. To stop my hands trembling, I make fists and take a deep breath. There are voices. So, I peek through the foliage.

The German officer is chatting to a dark-haired girl by the front door. The couple are laughing as though relaxing in a café, not at a crime scene. Murderous rage seizes my muscles, but if I attack him now, then he’ll kill me too and I’ll break my promise to Papa. Instead, I memorise his every poisonous feature: his mean skull of a face, carved with scars, grey sacks of skin hanging below his eyes, and a wiry moustache crawling above his thin lips. Then as I stare, the girl’s eyes – jet-black jewels – find me and ice trickles down my spine. With the lightest touch of her blood-red nails on the officer’s brocaded cuff, she appears to command him.

I make a run for it.

The Nazi spots me.

He barks German commands and fires his gun.

I run as bullets spark off the railings.

On the grand avenue ahead, I can barely believe what I see. Where Papa’s favourite pierogi café, Konkol’s chocolate shop and Zaremba’s tailors all stood, are just shelled buildings and brick carcasses, trembling in smoking ruins. I turn another corner and weave through rows and rows of people with bewildered faces, driven along by soldiers’ prodding guns. I choke back sobs and run. What’s happened to the city? When did they do this?

I hear the splutter of motorbikes. The smell of petrol so strong, I can taste it. I leap over a mountain of rubble and skid down the other side. Grit stings my eyes and skins my knees. Scrambling to my feet, legs like rubber, the motorbikes gain. I clamber over a wall and make it to the steps up Steep Hill: the final climb towards the cemetery. At the top, swirling ironwork gates mark the entrance. Shining black statues guard the graves and behind them, the golden setting sun.

I search for our crypt. The only family property left. Hitler is superstitious. I hope, even for him, disturbing the dead is a step too far. I find the black marble mausoleum next to a tangle of white roses. I freeze at a sound of grunting and scraping. Silently, I scoop up a stone and grip the make-shift weapon tightly. A straggly-haired creature darts between my legs. I jump and drop the stone. The sound alerts the intruder inside. A young girl spins around. I stare, horrified, because she was attempting to push open a tomb. Her strange violet gaze locks on mine. Before I can ask what the hell she is doing, the creature buts me with a broken horn, then the girl steps out of the shadows holding a torch.

‘Excuse Goat,’ she says with caution. ‘He’s nervy.’ She scans me, wipes her hand on her dress and holds it out expectantly. ‘Mikołaj Sadowski?’ she asks through short breaths.

‘Who wants to know?’ I glance around.

‘Janina. But you can call me Nina. Follow me.’ She grabs my wrist. ‘Your Papa hired me as your guide.’ I watch as her heels skid as she resumes pushing the tomb lid. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she snaps. ‘Help me get this thing open.’

‘Why? There are dead people in there.’

‘And two more if we don’t hurry.’ She lowers her voice. ‘We need to get to our hiding place.’

‘You want me to hide inside a grave?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘The sewer.’

FAYE HOLT

Faye Holt was born and raised in Derbyshire, before crossing the Peak District to attend University in Manchester. She studied English and then spent over 20 years teaching and sharing her love of books. She now lives in Buckinghamshire with her family and has just completed the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University. When she isn’t reading, writing or being a taxi service for her three children, she can be found sipping a cool glass of rosé, dreaming of being in the South of France.

THE GHOSTS OF PÈRE LACHAISE

When eleven-year-old Benoit wakes up dead in Paris’ Père Lachaise cemetery, he has no memory of who he was or how he died. Luckily, he has the help of the cemetery’s famous ghosts to help him discover his past. When his search leads him to ‘Le Crazy Horse’ cabaret, Benoit begins to piece together what happened to him and learns about his living family. But with an evil magician hot on his tail and the help (or hindrance) of a clairvoyant who is scared of ghosts, can Benoit and his new friends save those he loves before they meet the same fate?

fayeholt18@gmail.com

The Ghosts of Père Lachaise

CHAPTER ONE

When the boy opened his eyes, it was dark. Pitch black in fact. He blinked a few times and the blackness slid into a dull, dark grey. Eventually, he focused on a cold, stone wall, which leered over him only centimetres from his nose. Turning his head slightly to the left and right, he realised walls surrounded him. He shivered as icy fear crept into his bones.

Reaching out to touch the slab above, he fully expected it to feel cool and hard. But his hand sank into the stone as if it were made of sponge. He yelped and quickly whipped his hand back to his side, the noise rattling around the small box.

He lay rigid for a few moments before tentatively pushing against the walls with his fingertips. Again, they melted into the stone. He whimpered and trembled as he raised both hands to study them. They looked like his palms, his fingers, so how could they push through solid stone?

Lowering his hands onto his face, he was relieved to find it solid. He pushed and prodded his nose, his mouth and his cheeks. Reaching up, he felt thick dark hair. Through the gloom, he looked down at his body. There were his feet, clad in scruffy trainers, and his legs, which he gave a shuffle. The white skin of his bony knees poked through the rips in his jeans. Everything was how it should be, yet nothing felt right.

The darkness seemed to close in on him again, causing his head to swim. He needed to get out of the box. He licked his dry lips then took a deep breath.

‘Help me!’ he cried.

He listened for a reply, but there was only silence. He was alone.

Fighting back a sob, he thought about who might come and rescue him and how they would find him. But as he searched his memory, he found only a swirling mist of emptiness. He had no idea how he ended up trapped in a stone box and no memory of who might come and help him.

He couldn’t even remember his name.

The realisation made him shoot up into a sitting position. His head and shoulders flew through the lid of the box and his wide, terrified eyes swept his surroundings. He was inside another box, this time larger, but different; it had an exit. Moonlight as bright as the sun shone through a gated, arched doorway illuminating shelves placed along three walls. On each shelf there were several human-sized boxes.

His stomach plummeted when he realised they weren’t boxes.

They were coffins.

Leaping out of his coffin with one swift jump, the boy’s eyes bulged in horror. Why had he been trapped inside a coffin? He gasped as his stomach twisted and writhed.

He stared at the other coffins. They all had names and dates smartly engraved onto the sides but his just had a name scruffily scrawled in chalk. ‘BENOIT’, it read. Was that his name? Was he Benoit? If he was, did that mean he was …. dead?

The world span and blurred around him as he stumbled away from the coffins and out through the arched doorway. The bright

moonlight shone on a small building made of white stone. A silver cross was placed on the roof and some old Latin words he didn’t understand were carved into the marble. With a loud gulp, Benoit looked around and saw many similar buildings, or mausoleums. He was in a graveyard.

Trembling, he stepped away from the mausoleum. Why was he in a graveyard? Who had put him here? Why couldn’t he remember anything? Dry leaves skittered over a stone path in the gentle breeze, making him jump.

Forcing his wobbly legs to work, he lurched along the path, not knowing where he was going, only that he wanted to get out of the graveyard. He wanted to go home. His throat tightened as he realised he didn’t know where home was. He stopped walking and desperately looked around, as if the surroundings might give him some help. Gnarled tree branches reached out to him like witch’s fingers, which did nothing to calm him. A sob rose in his throat. ‘Sarah, will you please pay attention. It’s your line next!’

A man’s voice floated across the tombs and graves. Benoit span round to face the direction from which it was coming, the sob lodged in his throat. Through the leaves of the trees he could see a clearing, the moonlight so bright it was lit like a stage.

‘I am paying attention, Oscar,’ a woman’s irritated voice replied. Benoit froze. In the clearing were several people. His first thought was that they might help him find his way home, but their pale faces and strange, old-fashioned clothing made him hesitate. He tiptoed towards a tree and hid behind it, peering out to watch them before deciding whether to ask for help.

‘We’ll start from Act one, Scene one. Again,’ shouted a man running his hands through his floppy dark hair. He was wearing a long,

black coat over a frilly white shirt with a purple cravat tied around his neck. Benoit whimpered when he realised he could see straight through the man.

‘I’ve had enough of this ridiculous play!’ the woman snapped. ‘I’ve performed in the best plays in the world, unlike this pantomime nonsense. I’ve better things to be doing.’

‘Really, Sarah?’ the floppy-haired man challenged. ‘I don’t think you’ve anything else to do, so you might as well fill eternity with my pantomime nonsense.’

Benoit blinked. Did the man just say eternity? His fingers tried to grip the tree trunk to help steady his shaking legs, but they kept sinking into the bark just like they did the stone coffin. He gulped as the woman, Sarah, strode towards his hiding place, passing straight through a tall gravestone.

Horrified, Benoit curled himself into a ball and tried hard not to cry out, but the terror was overwhelming. He let out a huge sob.

Sarah’s footsteps stopped beside him. He buried his eyes into his kneecaps and tried not to breathe, hoping she hadn’t heard the sob and wouldn’t notice him.

‘Oh, my non beating heart,’ she cried. ‘What have we here?’

Benoit heard other footsteps approach, still too terrified to look up.

‘It’s a boy,’ Sarah said. He felt a hand on his shoulder, it was cold but felt solid and strong.

‘Well, knock me down with a dead dog,’ the man’s voice rang out. ‘It looks like we have a new member for our troop.’

Benoit wiggled his shoulders, trying to shake off the hand. He didn’t like the way it felt. He forced himself to look up. A curious group of people smiled down at him. At least he thought they were people; they were more like shadows of people. They were all

smiling at him; big, happy smiles that made their eyes crinkle at the corners. He could see the crinkles, even if he could see straight through them.

Sarah started to clap her hands. ‘How delightful,’ she cried. ‘A new ghost. We don’t get many wake up from the dead.’

Benoit’s mouth gaped. Did she just say ghost? Did she just say dead? His chin started to wobble as his worst suspicions were confirmed and before he knew it, the sobs that he had been holding in all came at once as he wailed into the moonlight.

CHAPTER TWO

The ghosts stood around Benoit as he howled and sobbed and wailed, foreheads crumpled.

‘We’ve never had a child ghost before,’ Benoit heard one of them say over the noise of his sobbing, ‘perhaps this is normal.’

Eventually, Benoit’s sobs subsided into hiccups. He looked up into the concerned faces of the ghosts.

‘Am I dead?’ he whimpered.

They all nodded.

‘Am I a ghost?’

They nodded again.

Benoit gulped and took a deep breath, trying to stop the hiccups.

‘You don’t need to breathe anymore if you don’t want to,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s just a habit.’

‘Sarah!’ the other ghosts hissed at her.

‘What?’ she asked innocently, raising her eyebrows. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

Benoit stared at her wide-eyed, and hiccupped. She wasn’t helping him feel better. He looked around the curious group again. If they were all ghosts, and he was now dead, perhaps they might know who he was and how he died.

‘I don’t know who I am,’ he stuttered, ‘or how I died.’

They all nodded sympathetically. The man with the floppy hair smiled down at him. ‘That’s how it is when you wake up dead,’ he said. ‘You have no memory of your past life. You must piece it all together from the clues on your grave and your visitors.’

‘Visitors?’ Benoit stumbled.

‘Yes,’ the man continued. ‘Your relatives, your fans, and admirers. I know from my grave that I am Oscar Wilde and I found out from my admirers that I am a playwright, author, celebrated wit, handsome, desirable, all-round genius.’

The other ghosts all rolled their eyes.

Benoit thought back to his coffin in the mausoleum. ‘I think my name is Benoit,’ he said. ‘That’s what was written on the side of my coffin.’

The ghosts nodded encouragingly. ‘And what else?’ asked Oscar.

Benoit blinked. ‘That’s it. Nothing else.’

‘Nothing?’ said Sarah.

Benoit shook his head. The ghosts all sucked in the breaths they didn’t need to take.

‘Oh,’ was all Oscar said.

Benoit looked at them desperately. ‘Should it say more?’

‘Well, they usually do.’ Sarah shuffled awkwardly. ‘Something like when you were born and when you died. What you were famous for and who you have left in the land of the living.’

‘Famous?’ Benoit asked.

Oscar gave a deep bow. ‘Yes, old boy. Famous. If you are buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery you are either famous or fabulously rich. Otherwise, you would have been buried in one of Paris’ many other cemeteries.’

Benoit blinked his big brown eyes at the ghosts. ‘But my coffin just says ‘Benoit,’ nothing else. I don’t think I was famous or fabulously rich.’ He looked at the shadowy ghosts in their strange clothes and asked, ‘Were you all famous?’

They all murmured and nodded.

‘The skills we had in life stay with us in death. If you were famous when you were alive, your talents will continue to shine,’ Oscar told him.

Benoit took a breath; it didn’t feel right not to. Did he have a talent? Had he been famous? If he found his talent, might it be a clue to finding out who he was?

Oscar suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘Why don’t we all resume rehearsals of my play? If Benoit was a famous child actor, his talent will still be there.’ He winked at Benoit. ‘I think you can play the witch’s apprentice.’

The ghosts began to protest, but after a stern look from Oscar, meekly followed him back towards the brightly lit clearing. Benoit watched the shadowy figures walk away. He didn’t really want to act in Oscar’s play. What he really wanted was to go home. But being as he didn’t know where home was and had just found out that he was dead, he didn’t have many other options.

‘Don’t mind Oscar,’ said a gentle voice at his side. He looked up into the kind eyes of a dark-haired lady. ‘He can be a bit bossy, but he means well.’ She offered Benoit her hand and pulled him into a standing position. He frowned, confused that his hand didn’t sink

through hers like it did the stone of his coffin. She linked her arm through Benoit’s and pulled him along in the same direction as the other ghosts. ‘I’m Isadora,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Benoit. We haven’t had anyone wake up from the dead for ages.’

Benoit’s head was spinning with all the new information he had just been given. Could he be famous? What was his talent?

He looked at the lady. ‘What are you famous for, Isadora?’

‘I was a dancer,’ she said, smiling. Benoit looked down at his legs. Had these been the legs of a dancer? He noticed he could see the cracked path through them. He was just as shadowy as all the other ghosts. His stomach churned again.

Oscar’s voice rang out through the clearing as Isadora left his side. ‘Positions everyone,’ he cried. ‘Act one, Scene one. Molière, your line is first. Now remember, you’ve just found out your wife has been keeping a secret from you and you’re very angry.’

‘What secret?’ asked a man with long curly hair and a thin moustache.

‘That she’s a witch.’

The man twirled one end of his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Will she be a funny witch?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Oscar replied.

Molière frowned. ‘Will she make a fool of her husband?’

‘No,’ Oscar replied with a sigh. ‘Her husband is cross at her for keeping it a secret she’s a witch. He will get revenge on her.’

Molière twirled the other end of his moustache, still puzzled. ‘Will she have a sister? They could work together to make a fool of the husband.’

‘That would be funny,’ Isadora joined in. ‘Sarah could play my sister.’

‘I’m not playing your sister,’ Sarah spat. ‘I’m playing the witch, the main part.’

Oscar’s pale skin had turned slightly pink. ‘Enough,’ he cried. ‘We need to get on with the rehearsal or we’ll never be ready for opening night.’

Benoit began to shuffle backwards towards the shadow of a large oak tree. He needed time to think about everything he’d just found out; that he was dead, that he was a ghost and that he was probably famous or rich. And that he was surrounded by a cast of famous, and rather strange ghosts who were putting on a play in Père Lachaise Cemetery.

Suddenly, he felt very tired.

Do ghosts sleep? Benoit wondered if he should ask one of the others, but they were all in their positions on the stage. He thought about his mausoleum and how quiet and dark it was and found a sudden desire to be there. Tiptoeing back towards his coffin, Benoit slipped through the stone and lay down.

Oscar’s words floated through his mind. Your visitors will tell you more about who you were. Your relatives. Your fans. Your admirers. He told himself that someone would visit him soon. Someone would tell him what he was famous for. He gave a long sigh. Even if he wasn’t famous, someone must have loved him when he was alive. Surely it wouldn’t be long before they came to pay their respects at his grave. Then, one way or another, he’d find out who he was.

GILL STEPHENSON

Gill conjures up middle grade fantasies, but promises the following are not figments of her imagination: she spent her own middle grade years in The Land of the Long White Cloud, mostly barefoot, scaling glaciers, dodging boiling mud pools, swimming in the sea and occasionally encountering sharks. She’s been a bookshop assistant, ward sister, district nurse, and a support worker for children with additional needs. After home-educating one of her children for ten years, she began supporting primary school children with reading. She holds a BA in English Literature, a BSc, and graduates from the MA with distinction.

GUARDIANS OF BETWIXT

Yorke, 1869. In exchange for a roof over her head, Ottie’s uncle forbids her to speak of her ma, arrested for practising outlawed faerie-tale alchemy. Neither must she attempt to conjure fae from faerie-tale books herself. Ottie agrees – fingers firmly crossed behind her back. Suspecting nothing is as it seems, she sets out to uncover the real reason such alchemy was made illegal, while bracing herself for what might have become of Ma. All the while Ottie risks arrest herself, using her own (somewhat lacking) alchemy skills to try and keep her best friend Chatterjack, a stranded fae bird-boy, alive. gilly@gillstephenson.co.uk

The Guardians of Betwixt

CHAPTER ONE

YORKSHIRE MOORS, SEPTEMBER 1866

From the crag top, Ottie craned her neck, scouring the billowy clouds. ‘I mean it,’ she hollered, thrusting the half-eaten apple skywards, ‘I’ll eat it all… There’ll be none left.’ Still the jackdaw was nowhere to be seen – so much for promising he’d stay close.

She huffed and tugged off her boots; they’d fit well enough a year ago but now they pinched. The cool rock soothing her bare feet, Ottie stared out across the moorland, smudged with vast swathes of purple heather. She and Ma had lived here since Easter, the longest they’d ever stayed put. With each passing month, Ma had gradually seemed more at ease – no one hereabouts to pry, she said. Ottie hoped they’d never need to leave.

At the sound of flapping wings, she bit crossly into the apple. The jackdaw swooped down, landing beside her.

‘Bite some off for me,’ he said, flapping about her feet. Ignoring him, she made a show of chewing.

When Ma had brought him home yesterday, they’d found he couldn’t remember his name, couldn’t remember anything much. Vaguely, he sensed he might once have been a boy. But that was only since Ma pointed out, instead of four talons, one of his scaly feet had five little toes. He wasn’t much of a Curiosity as Curiosities went; no money in him. Hence, whoever’d caught him in a Snare book had seemingly abandoned him.

This morning, he’d remembered he liked apples; it was a start.

‘Come on, let me have a piece.’

‘Not sure you deserve any,’ said Ottie, swiping flyaway hair from her eyes. ‘If you’re going to go off and come back just when you feel like it, I won’t bring you up here again.’

‘Spotted the sea, that’s all. Seen a tall ship.’

‘You can’t see the sea from here.’

‘Can from right up there,’ he said. ‘Come on, give me –’

‘Shh,’ hissed Ottie, tensing, ‘someone’s –’

A man and a woman were hiking towards them along the top of the crags. So close – how had she not seen them? ‘Go,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not safe. Go on, get.’ The jackdaw took to the air. Ottie stole a sideways glance at the two strangers nearly upon her. Missing the jackdaw circling back, she yelped as he swiped the apple from her hands and carried it away.

‘I say, miss,’ the man called out, striding towards her, ‘are you all right; are you hurt, lost?’ His tweed walking jacket caught the wind like a sail. ‘Devil of a bird, attacking you like that. Said to my wife, shame I haven’t got my hunting rifle to hand. That would show it what’s what, eh?’

‘He… it wasn’t…’ She swallowed her horror at the mention of the rifle.

The woman caught up, clinging onto her bonnet against the breeze. She narrowed her eyes at Ottie. ‘I heard voices. You, the bird, were you talking to each –?’

‘N… no… I –’

‘I’ve already told you, dear,’ said the man, ‘the girl was shouting at the bird. Trying to shoo it away.’

Vigorously, Ottie nodded her agreement. She should get back home, fast as she could. Ma would be livid at her. Be careful, keep your wits about you, she’d said. Her mind raced; she pictured Ma hastily

packing the carpet bag, the two of them fleeing in the dead of night, like all the times before.

‘There was a case,’ the woman persisted. ‘A woman arrested in Whitby, only a few weeks ago.’

‘I… I have to get home.’ Ottie, heart pounding, fumbled for her boots, clutching them tight to her chest.

‘Honestly,’ said the man, ‘you read one article in the newspaper and suddenly everyone you come across is a… Look at her, dear – she’s a mere slip of a girl.’

‘But I’m sure I heard her and the bird… and one of its feet looked… odd.’ She suddenly grabbed Ottie’s wrist. ‘Tell me the truth now, girl, tell me.’

Ottie tore herself free, scrambling away across the crags.

‘See!’ she heard the woman cry. ‘Why run if she has nothing to hide?’

Trembling, Ottie finally reached the dirt track way below. The jackdaw, perched on a drystone wall, now hovered about her shoulders as she made her way back to the stone cottage.

Walking hurriedly, panting, she rehearsed how she might break it to Ma about the encounter. But once home, in the dim light of their one room, she found Ma at her table, absorbed, sharpening her goose quills, uncorking bottles. Tucking her long skirts away from the spitting fire, Ma began to whisper into the book’s blank pages as she applied the first of the inks.

The jackdaw flew across to the table, perching for a look. ‘This’ll take me back home?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s… to keep you safe,’ said Ma, ‘…until you can go home.’

Knowing Ma did not have the heart to tell the jackdaw the truth, Ottie climbed onto their bed and lay watching her as she worked on.

After a while, the growing warmth from the fire made her eyelids heavy. And the moment to tell Ma about the strangers slipped by.

CHAPTER TWO YORKE, MARCH 1869

Despite her best efforts, the muffled scrat-scratting just beneath her pillow was proving difficult to ignore.

Scrat… scrat-scrat.

‘Shh,’ Ottie whispered. The scratting continued. Reluctantly, she half opened her eyes. The attic room was still dark; she couldn’t make out so much as the candle stump on the bedside table.

Scrat-scrat… tap.

‘Stop it…too early.’ She rolled over, wincing at the curling-rags wound tightly into her hair. Tugging the blankets over her head against the chill, Ottie slid a nail-bitten hand under her pillow and wrapped her fingers round the soft calfskin of the Haven book. After a minute or two, it fell quiet.

The book – pocket-sized – felt even smaller nowadays, though of course it was just that her hands had grown. After all, Ma had made it when Ottie was barely ten; soon she’d be thirteen. Ma… Ottie felt the all too familiar ache for her – finally putting paid to any more sleep.

The ache wasn’t as crushing as it had been two and a half years ago, which she supposed she ought to be thankful for. Instead, though, she’d found herself becoming more and more anxious about it. Lately, her memories of Ma had begun to feel like pebbles Ottie had once thrown into a dew pond – the acute ripples softening, smoothing out so you’d hardly know the pebbles had been there at all. She couldn’t

bear the idea of forgetting anything about Ma. So, she lay very still, compelling the memories to surface. The way Ma used to frown in concentration, as she worked on a book. Or was it more of a scowl? The sound of her voice, playful, light, when everything was going right. Fractious – no, downright cross – when she couldn’t get a Haven book to fold out and burst properly into life.

Scrat-scrat… tap-tap-tap.

‘For goodness’ sake… just…give me a minute.’ Letting go of the book, she poked her head above the blankets and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Chatterjack sounded like he was in a crotchety mood. Perhaps he’d had one of his nightmares, though he’d never confide to Ottie what so troubled him. Then, with a jolt, she remembered she hadn’t let him out the evening before. Crotchety? Worse – he’d be in a beastly mood. With a sharp pang of guilt, she threw back her blankets, scrambled to her knees and fished the book out. Quickly untying the frayed ribbon which kept it fastened, she whipped it open.

Ottie felt a rush of air across her cheek as Chatterjack shot from the pages. She heard his paper wings flittering, soft but frantic against the attic walls. ‘Calm down,’ she said, keeping her voice low. She was always mindful not to disturb nosy Mabel, the maid-of-all-work, at the other end of the corridor. ‘Stop it; you’ll hurt yourself.’

Chatterjack’s wings began to sound more solid – flittering turning to feathery thwacks. ‘Jack, just come back to the bed. I’m sorry.’ Eyes adjusting to the dark, Ottie made out his black form as he swooped towards her. She startled as he landed on her head, his soft toes icy cold, the talons of his other foot digging into her hair. Then she felt the sharp peck of his beak. ‘Ouch!’ she yelped, flapping a hand about her head.

‘That’ll learn ya,’ cried Jack, taking off again to perch on the narrow windowsill.

Ottie rubbed at the sore spot, crossly – though part of her thought she deserved it. ‘It’s teach. That’ll teach me.’

‘I’ll say what I want.’

‘Fine. But I’ve said I’m sorry. Honestly, I am.’ She fumbled about for a match and lit the candle stub. ‘I didn’t get back ‘til nearly midnight.’ Aunt Lydia had kept her busy until extremely late, scrubbing the emporium floors, polishing all the cabinets. Finally, fit for nothing but falling into bed, she’d had these stupid curling-rags to wrestle with. Aunt Lydia had threatened if she didn’t do them properly, she’d send Mabel to tie them in each night. Ottie had enough trouble keeping Mabel out of her room as it was. Shivering, she yanked a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round her shoulders. ‘You were fast asleep by then.’

‘Was not.’

Ooh, he was in a beastly mood all right; it was barely worth trying to reason with Jack when he was like this. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll try to come back at noon and –’

‘I ain’t spending another minute in that book,’ he said, patterpacing back and forth along the windowsill.

‘We haven’t any choice.’

‘I have. And I ain’t going back in. Chimney in there’s freezing. Been bitter cold all night. And the pot’s crumbling now – bits all crashing down ‘bout me earholes.’ Jack came to a standstill, his head twitching nervously, wings quivering. ‘What if it… collapsed? What if I was still inside?’

‘It… it won’t collapse,’ said Ottie, trying to convince herself of it as much as Jack. I just need more time to… to work out what to do.’

‘Well, you better work it out fast.’ He fluffed out his feathery chest. ‘What’s the use of you being up to your neck in quills and inks in that fancy shoppe all day, if you ain’t going to make things right for me?’ He turned his back to Ottie and stared stubbornly through the glass. Ottie slumped back onto her bed. She felt useless. Worse than useless – an utter failure. One small mercy, at least Ma couldn’t see what a dreadful state she’d let the book get into. The chimney, and the whole cottage it was attached to, the garden surrounding it – Ma had worked so hard on it all. Her alchemy had transformed it into somewhere welcoming, homely, warm.

The book’s centre pages used to fold out effortlessly. One gentle pull of the green ribbon attached to its bottom margin and the whole scene had risen up, like a miniature theatre set, before bursting into life. Once upon a time, Ottie had marvelled at the shadows from the trees within, flitting across the cottage’s limewashed walls. And its curtains at the open windows, rippling in the breeze. She’d caught the heady scent of the sweet peas winding their way up the garden canes. Even been able to hear the tiny hoverflies, small as pin pricks, buzzing in the hollyhocks by its door. But delightful as it had all been, she could never forget the angst in Ma’s eyes when she’d explained, This book, Ottie, all Haven books… they’re a lifeline; they’re as vital to stranded fae as heart and lungs. Understand?

Ottie stared down at the open book on her bed, its pages now tattered and water stained. Even from where it lay, she couldn’t escape the whiff of dank rising from the cottage walls. Its windows were cracked, frayed curtains hanging limp, flowers long gone. And Jack’s chimney, which Ma had built to hold his nest… just as he said, it was crumbling away. Ottie flipped the book shut and let out a deep sigh.

‘I… I’m sorry, I just… I don’t have –’

‘The money? A licence? You keep saying all that; I’m sick of it.’

Turning round to Ottie, Jack jutted his head forward, tail feathers flared. ‘You’ll just have to borrow what you need.’

‘Borrow?’ Ottie gave an exasperated groan. She pulled open the drawer in the bedside table, reaching in for Jack’s tiny brown sock; she’d made it by removing one of the pockets from her woollen dress. ‘It’s only borrowing if you can return it. Otherwise, it’s called stealing.’ She undid the purse-string tie on the top of the sock. Whatever she’d eventually have to do to try and repair the Haven book, it’d be criminal. Aunt Lydia held on to every penny of Ottie’s meagre wages – part-payment, she claimed, for her board and lodging. And unlike the invariably well-to-do customers who visited the emporium to purchase their alchemy supplies, Ottie did not have a licence. Indeed, the idea of any child holding a licence was unheard of. But at least if she could somehow pay for the inks, it would ease her conscience a little.

‘Beg, borrow, steal,’ Jack piped up. ‘I ain’t bothered how you do it. Things is getting desperate.’ He tapped his beak on the window. Dawn was breaking. ‘I want to go out.’

‘But it’s not light yet.’

‘It is. Let me out. Now. Nar. Kaaar.’ Jack always slipped back into jackdaw-talk, the angrier he became.

Ottie didn’t like letting him out before it was properly light. She worried. About cats. Rats. Owls. ‘Can’t you wait just a –’

‘KAAAR,’ Jack cried loudly, then pecked furiously against the glass.

‘All right, all right, keep your feathers on.’ Scared Mabel might wake at any moment and come snooping, she climbed off the bed and stepped quickly to the window. ‘But, please, don’t go far.’ She fastened the woollen sock in place, hiding Jack’s foot. He disliked

having it on – it itched. Far better, Ottie insisted, to wear a scratchy sock than be spotted with toes.

She unhooked the latch and opened the window. Jack took straight to the air, up and away without so much as a backwards glance.

Straining her eyes, she tried to follow his path, but he quickly disappeared into the fog, towards the Ouse. Beyond the back garden, she heard its swollen waters lapping onto the river path – a coal barge perhaps, making an early start upstream to the wharf. A cat mewled, somewhere below. Like always, Ottie wouldn’t rest easy until Chatterjack came back.

JULIE-ANNE GRAHAM

Julie-Anne grew up in Belfast surrounded by pattern and colour – her fashionista mother owned a boutique and her uncle sold exquisite designer shoes. She went on to study fashion, illustration, and creative writing and loves mixing them together. Julie-Anne has illustrated apps, games, and picture books, created her own fashion label, and designed e-learning courses to help kids manage their thoughts and emotions. Graduating from the MA in Writing for Young People with a distinction, she lives in Brighton with her partner. In Ava and Luscious Gardens she explores how what you wear affects the way you think, with the potential to enforce conformity, assert individuality, or even incite revolution…

AVA AND LUSCIOUS GARDENS

Alice in Wonderland meets Alexander McQueen, with flocks of flying Louboutins. In a grey world, where colour is outlawed, eleven-year-old Ava faces a lifetime of soul-crushing obedience as she prepares to work at the town’s giant paperclip factory. After she is kidnapped by a pair of flying shoes, she discovers a dazzling garden full of exotic creatures and enchanted shoes outside the town walls. When the Mayor finds out, Ava must use her creativity (and the garden’s magical soil) to save the gardens from his greed and liberate her family and the town from his tyrannical control.

julieannegraham@proton.me

Ava and Luscious Gardens

CHAPTER ONE LITTLE BURFOOT

By Decree of Mayor Augustus Quigg –

#00439: The Rule of Meticulous Incineration: Citizens shall scorch exterior spaces each Monday at 07:45 hrs precisely

Ava never got bored of watching Pa burn the garden. From the top floor of their rickety house, she followed his movements as he dowsed the charred earth with a large canister. The fumes drifted upwards through the open window and caught the back of her throat. Her eyes watered as she placed her arm on the windowsill and buried her nose in the sleeve of her threadbare cardigan. In gardens nearby, others stood with matches, waiting.

The landscape below was grey, as far as the eye could see. Ash-grey houses stood on smoke-grey streets with slate-grey yards. In the crooked alleyways between, children with faces the colour of stone played football with tin cans. In the distance the paperclip factory bellowed out endless smoke from its twelve enormous chimneys, blanketing the sky with soot and dust. Thick cloud hung low over the town, as though it might crush you. Circling the town was The Great Wall: an impenetrable barricade of concrete and cement that protected the town from the dangers that lay beyond.

Ava’s satchel sat by the door. It was 7.44am. If she watched the burning for three minutes, she’d have a minute to get out of the house, two minutes to get down their street, five minutes to run

along Main Street, and four minutes to get to the schoolhouse for 8am. It was tight, but it was worth it.

In her cardigan pocket, Kenny was shivering. Petrol wasn’t a welcome smell to a dormouse. She curled her hand around him, feeling the warmth of his fur and the hammering of his tiny heart.

‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. ‘You’re safe with me.’

The smell of petrol always made Ava’s heart race. Not because of the fumes, but because soon the grey world would be illuminated by flames of scarlet, of ruby, of crimson. Flames the colour of ladybirds and tangerines and sunsets and everything forbidden. Colour that burned into her retinas, that bloomed in her imagination, long after the flames had died.

Pa said it was dangerous beyond The Wall. But Ava had heard stories of the beauty out there. What would it be like to see a lightning bug at midnight? Or watch a caterpillar turn into a butterfly? Or see a swarm of bumblebees make honeycomb?

The sirens sounded. She held her breath as Pa reached into his pocket and pulled out a matchbox. A tiny burst of light blossomed in his hand as he threw it to the ground and ran backwards onto the paving stones. The match hit the earth and the garden burst into a blaze, flames leaping and flickering upwards from the soil. Tiny sparks flew towards her bedroom window on a gust of warm air. The flames danced with the wind, moving from side to side, caressing the sky with their long slender fingers. Ava stared, transfixed.

Within seconds the flames had blazed across the garden, consuming the tiny shoots of life that had been trying to grow. Soon, they’d extinguished themselves at the edge of the paving stones, leaving only plumes of dark grey smoke. The ash floated skywards, into her bedroom, dusting her hair and hands with tiny flecks of white.

Across the town, other gardens blossomed briefly into light before joining their offering of smoke to the skies. Within minutes, the burning was complete.

Ava sighed. That was it for another week.

Kenny had curled into a small ball of trembling red fur in her hand. The day she’d found him, he was near a piece of smoking land, shivering like this. How many creatures had died here since the Mayor enforced his rules?

She reached under the bed, pulling out a cosy shoebox filled with shredded paper and fabric scraps. Gently, she placed Kenny in a corner. Beside the box was her most treasured possession. A large, illegal book, the colour of dust, filled with colourful pictures of insects she was supposed to know nothing about.

It was 7.48am. She ran downstairs, waving Ma and Elsie goodbye as she flew out onto the street. As she turned onto Main Street, a couple of highly polished vans whooshed past, emblazoned with ‘Maximillius Quigg Steelworks: The Finest Paperclips Money Can Buy’. During the week, the vans carried their cargo out of town, to places all over the country. Each day she squinted to see who was driving, but the tinted glass made it look like they were driven by ghosts, with the faintest of figures behind the wheel. Quigg Paperclips were sold in London, New York, Paris, even as far as Delhi. Most people in Little Burfoot had never ventured beyond the wall. But the drivers had. If only she could talk with one. What stories would they tell her?

As she ran past the corner, a man was standing with a stack of newspapers.

‘Roll up, roll up! Get the latest copy of The Burfoot Times, fresh off the presses. Three-headed wolf attack yesterday outside the East Gate. Eight-year-old’s arm torn clean off!’

Ava veered away from him, narrowly missing a woman outside the grocers with a basket of wrapped parcels.

‘Slug sandwiches,’ she called. ‘Still steaming! Fresh off the ground this morning. Only two steel coins.’

The factory horn blared. All around, doors opened and shut, as a river of grey men and women began flowing down the street, heading towards the smoking chimneys. Within a minute, the flow of people had swollen from two or three wide, to fifteen or twenty.

Ava looked at her watch. School was exactly five minutes away. If she was going to get there on time she’d have to hurry. She peeled off down Delilah Street and started to run. Above her, washing lines full of sheets and shirts billowed in the morning breeze. As she turned onto Keffle Corner, she ran headlong into a laundry line that had fallen. Her bag flew into the air, scattering books everywhere. Flurries of loose pages blew upwards, twirling in circles beside pantaloons and pinafores. That was her homework! Mrs Blythebook would kill her.

Ava picked herself up off the ground, darting here and there, collecting pieces of paper. As she shuffled them into a pile, a tiny turquoise beetle crawled out from between the sheets and onto her hand.

Ava froze.

The turquoise stood out vividly against all the grey.

Electricity shimmered and surged in her chest. Every cell in her body was dancing. The book under her bed was packed with botanical illustrations of insects, each meticulously documented with a Latin name, colour and species. But she’d never seen one in real life.

She held her breath. The miniature shell crawled around her ring finger like a tiny jewel. The creature was half the size of her smallest fingernail and its shell sparkled and glittered in the sunlight.

Ava’s eyes widened.

It looked like the beetle was wearing tiny golden boots.

It turned to face her and opened its shell. Fuchsia pink wings with turquoise spots unfolded and vibrated so fast she could hardly see them.

It flew up, hovered in front of her nose for a second, and then was gone.

Ava stood, staring up into the sky, stunned. Where had it come from?

Her eyes scanned the clouds for any tiny flash of pink, but there was nothing.

Closing her eyes tight, she tried to hold onto every detail. As she did, the most important rule of all swirled in her head: #00001: The Rule of Monochrome Righteousness. Hues of a frivolous nature are strictly forbidden. Grey is the only industrious colour. The Mayor had banned colour when Ava was a toddler. There were severe penalties for anyone found breaking this rule.

Ava’s eyes flickered open. She peered at the pages in her hand, thumbing through them, sheet by sheet. Then she checked the dirt and stones by the side of the wall, but there were no more beetles. She glanced at her watch. Blythebook would be on the warpath soon.

Dazed, she shoved her papers into the bag and started running towards the school as fast as she could.

CHAPTER TWO THREE MINUTES

By Decree of Mayor Augustus Quigg – #0007: The Rule of Righteous Punctuality: All citizens shall respect the clock

Cecilia and Delilah Quigg turned to glare at Ava as she scuttled into the classroom at 8:03am, three whole minutes past the hour.

Mrs Blythebook was already standing at the blackboard shouting, her enormous eyes flashing and bulging behind her glasses, an ostentatious portrait of Mayor Quigg above her head. She was sharp and sinewy, all bones and elbows, with a face like a wrinkled prune. To her left was a large abacus, and to her right, a large wooden desk topped with a silver bell, a quill in an inkpot and, of course, the cane.

‘You’re late, Ava,’ the twins mouthed in unison.

Mrs Blythebook marched straight towards her and pushed her up against the wall.

‘How many times do I have to tell you, Tinker? This is NOT acceptable.’

She was so close Ava could see the tiny broken blood vessels in her eyes, magnified behind her glasses.

Ava looked down. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Blythebook…’

‘What excuse is it this time? Your satchel broke? Your alarm didn’t go off?’

‘No…’ Ava twisted her skirt in her hands, searching for a reason. She couldn’t tell Blythebook she’d seen a tiny turquoise beetle wearing golden boots.

‘Do you think we all have ENDLESS amounts of time to sit around waiting for you to arrive? Don’t you think we have things to do?’

She gestured to the technical drawings that lined the walls showing the inner workings of paperclip machines. On the other wall, giant diagrams depicted each stage of the steelmaking process, from raw materials to metal wire.

Ava shook her head and shrank down the wall, trying to disappear.

Blythebook stalked off towards the blackboard in a storm of grey fury as the clock above it hit 8:04.

‘Eight. Oh. Four.’ She hit her cane on the desk, in time with her words. ‘Eight. Oh. Four. That’s FOUR WHOLE MINUTES!’

Ava nodded in shame.

‘Do you understand the implications?’

Ava nodded again.

Blythebook dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Well, tell me then… what does it mean?’

She hit her cane on the blackboard hard.

Ava gulped and made her way up to the front of the classroom. She picked up the chalk and wrote on the board.

4 minutes x 6 days per week = 24 minutes

24 minutes x 51 weeks per year = 1,224 minutes

1,224 minutes x 60 years = 73,440 minutes

Ava put down the chalk. ‘With this kind of daily carelessness, I would’ve stolen 73,440 minutes from Maximillius Quigg Paperclips Incorporated.’

Blythebook pushed Ava out of the way and peered at the blackboard, her eyes darting from figure to figure, trying to detect a mistake. When she found none, Blythebook snorted, ‘And what does that mean, girl?’

Ava picked up the chalk again.

1 machine = 560 paperclips per minute

73,440 minutes x 560 paperclips = 41,126,400 paperclips not produced

Blythebook hit the cane on the board, ‘AND…?’

1 paperclip = 0.1 steel coin

41,126,400 paperclips x 0.1 = 4,126,400 steel coins lost

Blythebook pinned Ava to the blackboard with the cane and checked the calculations.

‘So, Ava Tinker. Have you got a SPARE four million to make up for your disgraceful behaviour this morning?’

‘No,’ Ava whispered.

‘Do your family?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve wasted enough time, Tinker. Sit down and keep your mouth shut for the rest of the day.’

Ava picked up her bag and shuffled to the back of the class, squeezing onto a bench beside Henrietta. All this drama over three minutes. Her body was shaking. She blinked back hot tears and tried to focus.

‘Tomorrow, the Mayor will be coming to assess the school,’ Blythebook announced. ‘He’ll want to make sure you’re all on track with your learning, so today we’re going to rehearse. We don’t want to make a mistake, do we?’

‘No, Mrs Blythebook,’ the class said in unison.

‘And why is that?’

‘Mistakes are inefficient…’ the class chanted.

‘That’s right,’ Blythebook grinned. ‘If I catch any one of you making a mistake tomorrow, I will come up with a truly gruesome punishment!’ She looked deeply satisfied at the idea. ‘We can’t have the Mayor thinking I’m not doing my best.’

She turned to the board. ‘Now, we’ll start with your ABCs. Who can start us off?’

Horace Hornswaggler’s hand shot up. ‘A is for ALLOY.’

‘Yes, very good, Horace. And B is for…’

‘BLAST FURNACE,’ said Jeanine O’Reilly.

‘Yes!’ Blythebook said. ‘Very good. C is for…’ She looked at the Quigg twins. ‘Cecilia, you’ll know this.’

‘COST EFFICIENCY, Mrs Blythebook.’

‘Absolutely perfect!’ she beamed.

Blythebook went around the class one by one, pointing at children with her cane.

‘E is for Engineering…F is for Foundry…G is for Galvanised…’

‘Excellent. You have your ABCs in hand.’ She took a deep breath, puffing her chest up, as though she was trying to inhale the excellence she’d created. ‘Now, we’d better brush up on our spelling. Tell me, who can spell smelting?’

Hands shot up across the room.

‘S-M-E-L-T-I-N-G,’ Cyril Smythe said with a huge grin.

‘That was an easy one, Cyril.’

His face fell.

‘Since it was so easy, can you tell me what it is?’

Cyril recited, ‘Smelting is the extraction of metal from rock by heating it.’

Henrietta whispered to Ava, ‘She’s smelting my head.’

Ava giggled.

Blythebook’s giant eyes swivelled towards them.

‘Henrietta!’ Blythebook fixed her with a glare. ‘Perhaps you can tell us how to spell aluminium?’

Henrietta’s face flushed and she shifted in her seat. ‘A-L-M-U-IN-I-U-M.’

There was silence.

Blythebook’s eyes widened.

‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Blythebook,’ Henrietta stammered. ‘I meant A-L-UM-I-N-N-I-U-M.’

‘NO!’ Blythebook shouted, covering her ears.

‘A-L-M-U-M-I-N-I-U-M?’

‘Three times, Henrietta! Three times and still it’s a WHAT…?’

‘Mistake, Mrs Blythebook.’

‘Yes! A MISTAKE. And what are mistakes?’

‘Inefficient,’ chorused everyone.

Cecilia and Delilah elbowed each other, stifling their laughter.

Blythebook grabbed Henrietta by the ear and dragged her up to the front of the class. She shoved Henrietta into a corner with a slate and a piece of chalk.

‘Face the wall! Don’t move a muscle until you’ve written aluminium a thousand times. You won’t forget how to spell it after that.’

Ava watched Blythebook, anger filling her body. Each day she thought she couldn’t hate her more, but each day she was wrong.

‘And don’t even think about writing any less.’ Blythebook adjusted her glasses. ‘Remember, I can see EVERYTHING!’ She widened her eyes until they were gargantuan and stared at the class as a warning.

Then there was silence, except for the scratch of chalk on slate.

LAURA BRIDGE

Laura Bridge has two master’s degrees, one in Education and one in Writing for Young People. Laura has taught in primary schools in Spain, The Netherlands and the U.K. She recently secured her dream job, working as a library lead in a secondary school where she spends her days encouraging the next generation of readers and writers. Laura has had two short stories published in anthologies and won the Cheshire Prize in 2017 for an extract from another MG manuscript. A Tangled Web will be her debut novel. Laura lives in Bath with her husband, two sons and stubborn miniature schnauzer, Otto.

A TANGLED WEB

Sixty years after the internet was destroyed, the world has become safe and sustainable but twelve-year-old Olive finds the simple way of life stifling and limited. When her great-grandmother reveals that all the internet’s data was stored on plant DNA, numerous forces race to control the new tech, each with very different ideas of how the internet should be used. As more family secrets come to light, Olive finds herself in an impossible situation. Should she release the internet back into the world, or is the world better off without it? laurabridgeuk@gmail.com

A Tangled Web

PART 1:1

BLOGPOST: January 12th 2031

Unknown Author

You have to understand: Earth is dying.

Watch the news to see! Rivers flood the land. Fires flash through forests. Storms shatter coasts and homes and lives.

Earth is dying, but it’s going down fighting.

PART 1:2

SIXTY YEARS LATER

Olive watched a honey bee dance against the library window and, checking that her teacher was busy with another group of children, she climbed onto her chair to let it out.

‘What are you doing?’ Sim whispered up from behind a huge pile of books. ‘We’ve only got five minutes to finish these questions about old tech.’

Olive pushed the creaky window open and smiled as the sweet

smell of spring swarmed in. The bee buzzed out across the fields to rejoin its colony and Olive held her arms wide, imagining the freedom of flying.

‘Don’t you think old tech sounds like a fairy story?’ she said, ignoring the giggles of her classmates. She hopped off the chair and peered into the book that Sim was reading. ‘I mean, the internet sounds like a brain that knew everything, and how is that possible?’

‘It says here that information was stored in a cloud,’ Sim said.

‘The clouds?’ She glanced up to the bright blue sky. ‘How did the computers get the information down from the sky? It’s hard enough trying to find answers in here.’

Hopfirth’s small community library was old and shabby and the books it held were in an even worse state. Sim flicked through the reference book, a crinkled, hard-backed copy of All About the Internet: A Kid’s Guide. It’d been printed in 2028. Ancient.

Heads together, they scoured the pages, but the information about the internet was about as believable as Greek myths or space travel – just fantastical stories adults told kids at bedtime.

‘It’s time to start packing up,’ Miss Charlotte said to her class. ‘I need to get out of here sharpish. There’s a community council meeting before the outsider’s talk this evening.’

Sim’s grin was as wide as Olive’s. He was just as excited as she was.

‘I know we are all desperate for this evening’s entertainment but please put the books away carefully,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘Some of them are getting fragile.’

‘Why is it so much more fun to get things out than to put them away?’ Olive said, slotting All About the Internet back onto the ‘History’ shelf between two incomprehensible books, Surviving Social Media and Build Your Own Website.

‘Dunno,’ Sim said, emerging from behind the rickety ‘Old Tech’ shelf. He paused. ‘I wonder if the outsider really does have old tech that works?

‘I hope so!’ Olive replied. ‘It can’t just be another outsider con to get a free meal and a warm bed for the night.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ Sim said. ‘Remember that man who said he could make dogs do whatever he asked?’

‘The one that ended up leaving with a bitten hand and half his trousers missing?’ Olive said. ‘How could I forget?’ She hopped around with one hand clutched under her armpit. Sim laughed.

‘That’s a pretty good impression. Poor guy. I wouldn’t want to be him.’

Sim’s face crumpled with laughter. They had been best friends for thirteen years, ever since they’d been tiny babies. Usually, though, it was Sim who made Olive laugh and she treasured any chance she got to return the favour.

‘The outsider life must be exciting,’ Olive said. ‘Imagine spending your days wandering between communities in The Wilds and meeting different people.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sim shrugged. ‘I quite like knowing where my next meal is coming from.’ He rubbed his belly.

Olive caught the look thrown by Sim’s big brown eyes. His warm, beige skin glowed in the sun. Olive looked down at her own pasty, freckly hands. A random lull in conversation left the room quiet for a moment and a swoop of colour drew Olive’s attention to the window. A pair of red kites soared through the blue sky. One bird dived out of sight momentarily, returning empty-clawed.

The chatter quickly rose once again, and Olive sighed. ‘Sim, don’t you ever dream of more for your life?’

‘More than what?’

‘More than having to work for every single thing you eat and wear? More than this small community and knowing your life will always be within its boundaries. I don’t know. Just … more.’

Sim shook his head, but he was still smiling. ‘You’re so like Em, you know,’ he said.

‘Gran? How do you mean?’

‘You are both . . . I’m not sure of the word. Restless? Like you are waiting for something.’

Before Olive could answer, Miss Charlotte’s clear voice rang out across the library.

‘That’ll do, kids. A few things before you go.’

Everybody came to sit down near Miss Charlotte, rustling and fidgeting.

‘I know you are all keen to leave, so I won’t keep you long,’ the teacher said. ‘Just a quick show of hands. How many of you would want the internet brought back?’

Olive thrust her hand in the air and looked around at the eight or so other hands in the air. It wasn’t as many as she thought, maybe half the class. Sim’s hand was not one of them.

‘Interesting,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘Why would you like the internet back, Mattie?’

Mattie, a light-skinned, dark-haired boy who was two years younger than Olive said, ‘I just think everything would have been easier in The Time Before. You know, easy to get jobs done.’

‘Anyone think the opposite?’ Miss Charlotte asked. ‘Carrie?’

‘I think things are great now,’ Carrie said. Several other children nodded, including Sim. ‘The environment is recovering; we have everything we need. It would be a backwards step to have the internet back.’

‘No, it wouldn’t!’ Olive shouted, ignoring the disapproving glance from her teacher. ‘The destruction of the internet was a disaster. It’s like we’ve gone back in time. We’ll be living in caves soon.’

‘It’s not that bad, Olive,’ Sim said. She looked at his hopeful smile and her heart squeezed for her friend.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s not that bad. Not yet.’

‘Good debate,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘We’ll continue on Monday. Leave your work by the door on the way out. Remember, the whole reason we are learning about The Time Before is because of the outsider who is coming tonight. He claims to have some functioning old tech.’ Miss Charlotte had to snuff out the excited chatter with a stern teacher-look. ‘It’s unlikely to be true, of course, but perhaps this evening’s talk will jog some of your older relatives’ of the internet. It would be great to share those stories in our next class.’

Olive shot a look at Sim. ‘Talk to Granny Em about The Time Before?’ she whispered, her chest tingling with both fear and excitement at the thought. ‘No chance!’

PART 1:3

WORKSHEET

Names: Olive and Sim

Date: April 20th 2091

Topic: History

Title: Finding Out About The Internet

1. What was the internet and when was it invented?

The internet was a big brain that stored all the information. People found answers using search trains. The internet was developed in the 1960s but in 1989 someone created a web across the whole world which was the start of the internet proper.

2a. List three uses of the internet:

a. buying food and clothes b. communicating by email c. entertainment

2b. What do we do today instead? a. grow or make things b. letters or carrier pigeon c. board games, stories

2c. Which do you think is better? Does everyone in your group agree?

Olive thinks the internet sounds more fun and made life easier. Sim thinks the internet made people unhappy and put the environment in danger.

3. When did the internet end? Why? What happened next?

The internet ended on 12th March 2031 because of a computer virus. This day was known as The Crisis. Lots of companies had relied heavily on the internet so when it was destroyed everything stopped working. Life became pretty bad for a while and many people died because nothing in society worked anymore. But sixty years later things are looking better for humans and our planet because pollution has reduced and the human population is much smaller.

PART 1:4

THE COMMUNITY

‘Do you like my poster?’ Sim asked as they walked down Main Street together.

‘I don’t think you needed to bother with any advertising for this evening’s talk,’ Olive said. ‘I reckon the place is going to be packed.’

They stopped at the telegraph pole outside the forge. The wires had been removed years before, but the pole was still useful for posting community notices. Olive took the pins out of Sim’s previous poster that had, sadly, not had much impact on audience numbers at Mrs Whetton’s clarinet recital last weekend. Once the new poster was in place, they stepped back and admired it.

‘Nice poster, Sim.’

Tom Monkton, the blacksmith, emerged from the smithy. His skin was sweaty and flushed from standing near the furnace and his huge hands were calloused and cracked. He held a hammer in one hand and would have scared the socks off anyone who didn’t know him, but he was a gentle man and smiled warmly. ‘Your best yet, I reckon.’

A proud smile seeped across Sim’s face.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Olive,’ Tom said. ‘Gemma asked me to pass on the message that both our daughters can help serve drinks tonight. Ivy was worried it would be busy.’

‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll tell Mum.’

‘Great!’ Tom said. ‘See you later.’ He ducked back into the forge and began hammering again.

‘Don’t you get fed up with everything you get asked to do for your mum?’ Sim said.

‘One of the perks of being the daughter of the community leader,’ Olive replied as they continued down Main Street. They jumped over potholes and cracks in the tarmac, some so deep you could see the earth below.

‘Look!’ Sim cried, crouching down in the road. A tiny crocus had pushed its way through one of the gaps.

‘We’d better pull it up,’ Olive said. ‘You know the rules.’

‘Don’t!’ Sim said. He reached out his hand to stop Olive from plucking the purple flower from its nesting place.

‘We have to,’ Olive said, frowning. ‘To save the road.’ She nudged Sim to one side. ‘I’ll take it home for Great Gran Amber.’

Digging her fingers into the crack, Olive felt the crumbly earth’s softness through the gravel’s sharp grit. She pulled up the crocuses, bulbs and all, and carefully tucked them in the front pocket of her backpack.

‘You could give them to Em as a peace offering after you’ve spoken to her about The Time Before!’ Sim said, grinning.

‘You know what?’ Olive said. ‘I am going to talk to Granny Em this evening. She can’t be too mad if it’s for a school project. She was a bit older than us when the internet was destroyed. I’m sure she knows more than she lets on.’

They were interrupted by a terrible screeching coming from a side road beyond Mr Thomas’s tailor’s shop. The sound crescendoed and then stopped suddenly.

‘What was that?’ Sim said and together they ran towards the sound. As they rounded the corner, Olive cried out.

‘Gran Gran!’

Olive’s great-grandmother was leaning against the wall of the shop, her hand clasped at her throat, holding her shawl tightly around her like a protective blanket. A second figure was hurrying

down the alley, someone Olive didn’t recognise. She just had time to notice his straggly hair, uneven gait and patchwork cloak.

Sim took off after the figure while Olive ran to the old lady. Amber’s ice blue eyes were wild, roaming up and down the street, looking for her tormentor. Her silver hair fuzzed around her head, escaping its usually tidy bun.

‘What happened, Gran Gran?’ Olive asked. ‘Why are you out here on your own?’ Olive took hold of Amber’s hands and tried to lead her back to Main Street where someone would know what to do. But Amber wouldn’t move.

‘Come on Gran Gran. We can’t stay here. We have to – OW!’

Amber had dug her fingernails into Olive’s palm; the old woman’s hands trembled violently.

‘Gran Gran! Stop! You’re hurting me!’

Amber glared at Olive. The look held so much: knowledge, frustration, urgency. But Olive couldn’t make sense of it.

‘Please! What’s wrong?’

Amber let go and Olive jerked away. A constellation of crescentshaped marks stung her palm and she pressed her hands together to ease the burning. Amber was moaning and rocking.

‘Safe! Em! My … my Em …’

‘You are safe, Gran Gran, I’ve got you.’ Olive tried to pull her great-grandmother into a hug, but Amber pushed her away. ‘No. Safe. Terrible. Terrible things. Em …’

‘I don’t understand, Gran Gran. You are safe. Should I get Mum?’

Olive looked down the street but there was no sign of Sim returning. She hovered, unsure whether to find help or stay.

‘Safe. Em!’ Amber lunged forward again, her fingers catching in Olive’s silver necklace.

‘Gran Gran? I don’t understand.’ Olive delicately untangled the old woman’s twisted fingers from her necklace chain. They were as fragile and light as a sparrow’s claws but held on with unbelievable strength. Once she had freed herself, Olive bent down and took the crocus plant, soil and all, from her bag.

‘Here, Gran Gran,’ she said, folding Amber’s hand around the bulb. ‘This is for you. Sim and I found it growing through the road outside.’

The old lady smiled and patted Olive on the hand. Her skin was paper-thin.

Sim emerged from the side alley and Olive could tell by his foul expression and heavy footsteps that he’d not been successful on his quest to find the intruder.

‘Nowhere to be found,’ he grumbled. ‘But he can’t hide out here long without someone noticing. We’ll figure out who it was soon enough. How are you, Miss Amber?’

Amber looked at the crocus plant and then at Sim and gave a warm smile.

‘I think she’s forgotten the whole thing already,’ Olive said. ‘But I think I should get her home. She said some pretty weird things just now.’

‘Like what?’

‘Something about keeping them safe. I think she meant Em. Granny Em is nearly seventy, but Amber still thinks of her as her baby, don’t you Gran Gran?’

‘You’re a good girl,’ Amber said. ‘Good girl.’ Amber gazed into Olive’s eyes, soft and calm, and the old woman smiled. Whatever demon had taken hold of her had left.

‘I love you too, Gran Gran,’ Olive said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

MATILDA SOUTHBY

Matilda has been reading since she was old enough to hold a book. It’s therefore no wonder she has suffered many jokes about being able to move things with her mind! She may or may not practise telekinesis, but nevertheless, reading books of fairy tales and monsters – paired with exploring moorlands with wall-climbing cats and teleporting dogs – certainly provided quite enough magic to be getting along with. She currently lives in Wiltshire with her editor, Eric the cat, and can usually be found doodling, reading or baking billions of delicious cakes for her family.

RAVEN’S GUIDE TO MONSTERS

When Raven goes to stay with her uncle over the summer, she isn’t expecting more trouble than usual. After all, when you’re from a family of monster researchers, you expect chaos wherever you go! But Uncle Solly is acting strange, and his new house doesn’t seem to like having anyone inside it. When an accident sends things spiralling into mayhem, Raven arms herself with her notebook, determined to set things right. She just has to: work out the house’s secrets; save her friends and uncle; try not to get cursed in the process. Shouldn’t be a problem . . . right?

msouthby@hotmail.co.uk

Raven’s Guide to Monsters

CHAPTER ONE

Raven was fairly sure you could get away with breaking into houses if you had been invited but the owner wasn’t around to let you in. She at least hoped that was the case anyway, because if the locked door was anything to go off of, her uncle had forgotten she was coming in the first place.

She’d tried all the normal ways of getting into the house, naturally, but nobody had heard her knocking after the doorbell hadn’t worked. Raven was certain she knew who was behind that problem. Things had an alarming habit of getting broken around her uncle’s house thanks to him rescuing a creature that loved anything and everything shiny, stopping at nothing to expand her hoard. When Raven had visited her uncle back in his old, strange-smelling flat, he’d had to ban the creature from climbing in the walls thanks to her “accidentally” causing a blackout because of her continued tinkering.

It had been a very awkward conversation when the apartment’s owner had come looking for answers. And had ended with said owner being bitten. Twice.

If she had to guess, Raven thought the creature might have wormed her way into the doorbell’s mechanisms and taken it to pieces for her beloved hoard. Raven was almost certain her uncle would have given up on trying to fix things after the first seven or so times it had happened. His hands were normally too full with something else for him to focus on house maintenance.

Between his work and his less-than-expert organisational skills, Raven decided it was a miracle his new house was still standing. Well, “new” was a stretch. She squinted up at it, taking in the peeling paint, stained green from years of moss eating away at it; windows patched up with pieces of broken glass glued together; and the missing bits of slate from the roof shattered over the garden. The overall impression it left on Raven was that, in one way or another, the house was holding itself together through sheer spite. With the right owner, a bit of time and enough effort, the house might look rather nice. Rustic, even. Knowing that her uncle was in charge, she doubted it was going to get the sort of love it so desperately needed. Once upon a time, Raven was sure the house – well, mansion, really – had been brimming with life and joy that had long since faded.

Somehow, strangely, the way the house itself looked gave Raven the feeling that she wasn’t wanted there. Almost as though it was glaring down at her. Watching. Waiting.

Despite having faced stranger and scarier things, the house put Raven on edge.

She shook herself out, slapping her hands against her cheeks. She wasn’t going to let an only slightly creepy house scare her away. It took more than an unsettling appearance to put her off an adventure.

‘Right then,’ Raven said to herself, ‘I’m not getting in that way. Time to investigate.’

Abandoning her suitcase in the hedge by the front door, Raven squeezed up against the house’s walls, forcing herself up onto tiptoes to reach the window ledge. Part of it crumbled under her touch. She brushed the chipped paint off her palms and eased herself up a little higher. Her legs moaned in protest. Teetering on the tips of

her trainers, Raven tried to pull herself up to stare in. The rest of the ledge gave way, spewing Raven back onto the grass in a shower of splintered paint and moss. She frowned up at it, pursing her lips into a pout.

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ she asked the wall. As though to respond, the remaining bit of window ledge crumbled away, peppering Raven’s shoes with moss. She huffed and shook herself off, brushing the worst of the debris away. She hoped her uncle wouldn’t notice the damage. He probably wouldn’t – not for a while, at least, and he wouldn’t care too much when he did – but it was worth hiding the evidence. Just in case.

With the slightest twinge of pain, Raven bounced up into a squat, inspecting the rest of the wall for new openings. She didn’t think the other windowsills she was able to reach would be able to hold her weight much longer than the first, and the drainpipe looked like it might fall off if she breathed at it too hard. It might work in a pinch if she wanted to pull up to a higher window, but it didn’t strike her as the smartest of plans. If all else failed, she was pretty sure she could try using a paperclip from her pocket or a twig to pick the lock on the front door. Providing nobody was around to spot her, of course. Officially, she was a good little girl who didn’t know the first thing about trying to pick a lock. Unofficially, she’d started learning how when she’d been working with her dad to get a jackalope out of a hunter’s trap when she was seven.

BLACK-TAILED JACKALOPE

(not to be confused with Cape or Snowshoe Jackalopes)

• These antlered hares can mimic human voices – they’re very tricky and love to pull pranks, but they never forget a friendly face and love to return favours!

• They love the rain and generally “bad” weather. The black-tailed variant absolutely hate the snow but love thunderstorms and hurricanes. This sometimes leads to their antlers working as lightning rods.

• They have a nasty habit of accidentally getting caught in traps they try to dismantle. They’re smart, but they have their stupid moments (don’t we all).

She didn’t think a door lock could be too different from a cage. If it was, she was pretty sure a big enough rock could smash it. Or a window.

But that was only if she didn’t find another way in first. Raven had learnt long ago that you don’t use brute force until you’ve fully exhausted your smarts. Breaking a lock was one thing. Fixing it was another.

‘Ok, then.’ Raven pushed back up to her feet. ‘Let’s try something a little different.’

Although it was a long shot, she thought the mansion might be old enough to have a basement that opened up into the back garden some way or another. It was definitely big enough to have one. If that was the case, she didn’t think her uncle would bother to padlock it shut in case he needed to use it as an emergency exit.

That, or because he simply forgot about it. Not to mention the fact that whatever he was keeping in there would be much better at keeping intruders out than any common-or-garden lock would. If past experience was any indication, most of his lodgers could do a lot worse than biting or scratching.

At least they wouldn’t be as annoying as the merman her uncle had rescued from the Thames two years ago.

His habit of eating all the nice towels in the bathroom had been infuriating.

It wasn’t surprising to Raven that the garden was in the same state of overgrown disarray as the rest of the house. Nobody in her family had particularly green thumbs – not by the traditional means at least – so none of them spent too much time cultivating luscious gardens. Not unless the plants were monstrous, of course – her great aunt had once had a greenhouse full of botanical creatures – but one brief glance around the garden told Raven that wasn’t the case. More broken roof tiles were sprinkled in the tangles of grass, split through with impressively large dandelions and the odd withering potted plant. An ageing oak tree grew up in heavy coils, twisting up and out into the sky, near-mangled from years of birds, bugs and ivy nibbling away at its bark. It was a paradise for lazy bees and nosy hedgehogs, but it wasn’t the sort of place that was a comfortable nook for humans. It also made looking for a way into the house a lot harder. But not impossible.

Rolling the sleeves of her hoodie up to her elbows, Raven descended into the tall grass, picking through the chaos in search of some sort of way in. She kept one hand pressed up against the wall of the house for balance as her eyes scoured the ground for even the barest hint of a way in. If all else failed, having the garden mapped out in her mind would be useful for later. Not to mention the oak at the end of the garden could probably help her if she wanted to try a higher window. The ledges for those looked a tad bit sturdier than the ones she’d passed earlier and she doubted they’d be locked. If they were, she could at least work out which room belonged to her

uncle or was his office and lurk outside it. Then she’d just have to hope either he or one of his creatures realised she was there.

Raven was pulled out of her over-complicated plan by tripping over a misplaced brick. She glared back up at the house, scanning the windows for any tell-tale signs of life. Instead, the house loomed back over her, glaring back at her in its own way. A spark of sunlight hit the glass at just the right angle. It made it seem like the house was laughing. Almost.

‘I’m starting to think you are doing this on purpose,’ Raven muttered, pushing herself back to her knees. She wouldn’t be surprised if her hoodie had gained a new hole or loose threads to go with the hundreds of others. She’d patched up the green fabric more than enough times thanks to rips and burns left behind by more… excitable monsters, but she loved it all the same. It was almost like a companion guide to her journal – a physical memory of all the misplaced friends she’d ever made and lost, complete with a rainbow of messy stitches. The grass stains on her jeans might fade, but the broken bits of fleece and memories wouldn’t heal.

Raven shuffled her legs around to sit on, massaging the red marks forming on her hands. She had thick skin from years of climbing things she shouldn’t and wrestling monsters into friendship, but that didn’t stop her from getting bruises or scratches. It usually just meant she didn’t feel it when it happened. She smoothed her thumb over her palm to brush out the dirt and pebbles that tried to stick to her.

Between her fingers, a glint of metal caught her eye. Looking up further, a tendril of smoke split the air. Rather clumsily, Raven scrambled towards it, determination building back up again, tearing through the grass to find what she hoped she would.

Her fingers felt the chipped wood of a trapdoor. Like the rest of the house, it was almost completely covered by plant life and seemed like it was barely able to stand. But it looked like it was still functional and – even better – it didn’t have a padlock. Raven grasped one side of it and heaved, shifting it just enough for her to slide into the basement. More smoke bellowed through the gap. Raven coughed it away, flapping her hand to disperse the worst of it. Knowing her family, where there was smoke, that usually meant something was snoozing on the other end. And since the trapdoor and garden looked forgotten, Raven was sure that meant there was another way into the house in the basement. Holding her breath and praying her intuition was right, she descended into the smoke.

MIRANDA NUGENT

Miranda graduated from Bath Spa WFYP with distinction. Previously a writer for the children’s sections of The Times and The Sunday Times, she now lives on a farm in Devon with a flock of hardy sheep, some very hairy pigs and a lot of fluffy-legged chickens – but no humansized fairies (as far as she knows). It was always her plan to write for children, but it wasn’t until she met Eva Ibbotson that she decided to write middle grade adventure stories with lots of laughs and magic. She likes writing, sheep, miniaturisation, bobble hats, small fairies and cheese. She doesn’t like ostriches.

MARVIN’S GIFT

Matilda meets Beetle Boy in this lower middle grade novel about eight-year-old Marvin, who has The Gift. He sees things that other people don’t, including the human-sized fairies living amongst us. And they’re deadly. Marvin uncovers their dastardly plot to turn every human child into caterpillars and keep them as pets. With the help of his grandad, and Roger, a wolf disguised as a sausage-dog, it’s up to Marvin to thwart the fairies and save the human race. Because he has The Gift. Simple!

miranda@mirandanugent.co.uk

Marvin’s Gift

CHAPTER ONE

I see things that other people don’t. Take Mrs Norton’s tail, for example. It’s pink and wormy like a rat’s tail, and it wriggles along the ground behind her. She has long, yellow teeth and whiskers, too, and I don’t mean the kind my granny has. I mean proper wiry rat whiskers. Ew!

It doesn’t happen often, but when I do see things like Mrs Norton’s tail, my nose twitches like a rabbit sensing danger. And I suppose that’s what I do: I sense trouble. I can spot a meanie a mile off, even if they’re smiling and laughing and telling really funny jokes.

When I told Mum about Mrs Norton’s tail, she said I was bonkers. Can you believe it? But when she saw how upset I was, she said I wasn’t bonkers, I was intuitive. I had to look that word up in the dictionary. It means I can feel things are true without actually knowing they’re true. She says Mrs Norton is forever running around like a rat, being mean to people, so it’s natural I think she looks like one. But when I rang Grandad, he didn’t say I was intuitive, he said I had The Gift.

I waited for him to turn up every day that week, armed with a gift. I dreamt of getting my very first pet; like a puppy, or a gerbil or an extremely clever donkey. But it turns out that having The Gift is different to receiving one. If you have The Gift, it means you have a special power.

Mrs Norton’s tail was the first thing I saw, but I’ve seen other things since, like Roger the sausage dog. Everyone thinks he’s cute

and cuddly, but I can see he’s not. He has long, white fangs and bright red eyes, and his ears are tall and pointy. He’s more wolf than sausage, and he gives me the serious jelly-wobbles.

I thought having a special power was pretty cool, until the dreadful day I met our new neighbour, Brenda Fairweather. Now I wish I was intuitive, or even slightly bonkers.

The fact is, Brenda Fairweather is a human-sized fairy, and fairies can be dangerous. So be careful, because Grandad says there are hundreds, if not thousands, living amongst us. It’s extremely hard for people without The Gift to spot them, but it is possible. I have devised a human-sized fairy checklist for you to look at, in case you suspect someone you know.

MARVIN’S HUMAN-SIZED FAIRY CHECKLIST

1. They have extremely hairy toes.

2. They have bushy eyebrows and green eyes (though so do lots of humans).

3. They speak “Squirrel”, and often have squirrels as friends.

4. They are very greedy and might steal food from your fridge.

5. They hiccup when cross.

6. They’ve been known to turn kids into caterpillars. FOREVER. And keep them as pets.

7. They have a soft spot for bus drivers. No one really knows why, but rumour has it a bus driver called Mandy once saved a fairy’s life.

Numbers 1 and 6 are particularly important. Number 6 explains why you should avoid fairies, and number 1 tells you how best to spot them. But even then it’s not easy, because human-sized fairies only take their shoes off on special occasions. They even keep them

on in bed, so they probably have whiffy feet. But I don’t recommend going around smelling people’s feet. That’s a job for dogs (and wolves).

Roger loves sniffing Brenda’s feet and sometimes gets so excited he widdles up her leg.

I knew Brenda was a human-sized fairy the first time I met her. She’d popped in for a slice of cake, and my nose immediately started to twitch. And when she turned her back I saw she had wings. They were big, black and feathery, like a giant raven’s, and I think she felt me staring at them, because she swung around and stared right back. Her green eyes flashed, and I ran up to my room.

Grandad says human-sized fairies hate people who can see they’re fairies, and that they’re the first people they turn into caterpillars. FOREVER. So, that afternoon, my knees wouldn’t stop trembling and my heart kept doing funny things, like trying to race out of my mouth and race back down again.

Mum came to check on me. ‘Marvin.’ She put her hand on my forehead. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

I hadn’t seen a ghost. I’d seen a giant fairy. And I didn’t know what to do about it, so I asked if I could telephone Grandad. She said that was a wonderful idea.

‘Hello, Grandad.’

‘Hello, Marvin. How are you today?’

‘I don’t like The Gift. Can I give it back?’

‘No, but you can tell me all about it.’

So I told him about Brenda Fairweather, and he told me to get a pencil and write down this:

GRANDAD’S ‘HOW TO STOP FAIRIES FROM TURNING YOU INTO A CATERPILLAR FOREVER’ LIST

1. Make your house untidy.

2. Wear your clothes inside out.

3. Arm yourself with a lemon (fairies hate lemons – especially in cake).

4. Refuse to accept food from them.

5. Never touch their pet caterpillars.

6. Always be polite. If you’re polite, fairies become as powerless as potatoes, and that gives them the jelly-wobbles.

When I’d finished writing the list, I felt a lot better. I folded it up and put it in my pocket. The next day, I asked Mum when Brenda was next coming around for tea. I also asked if we could have lemon cake that day. She frowned at me, the same way she frowned at me when I told her about Mrs Norton’s tail.

‘Why are your clothes inside out, Marvin?’

‘Because I’m trying to scare a giant fairy.’ I told her the truth, not because I was being polite, but because I didn’t know what else to say. Mum sighed.

That weekend it was sunny. Mum laid the table in the garden, and I made sure all my clothes were inside out. Even my pants. Brenda Fairweather was on her way, and I had a task to complete. Number 1 on Grandad’s list: make a mess!

I emptied my dirty laundry in the hallway, pulled every single cushion off the sofa and tipped the kitchen bin all over the house, leaving soggy parsnip peelings everywhere.

The doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it!’ I called.

I took a deep breath right to the bottom of my lungs, and then I puffed it out.

‘How do you do, Mrs Fairweather?’ I said, remembering to be polite. ‘Please do come in.’

I fiddled with my t-shirt label, which was under my chin, and stepped aside so she could see my dirty laundry. She gulped loudly, and looked pale, like an uncooked sausage. Mum came up behind me, and she didn’t look pale. She looked bright red.

‘Do come in, Brenda!’ she said. ‘Marvin has made a terrible mess, but he’s going to tidy it up NOW.’

‘Actually,’ Brenda Fairweather said, ‘I’m feeling unwell. I think I might go home.’

She took a step back as I picked up my laundry. I waved a particularly smelly sock around in the air, and that’s when Brenda began to shake.

‘Oh dear,’ Mum said. ‘Are you sure? I’ve made a lovely lemon drizzle cake.’

And with that, Brenda Fairweather left the house at top speed. The wings on her back were beating so fast I thought she might fly home. She didn’t, but I’m sure I heard her growl. Like Roger. And when she looked over her shoulder at me as she opened her front door, I knew she’d be back.

CHAPTER TWO

Grandad says fairies have lots of fairy friends. He says where there’s one human-sized fairy there’s always another, a bit like cockroaches. He ALSO says I have to wear my clothes inside out at all times and arm

myself with a lemon. But when I got ready for school this morning, Mum made me wear my uniform the right way round.

‘That includes your pants, Marvin.’

‘My pants, my business,’ I said. ‘That’s what Grandad would say.’ ‘Marvin. It’s very important you look neat and tidy for school. You have a new headteacher this term, Mr Hob, and you need to look smart.’

She stood back and looked at me, the way mums do. ‘And besides, I think it’s about time you stopped wearing your clothes inside out. Socks, pants, everything. It’s just a bit…’

‘A bit what?’

‘Odd. And while there’s nothing wrong with odd, I think it’ll be easier for you if you look normal.’

‘What does normal look like?’

Mum kissed the top of my head and said, ‘Time for school, Marvin.’

Before we left the house, I grabbed a lemon and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I took another one for my best friend, Danny. Fairies hate lemons, and I needed to protect us both from any fairy who came close, including Brenda Fairweather.

The first thing I saw as we left the house was Roger. My nose twitched as he chased a big fat ginger cat along the street, until it raced up a cherry tree. Roger stopped at the bottom of the tree and howled like a wolf.

‘Arg-whooooooooooooooooooooooo.’

His eyes glowed red, and his fangs poked out of his mouth. I wrapped my arms around Mum and held her tight.

‘Oh, Marvin,’ she said. ‘It’s Roger. He’s just a harmless little sausage dog.’ She bent down to stroke Roger’s head.

‘Don’t!’ I pulled Mum away from Roger. ‘He’s not a sausage dog.

He’s a wolf. He’s just wearing a very clever sausage-disguise.’

Mum sighed. ‘Come on, Marvin, let’s go to school.’

She walked me to the school gates, where Mrs Prickle was waiting. Mrs Prickle is my form teacher, and she’s always cross. She’s cross in the morning, she’s even crosser at lunchtime, and by the time we go home she’s as cross as a toad in a teapot. When I asked Dad why she was so angry, he shrugged and said, “Perhaps her pants are prickly.” Mum said that was silly.

I don’t know anything about prickly pants, but I can see Mrs Prickle has a black, pointy stinger on her bottom and a pair of wasp wings sticking out the top of her cardigan. She has fuzzy legs, too.

She turned around and I followed her into school, keeping my distance in case her spiky bottom stung me. My nose twitched all the way, and when we got there I looked around for Danny. He was practising karate chops in the corner of the classroom. I ran over to join him.

‘Hiya, Marv.’ Danny positioned himself in Chop Position One. ‘What’s up?’

‘Grandad says I’ve got a superpower.’ I pulled a lemon out of my pocket. ‘And this is my secret weapon.’

Danny eyed up the lemon. ‘What does it do?’ he asked out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ve always been suspicious of lemons.’

‘It can protect us against human-sized fairies,’ I said. ‘And they’re everywhere. But only I can see them, because only I’ve got The Gift.’

Danny looked impressed, like when I told him I could drive a combine harvester, which wasn’t actually true. He leant in close. ‘What’s The Gift, Marv?’

I looked all around to make sure no one was listening, and very quietly told him about my twitchy nose and being able to spot

meanies, including human-sized fairies. And just as I was telling him about Brenda Fairweather, Mrs Prickle clapped her hands together. It was time to sit down.

‘Good morning, children,’ Mrs Prickle said, as two antennae popped up from her hair.

‘Good morning, Mrs Prickle,’ we all said together.

I found it hard to concentrate all morning, and at break time I rushed to find Danny. Mr Hob, the new headteacher, was in the playground, and he was watching us. He was very bald and very tall, and he had enormous ears that stuck out from the sides of his head, like two large mushrooms.

‘I know him,’ Danny said. ‘He lives on our street. Dad thinks he’s odd. He’s even got a pet caterpillar called George.’

I was about to say George was a funny name for a caterpillar, when I remembered my Human-Sized Fairy Checklist. I pulled it out of my pocket and gulped. I was beginning to think the worst.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw him talking to it when we went to his house.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said, “Hello, George. What a cheeky little caterpillar you are”.’

I reached into my pocket and gave Danny my spare lemon. ‘Keep this on you at all times.’ I looked across at Mr Hob. ‘We might be in danger.’

Danny took the lemon, and I walked over to Mr Hob to see if I could see things that other people don’t. Wanting to look normal, I put my hands behind my back and whistled one of Dad’s favourite tunes, which I think is called “Dogs Can Grow Beards”. My nose twitched, and I saw he had green eyes and bushy eyebrows. Eek! I reached for the lemon in my pocket.

‘You must be Marvin,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’ I scratched the end of my nose. ‘How do you do?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’ His green eyes twinkled, and my heart galloped up to my mouth. ‘Pop into my office tomorrow, Marvin. At morning break.’

He turned around, and my pants nearly turned themselves inside out. Mr Hob had a set of wings. And not just wasp wings like Mrs Prickle. He had a set of big, black fairy wings, just like Brenda’s, and they flickered in the breeze. I squeezed the lemon in my pocket and had a quick look at my pants. Uh oh! They weren’t inside out. But By George (the caterpillar) I wished they were.

Because I’d just met another human-sized fairy.

OLIVIA WAKEFORD

Olivia writes a lot about grief, which really means she writes about love. And dogs. She thinks every story should have a dog in it. Olivia wrote her first book aged seven. It was called ‘The Flight of The Bumble-Snouts’ and she’s still very proud of it. Olivia was awarded a distinction for her MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University, and won Skylark Literary’s Marvellous Middle-Grade Competition and the Writers’ & Artists’ Short Story Competition 2022. Born in Wales, Olivia now lives in London with her husband and their socially-awkward Labrador, Obi.

MY DOG, WORTHINGTON

On the eve of Mam’s death, ten-year-old Rhys finds a dog, Worthington, under her hospital bed. Unable to find Worthington’s owners and forced to move to London with his estranged dad, Rhys smuggles the dog with him. Rhys misses home and Worthington becomes his sanctuary, but he worries Dad won’t let him keep the dog when he finds out. As it becomes increasingly difficult to keep Worthington a secret, Rhys is forced to confront whether or not the dog is real and, at the same time, learn that accepting the present doesn’t mean forgetting the past.

oliviacwakeford@gmail.com

My Dog, Worthington

CHAPTER ONE

There’s a dog under Mam’s bed.

He’s my favourite kind; a black Labrador with conker eyes and ears like triangles of velvet.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen him.

Three weeks ago, the tip of his tail poked out from under the plasticky brown chair in the corner. A few days later, it was his paw. A fortnight after that, his nose nudged the door open, but when I jumped up to let him in, the corridor was empty.

I know a lot about dogs because I’m going to be a vet like Dr Jimmy MacKenzie on The Dog Rescuers. They are supposed to have a strong sense of smell and sensitive ears, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the beeping machines or stink of disinfectant.

I don’t know where he came from, but I’m going to find out.

Me and Dad stand in the doorway of Mam’s room. The sounds of the nurses’ slappy feet float down the corridor behind us. Dad doesn’t say anything about the dog. He says, ‘Your mum needs rest, so only a few minutes, okay Champ?’ His voice is wobbly, like he’s upset, even though he has no right to be. I’m the one who should be upset because he’s calling me that stupid name again.

‘Okay.’ I refuse to look at him and stride over to Mam. My school shoes squeak on the hard floor. I feel his gaze on me like it’s been for weeks. Always watching.

The door clicks and I can breathe.

Just Mam and me again.

And the dog under the bed.

Mam’s eyes are shut, long eyelashes fluttering on pale cheeks. I squeeze her hand; it’s cold and clammy. ‘Hiya Mam.’

She looks small and not Mam-like. White sheets come up to her chin, and her hair, which is usually bright red and spiky like mine, is flat and stuck to her forehead. But when she opens her eyes and smiles, she looks like she always does, like fizzy pop and chocolate-covered doughnuts.

‘Hi, Reece’s Pieces,’ she says, quiet and slurry. ‘Come on.’ She pats the bed. ‘Gimme a cuddle.’

I climb onto the bed and tuck under her arm, even though it’s not comfortable because her shoulder is pointier than it used to be and the sheets are scratchy. She smells like lemons and sweat.

‘Mam?’ I whisper in case Dad or the nurses have supersonic hearing. ‘Did you know there’s a dog under the bed?’

‘Is there, love?’

I lean over the side of the bed. He’s sitting between the wheels, conker eyes on me. A dog this cute has to belong to someone. If it was a surprise, Mam would know about him but it doesn’t seem like she does. There are other rooms on the ward, I’m not sure how many, but he could belong to one of the other patients.

There’s a box of Worthington’s Toffees on Mam’s bedside table.

Of course! He’s a Labrador!

Dr Jimmy says the whole world is a Labradors’ plate and they make it their job to keep it clean at all times. He probably smelt the toffees and came to investigate, even though he can’t eat them because they’re covered in chocolate. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs. I learnt that from The Dog Rescuers encyclopaedia.

‘Yeah,’ I curl back into her. ‘He’s definitely still there.’

he doing?’

I lean back over. The dog is lying down now, head resting on his huge paws. There’s a gentle thump as his tail hits the floor.

‘Wagging his tail.’ I snuggle into her again.

‘That’s good.’ She takes a big breath. ‘You’re going to do amazing things Rhys, my love. Remember that, okay?’

I’m too busy thinking about where the dog came from to answer. What’s his name? Charlie? Whizz-bit? Something old-man-ish like Howard? I hope it’s not Champ.

‘Rhys?’ Mam’s staring at me, our noses nearly touching. ‘Amazing things, yes?’

I grin. She always makes me say it back to her. ‘Amazing things. Like being like Dr Jimmy?’

‘Like being you. You can do anything. And listen, I know it’s not always easy with your Dad, but he does love you, give him a chance, okay?’

My grin falls away. The dog lets out a whine. I want to lean over and tell him it’s okay, I’ll find his owners for him, but Mam’s looking at me like what she’s saying is important, even though it’s only about Dad.

‘Come on…’ Mam presses her forehead against mine. ‘Try? For me?’ ‘Fiiiine.’

Dad never tells me I’m going to do amazing things. Since he’s been staying the last few weeks all he’s told me is to turn my bedroom light off, do my homework, and not worry about Mam.

The door squeaks and Dad pops his head into the room. His eyes are red. When he sees us he makes a weird gulping sound.

Mam smiles at him, then whispers to me, ‘Go on now, and remember what I said.’

‘What’s

I hop off the bed and give her a peck on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow, Mam.’

‘Bye, love.’

‘Come on, Champ. We’ll leave you to rest now, Haze.’ Dad ushers me out of the door before I’ve had time to come up with a dog plan. I glance back under Mam’s bed and frown.

The dog’s gone.

Dad’s arm is still around me as we pass the other rooms. White sheets and beeping machines. No black Labradors.

Myra the nurse heads towards us. She gives me the smile. Everyone gives me the smile now, the one that looks more sad than happy. ‘Hiya, Rhys. Ben.’

I wrestle myself out of Dad’s grip. ‘Myra?’

‘Yes, lovely?’

‘Are dogs allowed in the hospital?’

‘Dogs?’ She chuckles. ‘Only assistance ones. Not planning on smuggling one in, are you?’

An assistance dog. If the black Labrador is an assistance dog, he’s very badly trained.

‘Has anyone got one? Here?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not on this ward but–’

My mind starts whizzing. I’ve seen him before so he must belong to someone in the hospital.

Dad doesn’t let Myra finish. ‘Sorry, Myra. He’s… got a thing about dogs.’ He shakes his head like loving dogs is a bad thing. ‘Champ, I’m sure Myra’s got a lot to do.’

‘No problem, I’d be all for having more dogs here, they always cheer people up.’ She winks at me.

‘Not very hygienic though.’ Dad wrinkles his nose.

All I can think of is how sad the dog’s owner must be, not knowing where he is. If Dr Jimmy found a dog, he wouldn’t leave him. Neither can I.

I run back down the corridor. Maybe the dog was hiding under the chair again and I couldn’t see him.

‘Rhys?’ Dad shouts.

‘Forgot something in Mam’s room,’ I yell back. Dad won’t understand but I have to find the dog’s owner. Mam’s asleep already. The machine next to her is beeping.

‘Here boy,’ I whisper, checking behind the chair. Nothing. ‘Where are you, doggy?’ I look under the bed again. Nope. Panic crawls up inside me. Where is he?

Mam looks peaceful so I don’t want to wake her to ask if she’s seen the dog.

I glare at Dad through the glass in the door. He must have scared the dog away. He’s on his phone, probably video chatting Lucy and making goo-goo-gaah-gaah noises at my baby sister, Evie. Evie’s only six months old so she can’t see faces on a screen yet. I Googled it. I still haven’t met her but Mam says I’m going to be the best big brother when I do.

The dog could be anywhere by now. I blink back tears, forcing the sadness down to my toes. I wish I could search all the wards for the owner and then tell Mam about my real-life dog rescue. But Dad nods to the lift.

Time to go.

I peck Mam on the cheek again and whisper, ‘Sweet dreams, love you.’

When we get home, I head up to my room with a box of chicken nuggets. Dad was too tired to cook so we went to the drive-thru. We had nuggets yesterday too, and three times last week.

I don’t mind having nuggets a lot, but I’m not hungry. I can’t stop thinking about the dog. Where is he now? Will he be back at the hospital tomorrow?

I check my alarm clock. It’s Mam’s from when she was my age. It’s in the shape of a dog called Muttley. According to Muttley, it’s nearly eight. Visiting time isn’t for another fourteen hours.

Dad always tells me I need to eat because champions have to keep their strength up, so I shove five nuggets in my mouth, one after another. Flakes of batter drop onto my duvet. There’s one nugget left in the box, the cardboard beneath stained with grease. I close the lid and hide the box behind my curtain. I’ll take it to the hospital tomorrow in case the dog is hungry. Which, of course, he will be.

Downstairs, Dad’s phone keeps going off. He’s got a Star Wars ringtone which is the only cool thing about him. It’ll be Lucy and Evie again. It won’t be long before the goo-goo-gah-gahing starts and I’ll have to join in. Dad says I’m going to love Evie when I meet her but I’m not sure when that’ll be. I wonder if she likes dogs. But if she can’t even recognise faces on a screen, she probably doesn’t know what a dog is. I’ll teach her about them. That’s what good big brothers do, isn’t it?

The front door slams and Dad’s footsteps crunch on the path outside. My window is open because I like to see the sky. I peek outside; the moon is huge, hanging above Mr and Mrs Taveners’ house opposite.

Dad is in the middle of the path staring at the stars.

Other than the goo-goo-gah-gahing, Dad and Lucy argue a lot. Dad says it’s hard for Lucy because he’s not there to help with Evie. But, after he left, Dad wasn’t there to help Mam. I told him that once, but he said this was different.

I think about reading a book. Mam’s an English teacher so I’ve got loads, but since she went into hospital I can’t concentrate on anything other than The Dog Rescuers. I grab the remote from my bedside table. The TV flickers into life. I’ve got every episode of The Dog Rescuers saved, even the first one where Dr Jimmy had no beard and loads of hair. When Dad comes to say goodnight, he always tells me to switch it off, but I don’t. I close the door, turn the volume down, and get closer to the screen. I find one of mine and Mam’s favourite episodes. The music fills my room.

‘It’s another busy day at the clinic today,’ the voiceover man says. ‘A dog has been found after a road traffic accident.’

‘How quickly can you get him to me?’ Dr Jimmy says down the phone. He’s wearing his green operation outfit. ‘I’ll be ready.’ He grimaces at the camera. ‘This is going to be a tough one, but we’ll do our best.’

A second later, the dog is on the vet’s table, brown eyes wide and scared. He’s got long white fur and a black heart-shaped patch over his left eye. His back leg is a funny shape and he can’t lift his head, but when Dr Jimmy strokes his ear, and whispers, ‘It’s all right sweet lad, we’ll fix you right up,’ his tail taps against the table.

Even though I’ve seen this episode loads, I pull the duvet tight around me. ‘Please be okay, doggy.’

When I’m at the bit where Dr Jimmy says, ‘I’ve done everything I can. He’s either going to make it through the night or he isn’t, but I’ll stay with him the whole time,’ Dad knocks on my door.

‘Rhys?’ He pushes the door open. The floorboards creak as he comes in. ‘Champ?’ He sounds like he’s got a blocked nose. He sits on the bed, in front of the TV. ‘Can you turn that off? I need to talk to you…’

The way he says it makes something inside me twist, so I don’t argue. I pause on Dr Jimmy’s hand resting on the dog’s front paw.

Dad runs his fingers through his hair. ‘This is… umm… not easy … I’m sorry, Rhys.’

‘What?’ A sick feeling in my belly grows like I’ve eaten a tub of mint choc-chip ice cream.

‘It’s your mum…’

‘No.’ I scramble up the bed away from him until the ridges on the wooden headboard dig into my back. Whatever he’s going to say, I don’t want to hear it.

‘She’s…’

‘No!’ I shout.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but… She’s gone, Champ.’

Blood swooshes around in my ears. ‘No,’ I say again.

‘She fell asleep and didn’t wake up.’ He reaches out to me but I press myself against the headboard more, squeezing my knees close, trying to hold everything inside.

Mam couldn’t be…

‘But… I said I’d see her tomorrow…’

‘I know you did. I’m so sorry,’ he says again, like sorry makes a difference.

I screw my eyes shut, press my forehead against my knees and swallow the huge lump in my throat. I can’t cry in front of Dad. He’ll try to make me feel better, but he never makes me feel better about anything.

He pulls me into a hug. ‘Rhys, everything is going to be all right. You’re a fighter, a champion. My Champ. We’ll be okay, you and me.’ He squeezes me so tight it’s hard to breathe. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Finally, he releases me. ‘Come downstairs, I’ll make us a hot choccy?’

I stare at Dr Jimmy and the dog on the TV. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Want me to stay too?’

His phone buzzes again.

I shake my head.

‘You sure?’

I nod, not taking my eyes off the TV.

‘All right. I’ll come back up in a little while. You call if you need me though, okay?’

After he leaves, I put the TV back on. I don’t watch; I listen to Dr Jimmy’s voice, my eyes closed. Mam says she’s got a soft spot for his Irish accent, that it’s almost as good as our musical Welsh one. It reminds me of waves lapping on Ogmore beach, soft and gentle, like they can wash all the bad things away.

Dad’s wrong about Mam.

When I saw her earlier, she didn’t say I wouldn’t be seeing her tomorrow. She asked me what the dog was doing and something about trying to get on with Dad. My insides feel squiggly. Like my body has split open, everything has been taken out and put back wrong. Mam’s face swims under my eyelids when I blink.

SARAH WILLIAMS

Sarah Williams has two young children who remind her, daily, of all the things grown-ups grow up to forget. She likes the sea, hot chocolate, and doughnuts. Sarah has OCD, and much of her writing navigates loss, grief and trauma. She enjoys writing for a range of age groups, and her contemporary fiction was recently longlisted for the 2022 Discoveries Prize. How To Be Friends with a Star is her first middle grade book. Sarah lives in the countryside with her family, and the best dog in the world. She graduates with a distinction.

HOW TO BE FRIENDS WITH A STAR

Best friends, Alana and Zainab, share everything – even a birthday –and every birthday, they make a list of things they want to do before their next. Stay up until midnight. Eat only chocolate for one entire day. Send a letter in a bottle. And they’ve always done it, together. But when Zainab dies of leukaemia before they turn ten, Alana must complete their last list alone. But how? As broken bones, annoying siblings, and unlikely friendships confuse and complicate her mission, can Alana finish the list in time, and adjust to life without Zainab?

sarahwilliamshasmail@yahoo.com

How to be Friends with a Star

TUESDAY 15TH JUNE

Five things to do before we’re 10 (by Zainab Bakir & Alana Bell, A.K.A TEAM ZABB)

1. Catch a fish (each) and make fish and chips (with mushy peas?) (Eww! They look like bogeys) (But they’re sooo good!)

2. Climb the school oak tree, to the second third SECOND big branch from the top (The one with those trainers hanging from their laces?) (Yes!) (NO WAY!) (We can totally do this, Alana!)

3. Win a trophy (One between us. Two is a lot) (Good idea)

4. Grow tomatoes from seeds and make a salad (Boring. What about pizza?) (With pineapple on?) (That’s gross) (It’s yummy!)

5. Climb Mount Everest (That’s that snowy one we saw on the telly, right?) (Yep!) (Whoop! LOVE snow.)

6. Get our ears pierced (No way, that’ll REALLY hurt. I’m crossing it out.)

6. Get Zainab’s ears pierced. (Doesn’t count anyway! We already have five.

PS. You know they stick a needle through your ear, right?) (Then you’d better hold my hand) (Deal)

PS. TEAM ZABB 4EVA. AND EVER!

DAYS SINCE ZAINAB DIED: 79

Three things happened after Zainab died:

1. In school, I got moved desks so I didn’t have to sit by myself. Mum said this was so I wouldn’t be reminded all day long about Zainab, because her empty seat was next to me. I was moved to the seat by the window and paired with Emily Dance. Emily is very nice, but she isn’t Zainab. Worse still, she doesn’t understand my jokes. She didn’t laugh once at, ‘My little sister Sonja told me an onion was the only food that can make somebody cry, so I threw an apple at her head’, and that’s an excellent one! Zainab snorted milk out of her nose when I told her that. Instead, Emily told Miss Grindleton that I needed detention, in case I really had thrown an apple at Sonja’s head, so I don’t think we’ll ever be very good friends.

2. Jude the Rude got even ruder, which seems impossible, but is actually true. Zainab never – not once – let Jude get away with being nasty, because Zainab wasn’t afraid of anything. She was especially not afraid of, ‘Some-wally-girl-who-thinks-she’s-better-than-everyone-else’.

When I tell Mum how unkind Jude is, Mum says, ‘Some things aren’t always as they seem, love,’ and makes her I-Know-Something face. This is my least favourite of all her faces because it means she has a secret, and the last time she did that Zainab died, so I don’t trust it. Not one little bit.

3. On Mondays after school I started going to Jessie’s Craft Club. This is not a club like Brownies, or gymnastics, where lots of people get together and do fun things. No. It is a club like a building. A place. A thing. A noun, Miss Grindleton would say. It’s a place where children go to talk about things that have happened, that make them feel sad. Guess what the lady who runs it is called? Can you? Well, her name’s Lindee. Ha! Bet you thought it was Jessie, didn’t you? Anyway, no, it’s Lindee and Jessie was her daughter. Jessie died when she was little, just like Zainab. After that happened, Lindee became a special type of nurse who helps people with their feelings. She set up Jessie’s Craft Club to help people like me. People who have a sadness in their hearts that won’t go away.

It’s only ever me and Lindee there. We talk and play and make things out of paper mache or empty loo rolls. Lindee made a car out of a cornflakes box last week and it was brilliant. It had a steering wheel and a little seat big enough for a Barbie. She let me keep it, but I don’t really play with Barbies anymore, so I gave it to Sonja and she loves it.

Today, at Jessie’s Craft Club, Lindee gave me a diary. This is it. I’m writing in it right now, so, HELLO! Lindee said I should write something in it every day, unless I have homework to do. ‘No-one ever needs to see it,’ Lindee said, and I can write about anything at all. It’s just for me and my feelings, and that’s brilliant.

Date: Tuesday 15th March

Teacher: Miss Grindleton

Homework assignment: Explore ‘sadness’. Give examples of when you have been sad and describe how that felt. Include this week’s spellings: explained, especially, happened, sadness, absolutely.

There are many different types of sadness. There is the sadness I feel when Mum tries to brush my crazy hair, and there is the sadness that lives inside our hearts. It moves in when very sad things happen.

The saddest thing in the world is when someone you love dies. I know this is true, because it’s happened to me.

It first happened when Goldie the Goldfish died. Mum buried him in the garden in a shoebox. Then Tinker, next door’s ginger cat with the angry face, dug him up again. ‘He ate him!’ I said. ‘Absolutely not!’ Mum said, and gave me her Watch-It face, because Sonja started crying. Mum says I need to ‘Think before I speak,’ even though I explained that sometimes, words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them, and she said, ‘Then keep it shut,’ which I think is very rude.

Secondly, my Great Nanny Coral died, which is very sad, but she was super old and that can happen when you get to 92.

But thirdly, my best friend Zainab died and that’s not fair because she was only nine. She had leukemia, which is when your blood is poorly.

No-one told me Zainab wouldn’t get better, so I always thought she would. I thought we’d have more sleepovers, or visit the IMAX to watch a movie with those silly glasses on, and not giggle so loudly we’d have to leave again. But Zainab didn’t get better, and she died on Christmas Day. I think the grups knew this was going to happen and didn’t tell me because I’m only nine, which isn’t very fair at all.

We’d mixed up our initials and called ourselves TEAM ZABB. Cool, right? Grup is Team Zabb’s word for ‘grown-up’. We invented it, because we were clever like that. We were birthday twins too, Zainab and me – 15th June – and we made a birthday to-do list every year since we were five. We finished them all, except this last one.

So, I’m even more cross with the grups because I don’t think they told Zainab she was going to die either. They can’t have, because if we’d have known, we’d have gotten on with the list.

This is why you must ALWAYS tell the truth.

Lindee says I can still do the list. But I can’t because Team Zabb isn’t a team anymore.

It’s just me now, by myself.

Sometimes I cry because I have a broken heart. This is what sadness feels like, and it especially hurts.

PS. Team Zabb 4eva.

Well done, Alana. Yes, death is very sad, but 92 is a great age! How clever to have invented a new word with ‘grup’. What a lovely word contraction. We all miss Zainab, very much. Lindee is right. You should do it – Zainab would’ve loved that! Team Zabb 4eva, remember?

Well done. B+

WEDNESDAY 16TH MARCH DAYS SINCE ZAINAB DIED: 81

Homework is rubbish. Dad says I don’t get to choose about having homework, and Mum says it’s important so I can learn lots of Things. When I said, ‘What Things?’ she asked if I wanted mashed potato with my dinner, which was a trick question, because she knows that’s my favourite. ‘Of course!’ I said, and Mum put two scoops on my plate. Two! I almost didn’t have room for my pudding, but it was cheesecake and I can always make room for that.

Then I asked again about Things because I do not forget.

Mum says I have the memory of an elephant. ‘Just go and get your homework done, Alana. No more nonsense!’ I said it’s not nonsense, because I don’t know what Things I don’t know, so it’s actually a very sensible question. But she said, ‘And that’s why you need to do your homework,’ and gave me her Do-Not-Keep-Asking-Questions face, then sent me to my room.

So, here I am, not doing my homework and writing in my diary instead, which no-one knows about (except Lindee, and actually my mum) because it’s my secret.

Another secret is that, instead of learning about Things, I’ve been thinking about the list. I’ve looked at it a bajillion times today. I even had a dream about it last night. I caught a fish with my bare hands, then it bit me and ate me for dinner. It said I was delicious and shared me with an octopus. FUN FACT: Did you know octopuses have three hearts? Three! That’s loads. It’d be very handy having three hearts, so if one gets broken because your best friend dies, or someone’s eaten the last Twix in the biscuit tin, the others would still be in one piece and you might not feel so sad.

I asked Mum and Dad at breakfast if I could go fishing, and if fish can bite you when you catch them. Mum said, ‘Of course they don’t. But if you want to learn how to fish, your Dad’ll take you,’ and Dad said, ‘What?’ and now I’m going fishing with Grandpa Jim on Saturday.

I’ve never been fishing before. I’d never thought about it until Zainab said we should all know how to fish, just in case we ever got stuck on a desert island, and she was right. On a desert island, there would be no supermarkets or McDonalds or Twixes. Mum says I’ll need waterproofs and wellies, ‘NOT the ones with holes in please, Alana!’ Mum thinks there’s no point in wellies with holes in,

but they’re my favourites and have sold out in ASDA, so what else am I going to do?

So, I’m going to catch our dinner on Saturday and Dad’s going to cook us chips. The great big fat ones that never get leftover and make the house smell like a chip shop. I’m even going to mush my own peas! I wonder if I’ll catch some whoppers? Woohoo!

PS. Mum asked if I understood what dictionaries are for, because she says bajillion isn’t a real word, but I think she’s wrong. Grups don’t know everything, do they?

Date: Thursday 17th March

Teacher: Mr Halt Maths assignment: Write ten number sentences on any topic, using number bonds up to 1000.

1. 48 ÷ 12 = 4. This is how many people live in my house (me, Mum, Dad and Sonja. We don’t have any pets, which is rubbish.)

2. 10 – 10 = 0. This is how many best friends I have.

3. 0 + 1 = 1. This is how many best friends I have had. That was Zainab.

4. 300 – 153 = 147. This is how many days Zainab was in hospital before she died, which is a very long time. It’s also how many days I wasn’t allowed to see her because she was so sick.

5. 30 ÷ 2 = 15. This is how many times Mr Halt and Miss Grindleton smiled at each other during assembly yesterday.

6. 200 – 99 = 101. This is how many Smarties Zainab could eat in one minute and is probably a world record (Discovered doing list 3, task 2: Eat only chocolate for one whole day)

7. 56 + 31 = 87. This is how many Smarties I can eat in one minute because I’m rubbish with Smarties but much better at eating gummy bears.

8. 10,000 – 1151 = 8849. This is how many metres tall Mount Everest is (Google told me). This sounds a lot.

9. 945 – 845 = 100. This is how many times Mum wants to brush my hair every night before bed.

10. 1 + 1 = 2. This is how many times Mum actually brushes my hair before bed, because I scream and she gives up. Curly hair doesn’t like brushing. Or mums.

Nice examples, Alana, although I don’t think how many times teachers smile at each other is relevant. Please avoid these kinds of references in future. Yes, Mount Everest is very tall – it’s the tallest mountain in the world and it’s a long way to the top! A-

FRIDAY 18TH MARCH DAYS SINCE ZAINAB DIED: 83

Things that have happened today:

1. Elijah Parker got sent to the headteacher’s office for hiding one of Mr Halt’s shoes after PE. He was hopping mad. Get it? Ha! It was very funny, but now Elijah has lunchtime detention all week. Harsh!

2. Jude the Rude and Eva the Diva are officially the worst people in the world. They stole Milly Bryant’s new glasses and dropped them in the toilet. Horrible! Zainab used to say Milly Bryant should learn karate and become a ninja, and I agree. Milly is the tallest person in the class, and Jude the Rude would feel very sorry for herself if she was karate chopped in half in front of the whole school, wouldn’t she? And that really can happen because I saw it on YouTube.

3. In English, we wrote a poem about a happy memory. This is mine:

It doesn’t feel that long ago

We went to the school disco

My shoes were blue

Your shoes were red

But you wished you had blue shoes instead

We danced and jumped and were spinning around

To every song and to every sound

Mr Halt told us off for singing too loud

And kicking our shoes off into the crowd

By the time we went home we’d swapped our shoes

I had the reds and you had the blues

It really wasn’t that long ago

We went to the school disco

I’m very proud of it. Look at how many words I made rhyme! Miss Grindleton says poems don’t have to rhyme, and I know she’s right, but I’m still pleased because ‘disco’ isn’t a very rhymey word. Is rhymey actually a word? I’m not sure.

Mum says I should write this poem in my neatest handwriting and send it to Jammy. Jammy is Zainab’s Mum, whose real name

is Jamila. I call her Jammy because Zainab dared me to once, and I didn’t get told off for it. In fact, Jammy laughed – a lot – so it stuck. I think sending her the poem is a brilliant idea. Isn’t my mum clever? Anyway, I’ll write it up very neatly, and pop it in the post.

PS. Just checked the dictionary. Rhymey isn’t a real word and Mum says I am a silly billy.

SOPHIE TURNER

Sophie Turner currently lives in Bath with her cat, Meg (short for Megara). She works as a bookseller at an independent bookshop and at The Roman Baths. Other than writing, she also cross-stitches, sews and chats about horror movies on her blog, ‘The Horror of it All.’ Her favourite authors are H.G Wells, Robin Stevens and Christina Henry. There Will be a Quest was inspired by 80s fantasy movies with great girl characters, such as Labyrinth, as well as a desire to have female characters that are strong, even if they like dresses and flowers.

THERE WILL BE A QUEST

In the Camelot-esque kingdom of Wendsomme, feminine and fierce Princess Adelaide is studying hard to be the next ruler, whilst the chivalrous knight-in-training Lapis is determined to be the first female squire to be knighted. As they continue to meet, their feelings continue to grow. On the night of Adelaide’s 16th birthday, they realise it is more than friendship, but are interrupted by a mysterious stranger. They must embark on a quest to save the king and the kingdom, facing labyrinths and monsters, but also first love. sophie.isabel.turner@gmail.com

There Will be a Quest

CHAPTER ONE ADELAIDE

It is morning. Weak sunlight streams through the windows as I hurry down the corridor, barely making a sound in my silk slippers. Amaryllis took too long plaiting my hair, trying out another new style, so I am late to learn arithmetic from Lady Hestia.

I hear the girl before I see her. A great yell from the courtyard below catches my ear, and I stop, because it is not the yell of a man or a boy. It is higher.

The stone is cold under my palms as I lean out the window. The squires and knights are in the mud pit they call the training grounds, busy shooting arrows or hacking wooden dummies with swords. A girl should be easy to spot, but the squires look identical in plain surcoats and leggings. I watch until the cry sounds again, from a figure rushing forward with a sword at their side.

It clanks loudly against the shield the other squire holds. The boy stumbles under the force, and so does the girl.

I lean far enough out of the window to feel the spring breeze on my face, to get a better view. She is short, and thin. Her hair, the colour of tar, only comes to her chin, contrasting against her pale skin like the moon against the night. I am too far away to see her face, but I imagine a narrow nose, red lips and piercing dark eyes. My cheeks warm at the thought.

The bell in the castle chapel tolls the quarter hour, reminding me how late I am. Still, I cannot stop watching. I want to know what

she will do next. She swings the sword again, and the boy she is sparring with steps back. They continue until Sir Raleigh barks at them to switch places.

‘Your Highness?’ The voice comes from the end of the corridor, and I pull myself away from the ledge. Hopefully I will not have been seen, because hanging out of a window is not princess-like behaviour.

It is Lady Hestia. She adjusts her spectacles as she sweeps down the corridor to meet me.

‘So, this is where you have gotten to.’ She is not cross, but there is a question in her tone.

‘My apologies.’ I hurry along the corridor, skirts swishing around me. I still hear the swords clashing. ‘A servant asked my opinion on the upcoming celebrations, and I got too involved in the discussion.’

It is a lie, but Father always says that a lie told with decorum can save a nation. Even if something is untrue, if it is what someone wants to hear, it makes a difference. Lady Hestia raises an eyebrow, but does not ask more questions.

I have one, though, as we step inside her bookcase-lined study. ‘Do you know a girl squire?’

Lady Hestia sits down at her desk and begins resetting her abacus. The wooden beads clink against each other. ‘Yes. His Majesty made the wizard’s girl a squire, as a favour for his continued service.’

The court wizard is Ferrick. He has a cottage somewhere in Wendsomme castle’s grounds, and is one of Father’s advisors. I did not know he had a daughter, and certainly not one my age. Surely, I would have seen her before.

Why have I not seen her?

‘I see.’

‘She is as good as any of the boys, so Sir Raleigh says.’ This is accompanied by a grimace. The two rarely see eye to eye about running a kingdom.

Of course, I have just seen she is good. I take my seat opposite Lady Hestia, at my desk with my own abacus, resting my hands in my lap.

I ask her sweetly, ‘And what do you think, Lady Hestia?’

She raises an eyebrow, seeing through the politeness that she taught me. ‘Anyone can see the girl is very determined.’

‘But what do you think?’

‘I’m sure I would not know much about training knights.’ She finishes setting her abacus. Her green eyes flick to mine. ‘But I’m aware the squires fight each other each morning, if one wanted to observe more closely.’

It is an invitation of sorts, before she begins the lesson in earnest. I usually make a point to concentrate, as arithmetic is important for the kingdom’s funds. Father wants me to truly understand trade and production in Wendsomme. Compared to the other decisions a King or Queen makes, I prefer it. There is only one right answer with arithmetic.

But my mind stays on the girl. She has appeared out of nowhere. I need to know why she wants to train as a squire, because I know everything that happens in the castle. I need to know why she is so determined. At least her name.

I do not have time, because there is too much to learn and to sort every day. There are always lessons and meetings and something to conclude, more so with my sixteenth birthday approaching. But there must be one morning I can sneak down to the bailey and meet her. Amaryllis would say that I should not, and that it is not proper for us to go down there.

Well, she is not the Princess.

LAPIS

I compare myself to Princess Adelaide.

The first time I really see her, not across the hall or part of a crowd, she’s walking around the edge of our training ground. A worried lady-in-waiting fusses at her side. My guess is she’s not meant to be here, with the squires and dummies.

I know we’re both fifteen. I guess she has an inch over me in height, but I’m certain I’m stronger than her. Her eyes are the colour of amber; her hair the colour of dark honey. It falls in waves around her heart-shaped face; her skin is a pale brown that makes me think of summer. Whereas I’ve hacked my dark hair too short to be grabbed in a fight, and there’s a dark bruise on my chin from getting hit with a shield. I feel like I lost, even if I don’t want to win in beauty or grace.

I don’t dislike her.

I don’t like her, either. It isn’t an easy feeling to place. Not jealousy. I’ve made my decision to be a knight. I chose swords and helmets over dresses and perfume. It doesn’t bother me that Princess Adelaide stands there spotless, and I’m covered in mud.

But I don’t like her.

Princess Adelaide sees me looking. She stops.

Maybe she smiles. I don’t look. Instead, I step up to Hubie, and aim a wide swing at him. He catches it. Just. The impact judders his wooden sword.

He hasn’t seen the Princess, so instead of bowing to her, he fights back. He lets my sword slide from his, lunging forward to attack.

I sidestep. My boots squelch in the mud. The whole training ground is like a pigsty – the grass trodden away. It’s past the front

garden of the chapel. The castle sits on the opposite side of the little stone building; a collection of turrets and towers in white stone.

Hubie’s hits are easy enough to parry and to return, as our feet slide for purchase. A diagonal cut. A horizontal slash. It’s an effort to push forward, feinting an overhead cleave, and worth it to jab Hubie’s stomach instead. Not hard, but he still doubles over in pretend agony. His sword lands with a thump.

Someone claps. The Princess.

Hubie straightens, cheeks going as red as sunset. He manages to murmur, ‘Your Highness.’

She doesn’t look at him. She looks at me; smiling with very white teeth. ‘Well done – that was wonderful.’

My footwork was sloppy; I could have done a lot better. I don’t explain. I stare back at her, still catching my breath. My chest heaves.

‘Your Highness, it really is not suitable for you to be down here,’ the lady-in-waiting says. Everything about her is pinched, as though she’s swallowed a lemon.

Princess Adelaide barely glances at her. She twitches her silk skirts off the ground.

‘It is only some dirt.’ Her voice is still light. I think of sunshine again. My stomach tightens. ‘I wanted to meet you. You’re the first girl-knight, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

She gestures at me.

‘Lapis,’ I say, because I have to. Then I look away, to where Sir Raleigh is marching around shouting directions to both squires and knights.

‘We’re still only squires. And there are girl-squires,’ Hubie says. He steps forward too eagerly, and nearly trips over his bootlace. ‘It’s just they have to prove themselves worthy being a knight by going on a quest.’

I glance back to see him bow so low his nose almost touches his breeches. Maybe I should bow too. She hasn’t asked me to. No one has told me off.

The princess raises an eyebrow at Hubie. ‘I do know that much.’

No girl-squires ever have the opportunity for a quest, though. Not now the war is over. Now, most of them stay stuck as squires, until they decide to move on; to somewhere that will knight them. I’m the only one left here, now.

I don’t want to admit I was only allowed the position because Ferrick is my guardian. She probably knew that too. Still, she wanted to see me. I want to know why she cares about girl-squires at all.

Hubie looks ready to keep explaining what she already knows, so I say, ‘We should get back to training.’

His eyes are wide in his round face, glancing between me and the Princess. A few sounds come out of his mouth. Nothing coherent.

‘Of course,’ Princess Adelaide says. She smiles, even as the ladyin-waiting tugs her arm, murmuring more about dirt. ‘It was nice to meet you. Both.’

“Both,” seems like an afterthought. The Princess leaves, stepping on her tip toes until she’s safely on the cobblestones again.

Hubie stares after her. His hair sticks straight up around his head, like a duck’s feathers. His cheeks are still bright red.

I tap my wooden sword on his. Twice. Thrice. ‘Hubie.’

He finally tears away from her and waves his sword half-heartedly at me. I knock it away, impatient, and come with another.

‘She’s so pretty,’ he says. His defence is still lazy. ‘Don’t you think?’

I redouble my efforts to force him to pay attention. After a minute of our swords clacking together, I realise he’s waiting for an answer.

‘No.’

But she is. Though, it’s too pretty, I decide. I sidestep to avoid a half-hearted jab from Hubie. He slips and only just catches himself. She is so pretty it seems like she glows.

‘She is,’ he repeats. If anything, the colour in his cheeks worsens. He puts some effort behind his swing. I catch it, holding my ground. We stare at each other, eye to eye with gritted teeth, until he mutters –‘You’re just jealous.’

I sidestep, so suddenly Hubie overbalances and falls face first into the mud. It splatters up my boots. It’s a cold day, and falling into the mud must be like falling into an icy river.

I want to shout at him. Jealousy isn’t what I’m feeling. I don’t want to be anything like her; just because she wears dresses, and I don’t. Just because we’re both girls.

But I don’t know how I do feel, either.

‘Good job, girl!’ That’s a voice that matters to me. Sir Raleigh. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. Maybe he thinks I will flinch under the pressure. I don’t. ‘Nice sword-work. Get yourself out of the mud, Hubert, or you’ll never make it outside the castle grounds.’

Hubie picks himself up onto his elbows and knees. His face isn’t red because he’s seen a pretty girl now; it’s red with shame. It’s hard to feel guilty.

I look Sir Raleigh in the eye.

‘Thank you, sir.’

He continues, ‘Now my armour needs a polish. You can handle that, can’t you?’

My heart sinks, just as quickly.

‘Of course. Sir.’

SAMANTHA TILZEY

Samantha was born and raised in the mystical Sierra Nevada Mountains. She spent her childhood hiking the Lake Tahoe basin with her father and always imagined fairies living in the pine trees and a great monster hiding in the lake’s depths. Although she now lives in Bath, Samantha has never forgotten her ethereal roots. She writes YA Fantasy about family, worthiness, and finding your place in the world. When she’s not dreaming up stories, Samantha loves travelling, reading tarot cards, and making her friends laugh.

CROWN OF MEMORIES

Auriella Laoch Tine was born to be Queen. Half-human, half-Fae, she was brought into this world to unite her warring peoples. When her murderous half-brother is named their father’s successor, she has no choice but to abandon the life she was destined for and embrace her mysterious Fae roots. But something’s been hidden from Auri her entire life: she has the power to control memories. Alongside a seasoned female knight, a Fae girl-gang, and a handsome but irritating prince, Auri must find the strength to master her magic or risk losing her crown forever.

sjtilzey@gmail.com

Crown of Memories

CHAPTER ONE

My world falls down around me in tiny flecks of ash.

The torches burn bright in the grey light of early morning, shattering the stillness of the dawn. Below, the city lies silent. Its winding streets and marketplace are deserted. Everyone is here. The rising sun’s rays glint off the gold-adorned crowd that circles the crest of the hill like a crown.

‘Princess Auriella,’ Lord Erid says. His dark brow is creased with badly concealed concern as he nudges me forward. ‘It’s time.’

I step up to the front of the dais, my hand instinctively clutching the gold and ruby dagger at my hip.

Be strong.

‘People of Inferonia,’ I say, addressing the crowd.

Cold sweat drips down my back as hundreds of faces turn to stare up at me.

‘We thank you all for joining us.’ Eyes dart behind me to the place where my family stands. My stepmother, Queen Linnae’s face is hidden beneath a golden veil but my younger brother’s dark auburn hair is unmistakable. Ayden has the look of a perfect Laoch Tine prince.

My fingers itch to tuck the points of my ears beneath my ash-blonde hair.

‘Today we celebrate King Aedmon Laoch Tine.’ I fight to stop my voice from shaking. ‘My father.’

Be strong so they may be weak.

I hear my father’s voice in my head echoing the Laoch Tine responsibility. Be an example to our people. Protect their minds and souls as well as their bodies. I must be an example even now when I feel raw, as if my insides have been scraped out. I let none of it show on my face.

‘As is tradition –’ I take a deep, steadying breath, ‘– we don robes of gold to symbolise a brighter tomorrow. Today that tradition is especially poignant, as it is my father who we have to thank for Inferonia’s bright future.’

The words feel strange and formal on my tongue. We never speak like that when it’s just him and me – with gilded words all polished and gleaming. But as heir apparent, I know what’s expected of me.

‘King Aedmon Laoch Tine’s reign has been one of peace. Held up as both our greatest warrior and uniter, he brought together humans and Fae to live as one people under the Inferonian banner.’

I look out on the sea of gold that makes up the gathered crowd, careful not to land on any one face. I can feel their stares but can’t bring myself to meet any of them.

‘Through the treaty with the Fae, my father ushered in an age of peace, the likes of which this world has never seen. That legacy shall be upheld.’

I swallow hard.

My next words scald my throat.

‘Light the pyre.’

Golden armoured knights step forward, holding their torches to the flints within the massive woodpile until they catch. Orange flames claw their way up, devouring the kindling to reach the armoured body perched at its peak.

My father’s body.

Two days. That’s how long it’s been since he drew his last breath. Every one I’ve taken since has felt like inhaling sand. Twice now the sun has risen on a world where his heart has ceased to beat. Each subsequent pounding in my chest is a betrayal because it is a second that I’m here and he isn’t.

For two days I’ve looked out of unseeing eyes and heard through grief-deafened ears. I’ve hardly eaten or slept. Everything has been drowned out by one thought. It has roared through my mind like a wildfire, consuming everything else so that it’s all I can see or hear.

The King is dead.

You must be strong.

I have to be. Because no matter how much I want to curl up in a ball and sob, I can’t. I must keep my chin high as I watch the body of the man who raised me burn to ash; endure as the putrid smell of burning flesh floods my nostrils.

‘To the sky!’ I call out and the crowd echoes the chant. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong.

That’s what queens do.

My eyes water under the oppressive heat as the fire cracks and consumes him. Each pop sends a jolt through my body. Pop. A tingling sensation blooms at the nape of my neck.

It’s happening again.

Pop. No, please no, I think. Not here. Not now.

Pop. The sensation spreads until every inch of my skin sparks like I’m being stabbed with a million needles.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

And then I feel weightless.

Clang.

The cracks of the fire transform into the clang of iron on iron. Clang.

Tall oak trees surround me as the hillside overlooking the Red City is replaced by the dense forest of the valley.

‘Careful Little Star.’ My chest burns at the sound of my father’s voice. He stands before me, all life and vigour. ‘What have I told you about facing an opponent twice your size?’

‘Be quick. Use their bulk against them.’

I hear the words leave my mouth, but I have no power to control my actions here. The past will always be as it was.

It was my first time leading a team in Inferonia’s annual war games and I didn’t just want to prove myself. I wanted to win.

The object is simple. Find the other team’s flag and bring it back to your keep unscathed. My father has employed the same tactic as long as anyone can remember: tying the flag to his armour. In order to steal his flag, you have to beat him. And he’s never been beaten.

Until now.

The forest sways around me as I attack. I sweep down from above and his sword rises to meet mine.

Clang.

I watch my hands execute the manoeuvre. My free hand grips his blade. Hooking my crossguard round his, I step off to the right, wrenching his sword from his grasp.

I’d been so proud in the moment. So surprised that such a simple move had allowed me to disarm him. It was so easy.

Too easy.

I want to scream at myself to do something but all I can do is watch as my father clutches his left arm. I’d thought it a sign of the strength of my disarming. The knowledge of retrospect chokes me.

He looks at me with pain in his eyes. ‘Father?’

He grasps his arm like that is the only thing keeping it attached to his body. Then his hand shifts to his chest. That was the moment I realised.

It’s his heart.

Knees buckling beneath him, his massive form crumples to the ground. The impact ripples out in waves like the earth itself is shaking.

‘Father!’

I drop both swords and run for him.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

I can’t feel the pain as my knees crack against the hard-packed soil next to his fallen body. His eyes are still seeing, chest still rising with laboured breaths, but his face shows agony like I’ve never witnessed.

‘Help!’ My scream is wild and desperate. ‘Please, someone help!’

‘Ayden.’ His weak voice locks me in a chokehold. ‘Where’s Ayden. I want to see–’ Spasms shake his body. His teeth grit against each other and his eyes squeeze shut, desperately trying to contain bellows of pain.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ The image blurs and I know I’m crying as I cling to his armoured chest. ‘It’s not your time. You’re not going to –’

He stops my words by gently placing a gloved hand against my cheek. ‘– Auri, I –’

The world shrank in that moment.

His hand falls away and his eyes turn glassy. I stare at his chest, waiting for it to rise again.

It doesn’t.

They say you can see the light leave someone’s eyes when they die. That’s not how I remember it. I remember the claustrophobic atmosphere as the trees closed in on me. I remember not feeling anything as my hands banged against his unmoving chest. I remember the rush of blood as my heart pounded double-time like it was trying to beat for the both of us. I remember a ringing that filled my ears like someone somewhere far away was screaming. There was no light. No shining last moment. He was just gone. It wasn’t until the others found us that I realised I was the one screaming.

The image goes dark but I can still hear my screams. Hollow and aching and full of pain. Until I’m wrapped in the scent of soil and cinnamon and I can feel my body again. When I open my eyes I’m back at the funeral, but the scent lingers. And now I’m the one looking up at the faces of my friends and family. ‘What –’ I’m lying on the floor of the dais. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Auri,’ Erinor, Lady of Herondæle and my oldest friend, says from her place beside Erid, her father. Her creased brow matches his as she fiddles with a long strand of her dark hair. ‘You collapsed.’

Shame spirals up from my gut. Collapsed. I knew the events of the past few days had taken their toll, but to actually have collapsed during my father’s funeral? How would anyone trust me to lead now?

I attempt to rise but a strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against something cold and hard. Soil and cinnamon. Connell.

‘You shouldn’t move,’ he says as I turn my head and look into his golden-brown eyes. He’d been the one to find us that day. I can see the worry on his face and feel his arms flex around me once again as if he can’t hold me close enough.

‘I need to stand,’ I whisper furiously, looking to the circle of faces surrounding us for support. ‘The funeral. The people cannot see me like this.’

‘Auri.’ Erinor places her palm against my forehead. ‘The funeral’s ended.’

Erid rises and steps aside, allowing me to see the dying embers of the pyre and the crowds of people being guided away by palace guards.

It’s over.

It doesn’t make sense. The pyre had only just been lit. It can’t be over. The flames have burnt out along with the last embers of my father’s life. He is truly gone. My throat burns as I swallow down the tears. For good or bad, it’s all over.

‘How –’ I choke, shoving down the sob that fights to escape my lips. ‘How long was I out?’

‘You don’t remember?’ Connell asks. There’s a pause as worried looks travel from face to face and I fall further into my pit of shame.

‘Really, Sister,’ Ayden drawls from where he stands behind us. ‘Even I didn’t think you could be this dramatic.’

I feel Connell tense, but it’s Linnae who strikes. ‘Leave her be.’

I turn, surprised to find her kneeling by my side. Her veil has been drawn back exposing her gaunt face and red-rimmed eyes. There’s something wrong about her appearance. The lustre has faded from her once glossy brown locks and the rich rosiness has drained from her lips. But I can see understanding in her eyes. She is the only one looking at me with anything other than pity and concern.

‘I need to get up,’ I tell her.

She nods at Connell and his arm releases me. I accept Erid’s hand and am hauled to my feet. A shiver travels up my spine and I feel

as if the dais is spinning beneath me. But I can’t let any of it show on my face. They are watching me like a fawn about to take its first steps. They are always watching me.

The sun gleams off Connell’s gold breastplate making me want to shield my eyes. He rakes a hand through his blonde hair, gaze never leaving me.

‘We should call for the court physician,’ Erinor says.

‘That’s really not–’

‘I’m already here, my lady,’ Odo says, climbing the dais steps with surprising agility for a man of his age. ‘Now, who let her stand?’ His disapproving gaze sweeps across the group, looking as if he plans to challenge whichever of the highly trained warriors assembled is the culprit.

My heart swells a bit at that. It’s the first time in days I actually feel like laughing. ‘I’m well, Odo,’ I say, taking his wrinkled hands. ‘I promise.’

‘So much like your father.’ My gut feels hollow as he scans my face. ‘Yes, I think you are. Quite well.’

‘But–’ Connell interrupts.

‘Grief does funny things to the body…and the mind,’ he adds quietly, only for me to hear. ‘I prescribe rest and a nice mug of tea.’

I turn to Erid, ‘How much time have I got?’

‘The ceremony begins at sundown.’

Connell is by my side once again, his palm applying pressure to my lower back.

‘Tell me what you need.’ His whispered voice is thick and makes my cheeks flush.

‘I need to hit something.’

NIAMH TAYLOR

Niamh grew up a frenzied scribbler. She found stories everywhere, often sharing her rather serious observations about the world with bemused friends and family! As an adult, she’s still scribbling away and now holds a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in Writing for Young People. Currently writing contemporary YA from a neurodivergent, queer perspective, Niamh cares deeply about championing marginalised voices. Her preferred state is hibernation in the Bristol flat she shares with her partner, where she spends most of the year wishing it was autumn – the season of chai lattes, nostalgic movie watching and snuggly jumpers.

FLORENCE + KIRAN

Seventeen-year-old Florence is struggling with a major incoming change to her routine: becoming an adult. And she’s still haunted by The Most Selfish Thing – a distressing incident from last year that she just can’t process. Seeking comfort from her safe spaces and special interest – photography – Florence tries to pause the world she finds so overwhelming as an autistic teenager. But she can’t press pause forever. When an unexpected relationship with outgoing, openhearted Kiran bursts into being, Florence’s world changes sooner than she’d planned. And in an entirely different way…

hannahniamhtaylor@gmail.com

Florence + Kiran

CHAPTER ONE

Ever since The Most Selfish Thing, I’ve been waking up a few minutes before my alarm. I can feel myself reaching for that hazy space between being asleep and awake, where, for those few moments, I don’t have to be either. I don’t have to be anything. I can just be held by the snug silk of my eye mask and protected by the barrier of my ear plugs. I can be quiet and still and safe. Because maybe if I stay exactly where I am, I can stay exactly as I am. I can be pulled gently back from the edge, away from the first day of the last year of school which is tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…

My bedroom door flies open, the uneven wood scuffing against loose threads of carpet. I flinch under the hug of my duvet. The sound, though dulled by my ear plugs, still goes right through me. Like the clattering of oven trays or a fork squealing against china. Some sounds are just wrong.

I pull off my eye mask and extract the moulds from my ears, expecting to see Mum in my doorway – the rough intrusion feels like her – but it’s Dad, already dressed in a loose navy sweatshirt, jeans and thick, bobbly socks.

‘Time to join the sunlit lands, Florence!’ His Narnia reference barely registers, failing to elicit the usual shared smile between us. I reach for my phone, frowning, as he strides across the room and fiddles with the broken blind until daylight breaks its way through, falling in speckles across my floor. The sun has already streamed into his smile; it is full and bright and beaming, framed by his greying beard.

‘I still have five minutes. You’re not supposed to come in before my alarm, Dad.’

‘Yeah, but today’s different.’ He sits down at the end of my bed, still grinning. I stiffen at the word. Different. I don’t do different. Dad obviously senses my reaction, because he lets a bit of sunshine slip from his smile and tucks a stray hair behind my ear.

‘Different, how?’ I ask, not bothering to act casual.

‘You’ll see.’

‘A surprise? Dad, no.’ The panic comes quickly, and it feels obvious, almost easy, to let it build. My body is used to this feeling. It is hardwired to it. Within seconds the hollow, twisting emotion is at home in the rivers running beneath my skin. They rush blue, green, purple, carrying the fear directly to my heart.

Today, of all days, he’s abandoning the careful, precious routine we’ve made together.

‘It’s a good thing, Florence, promise. And it won’t be a surprise for long. I’ve written out the plan for you, with all the details you need.’ He adopts a robotic American accent for these last few words; and it’s like each one is a hook, trying to tug a laugh from one of the usual places I bury them. But my thoughts lump together, stumbling over the lack of information about my day, and I am stuck.

I look suspiciously at his empty hands and flat pockets. ‘Oh, yeah? Where is it then?’

‘Waiting for you at the breakfast table,’ Dad says, with a self-satisfied nod.

‘So, it’s breakfast in exchange for information? That’s where we’re at?’

‘That’s where we’re at,’ he repeats. Then he adds, with another stroke of my hair, ‘You’ll like it, peach. Just come down and see.’

I’m not great with nuance, but I think I hear a plea mixed up somewhere in all that sunshine. Another feeling joins the panic, and it’s a lot harder to identify.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay.’

It was Mum’s idea to make daily plans for me this summer, probably imagining she could fill my empty days with a regime of extra schoolwork, to make up for the A Levels I’m dropping. But Dad started doing his editing work from home last year, so that his days could move more like mine – or at least so he could be there to help me shape them. We talk about politics on winding walks through the city; learn new skills together – cooking or drawing or gardening; organise the house just the way we like it; and, when he can, he nudges me back towards my photography and textiles projects, which I’ve neglected since last term.

Our days are never exactly the same, but they’re dependable, well-planned, and they make sense. They move without scaring me.

Mum doesn’t like her days to move at all. They have been fixed, and uncompromising, for as long as I can remember. The same hours working in the same shop every week; the same friends at the same coffee places at the same times; the same meals when it is her night to cook them. But she has moved her routine away from ours, from mine, further and further. Our same doesn’t match anymore.

And I know that these daily plans are really just a way of monitoring me after The Most Selfish Thing, but I’ve fallen comfortably into the new routine; I’ve let it catch me, hold me up, keep me going. It helps, to have an idea of what’s coming. It means I might be able to get out of bed, and put clothes on, and eat something, and just keep on following the steps on my list like stones across a river, or

markers on a map. Without my route, I’d be lost. Dad knows that. He knows.

‘So, why break from tradition on the last day of the holidays?’

I ask as I finally enter the kitchen, wearing leopard print sports leggings and the baby pink jumper I crocheted a few years ago. The outfit is one of my September staples, but now my skin itches and prickles with a stuffiness I hadn’t expected. Warmth still soaks contentedly in the blue sky filling the window; the kitchen counter catches drops of light, holding them still for me. The sight is soothing. I don’t like the heat of summer, or how the sky screams and splits open in humid storms, but a blue-sky day feels pure somehow. Clarifying.

Dad is making a real performance at the stove, blocking my view of whatever he’s doing. All part of the surprise, I suppose.

‘Because, my lovely Florence,’ he says, spinning around to reveal the faded Bake-Off apron Mum bought him six Christmases ago, ‘today is brand new.’

‘Right. It’s just –’

‘– I know. But things are going to be different from tomorrow. Start of Year 13! When did you get so grown up?’ His gaze is soft, but intent, like he’s seeing every year of my life etched upon my pale face. Trying to make sense of how his little girl could become… this.

‘Dad, stop it.’ My voice trembles, and I think of a new-born calf, unsteady on legs that don’t know what they’re doing yet.

‘You’re not looking forward to tomorrow, I know, but –’

‘– can you just tell me the plan for today? Please.’

He doesn’t reply right away. There is a different answer waiting uncertainly in his eyes, still boring into mine. I can sense it. I can almost see it.

I wait, but Dad blinks back the unspoken words and fills the empty space they leave with his widest grin yet.

‘I certainly can.’ He gestures at my immaculately laid place at the table, where a scroll of paper sits on an empty plate, tied with scarlet ribbon. I roll my eyes and let a laugh escape. Just for him.

‘Not dramatic at all, are you?’

He gives a jerky little bow, then turns back to the stove as I stride over to my chair and snatch up the scroll. The list is shorter than usual:

Breakfast: freshly baked (certainly not from a packet) cinnamon rolls

New photography exhibition at Arnolfini!!

Lunch: chips by the harbour

Home for a sofa nap and movie of your choice

Dinner: pizza with ketchup and not a speck of salad

‘How does that sound?’ Dad says. I look up. He’s watching me closely again, a bowl of drippy white icing in one of his hands.

‘There’s a new exhibition at Arnolfini?’ I’m taken aback; it’s normally me telling Dad things like this, begging him or Mum to go with me. I race back through the paths in my brain, trying to find the last time I checked their website for new dates, but I can’t. Every path has fallen into shadow.

‘Behind Closed Doors, it’s called. Mainly portraits, so I thought it’d be a good one for us. What d’you say, peach? Up for it?’

There’s the plea again. I meet Dad’s gaze but have to look away almost immediately. There’s too much to process in his eyes this morning, too much I don’t want to see. I return to the list, tracing every neat, slanting letter with the tip of my finger.

These are my favourite things. My special things. He’s put together

the perfect day, but I can’t say thank you, or yes please, or anything at all. My words, too, are slinking into the shadows, joining the dust, not even whispering, not even trying.

I have nothing to give him.

My body tenses, cement sealing creases of muscle, freezing them. I roll my neck against my shoulders, stiff and swollen. Bite at a jagged corner of fingernail. Blink too many times. I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought. I didn’t plan.

I don’t have a plan, I don’t have a plan, I don’t have a –‘Florence.’ Dad’s voice ripples through my forcefield; he is by my side. His hands are firm on my shoulders, pressing down. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’

The pressure helps. His touch seems to seep into my muscles, bringing them back to life. Still, though, uncertain thoughts tie knots in my brain.

I don’t know how to feel.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter eventually, flexing my arms so that he lets go of me. I feel suddenly uncomfortable in his presence. Coming out of a spiral like that is too raw, too vulnerable a state to exist in with someone else. Even Dad. It’s like I can feel every awkward piece of myself falling back into place, my walls rebuilding themselves, and I can’t help resenting that they ever came down. The truth is too much for other people. The Most Selfish Thing proved that.

‘Sorry for what?’ Dad says lightly. ‘Saying and doing literally nothing? Yeah, that was a bit much, Florence, seriously.’ He’s making an effort to slide us into cheerful mode – exaggerating every word so there’s no way I’ll miss his joke – and I appreciate it, but I still feel wrongfooted. Or just wrong. I try to smile along with him, guilt sticking like hot glue in my chest. I look back at the list.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ My voice is as small as the words I offer him, but he nods before turning back to the oven. I keep my eyes on the plan, willing my walls to let this one slip through: to start to make sense. New photography exhibition at Arnolfini.

And as the words settle in my mind – delicately, like snow on eyelashes – excitement begins its slow, steady dance inside me. I can tell immediately that it’s not the jittery kind, not too big to handle; it’s more of a deep warmth, a surge of glowing orange. It’s calming, cosy, right. I allow myself a tiny breath of relief. Of course this is right. A brand-new photograph collection to pore over in my favourite gallery, with Dad.

The dance of excitement spreads through to my fingertips, and I abandon the list on the table so I can stim with both hands – gently at first, just small movements. I wind my fingers, one around another, and grip until I feel the bolts of electricity sparking, asking for more freedom. Bringing my hands up to my face, I press my left thumb against my growing smile and let my wrists vibrate joyfully.

I might try to mask my spirals or shutdowns or meltdowns, but there’s no concealing my stimming. At least not when I’m at home. It’s an unstoppable force; a beautiful release; a way to fully connect my body and brain; a way for everything to make sense and fill me up as I feel it all.

‘Feeling better?’

I look up to see Dad balancing a plate piled high with doughy cinnamon rolls and bowls of icing and strawberries, cut neatly into slices. Hastily, I take the bowls from him and sit down.

‘Yes!’ My voice borders on childlike – sweet, shy, shining – but I don’t care. Alex teases me about my intensity, probably because the

me she knows best is still seven years old, cheeks flushed crimson, jumping up and down for half an hour after being presented with my very first camera. The seventeen-year-old me is a lot more of a mystery to her best friend than she should be. I haven’t seen Lex all summer.

‘Florence?’ Dad’s voice brings my focus back to the untouched food waiting in front of me. Under his pointed gaze, I hurriedly grab a few cinnamon rolls and drizzle icing across them.

‘Uh-huh?’

‘I was just saying, me and Mum thought you could tell Ms Oliver about the exhibition in class tomorrow. I’m sure she’d love –’

‘– can we not talk about school?’ I cut him off quickly, still trying to push thoughts of Alex out of my head with my usual refrain: not today.

‘Florence –’

‘– I don’t want to,’ I interrupt again, my words a shield, blocking his at every turn. ‘Let’s just have one more day. Okay?’

Dad considers me, frown-lines pinching his skin. The expression makes his face look tired, until he blocks it with a gooey cinnamon roll. ‘Okay, peach,’ he says, taking a bite. ‘Okay.’

I keep chewing, like he does, trying to taste the sugary, crumbling pastry, rather than the fear like acid on my tongue.

This is the last day. The last day.

JO SIMMONDS

Jo Simmonds grew up by the seaside, but now lives in Bristol where she often takes advantage of the city’s many excellent museums, theatres, and bakeries. Books were her first love, and she still has copies of the handwritten and illustrated stories she made as a child. She studied English Literature at university and worked in marketing and communications for ten years, before returning to Bath Spa for her Masters in Writing for Young People. Jo writes hopeful, uplifting, joyful LGBTQ+ YA romances, bad poetry, and text messages with way too many emojis.

THE DRAGON GIRL

Sixteen-year-old Hattie Bright is not a dragon rights activist. She’s not. But when her pet dragon, Albert, is injured by hunters, it suddenly becomes personal, and Hattie decides to take on the formidable Committee for Dragon Affairs. Now she just has to juggle her awkward crush, try not to fail her exams, and nurse an injured dragon back to health . . . all while being ridiculed as ‘the dragon girl’ by people far more interesting and popular than she is.

jo-simmonds@hotmail.co.uk

The Dragon Girl

CHAPTER ONE

My alarm clock blinked at me accusingly as I rushed around my room, grabbing notebooks and pens and stray papers and shoving them into my backpack.

8:47 blink 47 blink 47 blink … 48 ‘Socks!’

I had no hope of finding two that matched, so I grabbed two from my pile of clean laundry and tugged them on over my tights, then laced up my boots. I shoved a hat on my head and was just about to dash out the door when Albert hopped down from his favourite place on my bookshelf and looked at me.

‘You can’t come with me, Al, you know that.’

Albert snorted a tiny puff of smoke out of his nostrils and curled his claws under, like he was showing me how good he could be.

‘Al,’ I said again, but my resistance was already pretty low.

He made a soft whine in the back of his throat and curled his spiky tail around his legs.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But you have to be good, because Mrs. Gruen will kill me if you set anything on fire again.’

Al shook out his wings and flew over to perch on my shoulder, nuzzling in behind my ear to say thank you.

‘This is such a mistake,’ I murmured as I ran out of my room.

On a good day, it took me fifteen minutes to walk to school. I could make it in ten if I ran, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of the morning a sweaty mess, so I power walked down the hill with Albert happily flying along beside me.

Albert was a rescue. He’d been taken into the clinic as a tiny baby, only a few days old, rejected by his mother. A lady found him in the woods when she was out for a walk with her dog. She had wrapped baby Al in her scarf and driven all the way to the clinic, even though her dog was terrified of him.

For a while they thought Al wouldn’t make it – he was too small, too damaged, and hand-rearing dragons is notoriously difficult. I met him when he was still only a few weeks old; still black and wrinkled before his scales and wings were fully developed.

He was ugly, scrawny, yellow-eyed and mean. I immediately fell in love.

When I reached my first class of the day, Albert swooped off to go and explore. I checked my watch – only two minutes late – and ducked inside the main greenhouse’s lecture theatre.

Jordan, my best friend, was already set up at a table, so I slid in next to him.

‘I covered for you,’ he murmured.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered back. ‘Albert’s with me.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Harriet.’

‘I know, I know.’

I forced myself to tune into Mrs Gruen’s lecture on genetically-modified crops. As fascinating as I found the subject, Mrs Gruen’s voice droned, and I started doodling in the margins of my notebook.

Every now and then I caught a flash of red out of the window; that dark rusty red was distinctively Albert. He was hanging out

in the woodland area just behind the greenhouses, which put him behind Mrs Gruen, thankfully. Albert and Mrs Gruen had history.

I almost jumped out of my seat when the bell rang.

‘I’m not giving you my notes,’ Jordan said, before I even had a chance to ask.

I didn’t bother replying, because of course he would, just like I would help him with our lab-based practical tests. It was just what we did.

Outside, it was still bitterly cold, and a few of my classmates were pointing at something in a tree.

‘Oh no, Albert,’ I moaned.

I knew from experience that if he was outside for too long and got cold, he would make a little fire to keep himself warm. It was perfectly natural dragon behaviour, except Albert didn’t have much of a concept of what was appropriate to ignite and what wasn’t. Small piles of twigs – fine. My teacher’s revision notes? Not fine.

As I got closer, it became clear he was just showing off for the knot of my classmates who had noticed him, rather than making fires. I whistled sharply, the bright two-tone I’d trained Al to associate with treats. He swept down from the tree and landed quite elegantly in my arms. He had a small mouse in his mouth – a dead one – and dropped it at my feet.

‘Thank you, darling.’

I meant it, too. I’d take dead rodent gifts over inappropriate ignitions any day.

‘You’re a menace,’ Jordan said from behind me, making me jump again. He reached over my shoulder to give Al a little scratch behind the ears, and Albert cooed in response.

‘He’s not a menace,’ I said. ‘He’s a good boy, aren’t you, baby?’

‘I wasn’t talking to Al, I was talking to you.’

That made me snort with laughter, and as I turned around, Carter Griffiths stepped right into our path.

Carter bloody Griffiths.

I gaped at him like a big loser.

‘Is that a redback?’ he asked, looking at my chest.

Not at my chest, bloody hell, Hattie, get a grip. At Albert, who was snuggled up against my scarf, his cold nose poking up into my chin.

‘Uh…’

Jordan elbowed me in the ribs. Hard.

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘Yeah. He’s just a baby. But he’s really well-behaved. He won’t bite you or set you on fire or anything.’

Jordan elbowed me again, to get me to stop talking this time.

Jordan had introduced me to the visual delights of Carter Griffiths, who was a sixth-former and drop-dead gorgeous. Jordan had fancied him for a while – they had both gone to the same primary school.

Carter was a horticulture student, which meant he was often outside, stomping around the school in dirty jeans and heavy boots, his cheeks pink from the cold and his dark hair artfully swept back from his razor-sharp cheekbones by the wind.

‘Can I pet him?’ Carter asked and my knees literally buckled.

‘Sure,’ I squeaked.

Carter reached out slowly, clearly knowing how to handle a dragon, and gave Albert a little scratch between his eyes.

‘My mum used to have a redback,’ Carter said, making eye contact with me as he showered Al with affection. ‘Gertrude.’

‘Gertrude is a great name for a redback. This is Albert.’

He laughed and straightened up, and I had to keep a solid grip on Al, who leaned out of my arms and towards Carter.

I couldn’t blame him.

‘It’s been ages since I saw anyone with one as a pet.’

‘He’s a rescue,’ I said. Because sure, dragons weren’t fashionable pets anymore, not like flat-faced dogs or pedigree gerbils, or whatever it was the social influencers were into this week.

‘I meant that in a good way,’ Carter said. ‘I grew up with a dragon, I love them. The more people get exposed to them, the less likely they are to hunt them for sport, you know?’

I gaped at him and dodged another one of Jordan’s elbows. ‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Anyway.’ Carter shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll see you around. Bye, Albert.’

Albert cooed, and I gathered him closer to me, rubbing his belly like only I was allowed to do.

‘You are the biggest dork on the face of the planet,’ Jordan said as Carter walked away.

We both cocked our heads to the side to get a better view of Carter’s arse in his tight jeans.

‘Confirmed,’ I sighed.

I’d been in the queue for the cafeteria when my phone pinged with the news. My stomach turned sour and I walked out without buying anything, straight to the little clearing in the woods I thought no one else knew about.

We spent plenty of time in these woods in botany, so I knew my way around and they didn’t creep me out like they used to. Albert liked it out here too, where he could knock the last of the amber-gold autumn leaves from the trees and roll around in the dirt when his scales itched.

One of the ancient trees had space between his gnarled old roots to sit and hide, and I was just getting settled when I heard a click.

My heart stopped and my spine straightened.

Breathing slowly, I pushed back up to my feet.

It took me a second to spot him. The man was wearing camouflage head to toe, with brown streaks painted over his cheeks, crouching on the forest floor only a hundred yards away. And he was aiming a shotgun at Albert.

‘Hey!’ I yelled, startling him. ‘Get the hell out of here!’

He lowered the gun and Albert skittered out of sight.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he growled.

‘That’s a pet dragon, and this is a school. You can’t come out here with a gun, you maniac!’

I was vaguely aware of the sound of someone running our way, and it was just my luck – just typical – that Carter Griffiths burst through the trees.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, breathing heavily. ‘I heard someone screaming.’

The man had stood up now and he was clearly furious.

‘He’s trying to hunt out here.’ I pointed accusingly at the hunter. ‘This is a school,’ Carter said.

‘I didn’t know,’ the man replied, clearly lying.

‘You should leave,’ Carter said, and the hunter skulked off, muttering to himself.

I didn’t realise how badly I was shaking.

Albert made a noise up in the tree, wanting to be noticed. I whistled for him and he flew down to land on my lap and, recognising that I was shaken, leaned in to snuffle against my cheeks.

I wasn’t expecting Carter to stop and talk to me, so when he sat

down in the clearing, I had to fight to hide my surprise. He didn’t bother to lay a coat out or anything. Just crossed his legs and plonked down amongst the leaves.

‘I’m guessing you heard the news,’ he said.

I sat down too, with Albert on my lap. ‘Yeah.’

‘Albert’s still protected, you know. It’s only wild dragons that are covered by that legislation.’

‘Do you know how many pet dragons are killed every year, Carter?’ I snapped. ‘It doesn’t make any difference. The hunters kill them and claim they never knew they were pets, and no one cares. The law protects the hunters, not the dragons, and that’s not going to change any time soon.’

‘I’m not saying it’s not a shitty situation,’ he said, getting heated now too. His voice was low, a little rough, and I hadn’t even considered his feelings on what had happened.

‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

I sighed heavily and leaned back.

‘I get it,’ he said.

I watched as Albert crept off my lap, his little claws pricking on the leaves he’d shaken to the ground. He edged over to Carter, checking him out, and it was such typical dragon behaviour I couldn’t help but smile.

Sometimes I forgot Al was a dragon.

They still had a reputation for being aggressive and antisocial, and when people heard the word ‘dragon’, their first thought was always going to be the big beasts that lived up in the mountains. But most dragons were about the size of a house cat. Or even smaller, like the Hewith dragons from Wales that were pigeon-sized. Hewiths made terrible pets though, so people didn’t know much about them.

Al took another couple of tentative steps towards Carter.

‘Does he bite?’ Carter asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said with a laugh. ‘But only if he doesn’t like you, or if you piss him off. He’s more likely to burn.’

‘Ah.’ He looked up at me. ‘Is that why you cut your hair off?’

A hot feeling I didn’t know how to name swept through me.

I’d lopped all my hair off into a short pixie cut a few months ago, when I got fed up with Albert constantly singeing the ends. The acrid smell of burnt hair lingered in my room and it was becoming a health hazard.

And Carter had noticed.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He, uh… he’s still a baby, really. He doesn’t know any better.’

‘It suits you.’

I watched as Al hopped into Carter’s lap and immediately flopped over, demanding attention.

Carter grinned and got to scratching behind Albert’s stubby ears.

‘Such a tart,’ I muttered.

‘Who, me?’

‘No!’ I felt my cheeks burst into flame. ‘Albert.’

‘I know who you meant, don’t worry.’

Carter laughed and tucked his dark hair behind his ear. I had noticed that he had grown his hair out, but I wasn’t about to comment on that and sound like a total creeper.

I guessed Carter had come from a class this morning, because his hands were still streaked with mud, and he was wearing his usual jeans and dirty boots combo. It wasn’t cold out, yet he had layered a long-sleeved T-shirt under a button-down shirt that looked so soft and worn I wanted to snuggle it.

But, you know. Not in a weird way.

Al had clearly decided that Carter was a friend. He crawled up Carter’s arm, across his shoulders, sniffing under his chin and behind his ears.

‘Sorry. He has no sense of social norms.’

Carter laughed and tilted his head obligingly when Albert started nibbling on his ear. It gave me a perfect, unobstructed view of the long line of his neck, reminding me – if I needed reminding – that Carter was really, really attractive.

I wondered why he’d bothered to stop and talk. Maybe he felt sorry for me, because of Albert. I was sure most people in college weren’t following the very boring Committee for Dragon Legislation updates on Twitter, not unless they had a vested interest.

‘Harriet,’ Carter said seriously, and I felt that whoosh in my stomach again at the sound of my name coming out of his mouth. ‘Don’t be upset. About the legislation. We can fight it.’

I swallowed hard, not sure why I was suddenly fighting tears.

‘No one calls me Harriet.’ I sniffed.

Carter stared at me for a moment, then he cracked, and laughed. ‘Really? Jordan calls you Harriet.’

‘That’s because he’s being a dick,’ I said. I pushed my thumb into the corner of my eye, trying to wipe the tears away without smudging my eyeliner. ‘Everyone else calls me Hattie.’

He pushed himself to his feet and Albert dug his claws into Carter’s shoulder to keep himself steady. I knew that hurt, but Carter didn’t even flinch. He took a couple of steps towards me and held out his hand.

I hesitated before taking it and letting him pull me up.

‘Okay,’ he said gently. I didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t try to take it back.

‘Hattie.’

HOLLY SPARKS

Holly suspects she was born into the wrong world. She would like nothing more than her own pair of faerie wings laced with sparkling gold. Maybe even a mighty sword she can wield whilst performing acrobatic jumps through the air. Until that happens, she escapes into the fantasy worlds within books instead. There, Holly can run with wolves, cast magic with the fae and fly with dragons. In love with fantasy books from a young age, Holly likes to curl up in her home in the south of England and read under a cosy blanket, along with her two cats.

WITCH OF BLOOD AND SCARS

Power, heritage and beauty are all that make up a witch. If one is stolen, the witch may as well be dead. In the world of Sytharrow, seventeen-year-old witch Scarlett has been exiled from her coven. She’s no longer perfect and bears three facial scars. In a bid to restore her former beauty so she can return home, Scarlett embarks on a perilous journey where she will discover who she truly is. With a kingdom on the brink of extinction, old secrets emerging and a war that could be the end of all magic born, will Scarlett learn there is more to being a witch than just beauty?

hollylouisa@hotmail.com

Witch of Blood and Scars

CHAPTER ONE LADY OF CLOVERS

Night-kissed leaves of a clover tangle together to trap the red crown under their shadow. Easy enough to transform the playing card with magic – even for a rogue witch like me. One card to make all the difference to my hand; the Lady of Clovers swallowing the Red Prince whole.

‘Full house.’ I flick the cards at the man across from me and they land on his bare chest, sticking to sweat and the unruly red hair that sprouts from his skin.

The bar behind him swells with intoxicated highscouts: mostly men of the Queen’s army who spend their time indulging in a midday ale. Though some sway this way and that in drunken stupors, it would be a fatal mistake to underestimate their swordplay skills. Eyeing their blades slumbering in their sheaths, I see the malice that bounces off each piece of metal. I swallow the lump in my throat and eye every means of escape, from the wooden doors to the high windows. My gaze lands on the dirt-streaked glass. Small traces of sunlight peek in and glint off each shard of crystal as highscouts smash their empty glasses on the floor. Most of them leer over the bar, attempting to grab attention from perky waitresses who only roll their eyes with distaste and boredom, as if this is a daily occurrence. With the smell of dried beer and urine rising from the floorboards, it’s enough to send anyone retching. The same drivel of a tune plays from the guitarist, who slumps in the corner with his ale. It’s been a mercy that I haven’t cut his strings. Wretched music.

My fellow gambler, Rolf, picks up each of my cards and stares at them with disbelief: one Lord of Swords, Jester of Night and Lady of Clovers, the finest of hands. His eyes flare and he hurls the cards away with a sweep of his arm – reminding me of a young witchling throwing a tantrum. Not that the elders back in the coven would’ve stood for such behaviour.

‘You cheat!’ Rolf shouts, his voice almost loud enough to shatter the empty glasses on the table. Although I flinch, I attempt to keep my sole focus on the golden necklace, sitting atop a pile of coin Rolf has offered up to this game. ‘No way a little girl coulda beat me.’

I snort. I would hardly call myself a little girl at seventeen; in some parts of the south, girls are wedded and with child by their fifteenth year.

His lips draw upwards in a snarl, and he flashes his yellowing teeth. ‘So, what was it then? Witchcraft? Out with it, girl.’ As he heaves himself up, his belly protrudes over his leather belt and his shirt is tinged with stains of dried gravy from his recent feast. With a full head and chin covered in auburn curls, a meaty neck and large fists that bang on the table, it’s not a surprise that the servers in this bar wince at Rolf’s performance.

Careful. I need to be careful. Women are strung up for anything in these parts, some for just wearing the wrong thing. The worship of the Goddess has most mortals fearing women with harsh tongues –witchhood being the sole cause for such outbursts. It’s a dangerous place for someone of my kind.

Instead of surrendering to my nerves, I smile and ignore the voice urging me to get the stars out of here. Rocking my chair back and forth, my boots resting on the edge of the card-littered table, I say, ‘Maybe you’re just not up to scratch, old man.’

‘Why you little–’ Rolf clambers towards me, his chair collapsing to the floor. He lifts the wooden table and hurls it across the room. It lands with a resounding crash, the pile of coin soaring and scattering to the ground, some disappearing through holes in the floorboards.

My lips curve up into a wide grin, even though my heart thunders hard. As my boots hit the floor, I watch the necklace land next to Rolf’s feet; he’d better keep his filthy boots from stepping on it. It won’t work if it’s damaged. This will all be for nothing.

With growing annoyance, Rolf reaches for the sword attached to his belt. ‘Tell me how you cheated!’ Sweat pours down his face as his voice slurs. This man really hates to lose.

‘Look, just give me what I’ve won and I’ll be on my way,’ I say, eyeing the necklace. It’s the one and only reason I came to this dreadful drinking hole. The necklace is too important to belong to this giant oaf. He doesn’t realise how powerful it is, nor how rare. I haven’t been tracking Rolf for days, waiting for the chance to entice him into a game of cards, to lose it now.

‘I don’t think so, girl.’ A cruel smile stretches across his face and he towers over me. ‘No-one beats me.’

I refrain from rolling my eyes, but I can’t stop the words that leap from my tongue. ‘I hate to break it to you, but I just did.’

Rolf glares. He pulls his sword from its sheath and rushes for me, knocking into chairs which obstruct his path.

My eyes widen and I flex my fingers, readying myself for his swordplay. He sways to the left, the white-iron hilt of his weapon weighing him down. White-iron to keep himself protected from witches. White-iron that is incredibly dangerous and could burn my skin to ash.

White-iron: the very metal that killed my father.

My breathing stops altogether, as if a rope has fashioned its way around my neck and keeps drawing tighter. A white-iron blade. I focus on its tip, readying for the incoming attack I can see in Rolf’s eyes.

Reaching down, I brush my fingers over one of the knives in my belt, feeling the sharp promise of death waiting to be unleashed. Before I can unsheathe the blade, an arm, as big as Rolf’s, wraps around my neck. One of his cronies. I’m forced back into a body that emanates stale sweat.

Fantastic. This wasn’t part of the plan. I elbow him and attempt to kick my way free. I pound muscly flesh. It makes no impact. I curse. I can’t waste any magic here – I’ve used enough already to win this damn card game. Besides, if these men scent any snippet of my magic, they’ll burn me on the spot.

‘You smell delicious.’ A gruff, male voice crawls into my ear. I cringe. It’s not uncommon for locals to dine on travellers in this part of Highmoon. His tongue slithers up and licks the skin of my neck, leaving a warm line of saliva behind. He must be a flesheater. My flesh is staying firmly on my body, thanks. I slug him with another elbow and buck against him, but his grip holds firm.

The warning voice in my head returns, roaring at me to get away, to run and never come back. But it’s too late for that. I kick and squirm. My hands tremble and my heart pounds more than I care to admit. He sniffs my hair and I jab him. It does nothing to deter his advances.

‘Can we keep her?’ he asks, his breath rank with the smell of ale.

‘I’ll see if her blood runs red,’ Rolf bellows to his cronies. ‘Only then can we eat!’

I shiver, knowing full well my blood will run black. They won’t eat me. I’ll be burned alive instead.

Rolf steps towards me with his blade. I attempt to kick the man holding me again, to use any means of violence to escape, though nothing works. His hold just becomes stronger. The sharp tip of Rolf’s blade cuts my wrist and I wince as white-iron burns my flesh open. Blood leaks out, painting my skin black, like the darkness of a shadow that casts over a crescent moon.

Rolf eyes the blood and sneers, ‘We have ourselves a witch.’

The drumming of my heartbeat fills my ears, like the pulse of Ortishan music at the Solstice Rite. Mother always used to say, a witch discovered is a witch burned.

With another sniff of my hair, the man behind me says, ‘She might taste good.’

Rolf glares at him. ‘We don’t eat witches! Their blood is cursed. They reek of magic and trickery,’ he shouts, his head now close enough that I can see the pieces of meat stuck between his teeth. The sight sends a wave of nausea through me.

Don’t reveal weakness, Mother’s words come back to me. Stay strong and look fear in the eye. So I do.

With more confidence than I have, I say, ‘What is it with you men calling women witches when you don’t get your way?’

Rolf holds a blade up to my face and I see the light glint upon the metal. ‘I’ll cut out your tongue, girl.’

I take a deep breath and attempt to calm my trembling. If Mother could see me now, she wouldn’t be impressed. She’d expect so much more from her daughter. You are heir to the coven, Scarlett. Act like it.

I muster up some strength and look Rolf dead in the eye. ‘Try me. I’ll cut off something else in return.’

Rolf snarls, pressing the sword harder against my skin. The point of the blade rests upon a jagged scar that runs down over one of

my eyes. ‘You’re an ugly thing,’ he says, his lips twitching upwards into a cruel smile. ‘Scarred little witch.’

Scarred. Imperfect. Monster. Names that were thrown my way when I left the coven. Names my mother spat at me. I clench my eyes shut, trying to rid myself of the memory.

‘Come on,’ says a voice as smooth and deep as an iced lake. ‘Leave the poor girl alone.’ Standing in the doorway is a man. His ravenblack hair is damp, curling up at the sides, and his breeches and boots are stained with mud. From the candlelight dancing through the tavern, the prominence of the red scar that runs down the middle of his face is highlighted, almost splitting it in two. On him it doesn’t look imperfect. It doesn’t make him monstrous; it makes him look fierce. My scars make me no one and nothing – my coven saw to that.

‘What did you say, farmer boy?’ Rolf spits at the intruder.

The man walks in and leans against the bar, his elbow nudging an empty glass. ‘Just leave her.’ His demeanour screams the kind of arrogance and confidence you wouldn’t usually see in a mortal – as if he’s spent years honing how he holds himself. More male than man. ‘Are you really going to kill the girl?’

I’m not about to wait and see what Rolf decides. Whilst the man behind me is distracted and his hold on me has loosened, I shimmy my hand free and unsheathe one of the knives from my belt. I sweep the sharp blade back and hear a cry of pain. Finally, I break free, turning to see the man pull the blade from his arm – a line of blood leaking down. He cups his hand over the incision, cursing the fae and the seven realms, like most mortals do.

I roll my eyes. It’s only a little cut. I’ve experienced worse.

As Rolf turns back to look at me, I kick him in the groin with my

hard-toed boots. He drops his sword immediately and his tongue hisses a multitude of curses. Little girl, my arse.

Dashing to the overturned table, I grab the necklace from the floor, flicking the pendant in greeting. ‘You wretched thing,’ I sneer. It’s caused me so much trouble. The intricate, golden edges shimmer in the dim light as the ruby in the centre glows red. Slipping it into my pocket, it warms my skin. I make a run for the door.

The male blocks my exit. ‘Move, or I’ll make you,’ I snap at him.

The corners of his lips lift slightly, as if he’s somewhat amused by my haste. ‘And how far do you think you’re going to get?’

I glance back at Rolf’s cronies who are unsheathing their weapons and at Rolf himself, who’s still groaning and clutching his groin. Grasping a second knife from my belt, I hold it out at the male, the tip sharp and lethal. ‘Move!’

‘I take it you’d reject my offer to give you a ride out of here then?’ He cocks his head like he has all the time in the world, not at all deterred by my blade.

I don’t have time for his arrogance. ‘Get out of my way!’ I hiss, wanting to slice my knife over his throat. Wanting to push him into the bar for finding any of this entertaining.

All he does is smile. Then he moves from the door, revealing a group of highscouts sitting around outside. Each looks the mirrorimage of Rolf. They hold cigars to their mouths, blowing out whistles of smoke, and chuckle amongst themselves. One bearded man raises a glass of ale and chugs it down, spilling most of it onto his front.

‘Get that damn witch!’ Rolf bellows from behind me and the group jump into action, each eyeing the black blood dribbling down my arm. They throw away their cigars and discard their glasses, letting them smash on the ground. As the remaining ale dribbles onto the

snow, they reach into their belts to retrieve daggers and swords. But when they go to move towards me, they stop still. Their bodies freeze and their veins bulge against their skin, as if all blood flow has stopped. My eyes widen and I watch with surprise. I want to question it but using it to my advantage seems the better choice. I just need to find a way to get the stars out of here.

Pulling my hood up over my long white hair, I wrap my cloak tightly around me to ward off the cold. The sunset paints the sky a bleeding red. I didn’t realise it had got so late. It’s not wise to be out in the north at night, but I still search for any path leading away from the tavern. All that surrounds The Old Crow Inn are snow-covered trees; the dark shadows between the trunks providing my one and only escape. The White Forest is no place to run to but I’ve no choice.

FABI SANTIAGO

Fabi writes and illustrates children’s books. She’s best known for her picture book Tiger in a Tutu, shortlisted for the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize. Raising the Dead for Dummies is her first YA novel, inspired by her love of 90s horror movies, back-garden parties and badly-behaved strong female characters. Fabi’s favourite things are skiing, cycling, camping, and making zombie apocalypse survival plans. She works from her home studio in London, where she lives with a ginger fellow and their ungrateful (but terribly cute) cats.

RAISING THE DEAD FOR DUMMIES

Booksmart meets Shaun of the Dead in this YA horror-comedy set in London. Best friends and school outcasts Gabi and Inés inadvertently raise a horde of hungry zombies on Halloween night. They have until dawn to reverse the curse and save the world. But first, they must mend their fractured friendship and teach the popular girl how to swing a cricket bat. Raising the Dead for Dummies is a coming-of-age story about the value of friendship, learning to trust, and killing zombies.

mail@fabisantiago.co.uk

Raising the Dead for Dummies

TONIGHT’S THEME IS ZOMBIES

I sit opposite Inés on the damp cemetery ground, the sign of the cloven hoof that we’ve made with sticks lying between us. The sun is a strip of orange, melting on the horizon, and the moon shines a soft glow in the purple sky. It’s almost time. Magic is best done in the dark.

We chose this clearing carefully: a quiet spot away from the main paths. We don’t want sweaty joggers and dog walkers thumping past our ritual site. Or their pets pissing on our pentagram.

It’s Inés’ bunny rabbit, Pompom, we’re trying to bring back. Just last week, we made the cutest video of him eating dandelions and wearing one of his pompom hats, which Inés crocheted for him. He got all the likes and comments on socials, but the next day, he ran through the front door… and hopped over the ‘Rainbow Bridge’. Pompom’s no longer with us.

We held an intimate service for immediate family (Inés and me) and buried him right here at the Nunhead Cemetery, in this clearing we’re now sitting in. Totally illegal, but I had to honour Pompom’s last wishes – I mean, Inés’ wishes. She’s my best friend, after all.

I open my backpack and take out the objects we’ll be using for our spell.

‘No te molestes, Gabi. You don’t have to do this.’ Inés snuffles and wipes her nose on the cuff of her leather jacket. Here we go again.

‘And you don’t have to do that.’

‘That what?’

‘That.’ I point at the snot trail that ruins her otherwise gorgeous jacket. ‘It’s disgusting.’

I know she’s going through a lot right now. Pompom was everything to her. But that’s no excuse to let herself go.

Inés lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, then looks away. I pretend not to see it and carry on lining up the ritual objects in front of me.

‘What’s the point? We know the spell won’t work,’ she says in her usual monotone.

And fair enough. Because let’s be real: I’m sixteen; I know there’s no such thing as bringing back the dead. Right? But it’s my turn to be there for Inés, and anyway, it’s Halloween. Everything is possible. Tonight’s the night when the dead come back to life and stuff.

‘Let’s go through the checklist,’ I say, to clear the air.

1. A set of six black candles

2. A dark crystal candelabra

3. A goblet (I got it last Halloween, courtesy of Etsy)

4. A dagger (I don’t have one, so the kitchen knife will have to do. I hope Mum won’t miss it)

5. A fresh turnip poppet (which I painstakingly carved like a rabbit, sticking on loose roots for limbs and ears)

‘Check, check, and check,’ I say, mostly to myself, as Inés plays with a lighter.

‘Can we get started already?’ She burns a few split ends from a lock of her thick, dark hair.

‘Chica, do you want this ritual to work or not?’

I rummage through my backpack some more and dig out a book. I found it yesterday, browsing at one of my favourite charity shops in Peckham – that’s how I had the idea for the reanimation spell. It’s supposed to be a spell book, but the cover’s got none of the witchy vibes you’d expect. Instead of moons, stars, and intricate motifs, zombie hands peek from the cover’s edges. The glow-in-the-dark title pops against a bright purple background. It’s giving nineties B-movie poster.

‘Raising the Dead for Dummies.’ Inés reads the title out loud in a mocking-spooky voice. ‘For real?’ She leans against a tilted tombstone and cracks up.

Well, if this ritual doesn’t work, at least it’s making her laugh.

‘Stop judging my book by the cover,’ I say playfully. ‘I wish I’d gotten something more proper too. But it’s not like we can find a lost copy of the Necronomicon on Gumtree.’

‘A distressed leather cover would’ve been a nice touch,’ she says, teasing me.

‘Same. I’m all for ancient grimoire vibes. But hey, look.’ I pull a fold-out poster from the back cover pocket.

I checked it out last night in my bedroom, but now, in the dim evening light, new details come to life. Three girls sit in a graveyard, surrounded by tombstones and candles, performing a magic ritual. In the foreground, a green zombie hand bursts through the soil. It’s right up our street.

‘You can hang this in your room. Horrideous, don’t you think?’

Horrideous. It’s been a while since we last used that word. It always made us laugh because it’s a mashup of horrid and hideous, but it actually means the opposite.

‘¿Segura?’ Inés smiles.

‘Sure. Keep it.’ I fold the poster and put it back inside the book,

so it doesn’t crease. ‘Let’s do this spell real quick, and then we can have our horror night sesh.’

We’ve always been into spooky stuff: magic spells, Ouija boards, and talking to the dead. But we grew out of it at some point in secondary school, so the séances went, but the sleepovers stayed. We usually pick a theme and watch horror films back-to-back: a whole night of slashers. Or haunted houses. Or creepy clowns.

‘So, what’s it going to be?’

Tonight’s theme is zombies, I decide, and tell her so. ‘We can have brigadeiros and cream cheese empanadas, too. Mum put a batch in the freezer the other day.’

Inés perks up from the opposite side of the circle, where she’s busy placing each candle on a tip of the pentagram. ‘Zombie movies and Tia Luci’s empanadas? Horrideous!’

I crack the book open on our chosen spell as she sets the last candle in the crystal candelabra.

‘Can I light them, now?’ she asks.

‘No. You have to wait for me to read the spell opening first.’ I straighten my back and take a deep breath. ‘A spell to bring back a beloved pet.’

A gentle breeze blows, lulling the trees. Inés snuffles and a dog howls in the distance. I take it as a sign. We’re ready.

‘Vires tenebrarum, Occulta potestates mortis. Formidulosus supellectilem!’

I give Inés a nod. She walks around the pentagram, lighting the flames.

‘Is that Latin? What does it mean?’ she asks, as I stick the knife in the turnip poppet.

‘Shhh!’

But I don’t know what the words mean either; something to do with death magic, it seems. I turn the page and read out the spell proper.

In your shallow grave, you sleep; candles burning bright. Moonlight glowing, shadows creep. Ghastly, scary night.

In your coffin, bones will shake. Wicked magic spell. Click-clack, rattle – You’re awake! Rising up from hell.

In the night, you screech and moan. A claw shoots from the ground; more than just a bag of bones. Climb out of your mound.

In the graveyard, tombstones fall.

I run away with dread. Dead-alive, you limp and crawl. I brought you from the dead.

I barely finish reading the spell, and we look at each other, holding back a laugh. Inés makes that same face she always did when we passed silly notes during Mr Mason’s class.

‘What. Was. That,’ she says, and we burst out laughing. ‘That sounded like a poem I’d have written in Year Five.’

‘I know. So lame!’

The tiniest bit of embarrassment tingles inside me, for believing – even for a moment – that the spell could be real.

‘But maybe we should hold on a little. Something can still happen,’ she says, with a frozen, spooky smile that would be perfect were she cast as the satanic doll in Annabelle.

Is Inés being sarcastic or serious? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But I just go with it.

‘How about we close our eyes?’ I suggest.

So we do, and wait.

And wait. And wait some more.

But there are no threatening grey clouds circling the sky; no thunder and lightning, or heavy rain crashing down. No furry paw thrusting through the turf. Nada.

The odd bat squeaks over our magical objects, but overall, there’s only quiet. Pompom. Stays. Dead.

‘Do you feel anything?’ I whisper.

‘My legs are itchy.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I was more talking about, you know…’

Now the sun has completely gone. Apart from the moon, our only sources of light are Inés’ phone screen and the half-burned candles.

Inés sighs. I pretend to pick lint from my leopard print skirt, even though it’s lamé and it never ever collects lint. The turnip poppet

lying in the middle of the pentagram mocks us, and at this point, we accept the spell totally sucks.

Pompom is on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge; he’s probably doing bunny flips in pet heaven.

I get up and start packing our stuff. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work.’

Inés lies on a tombstone slab taking selfies; she’s the perfect Final Girl in her black leather jacket and Doc Martens – the one who defeats the monster at the end of all our favourite movies.

‘That’s okay. Pompom had a happy life.’ She doesn’t seem to care, but I know Inés. This is how she copes.

A light rain starts to fall. ‘We better move quick,’ I say.

We put out the candle lights. I pick up the candelabra but accidentally knock over the goblet. It rolls down a mossy slope, through the bushes, and disappears into the stinging nettles.

‘¡Mierda!’

‘I’ll go get it,’ Inés says, but before I can say anything, she’s gone.

Now the world is darkness. A cold breeze sweeps over my face, and an eerie rustling shuffles in the bushes behind me.

I turn around. ‘Nés?’

No answer.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ she shouts from the other side of the clearing, deep into the bushes and trees, lighting her phone torch.

‘Shhhh! Listen!’ I hiss.

‘Gabi?’

‘Yes?’

‘I found it!’

‘So get back here!’ I say.

‘I can’t reach it.’

The rain gets heavier. And we’re in the dark. No, I’m in the dark; Inés has her phone. I reach for mine, but it’s dead.

More rustling.

The wind blows. Then leaves crunch under approaching footsteps, and a wave of chills washes over me.

I look behind me and finally see it.

From the end of the path that branches out from the clearing, looms a monstrous figure, silhouetted against the moonlight: a Cruella De Vil shape, but with huge bunny ears.

And it’s moving towards me.

I swallow, frozen at the sight of it. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I want to scream, but all that comes out of my mouth is a stifled croak. Is that Pompom?

Whatever. I’m not staying here to find out.

I drop my backpack and run towards Inés. Nettles and low branches brush against my skin. My clothes are so wet, my skirt sticks to my thighs. I slip on the muddy track, stumble and fall on my knees. I’m a pathetic horror story cliché: can’t a girl run without falling down for once?

The force of my pulse pounds in my ears as I lie on all fours, with my back turned to it. I want to get up, but my legs are jelly. I don’t dare look back. I try to steady my breathing and stare down in an effort to push away any thoughts of my impending, untimely death. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to get Inés. ‘Gabi? You all right?’

I look up. It’s Inés, staring at me like I’m a circus freak. Then she gazes past me, her mouth half open. ‘What. On. Earth.’

Something soft, like rabbit fur, brushes against my legs, and a sickly sweet, candy-floss-like scent invades my nostrils.

HUMAN-BUNNY THING

The rain’s eased off, but I’m still crouched on the muddy cemetery ground. I peek through my wet hair, and my eyes follow a pair of fuchsia boots all the way up – from the hem of a fuchsia fake-fur coat, to a fuchsia fuzzy top, to a pair of fuchsia bunny ears. Holding a plastic umbrella and, um, a designer bag?!

‘Clem?’ I let out a sigh; a mix of what-the-eff-has-just-happened and relief. The human-bunny thing that followed me isn’t a reanimated Pompom on steroids; it’s just Clemency Bianchi. The most popular girl from our Sixth Form.

‘GABI, INÉS!?’ she squeaks.

What’s she doing at the cemetery this late in the evening? Because I hardly think she was also having her own private necromancy a few graves down from us.

‘Hey, what’s with the rabbit outfit?’ Inés asks.

I wonder about that too. Though it being Clem, it’s not exactly a surprise. The ‘Barbie meets Easter Bunny’ look makes total sense.

Clem flicks her golden hair. ‘You like it? THANKS.’

Does she realise there’s no need to be that loud? I mean, this isn’t the school halls; there’s no one to watch her here.

I get up and brush off a bit of caked mud from my jumper. I’m soaking and shivering, but at least I can finally breathe properly.

‘I’m so, SO glad I found you two!’ Clem rests her oh-so-pink manicured hand on poor Inés’ shoulder. ‘You won’t believe it.’

CHARLOTTE TEEPLE-SALAS

As a child in California, Charlotte caught the story bug from Star Wars and ballet, when she yearned to be the first ballerina in space. In addition to her MA in Writing for Young People, she holds a BA in History of Art from UC Berkeley and an MA in Museum Studies from UCL. A Golden Egg Academy Alumna, she is also an active member of SCBWI British Isles and was recently shortlisted for Searchlight Award’s Best Novel Opening and longlisted for the Guppy YA Open Submission 2022. Charlotte lives in North London with her French-American-British family dreaming up stories of her own.

CHIMAERA MOON

On her California summer island holiday, fifteen-year-old Calliope reconnects with her lost childhood friend, Nicholas, whose damaged soul is irrevocably entwined with hers. When a strange meteorological event sends her back to his past life in 1925, Callie must prevent the murder he committed and return home before the Chimaera Moon passes. But to save Nicholas and herself, can she let him go forever? We Were Liars meets The Great Gatsby and A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder. Under the pressures of a romantic time-slip suspense, Chimaera Moon explores toxic perfectionism, courage, loss and what it means to truly love. charlottesusanteeple@yahoo.com

Chimaera Moon

CHAPTER ONE

‘Strange things happen under a Chimaera Moon,’ my mother once told me, as the sea lapped against the hull of our boat, lulling me to sleep. I was five, and don’t remember everything she said, but the visions she planted with her words are still with me, ten years later. Clouds turning red. Flowers opening to greet the night and sleeping under the sun. Creatures roaming far from their habitats. The sea unexpectedly falling, tides refusing to cooperate, and landscapes shifting before your eyes. ‘If you’re not careful, Calliope, my little muse,’ she said, ‘you may find yourself in another place.’

I no longer believe her magical words, but now, as I pop my head out of the aft cabin hatch of our sailboat with the damp, cool dawn kissing my cheeks, they echo in my mind.

Something is happening in Lotus Cove.

The seals have lured me from my dreams, their desperate barking morphing into cries of Callie, Callie, Callie, like selkies begging for my help. Clustered where rocks jut out from the cliffs like a diving platform over the bay’s dark, cold abyss, the seals are agitated, their attention directed at something in the water.

Our sailboat, Ourania, strains on her anchor, the rope creaking as she rises and falls on sudden swells. Is it a storm? Apart from a few pink-tinged wisps to the east, the horizon is cloudless.

Then I see it, a three-foot-high dorsal fin, black like squid ink, tearing through the water.

An orca, hunting for breakfast.

Near Santa Marina Island, so close to shore?

It’s a sign, says a voice in my head.

A chill snakes up my spine. ‘It can’t be,’ I whisper to the breeze. ‘Fairy tales aren’t real.’

‘It’s too bright,’ moans my friend Aura from her bunk inside the cabin below me. She fell asleep reading Anna Karenina and now a page is stuck to her cheek. She snorts and rolls over.

Not wanting to miss the orca, I throw on my hoodie and clamber out of the aft cabin. The deck is slippery. I scrunch my toes for grip and wrap my arms around the mast to steady myself as I climb onto the roof of the forward cabin for a better view.

The massive orca is shooting for the rocky end of the cove like a torpedo, chasing three seals. On the shore, more seals desperately bark.

My heart drops into my belly. The orca is gaining.

Skimming the surface, the seals split off – one right, one left, and a third veering back – then they fly out of the water onto the rocks, tumbling and skittering away from the edge, water from the orca’s wake crashing over them. The orca lurks under the surface. I imagine it sulking as air blows from its hole and water sprays in a frustrated, whale-like curse.

The seals, one limping, still bark, and now taunt the orca. It swims towards our boat, to the rocks and back, circling. But after a few minutes, it gives up and heads out, its dorsal fin disappearing beneath the glassy sea.

Heart still dancing from exhilaration, I collapse onto the deck, shivering in my pyjamas, hoodie, and bare feet. I raise my face to the sun and the touch of its warm, welcoming rays.

Why was the orca alone? They live and hunt in pods. Was it lost?

It’s the Chimaera Moon.

‘It isn’t real,’ I say, the breeze carrying my words away.

Apart from my mother, no one I know has ever witnessed a Chimaera Moon. Dad once told me she spoke of it like a secret, as though it were unlike anything on this earth. A storm without the rain. An eclipse without the moon crossing the sun. A strangeness in the air and the dangerous, exhilarating feeling that anything could happen.

The water in the cove is calm now. My heart, too. The orca sighting must be a fluke of nature. It’s the only logical explanation. No portent of a Chimaera Moon.

And fairy tales aren’t real.

But the orca sighting has triggered something in me. For the first time in a long time, I feel.

A thrumming in my veins. A restlessness. A yearning for something more.

Maybe it’s a sign after all. Maybe this summer will be different. Maybe Nicholas will return.

The sun rises higher, the pink mother of pearl hills turning golden. Beneath me in the main cabin I hear the click, click, click and the whoosh of the gas igniting as Dad lights the stove and fills the kettle. Soon, the smell of coffee mixed with kerosene from the brass heater wafts out of the open porthole. Sleepy murmurings between Dad and my stepmother, Gale, too.

Then –‘Damn it, Tom! It’s gone on long enough! Tell her!’ Tell who, what? Instantly, my own body reacts to Gale’s sharp voice.

I sit straighter. Smooth down my flyaway hair even though I’m alone, and no one can see me so… imperfect.

Gale’s probably complaining about me again. Have you seen the state of her nails? Bitten! It’s a wonder she doesn’t come home with tattoos! ‘I’ll tell her,’ says Dad, defeat in his voice. ‘I will.’

My hand drifts to my left arm, pushes up my hoodie sleeve and finds a small scab yet to heal. I remember that I scratched it during my finals. Felt it bleed. The brief release it gave. Now, my ragged nail catches the edge and I –

No … I mustn’t pick. Shame pulls my hand away and disgust makes me wrap my arms around my knees. I swallow. The salty air whispers, soothing my nerves.

Across the cove, an engine splutters to life. A small, but well-kept teak sailboat is pulling up anchor. On the bow, a middle-aged blonde woman with tan, sinewy arms tidies the anchor lines and lashes down an inflatable dinghy.

In the cockpit, a figure, too far away to see clearly, pushes dark hair out of his eyes before raising the mainsail. There’s something familiar about him, too. The angle of his neck and shoulder. The way he rests his hand on his bathing suit-clad hips.

My heart thrums.

Nicholas?

By the looks of things still left on deck – the solar shower, clothes and towels pegged to dry on the lifelines around the cockpit, and a guitar – they’re taking a short sail, perhaps to the next cove or up to Isthmus Harbour, not back across the channel to the California mainland.

Did they see the orca, too? Selfishly, I want to keep the experience to myself.

The teak boat motors past, the figure at the tiller steering. He meets my stare the same moment my hope plummets. It isn’t Nicholas.

It’s been three years since he dropped off the face of the earth. Where could he be?

CHAPTER TWO

I was born from a fairy tale, or so the story goes.

My mother set sail from the Scilly Isles, off Cornwall, England, through a red fog smelling of strange spices. When the fog cleared, her little wooden boat had sailed across the earth in just a few hours. Dazed, she and the wrecked boat limped into a harbour on Santa Marina Island off the coast of California, where a Classics professor with a contagious smile rescued her. They fell in love. Had me. But on my fifth birthday, she sailed out alone and never came back.

‘The Chimaera Moon took your mother home,’ Dad would tell me after she was gone, picking up the threads of her fairy tale and weaving it to make his own. ‘Keep watch for the signs. When the tide turns, she might come back to us.’

I believed him. Every summer I waited for signs of the Chimaera Moon. But my mother never came. I grew up. Stopped believing. Now, ten years later, I know the truth Dad was hiding: my mother abandoned us.

She was the first person to leave me. Nicholas, the second.

For the past three summers, I’ve longed to see him, only to have my hopes dashed like shells against the sand. But today, maybe I’ll find my oldest friend here in Isthmus Harbour.

Gale’s shopping list in hand, I jump from the bow onto the fuel dock, swaying as though I’m still on Ourania, impatient to get to shore.

I glance up at the golden hills, my eyes finding the roof of a shabby hut amongst the trees. There’s someone else I must visit, too.

Aura is staying in the aft cabin we share, queasy from the choppy sail this morning from Lotus Cove. Gale is below in the main cabin, tidying. Dad is getting our mooring assignment from the harbourmaster. Standing on the bow, with binoculars screwed to his eyes, my little brother Zephyr is watching something above the hill.

Just as Dad returns to Ourania and hands me money for the food, Zeph cries, ‘Daddy, look! Starlings! There’s a mur – a – tion!’

‘A murmuration? Starlings aren’t native to the island, Zeph,’ says Dad, lifting the boat’s fuel cap. He winks at me as I start down the dock for the shore.

‘Then what’s that?’ Zeph points his skinny, sun-kissed arm towards a dark, writhing mass above the old Winterbourne mansion, where birds swirl and dive in their primordial dance. I stop in my tracks. I’ve seen starlings on the mainland, but never a murmuration. It’s magical as hundreds of birds fill the sky… So many.

Dad locks eyes with me, his gaze unreadable, before he turns to my brother. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he says. ‘Will you look at that.’

This morning, before we set off down the coast, I’d been tempted to joke with Dad about the Chimaera Moon. To see if he’d noticed anything strange about the weather, or animal behaviour, too. But I couldn’t. We haven’t spoken about it – or my mother – in years. It would only have dredged up raw feelings, and whatever Gale wanted him to talk to me about, and that can’t be good.

As I reach across the gap of water between the dock and the boat, and feign trying to tickle Zeph, he dodges my fingers and collapses into giggles.

‘Callie!’ Gale pokes her bobbed blonde head out of the hatch. ‘Be sure to get the grass-fed beef. And fresh!’

‘Okay.’ I tap my foot on the dock, waiting for further orders, but she ducks back inside.

‘They’ve given us mooring B12,’ says Dad. ‘You have your pass for the water taxi?’

I nod, hiking my market bag higher onto my shoulder. Is it my imagination, or is he avoiding meeting my eyes?

Whatever. I can’t be bothered to worry about it. Speaking of which… I call to Zeph, ‘Don’t wake Aura, please! She isn’t feeling well.’

‘Can I show her my fishing line when she’s up?’ Zeph grins hopefully. ‘She’d like that.’

With a wave, I head up the dock into the village.

The breeze picks up. I zip my navy windbreaker and push my hands into my pockets. Tucked under my stripy shirt, my sea-glass and mother-of-pearl necklace is comforting against my skin. Goosebumps rise on my bare legs. In normal times the weather at Santa Marina Island is scorching hot, but when the sun sets behind the hill, and the wind picks up, it can chill you to the bone. If there really is such a thing as a Chimaera Moon, I imagine all bets are off with the weather.

My sneakers tread silently along the sandy path to the shop. Up until three years ago, Nicholas’s aunt, Penelope, used to run it. It’s their family business. Though I haven’t seen either since then, the thought of finding Nicholas makes my stomach somersault.

The shop stands sheltered in the middle of the isthmus – the narrow bit of land where Santa Marina Island is cinched like a waist. It’s only a few minutes from where we moor the boat. Surrounded by dusty palm trees, it has always had a funny beyond-time look, with its multi-paned windows, and a low, overhanging porch, like something out of a western movie. Today, it’s fresh with a new coat of apple-green paint, with its name, Winterbourne’s, painted in navy.

Jittery with anticipation, I open the daisy-yellow door. The bell tinkles as I step inside and inhale the shop’s familiar smells of beeswax floor polish, dusty second-hand books, tobacco, newspapers, tourist t-shirts, cans of marine oil, spare rope, and other boating supplies.

They’ve redecorated inside, too. The lending library is no longer buried in the back corner, but in the newly welcoming entrance near a wooden bench with striped blue and white cushions. On floral-patterned walls are photographs of the island I’ve never seen: the harbour how it looked in 1925, according to the printed date, with younger palm trees and only a few boats anchored in the cove; the Winterbourne mansion on the hill, not a ruin like it’s been since the Great Depression, but magnificent, dwarfing the bungalows around it, its white columns glinting in the sun; and the harbour shop, with workmen standing in front, shirtless, drinking bottles of sarsaparilla.

But it’s the photo of teens in 1920s party clothes, lounging on the deck of a beautiful wooden sailboat, that draws me closer. Two boys are dressed in black tuxedo jackets with stiff white shirts and bow ties. Two girls wear flapper dresses: straight-cut, low necklines, and fringed hems to the knees, with t-strap shoes on their feet.

Could they be Winterbournes? Maybe it’s because they’re Nicholas’s ancestors, but I’ve always been fascinated by the family.

They once owned the island but fell into ruin and disgrace after the young heir murdered a silent film actress. With their confident expressions and poses, the teens reek of privilege and arrogance. And immortality.

The blonde girl sits on a smug boy’s lap. Next to them, a darkhaired boy with an easy grin has one arm slung around a brown-haired girl. There’s something familiar about him. I know one hundred years separates them, but he looks like… Nicholas.

‘At last,’ says a velvety voice behind me, as if summoned, sending the hairs on the back of my neck quivering. ‘My wayward muse returns.’

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

BETHAN CROOME

Bethan has an undergraduate degree in English Literature and Creative Writing, and is a recent graduate from the Writing for Young People MA at Bath Spa University. When she’s not writing or reading, Bethan spends her spare time with her sausage dog, Arwen, who is fondly named after one of Tolkien’s fictional elves. When writing, she finds herself gravitating towards dystopia and likes to use this genre to explore the potential impact of current issues, such as climate change.

CHOKE

The year is 2222. Years of pollution have made people sick, and organ auctioning from willing donors is no longer a viable solution to cure them. Kidnapping and organ harvesting has become a scary part of reality for the poorest, living at the bottom of society in the UnderBelly, while the rich are safe, high up in the cleaner air Districts, protected by the ruthless Militia. But will two opposite sixteenyear-olds, Astra from the privileged Districts, and Ren, struggling to survive in the UnderBelly, be able to put their rivalry aside to discover who’s behind the organ abductions, and unearth what’s really poisoning the dying world? bethcroome@gmail.com

Choke

ASTRA.

I dart across the walkways and bridges which weave the city together like a giant spider’s web. Jed reluctantly follows.

‘Don’t you think this is a terrible idea, Astra? Your dad has already threatened to get you microchipped if you don’t stop sneaking out of the Districts.’

I don’t entertain him.

‘You can’t just ignore me because you don’t like what I’m saying,’ he says.

He wipes his nose 0n the back of his hand, then squeezes my shoulder. Gross.

I think he has a crush on me, and I wish I could fancy him back. It’s not like I just friend zoned him; I’ve tried to find something attractive about Jed. I’ve spent many nights lying in bed, with my head buried under the duvet and imagined fumbling under the sheets with him. And I feel nothing but repulsion.

‘If I took your never-ending anxieties into consideration every single time I devise a stellar plan, we’d never do anything exciting. If you got your own way, we’d be sat in your bedroom surrounded by a big loot of snacks, with our sweetie-filled cheeks stuffed into virtual reality headsets.’

Jed rolls his eyes but keeps following me.

‘Look!’ he says. ‘The Militia are patrolling the checkpoint.’

Officers in long, black leather coats and face masks are detaining some protesters on the other side of the gate.

‘It’ll just be some Coggs. The Militia aren’t going to be fussed about us if they’re breaking up some rebels,’ I tell him, as I walk towards the checkpoint.

Jed peers over the gate. I join him. After a quick struggle, the protesters are thrown in the back of a hover car and flown away. All that’s left is a few pickets. One has: clean air should be FREE, written on it. Another: my organs aren’t for sale.

I need to distract Jed before he takes the protest as a sign to go home and hide.

‘Scan your tech watch on this, the checkpoint will open, and we will be in the UnderBelly,’ I tell him.

‘Are you sure this isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had?’

Gosh, does he ever stop whining?

I press my watch up against the scanner. It buzzes and opens. ‘Astra?’ Jed whispers. I look at him. ‘Is sneaking down here for a few shots of moonshine really worth it?’

I ignore him and focus on my footing, as I descend the iron stairwells that lead to the busy areas of the UnderBelly.

It’s cold. Every breath makes me look like a fire-breathing dragon with plumes of smoke puffing out of my mouth. The polluted air starts to burn the back of my throat. I put on my ventilating face mask before I start choking. The air is filthy down here.

I look up. Even with my mask on, my hot breath creates blooms of fog. Long wires zigzag above the intertwining walkways, which wriggle and spark like eels. I shiver, wishing I could feel the warm, orange glow of the hidden sun.

Mum was born deep down here. She said it felt more like home than up in the Districts. Every time I sneak down, I hope I’ll see her, and the mystery of where Mum went will be solved.

Smoke puffs out of pipes, and condensation drips from the stairwells. Gross. I walk past a group of teenagers, I’d guess they are about my age, fifteen. One of the girls is wearing denim flares and a matching waistcoat, with a long leather jacket over the top. She has tattoos all over her neck and is wearing a black face mask. Her eyelids are covered in a neon green shadow to match her bright green hair. The style in the UnderBelly is so much better than up in the Districts. But Dad always moans when I dress like them. I don’t think he likes it when I don’t look like the ideal District girl.

We go down the final flight of stairs and the atmosphere shifts. The Districts are normally heaving with people. Sellers flogging cheap air tanks, teenagers partying and food stalls. But now there’s nothing but shadowy figures.

‘Are you two lost?’ A hooded man approaches me.

He steps into a strip of neon light from a flickering shop sign.

Across his arms are tiny burn holes that look like termites have burrowed their way through his flesh. He reaches his hand out towards me, his fingernails black, and knuckles bloody and bruised.

He snarls. Gosh.

His brown, wonky teeth look like eroded stone, and his eyebrows are so bushy I can’t see his eyes through the shadow they cast.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he asks.

Jed grabs my hand and we run.

I can hear him cackle and cough behind me. My chest burns as I pant on the rotten UnderBelly air. We turn the corner and I see it.

‘There’s the bar,’ I say.

Gosh, that’s a relief.

I point towards a neon light in the shape of devil horns.

‘That’s definitely a bad sign,’ Jed says.

I grab him by the hand and pull him over the threshold.

REN.

‘Oi,’ a voice squawks.

I stop scratching the expiry dates off the back of cans and containers, and peer between the bottles of moonshine. In the tarnished mirror which covers the back wall I can see a customer. A chick is leaning against the bar with her arm outstretched and waving.

URGH.

I know it’s my job, but I hate serving people. It’s like every customer is a vulture swooping in and pecking away at my flesh. They take chunk after chunk. At this point a cyborg would be more human than what’s left of me.

I heave myself up onto my feet. Frack, I have the back of a fifty-year-old. I am met by the stare of a snarl toothed twit: I don’t get paid enough for this. I’m lucky if the bar manager pays me at all.

The problem with jobs down here in the UnderBelly is that the only form of contract you have is a humble handshake or a pinkie promise. And from my experience, when someone disappears before paying you, the authorities don’t care about any dodgy deals.

‘Two cans of Oxi-Gen,’ she says.

When people really frack me off, I count. I keep going until the rage flatlines.

One, two, three…

Her skin is lathered in a dark orange tanning cream. It’s so obviously fake because no one in the UnderBelly has seen sunlight in months.

‘Please,’ I mumble.

What I really want to say is that I’d bet my kidneys that a one-hundred-year-old AI has more complex thoughts than her.

One, two, three, four…

‘Did you say something?’

I shake my head. Biatch. I take a deep breath in and turn to the fridge to grab the princess her cans. For fracks sake. We’re out. Why does no one restock the fridge?

‘I’ve run out of cans behind the bar, I’ll go grab some from out back.’

‘Be quick.’

One, two, three, four, five…

I wish I could get a job outside of the UnderBelly. I dream of going up there and living in the Districts. But I never went to school. Well, that’s a lie. I did go but not when it counted. Last thing I remember is a hologram teaching me my ABC’S. So, I don’t know the difference between Shakespeare and Britney Spears, but I do have something much more valuable than a brain stuffed full of ancient facts. I know how to handle myself deep down here. And as the rich get richer and the air gets dirtier, more and more people are having to descend into the UnderBelly. And most people don’t know how to survive.

I scurry down the rusty iron stairwell to the back door. My hand lingers over the handle. Even though I’ve always lived down here, the first breath of the polluted air always burns. I pull my scarf over my mouth and step out.

Frack. The air tastes like bleach.

I open the cellar door and grab a crate. A perk of the job is stealing a few freebies. I prise a can from the crate, crack it open and suck up the pure oxygen like a new-born suckling milk.

SwOoSh.

Head rush.

Sweet, sweet headrush. It’s crazy to think this was how clean the air used to be. Even at the top of the tallest sky-scraper the air wouldn’t be this smooth and velvety. Even the rich can’t avoid choking on the smog.

I scoop up a crate and waddle from the weight back towards the back entrance to the bar.

‘Want some help?’ A voice carries on the bitter breeze and prickles my skin.

My hackles stand to attention.

Please don’t be who I think it is.

I peer over my shoulder. Through the haze I see a familiar figure. There he is. The man that fate keeps dragging me back into the claws of.

Moon Face.

Even though he’s lingering in the shadows I can still see the acne scars as deep as craters scattered across his cheeks. And his face is so pale that I can see every blue vein slithering under his skin.

He reaches out his hand. I notice that a black filth has stained the sleeve of his brown, leather jacket, in a swirling marble pattern. Gross. A chilling smile creeps across his face.

I balance the crate on one hip and shake it. Now I’m going to have to bleach my hands clean. My scarf loosely covers my mouth and nose. The bitter air seeps through the breaks in the fabric and sneaks into my burning lungs. Moon Face loiters in the lamp light, breathing as loud as a ventilation machine. I think he might have adapted to this inhabitable climate.

‘Ren, do you want to do some extra work tonight?’ he says.

I glance around to check my manager is not lurking in the doorway.

I turn back and Moon Face is less than a foot away from me, his skeleton looming over me. I’ve never noticed how terrifyingly tall he is until right in this second. I swallow hard.

Be strong.

‘No. I told you I don’t want to do it anymore.’

I try to make my voice deep and firm, but now it keeps breaking every other word.

He chuckles, not in a playful way, but to intimidate me.

‘You’ve found your moral compass, aye?’

I gulp down a pool of spit. I try not to think about rights and wrongs. No one else stuck on this polluted rock seems to care about what’s good for humanity, so why should I? But I am riddled with guilt.

Stop thinking about it. Be strong for Pearl.

‘Have you not heard the rumours going round? The Militia have put out warrants, and rewards for catching people who do what we do. I just thought I should lay low for a bit.’ I hold my breath. Frozen like I’m in a cryogenic chamber with fear.

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘I understand, Ren.’ He turns, and walks away. Phew.

I didn’t think he’d be a reasonable man. I know you’re not supposed to judge a person by the way that they look. But that’s hard to do with a man who looks so strange he would give a monster nightmares.

He stops still. Ash swirls around his ankles and up into the air. I choke.

‘How’s your sister?’ he says.

I feel my eyes burn and my throat go rougher than sandpaper. He knows this is my kryptonite.

Frack. Don’t cry, you fracking baby.

‘She’s still sick.’

I can see the image of sickly Pearl forming in my mind’s eye. I shake my head to erase the image. If I think about that now I will burst into tears like a badly-pressurised tap.

He lingers like a bad omen. We both know he’s got me in a chokehold. He leans in. The whites of his eyes are piss yellow and bloodshot.

‘This is my last offer. If you say no, I’ll never ask you to help me out again.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

I take a deep breath to try and steady my thumping heart. The air reeks.

‘I’ll make it worth your while. How about five hundred tokens?’

‘You’d give me the whole lot tonight?’

Frack. I don’t want more sleepless nights full to the brim with guilt for what I’ve done.

‘When have I never paid you in full on the night?’

Pearl could be added to the transplant list. I know it takes years, and I don’t even know if I could get together enough money to pay for the organs when her turn comes. But it’s worth a chance. No more breathless nights. No more pushing a pillow so hard into the side of my head to blot out the rattling in her lungs.

‘Are you in?’

I hesitate.

Think of Pearl. What about my moral compass?

I shake his hand.

Moon Face walks away and is quickly swallowed by the dreary night. He’s like a fungal infection, it might look like it’s gone but it always comes back.

I walk into the bar. That biatch is still waiting. I can’t deal with her today. She is twiddling her long electric-pink hair around and around her fingers. I slam the two cans down. She must be at least fifteen, otherwise she wouldn’t have got in, but she looks younger. I think it’s the spiky eyelashes, and stick-on tattoos up her arms and across her chest. She’s trying to look cooler than she really is.

I mean, isn’t everyone? I know I am.

‘That’s twenty tokens and two credits please,’ I say.

She gasps as if she’s just taken a big, gut-retching gulp of miasma.

‘Wow, that’s gone up since last week!’

Could this obnoxious brat be the girl I lure to Moon Face? If Pearl found out what I’ve been doing to save her life, could she ever look at me the same?

‘It’s not cheap to have a good time.’

I don’t remember the last time I had fun. There are moments when I forget about Pearl being sick. Like on my birthday when the Coggs threw me a surprise party. It was only small, just a few of us members and a bottle of moonshine, but it’s the closest I’ve felt to being a reckless teenager ever. I normally feel guilty when I’m not slaving away trying to scrounge every single credit I can to put towards their transplant fund.

She grabs the cans and is sucked back into the crowd.

ALICE HODGES

Alice Hodges lives in Bath, where she grew up in an all-female household, writing stories for her mother and sister. Having worked in retail and tourism, she enjoys meeting new people and learning about their stories. Besides writing, Alice loves dark things like watching true-crime documentaries and Air Crash Investigation, but also happy things like visiting Disneyland, reading, painting her nails, and drinking tea. Alice writes YA fiction about feminism, mental health, and relationships. She has a First-Class degree in English Literature with Creative Writing and an MA in Writing for Young People from Bath Spa University.

WHERE OUR TRUTH LIES

Sixteen-year-old Holly Daniels always follows the rules. That is until her twin, Chloe, is attacked and left critically ill in hospital. Rumours link the attack to other unsolved assaults on women in Bristol. But when Holly finds names in Chloe’s diary of people who had a motive to hurt her, Holly suspects the police are looking down the wrong path. As her family and the arrogant lead detective warn her to keep out of the investigation, Holly must find a way to uncover the truth and make people listen. But is she brave enough to break the rules?

alice190300@hotmail.co.uk

Where Our Truth Lies

CHAPTER ONE

I skid to a stop below the luminous red sign: Bristol Royal Infirmary Emergency Department. Hot breaths escape my mouth and disperse into the cold November air. Each limb burns. I’m not the runner in our family, but thoughts of my sister lying alone in a hospital bed fuelled every stride.

Sirens howl as an ambulance speeds past me to the emergency bays. It could be her. She might already be here. I need to find out.

I bolt inside, whacking my shoulder on the automatic door as it opens. Pain shoots through my arm, but I don’t stop. My feet thwack against the floor in the waiting room.

A receptionist with a grey bob pops up from behind the desk.

‘Where’s Chloe? Is she okay?’ My chest is tight and tingling, like hundreds of needles have pricked tiny holes in it.

She has to be all right. She’s Chloe.

A nurse in red scrubs, with her hair slicked into a bun, rushes over. Her crocs squelch against the lino. She pushes her thick black glasses further up her nose. ‘Hello, lovely. Can we help you?’

‘It’s my twin. She – she’s here. She’s hurt. She should be…’

‘What’s your name?’ the receptionist asks.

‘Holly. I’m Holly.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ the nurse says. ‘Could you wait here for me, please?’ She points to a chair near the desk.

The wooden double doors at the other end of the waiting room swing open. Another nurse speed-walks through with a clipboard.

Before a paramedic blocks my view, I catch a glimpse of a patient on a stretcher in the corridor beyond. An orange head immobiliser flattens her honey-coloured ponytail with bleached-blonde highlights. Behind an oxygen mask, blood trails down her face to her pointed chin. Her rosy cheeks are now white. Eyes – closed. ‘Chloe!’

I dart towards the doorway, but doctors wearing blue scrubs swarm the stretcher, and I can’t make it past.

‘This is Chloe Daniels, age sixteen – severe head injury,’ the female paramedic says. ‘She was found unconscious in a park, surrounded by broken glass – suspected attack.’

I suck in the antiseptic-filled air and clench my stomach. Attack. ‘She’s bleeding heavily. We need to get it under control,’ a doctor says from within the crowd, his voice surprisingly calm.

Blood rushes through my head as I feel Chloe’s pain. ‘Is she gonna be okay?’ I shout, trying to peek over their shoulders.

The male paramedic faces me. ‘I’m sorry; you can’t come through.’

‘I’m her twin.’

He frowns at me with the confused look I get every time people forget twins aren’t always identical. ‘I’m afraid you still have to wait here.’ ‘But –’

‘Holly, why don’t you take a seat?’ the nurse says.

‘I can’t leave her,’ I reply as the paramedics run the rattling stretcher down the corridor to the ward.

She ushers me back into the waiting room. ‘I need you to wait here whilst they examine her. Your sister is in good hands, I promise.’

Did she hear what the doctor said? Nothing about bleeding heavily can be good.

I sidestep the nurse and call out, ‘I’m not going anywhere, Chlo!’

The doors swing shut, blowing cold air onto my face. I peer through the square window into the low-lit corridor, but the harsh light of the waiting room reflects my face back at me. I curve my hands against the glass and lean in. Two police officers are talking to a nurse. Beside them, the doctors lift Chloe onto a bed and swipe the curtain around the bay. Separating us.

I stumble backwards. The doors blur as tears stream down my face. ‘Come and sit down, Holly,’ the nurse says. ‘I’ll get you some water.’ She guides me to a chair, and I collapse onto it.

That word whizzes around my head again. Attack. I don’t understand. She was out running like every other night. Minding her own business. Drama might follow her everywhere, but not this badly. This can’t be happening. It’s a nightmare. A stupid homework-induced dream from staying up late reading Macbeth or stressing over mocks.

Flashing lights outside turn the blinds in the waiting room blue. Sirens pierce the air again.

I close my eyes and pray for it all to stop. I want to be at home with Chloe, wrestling over the TV remote as she tries to switch off Hollyoaks and put on The Bachelor.

‘Here,’ the nurse says. ‘Drink this.’ She hands me a cone of water and sits down.

The tacky feeling of paper against my tongue makes me shudder. She pulls a tissue from her pocket and buries it in my hand. ‘Take it easy, lovely.’

I wipe my eyes and sniff away the tears. ‘Will she be okay?’

‘The doctors here are highly trained and will do everything they can.’ Her flowery perfume fills my nostrils. ‘Has Chloe’s next of kin been informed?’

‘Yeah, our parents are on their way,’ I murmur.

‘I know this is scary, but your sister will need you to be strong for her.’

I stare at the doors between me and Chloe. Sixteen years together, and I’ve been there through every fall, stress, and heartache. That’s what you do as a twin. You look after each other. Feel everything as deeply as the other. Mum calls it twin telepathy; Dad calls it instinct. I call it us.

If something’s on her mind, I know before she does. I should’ve trusted my gut that something was wrong when I was at the library. The wriggling in the pit of my stomach was the same feeling I had last year when I was stuck in a revision class and Chloe got into a fight on the tennis courts. I shouldn’t have ignored it. But it’s too late. How can I help now? I’m useless. I feel like I’ve gone to battle with a plastic spoon as a weapon.

Someone dashes into the waiting room.

‘Holly?’ Dad says when his eyes find me, his voice stern and loud. As usual, he’s forgotten to leave his lawyer-self at the office. ‘Where’s Chloe?’

I’m surprised he came so fast. He missed big events like prom and GCSE Results Day because of work. I hoped he’d be there to tell us how grown up we looked in our dresses. To give us big hugs when we opened the brown envelopes. Now I’ve learnt not to expect much.

‘She’s being examined,’ I tell him.

Dad marches towards the doors.

The nurse jumps up. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there, sir.’

He scoffs at her. ‘Of course, I can. I’m her dad.’

I bite the insides of my cheeks to stop myself from snapping. This isn’t about seeing Chloe. This is Dad being Dad – someone who hates being told what to do.

‘The doctors are busy making sure Chloe is stable, so she can be sent for scans,’ the nurse says.

She didn’t tell me that. It’s unbelievable how much power a tall man in a suit and tie can hold.

He rubs his beard. ‘What happened to her?’

I sink into the hard back of the chair and look around. Thank God there are only two other patients here. An elderly lady is talking to the receptionist, and a man in a leg cast has earphones in and his eyes shut.

‘Holly? What happened?’

‘A lady…’ I swallow the knot in my throat whilst my brain replays the past thirty minutes. I couldn’t get the words out on the phone to Dad, only crying ‘Chloe’ and ‘A&E’ down the line. ‘I got a call from a lady using Chloe’s phone. She found her collapsed in Victoria Park, bleeding. The paramedics said there was shattered glass on the ground…’ I squeeze my hands together until they’re pale white. ‘From an attack.’

Dad swears under his breath, then puts his hands on his hips. ‘Why did she call you? Why not an ambulance or the police?’

‘She did call them. Then she rang me.’

Chloe and I made each other our emergency contact on our phones after one of our deep three a.m. chats about getting taxis alone, encountering serial killers, and the likelihood of an apocalypse. I didn’t think I would ever actually receive the SOS.

Dad paces back and forth. ‘Where the hell are the goddamn police?’

‘They’re on the ward,’ I reply, but he’s too busy huffing to listen. The nurse offers me a weak smile and creeps over to the desk.

The automatic doors slide open.

‘Chloe?’ Mum cries and flies through the room.

Dad tilts his head. ‘She’s in there, being examined.’

Mum stands on her tiptoes and presses her forehead to the glass. ‘I can’t see anything.’ She looks back at me. ‘Have they managed to stop the bleeding?’

I shrug.

‘You already know what happened?’ Dad asks Mum.

‘Yes, Holly told me over the phone.’ She runs her hand through her grey-blonde hair.

Dad clenches his jaw and glares at me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me when we spoke?’

‘I could barely talk. I rang you as soon as I found out.’

‘Why did you call him first? I was at home. I could’ve got here sooner,’ Mum says.

A minute. It took them a minute to start arguing.

Mum told me that Grandad gave a speech at her wedding describing her and Dad as yin and yang – they brought out the best in each other. Recently, they’ve been more like oil and water.

I massage my temples to soothe the pounding in my head.

‘Why shouldn’t she ring me first when you’re –’

I zone out and scan the room for distractions. There are endless rows of electric blue chairs. The old navy curtains look like they’ve been hanging since the eighties. I turn my head to the noticeboard beside me and, with my finger, trace the photo of a girl on a healthyeating poster. She looks around thirteen but has the same cheeky grin, long hair, and full cheeks as Chloe. My face is thinner and rounder; my light-blonde hair thicker and shorter. The poster girl looks more like Chloe’s twin than I do.

‘Excuse me.’ It’s the nurse.

‘What?’ Dad snaps.

I fiddle with the curled, laminated edges of the poster.

‘We’d like to move you to the relatives’ room on the ward, so we can discuss the admission process with you. It should give you more… privacy.’

It’s a polite way of saying she wants Mum and Dad to shut up.

We follow her through the double doors to the ward. The curtain around Chloe’s bed is still drawn. I slip inside the relatives’ room and lean against the cream-coloured wall, where a radiator warms the backs of my legs.

The nurse signals to the cushioned chairs. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’ She hovers by the door whilst my parents sit down far apart. ‘If you need anything, you know where to find me.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

When she leaves, I sink into a chair and pull my phone from my pocket. A photo of my boyfriend Jacob kissing me on the cheek lights up the screen. I need to let him know what happened – and mine and Chloe’s best friend, Sunita. But first: Henry. Mum and Dad are too preoccupied to be responsible parents, so it’s down to me to tell our brother.

I open my messages, and my chat with Jacob appears. The text I sent earlier about planning our one-year anniversary is unread. Celebration is the last thing on my mind now, but I could do with one of his tight hugs.

I swipe back to my contacts and scroll until I reach my chat with Henry. Hopefully, he’ll catch a train to Bristol tonight – I need help reining in our parents.

I press the call button and listen to the dial tone drone on.

Voicemail. He must be at work.

‘Henry, it’s Holly. Call me when you get this. It’s urgent. Chloe’s in A&E.’

I hang up and check the time: seven forty-five p.m. My stomach growls. I know it’s because I haven’t eaten dinner yet, but another part of me thinks it’s because my body knows. With Chloe in danger, I’ve lost part of myself.

After ten minutes of watching the corridor for hospital beds, a man appears, split into thin segments by the blinds.

I jump out of my seat as the door opens. ‘What’s happened to Chloe?’

The man looks up from his clipboard. ‘Mr and Mrs Daniels?’ he says in a calm voice I recognise. He’s the senior doctor from earlier.

Mum and Dad stand up. ‘Yes?’ they say in unison, and Mum adds, ‘How is she?’

He ignores me and faces them. ‘Chloe has lost a lot of blood, and we believe she’s suffered a brain haemorrhage. We’ve sent her for a CT scan to confirm.’

I hunch over as if I’ve been sucker-punched.

Mum gasps. ‘Oh my God.’

‘Will she be okay?’ Dad asks.

The doctor’s eye bags are grey and puffy. ‘She’ll need surgery to stop the bleeding.’

‘And then?’ I squeak.

He replies to my parents rather than me. ‘It’s too early to know how she’ll respond. The operation carries risks including memory loss, infection, problems with speech and coordination…’

Each word is like a bullet. ‘Stop. Please, stop,’ I mumble.

‘Hopefully, it’ll go as planned, and we can monitor her in Intensive Care.’

Dad’s mouth twitches. ‘How long will she be in hospital for?’

The doctor pauses. ‘We may have to put her in an induced coma to help her recover.’

My legs shake. A coma? Some people never wake up.

‘I’ll print the consent forms for you to sign, but first, we have some questions about Chloe’s health. Does she have any allergies or medical conditions?’

‘Shouldn’t you have her medical history stored on a computer somewhere?’ Dad asks.

‘It can take time to access those files. These questions help us treat Chloe efficiently.’

Dad’s wasting precious time.

I step forward. ‘She’s allergic to pineapple and suffers from claustrophobia, which can lead to panic attacks. Other than that, she’s fit and healthy. Please, keep her safe.’

The doctor scribbles on his clipboard. ‘We’ll take good care of her.’ He looks up at my parents. ‘I’ll be back with the forms in a moment, and we’ll let you know when she’s out of surgery, so you can both see her.’ He excuses himself.

I flop onto the chair and rub my eyes until swirls form in the black fog.

Surgery. A coma. Memory loss. I can’t keep up. And how come Mum and Dad can see Chloe and I can’t? How is that fair? I got here first. They might be her parents, but I’m her twin. I spend ninety per cent of my time with her. She’s in most of my dreams. And right now, all my prayers.

If anyone is going to see Chloe after her surgery, it’s me.

AIDAN

L. HILTERMANN

Aidan has been writing since he was eight years old. He has lived in five countries and recently finished his Creative Writing for Young People Masters Degree at Bath Spa University. He loves writing fanfiction and has his own blog, where he discusses his favourite stories across all mediums. He loves chocolate, getting in the writing zone, his cat Felix, the Marvel Cinematic Universe and just chatting with a friend.

THE CLOAK GUARD

Seven teenagers, dealing with the usual problems of high school, parents and trying to find themselves, are suddenly given cosmic powers. Are they awesome? Yes. Problematic? Most likely. Scary? Definitely. Going to dramatically change their lives? Absolutely. Each kid struggles with how to manage these newfound abilities and the effects they have on their lives, while actual supervillains emerge, threatening everything they love. So, they have to do the responsible thing with these great powers and suit up to save the day. And all before their next maths test. No pressure.

alhiltermann@gmail.com

The Cloak Guard

CHAPTER ONE

For years, it had lain in wait. Traveling across the stars through the endless void of space, time holding no meaning at all. But now, it felt a stirring in the nothingness, a pull. It was being taken away, carried down to the planet below, freed from its prison at long last.

The time had come. The previous ones were gone but the new ones were out there, calling. And the energy would answer. It split into seven streams, soaring through the sky. For generations, it had been the source of power for the greatest warriors. Now these seven would take on that legacy and become the new Cloak Guard.

Travis Stroneman was at his desk, updating his blog, when he noticed his room getting brighter. He frowned, looking up at his lamp, but it wasn’t changing. So what was happening? Was it coming from outside? He barely had time to turn around.

The ball of light shot through the window and hit him in his chest, sending a rush of energy through his entire body. Travis instantly scrambled up, feeling like his nerves were on fire, like that time he’d gotten an electric shock, except more shock and less pain. And way more scary.

Then the next second, it was gone, the light fading and the energy dimming inside him.

“Oh…my…god,” he muttered, shaking all over. “This…this…oh my god. What the hell just happened?” He started panic breathing and had to pace back and forth a little to calm down. What had just

happened to him? What had that light done? What had that rush inside of him been?

His eyes settled on his shelf where his vast collection of comic books rested.

“OH MY GOD!” he almost yelled, the idea hitting him. “This… this is incredible. This could be my ori- no, stop Travis. This is just like when you were a kid. That spider did not give you powers, no matter how many times it bit you, and just because you were the only one able to open the cookie jar did not mean you were worthy. This is just a fluke.”

But what if it’s not? a voice inside seemed to ask. What if it’s the real deal?

This could be his moment. Maybe the past ten seconds was him dreaming or a hallucination or some other rational explanation. But it could be something greater. Some superpower given to him. This could be his origin story.

He clenched his fists and then shot them out, hoping that would trigger something. When that didn’t work, he tried faster, throwing his arms out again and again until he looked like a crazy monkey.

“Come on, you. Have. To. Work!” He pleaded with all his heart when he felt another rush of energy and a burst of electricity shot out of his fingers, striking the wall and scorching them. Travis stared in shock for only a second. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh…YES!”

Franklin Carson moved to close his bedroom window when he saw something. It looked like…a shooting star? But it wasn’t shooting across the sky. It looked more like it was shooting… right for him!

“Crap!” Franklin scrambled back as the ball of light shot straight into his chest.

Wild energy rushed over him, a green light completely enveloping his body that filled him with strength like he had never known before, to the point where he felt like he could lift his whole house.

And then the light died down and he was back in his bedroom. For a split second, he thought he was wearing some sort of green silken robes but the next instant they were gone.

“What just happened?” he muttered aloud. “Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?” He pinched himself to be sure, but felt nothing. He tried again but couldn’t get a good grip. His skin somehow felt tougher than before. And even when he did, he couldn’t pinch very far. “Ok, I have to be dreaming,” he said. But…everything felt real. He could feel the air around him, could smell the apple core on his desk, and his bed felt real enough when he touched it. So he had to be awake…right?

He turned back to the window, aiming to see where the light had come from, when his foot landed on a loose sock and it slipped out from under him. He instinctively grabbed onto the railing of his bed, hearing a loud SNAP! right before he hit the ground. He braced but then blinked, realizing he had already landed. And he hadn’t really felt anything. He slowly got back up, trying to make sense of it, when he realized he was holding the metal railing in his hand.

He stared at it for a long minute, not quite believing what he was seeing. “Oh, Mom’s gonna kill me. Yeah she’s definitely gonna kill me.”

“4…3…2…1…and done.” Luke Decker jumped up, clapping his hands together in victory, having completed a 30-second mountain climber plank after his other routines like he always did before bed. He grabbed his Thermos and chugged down some water before looking over tomorrow’s schedule.

More practice. Big surprise.

But he had to stay focused, and right now that meant bed. He turned.

He saw the ball of light shooting right for him. “Whoa!”

He leapt but too late as the light struck, enveloping him. He felt a rush of energy come over him, centering and expanding his brain outward, where he felt like he could touch everything in the room. Then it was over and he realized he was on the floor next to his knocked over lamp.

“Ok, seriously what the heck?” What had just happened? Had someone drugged him? Had there been something in the water? But, he had just filled it from his tap. Was it contaminated? “Luke!”

Luke jumped at his dad’s voice coming from outside his room. “What’s all that racket? Why aren’t you asleep yet? You know we’re getting up early for our morning run.”

Yes, we do it every day, Dad, Luke wanted to say, but instead he replied, “Sorry Dad, just throwing in some extra push-ups before I went to bed.”

“Oh, alright. That’s fine then. But no more. We have a busy schedule this weekend, and you’re going to need to be in top shape for tryouts.” He heard his dad walking away.

“I know Dad, I know,” Luke said under his breath. “Alright, fine,” he muttered. He was too tired right now to care about the stupid light. It was late and he just wanted to go to sleep. So he picked up the lamp and crawled into bed, not realizing he hadn’t used his hands on the lamp.

“Faculty, staff, fellow students, I would like to thank you for…wait, are faculty and staff the same thing?” Gabriela Fuentes tapped her pencil against her cheek. “Hmm, I’ll think of a better word here then,” she noted. “Alright, where was I? Oh, right, ‘I would like to present my stance to serve as your next…,’ is stance the right word?

Seems off. Huh.” She tapped her cheek again before noticing the time on her alarm clock. “Oh snap.” It was almost 11. If she wanted to keep her 8-hours of sleep quota, she needed to get to bed.

“I’ll finish it tomorrow.” It wasn’t for another few days anyway. She had plenty of time to perfect it. She brushed her teeth, making sure to get each corner and gum, and flossed, before turning.

She had barely any time to think before the bright ball of light shot straight into her.

She gasped, feeling a surge of pure energy, like every cell in her body was being filled to the brim. Her skin crackled and popped and she saw sparks shooting out of her. She tried to scream but all that came out was orange light. She felt like she was about to erupt like a volcano.

Then it was over. The light was gone, the feelings inside her vanished, and she was standing in her room like nothing happened. But what had happened? Had she had a nervous breakdown or something? Should she go to her dad or the hospital? But she felt fine now. Or was that just a fluke?

Calm down, she told herself, taking a deep breath. Whatever had happened, there was a logical and rational explanation for this, and she would find it.

Emily Simmons had had a long day and all she had wanted to do was crawl into bed and maybe have a nice, lovely dream. One of the ones you never wanted to wake up from.

But as she had just started to drift away, a bright light appeared, blinding her – even with her eyes closed. She groaned, doing her best to ignore it, but it just got brighter and brighter.

Then it was gone and she at first felt relief. But the next second, something strange came over her. A sudden rush of energy throughout her body that felt like it was being stretched to its limits.

And just like that, it stopped.

She slowly opened her eyes, sitting up a little. She looked at her hands and then around her room. Nothing seemed different. It had to have been a dream. She’d had a long day and it had just caught up with her. Captaining the cheer squad, those ridiculous photoshoots, and all her homework on top of that. It was enough to make anyone imagine things.

But her eyes still flicked around. The strange feeling might have been a dream, but she couldn’t have imagined that light. She could feel that blinding sensation. It hadn’t felt like a dream. But what else could it have been? She tried to shake it off, tried to just lie down and close her eyes, force herself to sleep. But those feelings still filled her mind, of a bright light appearing and that energy filling her entire body to the point where she felt like every part of her was going to bloom out.

She gave up. If she couldn’t force herself to sleep, she could at least do some exercise. Keep herself limber and in shape while wearing out her body. Nice combo there. She started with a simple stretch, touching her toes before reaching up for the ceiling.

Then she felt the ceiling. She blinked, moving her fingers around for a second before looking up. Her hands were touching the ceiling. The ceiling, which was several yards above her, had her hands touching it. She stared for another second.

Sumin Jang considered themself to be, most of the time, a very rational and calm individual. There wasn’t much that surprised or fazed them. After everything they’d been through this past year alone, they’d managed to keep their emotions and expressions in check, remaining in control.

At least until the ball of light came soaring through the window and somehow into them.

Sumin had been sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, listening to interstellar calming music. They’d found that listening to such music helped them still the roiling thoughts and emotions and come to terms with them, focus on each one individually. They had made it a practice to always listen to some sort of music before bed, to help ensure their rest was peaceful and restful. It didn’t always work, but it was better than nothing.

After ten minutes of listening calmly, Sumin had been startled when a light had suddenly gotten brighter behind their closed eyelids.

They opened them slightly in time to see the purplish ball fly right at them and seemingly enter them somehow. Sumin instantly rolled backwards on the floor, feeling a strange sensation take over them, as if their mind had been given a new lens, that every thought they had was given a new dimension, and a weird energy breathing life into them. Then, the feeling had passed and they just stared at the wall in shock.

“That was strange.”

Those were the only words they spoke all night.

“What the f-”

Madison Jennings had been sitting against the wall for a while.

She didn’t know how long. She wasn’t even aware time was passing. Her entire brain was going into lockdown mode, her body frozen stiff. She didn’t know what to do. All she knew was something very terrifying had just happened.

She had been on her computer, running a new program she had developed. She had been so in tune with her work that she hadn’t even noticed the light getting brighter, until it was like the sun had entered the room. She had turned only to see a bright blue ball of that light shooting into her. Then, everything went bonkers crazy as she felt some weird sensation take over her skin, spreading throughout her entire body. It felt like something was forming directly over her body, like a second body made of pure energy that expanded. Then, the whole feeling vanished and everything went back to normal, like it never occurred.

But it had. That was the one thing Madison was sure of. It had happened. She didn’t know how, but she knew that it had happened. She could remember that energy feeling clearly. She wanted to run to her parents’ room and tell them what happened. She wanted to run right out of the house and as far away from here as possible. She wanted to crawl under the covers and pretend this was all a bad dream.

She didn’t do any of that.

She just stayed there, hunched against the wall, replaying the same moment over and over: the ball of light entering the room and then entering her. She tried to make sense of it, find some reason for it, try in some way to understand it, but kept coming up blank.

So she just stayed there until she was too tired to think. Then, she finally moved, managing a few steps before collapsing onto her bed and falling into a restless sleep.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It is far easier to summon bravery on an uncertain journey when you have a supportive community. The editors would like to thank the following people for their contribution to the 2022 edition of the anthology:

Dr Lucy Christopher, Dr Joanna Nadin, and Steve Voake, for your kind and unwavering encouragement, and for setting us on the right course;

CJ Skuse, a haven in the storm;

Dr Alexia Casale, for taking the helm of the MA in Writing for Young People;

Our wonderful tutors – Sue Bailey-Sillick, Fox Benwell, Lucy Cuthew, Tracy Darnton, Becky Davies, Karen Gregory, Rachel Hamilton and Finbar Hawkins; Our student representatives, Simon Bor and Olivia Wakeford; The staff at Corsham Court;

Dr Alison Hems and Dr Sarah Morton, of the School of Writing, Publishing and the Humanities, Bath Spa University; Dr Vanessa Harbour; Jim Smith, typesetter extraordinaire; Fabi Santiago for her vision; The editors of previous cohorts for their help and guidance;

The brilliant 2022 Anthology Team, with whom we had the privilege of working as we set out to create our anthology;

And last, but not least, the 2022 class of MA Writing for Young People for their words, inspiration, and yes, outstanding bravery.

Carmel Mallinson, Charlotte Teeple-Salas and Fabi Santiago

Editors of the MA Writing for Young People 2022 Anthology