Where the Wild Words Are – MA Writing for Young People Anthology 2023 by Bath Spa University

The MA in Writing for Young People Anthology 2023 See this, and previous anthologies, at mawfypanthology.com

Produced with the help of Bath Spa University

EDITING Paula Burgess, Julia Dielmann, Andrew Duffy, Lucy Griffiths, Kristen Hawke, Jennifer Pierce, Janette Taylor SOCIAL MEDIA

Fran Benson, Rebecca Franks, Charli Haynes LAUNCH

Fran Benson, Andrew Duffy, Lexi Dyer, Bethany Frankel, Geraldine Giles, Dani Mac WEBSITE

Tia Fisher, Luke Littlejohn

ART, DESIGN & PRODUCTION Simon Bor, Luke Littlejohn AUTHOR HEADSHOTS

Melanie Woodward @ One Life Studio PROJECT CO-ORDINATORS Lexi Dyer, Tia Fisher

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 Pamella Santiago

CONTENTS Foreword by Dr Alexia Casale, Course Director

Introduction by C.J. Skuse, Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing A few wild words from other tutors

MIDDLE GRADE

Fran Benson

Luna and the Sky Gods

Upper MG Fantasy Adventure

Simon Bor

Brotherhood

Upper MG Historical Adventure

Paula Burgess

A Boy, His Grandad and Half a Worm

MG Contemporary

Rebekah Curtis

The Beast of Wilder Moor

MG Contemporary Verse

Andrew Duffy

Jack's Back

Upper MG Eco-Fantasy

Tia Fisher

The Last Last Post

Upper MG Historical Adventure

Rebecca Franks

Tideslip

Upper MG Historical Time Slip

Geraldine Giles

Artura and the Lostlings

MG Fantasy

109

Lucy Griffiths

Iris and the Invisibles

119

Upper MG Supernatural Adventure

Tanya Lilley

The Forest and the Fox

Upper MG Fantasy Adventure

131

Gabrielle A. Reeves

The Secrets of La Belle Époque

141

Upper MG Historical Fantasy

Melanie Woodward Mei and the Black Heart

151

Upper MG Contemporary Magical Realism

TEEN AND YA Tasha L. Barrett

Blue

YA Contemporary

165

Romilly Browne

Violet Clarke Doesn't Break Rules

177

YA Contemporary

Annabelle Cormack Like the Moon We Rise YA Fantasy

187

Julia Dielmann

Love and Liberty

YA Queer Historical

199

Eleanor Drage

Sweeter on the Other Side

YA Contemporary Speculative Fiction

207

Lexi Dyer

The Bounty Hunter's Apprentice

Teen Fantasy

217

Bethany Frankel

Crossroads

YA Urban Fantasy/Horror

227

Nell Griffin

Plan A Plan B

Contemporary Dark Comedy

239

Rebekah Harley

Search History

249

YA Contemporary

Kristen Hawke

The Heartvine Princess

YA Feminist Romantasy

261

Charli Haynes

A Secret Never to be Told

YA Contemporary Grounded Fantasy

273

Luke Littlejohn

Hector's Guide to Runes, Racing and

285

Ruining Romances

Teen SciFi Fantasy Dani Mac

Big Star

Teen Comedy

295

Jennifer Pierce

The Tides

YA Contemporary

307

Janette Taylor

Third Child

YA Sci-Fi

315

Villy Tichkova

Dancing on Fire

325

YA Contemporary Verse

Acknowledgements

338

FOREWORD Dr Alexia Casale is Programme Leader of the MA in Writing for Young People. Alexia has over a decade of experience as an editor, holds a PhD in Creative Writing and is the author of three YA books and one adult novel, with titles to follow in 2024.

Magic is real.

Magic is real and it happens between a writer, a book, and a reader.

Every time a writer puts some black marks on a page or a screen and

then someone reads them, thoughts, emotions, ideas, pictures, whole sequences of events – lifetimes even – travel from one imagination into another. What could be more magical than that?

Without stories, we can only live one life. With them, we can live

thousands of lifetimes as thousands of people in thousands of places, real and imaginary. And through that we can expand our horizons –

what we know, what we feel, what we can imagine and, ultimately, what we can empathise with.

Telling stories is the best tool we have for developing empathy,

because what else is empathy but the time-honed ability to cast ourselves into the mind of another? In the final count, it’s our capacity

for empathy that makes us bigger on the inside – and this, in turn, gives

us our best chance of contributing everything we’ve got as unique individuals to making the world better.

What a wonderful thing that our wildest leaps of imagination aren’t

only joy and beauty – they’re also power: power to delight and distract, power to embolden and comfort, power to heal, power to change hearts and minds … power to celebrate what truly matters. 12

Working on the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa Univer-

sity means watching magic happen every day as our students develop and grow, learning from and supporting each other, and blossoming into a whole new level of storytelling ability. It’s not a wonder my own

writing has blossomed just as much from being part of this wonderful community of practice in which we live and breathe stories together, knowing what power they have to generate change. How could there be any job better than helping students write stories that will enable children and young people to imagine a better, happier, more empathetic future?

It is a privilege and a joy to present the MAWFYP Anthology 2023. Here be ghosts and mythical creatures, figures of legend and high-

school bullies, insects and robots, human monsters and genuine devils,

angels and vampires, theatre kids and teenage dancers, aristocrats and ancestors, lost treasures and magical artefacts, lies and secrets,

families and friends, griefs and first loves, foxes and pigs, lighthouses and futuristic cities, bombs and plagues, and so much more. Here

be twenty-eight vicarious lives to live in the present, the past, the future, alternate universes, invented worlds and outer space. Here be twenty-eight ways to encounter the new, the familiar and everything

in between. Twenty-eight wild and wonderful imaginations to revel

in. Twenty-eight writers offering the very best of themselves, through their stories.

Here be magic.

DR ALEXIA CASALE-KATZMAN

INTRODUCTION C.J. Skuse is a Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing and has taught on the MAWFYP for 11 years after graduating with honours in 2008. She has written five YA and six adult crime novels, including the Sweetpea series, shortly to become a TV series from See Saw Films/Sky Atlantic.

I HATE these students. They’re too talented and I’m jealous. Every year, the cohort shows me up with their flair, fertile imaginations and dogged commitment to redrafting and I’m blooming well fed up with it. They’re all going to be massive stars, and completely dwarf

me, and aren’t there enough books in the world now? Don’t we have enough writers? Hasn’t everything already been said?

Well, no, actually it hasn’t. Because you haven’t yet heard from these

fine (damn you) new writers. You haven’t heard what they’ve got to

say or the unique ways they’ve found to say it. So I’ve been tasked with ‘selling’ these students to you to see if you like what they’ve got. *big sigh.* OK, here begins the ad campaign:

TRULY, MADLY, EDITORIALLY YOURS Creative writing students, ages various, genres copious, audiences numerous, WLTM agents and editors for a long stable relationship till death do you part. Fully publishing-housetrained, non-smoking, ready to mingle.

Must be: open to adventures in this world and others. Must like: foxes, cloudraptors, bounty hunters, liars, angels of death, witches, giant beasts, primeval spirits, Malaysia, worms, gay space wizards, time slips, Arthurian legend, eco-cities, ballet, queer joy, 19th-century Paris, the plague, children who can see the dead, World War Two, neon jumpers, pregnancy scares, cosmic powers, brotherly love, fire-dancing and musical theatre. Must have: swanky office in city and a big red pen. Patience, publishing insight and plenty of meetings with coffee and cake on tap. GSOH essential. Desirable: Six-figure deals, Netflix options, red carpet launches with big-name starlets in attendance and Dom Perignon on ice.

Apply within.

Confession time: although I loathe this motley, too-talent-

ed-for-their-own-good crew with every ounce of my jaded,

been-in-this-industry-too-long body, I must confess, I do love them

most ardently too. I love writers in general because they are people

who still believe in magic, despite the fact they’re no longer children.

Ursula K. Le Guin said it best: ‘The creative adult is the child who has survived.’

Alright, you got me. I don’t hate them really. My problem is I don’t

want to say goodbye to them. Rarely on our course do we see such a tight-knit gang of friends and friendly feedback-givers but this bunch

is different. Any agent or editor would be lucky to take any one of them under their wing. They have, in short, been a pleasure to tutor these

past few years and I’ll miss all of them with every beat of my cracked, blackened, embittered little heart.

So enjoy their words, seek them out and if you do go on to work

with them, look after them. Or else – you’ll have me to deal with. C.J. SKUSE

A FEW WILD WORDS FROM OTHER TUTORS LUCY CUTHEW This year has been a joyous one, with so many talented students

producing inspiring, thought-provoking and boundary-challenging works for young readers. With the lockdowns of recent years out of the way, this cohort of students was a breath of fresh air, and I think that energy shows in the writing they have produced. Students who

come to the MA in Writing for Young People share the treasured qualities of curiosity and creativity. Over the course of their MA, they channel these qualities into their writing, starting with tiny seeds of

ideas, which bloom into full-blown worlds of their own. I hope these

stories find their readers and that those readers get as much pleasure from them as I have from watching them grow. ANNALIE GRAINGER

What an honour it is to be involved in this anthology. It has been a

huge privilege to be a tutor to this year’s cohort, and I have loved seeing how they have grown, both in talent and confidence. What

delights await you in these pages – so much talent, and the makings of some brilliant books for young people.

RACHEL HAMILTON This anthology is a testament to the talent and imagination of a

wonderful group of writers I’ve had the joy of lecturing, tutoring and escaping into fictional worlds with over the last two years. Their stories have transported me to abandoned theme parks, Golden Isles

guarded by Sky Gods, and dystopian eco-cities. I’ve accompanied them to student protests in revolutionary Paris, experienced the chaos of

a Catholic school prom, and savoured a family meal in Malaysia. I’ve hung out with the teenage apprentice to the Angel of Death, watched my echo-self from The Gallery, battled supernatural forces in a New Orleans graveyard, and seen Britain rewilded overnight. Not to mention

travelling through sketchbook portals to classical ballets and slipping through time on the Isles of Scilly.

These stories have opened doors for me into new worlds and half-

forgotten places. Now, these twenty-eight authors are inviting you to travel through those open doors as you turn the pages and embark

on a journey to discover the magic that lies where the wild words are.

FRAN BENSON Fran’s favourite childhood books are The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and Watership Down, and she grew up writing stories full of

animals and magic. She is partially deaf and lives in the South Downs with her family and dog, surrounded by deer, badgers, foxes, and

even snakes – but sadly no cloudraptors (although she has adopted a

rescued wolf). Fran graduated from the MA with distinction and Luna has already been longlisted for SCBWI UV24 and Searchlight Best Novel Opening Award. A previous novel was longlisted for the Bath

Children’s Novel Award. A former journalist, Fran also writes for the SCBWI online magazine.

LUNA AND THE SKY GODS When 12-year-old Luna’s beloved dog, Seven, becomes ill, she knows the wardens of the Golden Isles will take him away forever. But escape

isn’t easy because the wardens protect Luna and the other orphans from the prowling wolves and monstrous cloudraptors that circle the

island. Luna needs help, but being deaf, the only person she trusts is her brother, Wink. When things go terribly wrong, she must learn to work with the other children and even the animals they’ve been

brought up to fear, in order to secure a life of freedom, not just for Seven but for everyone.

franmbenson@gmail.com 23

LUNA AND THE SKY GODS Chapter 1

T h e Wo r s t Wo r s t T h i n g iver lies on his side, panting. I stroke him gently, my fingers rippling over his ribs.

‘Luna ...’ Wink looks at me as he speaks, his lower lip

wobbling. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ He blinks, and a fat tear rolls down his cheek.

‘A bug or something?’ I try to coax Fiver into eating the little ball

of boiled rice I’ve saved from dinner. I dip it in the water bucket in the corner of the shack and hold it to his gums.

‘He’s eaten nothing for two whole days!’ Wink sags, lower and

lower until his head rests against Fiver’s shoulder, so it’s impossible to tell where Wink’s raven hair ends and Fiver’s black fur begins. ‘Eat. Please eat.’

I rest a hand on Wink’s shoulder for a moment and breathe slowly

to calm myself. The tide’s out beneath the floorboards, and the smell of seaweed pinches my nose.

Fiver stares ahead, his eyes, all pupils, dark as night.

Seven, who’s not left Fiver’s side all evening, licks the side of Fiver’s

head and down his ear. Long soothing licks. Normally, when Seven does this, Fiver stretches out and lets Seven groom him. But today, nothing. ‘Come on, Fiver,’ I whisper and stroke his soft damp cheek. For a

moment, his uppermost eye flickers towards me, and the tip of his tail 24

lifts off the floor in an attempt at a wag before dropping back down.

I scoop some water into my hand and drip it into Fiver’s mouth. His

tongue lashes back and forth flicking water to his throat, little beads of froth rising over his lips.

‘Good boy,’ I tell him and scoop more water.

‘Needfood,’ mutters Wink, the words muffled by fur and fear. When

I don’t immediately reply, he looks up and repeats himself, clearer this time. ‘Water’s not enough.’ ‘It’s a start,’ I say.

My brother’s watery blue eyes plead with me as though I can do

something. ‘But if he’s like this in the morning, what will I do? He can’t work in this state. He can’t even stand up…’

There’s nothing I can say. We both know what will happen. If Fiver

isn’t fit for work, the wardens will take him away and Wink will have another dog to train up before the sun sets beyond the ocean.

Wink curls his body tight against Fiver’s knobbly spine, buries his

head into Fiver’s fur and sobs.

Chapter 2 Splash Three months later ‘We’re late,’ grumbles Wink, rubbing at the soft whiskery hairs that

have started growing on his chin. New Fiver bounds up the narrow steps to the deck, closely followed by Seven, hungry for whatever scraps

of food might be on offer this morning. But as Seven reaches the top,

one golden velvety paw slips and he loses his balance, his front paws 25

scrabbling against the wood until he tumbles backwards, landing in a furry heap on the sand.

He jumps up, startled, and I scoop him into my arms, hugging him

close. Instinctively, I turn round, making sure no-one’s seen. Cooper’s still busy with warden’s duties, fixing the boat ready for this morning’s

jobs, and I breathe out long and slow. I haven’t even managed a full exhale when Wink touches my arm and a shadow blocks the early

morning sun. New Fiver, who is as pale as the last Fiver was dark,

scurries behind Wink’s legs. I look up – oh Sea Gods, today is going to be a bad day! Darkull, chief warden, feared by all us awfuls, the wardens

and all of Salt Town too, looms above. He’s taller than Wink and twice as wide. Beside him, his huge dog, Zero, strains against the leather harness around his body.

Darkull glares at me from beneath thick eyebrows as black as the

scorpion claw around his neck. Quivering, I place Seven back on the sand. Darkull jumps down next to me – missing the steps entirely – and

Zero follows. Seven and I step backwards as Zero lunges at us, and if

it weren’t for the muzzle around his jaws, I swear he’d have snapped either me or Seven in two. Darkull’s thin lips curl up in a smirk, and I stay as still as a limpet on a rock so as not to provoke them.

When they’ve gone, Wink pulls me up the steps. ‘It’s okay,’ he says,

slipping his hand into mine, squeezing the trembles away. ‘What –?’

‘There you are,’ trills Aunt May. She shuffles towards us, her skirt

swishing above bare feet. On her head, her golden curls are tamed by the floppy sun hat she wears so often it’s turned from cream to grey. Across one arm is a basket, which she lowers. ‘The fishermen left a roll. Either of you want it?’

Bread? It’s not even a question! Wink answers for both of us when

he grabs it and passes me a torn half. I pick at the warm doughy middle, 26

my stomach still unsettled from the run-in with Darkull.

‘You’re lucky. Everyone’s a bit slower today otherwise that roll

would be gone.’ Aunt May wipes her hands on her apron, grabs a knife and begins chopping up a watermelon. A silver beetle flies down and

settles on the table beside her, and Aunt May shrieks. ‘Where did this pesky thing come from?’ Using the edge of her skirt, she flicks it off the table and slams a pot on top of it.

I flinch – it might bite, but she didn’t need to kill it.

With a huff, Aunt May returns to chopping. My appetite comes back,

and me and Wink grab a piece of melon and a chunk of cheese from a wooden platter. For the dogs, there’s the usual grey slop in a bowl.

Fiver tucks in, but Seven doesn’t even look at it and I slip him half my cheese which he swallows in one.

Cooper appears. He nods to Aunt May who fiddles with her hair

and beams at him.

‘You two coming?’ Arms crossed, Cooper’s looking directly at me,

and although he does it so I can lip-read, I’m sure he somehow knows that Seven slipped.

First job of the morning is rowing out to the Egg Islands where the

chickens live. The islands are tiny – grassy mounds strung together like a circle of beads – halfway between the shore and the lobster buoys. Cooper steadies the boat. Me and Wink tell the dogs to wait and

scramble up to scatter corn and collect eggs, storing them in wooden

trays. The tide isn’t quite in or out, so we splash through the water from

one bead of land to the next, while chickens fluster and flap towards us. As we collect the last batch of eggs, Cooper beckons us back to

the boat impatiently, and my first instinct is to look to the sky for cloudraptors, but it’s vast and blue and empty. Despite the morning 27

sun, a shiver tickles my spine – me and Wink would make a tasty snack.

‘Luna!’ Cooper’s voice carries from the boat, and I check the egg

trays are secure in my bag before making my way down to him.

When Wink arrives, we stack the trays in the egg box and secure

it with leather straps. The sun beats down on us. Cooper rolls up his sleeves exposing the inking of a diamond-back snake that twists around

his freckled forearm. Its mouth gapes open on the inside of his wrist, the skin puckered and red where one bit him once.

He catches me looking at it. ‘Only the fittest survive one of these.’ It’s

Cooper’s favourite story, how he saved himself by sucking the venom

out before collapsing into a fevered sleep for three whole days. Just when I think he’s going to tell us the story yet again, a wave tilts the boat and Cooper points to Wink. ‘You row first.’

I take my position at the helm, glad of the chance to rest.

The sun dances along the water. I shield my eyes and direct Wink

through the wolves’ teeth – the pointy rocks that bite through the waves

between the shore and the Egg Islands. It would be easier to sail around the islands but there are more rocks beyond, and that means travelling

further away from the safety of the land, and more importantly further away from the guns that protect us from the cloudraptors.

Cooper says something about wanting to get there before lunch.

Whatever it is, he’s smiling. He lies back against the coil of ropes, turning his face to the sun.

The sea slaps the bow and cold spray splashes my face. Seven

leans against me, his nose twitching at the salty air, and finally I relax,

letting the thought of his tumble earlier fly away on the breeze. There is nothing wrong with him. Nothing at all.

As we round the jagged edge of the land, I count seven fishing boats across the bay and groan inwardly. The dogs don’t care how many we 28

have to check. They love it out on the water. The breeze ruffles their fur. Their mouths hang open as if they’re smiling.

Wink pauses, holding the oars above the water. His top is wet with

sweat.

‘Want me to take over?’ I ask.

He gives me that look. He doesn’t want to say yes. My big brother’s

an idiot sometimes – always taking responsibility for everything. ‘I can do it.’ I slide to the edge of my seat.

As the boat wobbles, Cooper opens his good eye and nods. I squeeze onto the seat next to Wink. He grins and moves to the helm.

‘Toomuch for yer?’ Cooper shouts over me, his words disap-

pearing beneath the swoop and squawk of a gull. He winks as I begin to row, easing myself into the rhythm of pull and push.

It’s easier in the bay. The sea is calm, and yet it’s not long till my

arms are on fire.

Cooper points over my shoulder, and when I glance behind, I’m

relieved to see the first boat is just a few strokes away.

I slow the oars, and we bob closer until the boats clunk together.

‘Hey, Brook, howsthe fish today?’ Cooper crosses his arms. The fisherman pulls a face. ‘Slow.’

The good thing about being on the water is people are shouty, and

I can hear bits of what they’re saying. Although Brook talks quickly, which means I have to focus extra hard.

Cooper pulls us alongside the fishing boat.

‘Everyone’s noticed it today. ‘Slike the fish knewewere coming.’ Brook lifts his hands, palms upwards. Cooper nods but there’s a vein throbbing on his neck. ‘Go get’em,’

he says, glancing at me.

It’s my job to collect the fish. I’m smaller than Wink and it seems to 29

bother the fishermen less that a girl comes onto their boat. I grab the bucket between Cooper’s feet and clamber onto Brook’s boat. Seven knows he has to wait with Wink.

The fish shimmer as if rainbows are trapped in their scales. I gather

them up into the bucket and hand it to Cooper, who frowns.

Brook pulls up his net as though to say, that’s all there is, and fixes

Cooper with a hard stare.

‘Easy,’ says Cooper. ‘Just checkin.’

There are two fishermen on the next boat. It’s a bigger boat, and

they’ve got baskets and nets as well as rods over the side. There

are more fish but also more places to hide them. I could check the

containers in the stern of the boat myself, but Cooper likes to give the dogs something to do. He nods at me and Wink. ‘Find fish,’ we tell the dogs.

Fiver’s still in training, but he launches after Seven, eager to explore

the boat. They sniff and paw at the pots and containers, knocking them over so the lids flip off. They’re empty. Seven knows to ignore them, but Fiver barks and pushes his head inside.

‘Leave it,’ says Wink, and Fiver pops up, his head tilted as if to say,

do I have to?

The fisherman glares at us. They don’t like the dogs poking into

their stuff.

They don’t like us, full stop.

Cooper’s the only one who seems relaxed. He enjoys showing the

fishermen who’s boss.

We call the dogs back, empty handed, and row on. It’s the same

with every boat. Fewer fish than usual. We’ve got just four bucketfuls

as we head to the last boat. It’s the biggest one, and after I’ve collected the fish, we send the dogs over to sniff and search.

When it’s time for the dogs to come back, the boats have drifted 30

apart slightly. Fiver clears the gap with ease. Seven jumps, his forepaws

landing squarely on the edge of the boat. His body curls as he moves his weight forward. Then, just like earlier, his right paw slips and it’s as if an invisible fishing line has hooked him. He scrabbles against smooth wood and slips backward, reeled in by the ocean.

SIMON BOR BAFTA-nominated Simon Bor has produced over 20 children’s TV series seen in over 100 countries, including British Animation Award winner

Grizzly Tales for Gruesome Kids. He worked with the legendary Spike Milligan on Wolves, Witches & Giants, which was awarded best children’s series by the Royal Television Society. He has scripted animation for CITV, Channel 4 and Milkshake. He has grown-up daughters and lives

in deepest Devon with his artist wife, a dog, a cat and three chickens.

The inspiration for Brotherhood was his Irish grandfather who sold the family pigs at market and ran away to join the Army, serving in World War 1.

BROTHERHOOD Ireland, 1917. Twelve-year-old Niall hero-worships his older brother, Tom, who sold the family’s pigs and ran away with the money. Niall believes Tom has gone to Dublin as a rebel fighter in the Easter Rising.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Fitzgibbon is hunting down Niall’s friend, Caitlin,

and her father. When Tom returns in British Army uniform, Niall’s world collapses.

simonnbor@gmail.com

BROTHERHOOD Chapter 1

The Thief County Kilkenny, Ireland, July 1917. pulled back my sackcloth blanket and yawned. There was a scuffle and grunt below me. It was the pigs starting to stir under the hayloft where I slept.

Ruairí was fast asleep on Tom’s straw-filled sack mattress. I was sure

that our white and brown Jack Russell terrier was missing my brother

as much as I was. Ruairí let out a whine and stretched his paws. We

could spend a few more minutes on our beds as it was Kiera’s turn to muck out the animals. But there was still the milking to do. The sun cut through the gaps in the planked shutters and reached the beam between the rafters. The roosting cockerel shook its feathers. Cock-a-doodle, he crowed, not quite managing the doo. Ruairí pricked up his ears.

We may as well get up now ... I pulled my breeches on.

As if in reply to the cockerel, there was a frantic squawking from

the chicken house across the yard. Ruairí jumped off the mattress.

‘Don’t worry.’ I stroked Ruairí’s head. ‘One of the hens has probably

laid an egg. It’s about time. They haven’t laid for ages.’

There was another squawk and this time it was more urgent. Ruairí

ran to the shutters to bark.

‘You’re right.’ I tucked Ruairí under my arm. ‘Mr Fox might be on

the prowl.’

I scrambled down the wooden ladder from the loft to the ground

floor.

‘Quick! Before he gets the hens.’

The hungry pigs squealed and pushed against their pen. They were

hungry but would have to wait for Kiera for their feed.

Ruairí wriggled out from my arm as I pulled open the tall barn

doors, and the terrier streaked across the yard.

I stopped and stared at the chicken house door. It was wide open. ‘No!’ I gasped.

I was sure I had closed it before I had gone to bed. If we lost the

hens, Da would kill me.

It was then that I realised I could still hear clucks and squawks. Mr

Fox hadn’t got them all.

A loud clank rang out.

Surely it was too early for Da to be up? If it was Da he’d be in a bad mood, as he always was after a night

at the inn. I’d be feeling Da’s belt now, for sure, either for not locking up the hens or not feeding them before he got up.

I peered into the chicken house and dreaded that I might find Da

in the gloom. ‘Phew!’

A dozen pairs of bright eyes looked down at Ruairí from their perch.

All present and correct, and no sign of Da ... so who had made that noise?

I checked the nesting boxes, but they were empty once again; it

was the fourth day in a row they hadn’t laid, even though their bright red combs looked healthy.

‘Maybe we’ve got a rat, Ruairí. You’re not doing your job properly.’ Thud!

I spun round as the door slammed behind me. I reached out to

push it back open just as I heard the bolt slide shut from the outside. 35

‘Hey!’ I shouted. Was it Da after all? I bashed my fist on the door. Ruairí scratched at the bottom of the door, whining to be let out.

The clap-clip-clap of running echoed across the cobbled yard. Ruairí

started barking. Peering through the chicken-wired window, I could make out a redhead carrying a basket. As the figure disappeared behind

the barn, something fell from the basket and smashed on the cobbles. An egg.

So, the hens were laying after all.

‘Stop, thief!’ I pushed at the window, but it was stuck fast.

Ruairí’s nose pressed into the gap at the bottom of the door and his

tail started to wag. There was someone else outside the chicken house. ‘Open the door!’ I shouted.

‘What’s going on, Niall?’ came my sister’s annoying voice. ‘I’m locked in, Kiera. Let me out.’ ‘Say please.’

‘Just open the door, Kiera! Quick!’ There was silence before I added,

‘Please.’ But my fingers were crossed.

After what seemed like an age, the door opened to reveal Kiera with

her frizzy brown hair tied back by a green ribbon.

‘Did you see which way that kid went?’ I asked. ‘What kid?’

‘Did you think I’d locked myself in from the outside?’ I pushed

past her.

‘What about some thanks? Next time I’ll leave you there!’ Kiera

shouted after me.

I wasn’t listening as I followed Ruairí across the yard. I turned

towards the back of the barn to see the redhead climbing into the open field.

I leapt towards the wall and stretched my arm towards the stolen

eggs, but the basket was beyond my reach. 36

I grabbed onto the intruder’s leg. ‘Got you!’

Under the matted red hair was a grubby-faced girl, about the same

age as me, with the fiercest green eyes I’d ever seen. ‘Get off me, Pig!’ she spat.

‘My name’s not Pig, it’s Niall.’

‘Well, you live in a barn and smell like a pig.’ She kicked out, catching me on the jaw.

My lip stung as I staggered back, and I was sure I could taste blood.

‘Right, you’re for it now!’

‘Oh, yeah!’ The girl stood on the other side of the wall with her

freckled lip raised in a sneer. ‘You think I’m scared of a little boy?’ Little boy? I was at least half an inch taller than her. ‘Give me back my eggs!’ I shouted.

‘OK, I’ll let you have one.’ Her eyes narrowed as she picked a brown

egg out of her basket and hurled it.

I could see the egg coming, but it was too late to duck. There was a

crack, a wet splodge and then cold slime crawled down my face. ‘Bullseye!’ she laughed.

Ruairí bared his teeth and leapt over the wall, but the girl bent

down to pat his head.

‘Good dog,’ she said.

Ruairí started to wag his tail. I didn’t like that. He was my dog. ‘Don’t touch Ruairí,’ I said, wiping sticky yolk from my face.

As I climbed over the wall, my trousers caught on a strand of barbed

wire. It was so embarrassing, and the girl couldn’t stop laughing.

Before I could untangle trouser from wire, the girl dashed into the

field of purple thistles that were almost her height, before disappearing into the woods behind the farmhouse. 37

Ruairí was at my side as I trudged back into the yard. The well-worn

cobbles stretched towards the single-storey thatched farmhouse that sat between my barn and the stables.

‘I saw you!’ Kiera was standing with her hands on her hips. ‘You’re

too young to be chasing girls.’

‘I wasn’t chasing her. I tried to stop her from stealing our eggs.’

‘Niall’s got a girlfriend!’ Kiera chanted in her most irritating voice.

‘She’s not my girlfriend. I don’t even know her name.’ But I couldn’t

stop the blood rushing to my face.

‘Ha, ha. You look like a beetroot.’ Kiera’s brown eyes widened. ‘That

proves she’s your girlfriend.’

‘I told you. She’s the egg thief.’

‘Ni-all’s in luh-uv, Ni-all’s in luh-uv,’ she chanted, before frowning.

‘I don’t believe she stole our eggs. You gave them to her.’ ‘No, I didn’t!’ I stamped.

‘You’re a rubbish brother, Niall Hanlon,’ Kiera huffed, ‘I want Tom

back. He’s my favourite.’

‘When Tom comes back it’ll be to take me away from you.’ I rinsed

the egg off my face in the trough.

‘What? You go off with the Volunteers?’ Kiera laughed. ‘To be sure,

they won’t want a twelve-year-old who still plays with toy soldiers.’ ‘Well, I don’t want a ten-year-old sister,’ I snapped.

‘It’s only you who thinks Tom’s a rebel fighter, anyhow.’ Kiera folded

her arm. ‘Mam and Da never talk about him joining the Volunteers.’ ‘That’s because Da’s still sore about his money.’

‘It’s always boring money with Da.’ Kiera picked up a dandy brush

and headed for the stable to groom our horse, Samson.

‘That’s because he hasn’t got any,’ I shouted out after her. 38

Kiera put Samson’s collar over his head and tied the horse to a

post. ‘The only thing we know about Tom was that he took our pigs to market and kept the money.’

I was sure though. Why else would he disappear just before the

uprising? I knew he’d joined the rebels ... and one day, I’d follow in my brother’s footsteps.

Chapter 2 T h e D ev i l ’ s M e n Kiera said no more about the girl as she got on with mucking out Samson’s stable. I sat on my three-legged stool, leaning against our cow as I pulled at her teats. Squirt. Squirt. Squirt.

The warm milk started to fill my pail.

After finishing our chores, we went into the house for breakfast.

Da was in his suit, which reminded me we’d be off to Mass shortly. It wasn’t long before my sister started getting at me again. ‘Niall’s got a g—.’

‘For the love of Mary! Will you be stopping this nonsense, Kiera?

Your brother’s explained what happened.’ Mam cut a piece of ham and placed it on my plate.

‘Well, I blame Niall. I’d be having eggs with my ham if it wasn’t for

that eejit,’ Da said, cleaning off his plate with a slice of Mam’s soda bread. ‘It’s not my fault!’ I snapped.

‘Tis, that!’ Kiera pushed her ham from one side of the plate to the

other. ‘I can’t hear the hens from my bedroom.’

‘Of course you can, but we can always swap rooms if you want.’ ‘No way am I sleeping over the pongy pigs.’ 39

‘It’s not fair, Mam.’ I didn’t really mind that I’d been sleeping in the

hayloft since the age of eight, but today, Kiera was annoying me even more than usual.

‘We’ve only the two bedrooms in the house.’ Mam didn’t have to

remind me. ‘We can’t have your sister sleeping alone in a barn.’

‘That thief.’ Da sat back in his chair. ‘She had red hair, you say?

She’ll be that Quinn lass, no doubt. I’ll be having strong words with Michael after church.’

‘It wasn’t Molly Quinn. I told you, I’ve not seen the girl before.’

‘Well, there’ll be no playing with that dog of yours until we catch

her. You’ll have to keep on guard at the chicken house all day,’ said Da, filling his pipe with baccy.

‘Niall’s got enough to do,’ Mam said as she cleared the plates from the

table. ‘I hear Captain Mason had a winner at Clonmel races last week.’

‘Trying to change the subject, are we?’ Da shifted uncomfortably

on his chair.

‘You put a guinea on Dick Toomey’s horse, didn’t you so?’ Mam gave

one of her gentle smiles. ‘I hear the donkey came in last.’

‘Humph! Tis a fine thoroughbred, is Toomey’s. And I’d never put

a farthing on one of Mason’s nags, even if it was powered by steam.’ ‘Tom loved the horses,’ Kiera said wistfully.

‘He was a scoundrel.’ Da glared at his daughter. Here we go again. I put my hands to my ears.

‘That petty egg thief has nothing on what he did,’ Da spat. ‘That

thieving rascal will never be welcome in my home. Niall may be an eejit, but he’s a good eejit. He’ll always be here for me.’

I threw Kiera a warning glance. We didn’t talk about me wanting

to run away to join Tom in front of Mam and Da. But Kiera’s lips were moving and I’m sure she was mouthing, EXCEPT YOU WANT TO JOIN THE REBELS.

I aimed my boot.

‘Mam, Niall kicked me!’ she cried, clutching at her shin.

‘You’ll not be fighting in my kitchen on a Sunday!’ Mam flicked her

tea towel, catching my ear.

‘You can get yourselves ready for Mass.’ Da stood up from the

table. ‘Father Brennan won’t be tolerating latecomers.’

There was an empty space beside me on the hard oak pew. I always kept it for Tom – just in case. Da and Mam were on the other side of

me, with Kiera next to the aisle. I yawned. Father Brennan’s sermons always went on too long.

‘And now the Devil’s men are amongst us!’ The priest’s forceful

voice echoed through the church’s high ceiling. We had heard about the small band of soldiers who had taken up residence at Carlton

Hall. They were searching the hills for one of the Volunteers – except the soldiers didn’t call him that. ‘Fenian,’ they said and spat on the ground as they did.

I couldn’t see the point of the sermon because the people who

needed to hear these words lived at Carlton Hall, and Captain Mason’s family never attended Father Brennan’s church.

‘The war in France is for the English, not us,’ continued the priest.

‘Well said, that man!’ Da whispered to Mam as the congregation

began to file out of the church.

‘How do you think Mr and Mrs Doyle feel about him going on about

Devil’s men, what with their son being killed by those Germans? I think

Father Brennan should keep his nose out of politics,’ Mam whispered back.

‘He’s right, though.’ Da stood up from the pew.

‘Eddie Hanlon,’ Mam said to Da as we began to file out of the church. 41

‘When we bought the farm, you went on about how much better life had got for the Irish farmer.’

‘Tis true enough, my da lived through the Great Famine and never

owned a square foot of the land he farmed.’

‘But we do,’ Mam said, as we reached the vestibule.

‘And we want to keep it.’ Da raised his fist. ‘Independence is best

for us, now.’

‘Hear, hear. Good to know I’m preaching to the converted.’ Father

Brennan shook Da’s hand. ‘Always good to see you and your family, Eddie. What say I come for a chat and a drop of that fine whiskey of yours during the week?’

Father Brennan’s hand felt all fat and squidgy as he took mine.

‘You’re growing up fast, lad,’ he said. ‘What are you now, twelve?’ ‘Yes, Father,’ I replied, desperate for him to let go.

‘Remember my words, young Niall. When you grow into a fine

Irishman, don’t be tempted by the King’s Shilling.’

‘I don’t think anyone joins the Army for a shilling, these days.’ It

was Des O’Connell, the solicitor from town. He peered at me over his glasses. ‘My word! You look just like Tom.’ ‘He does that,’ agreed the priest.

‘Well, he won’t be needing shillings from the Army.’ O’Connell pushed

a shiny sixpence into my palm. ‘That’s half a shilling for you to support the Irish cause when the time comes.’

‘That’s not fair. Will I get sixpence when Mr O’Connell hears I’m

going to be a fine Irish woman?’ Kiera moaned as we left the church. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘No ... it’s better,’ Kiera snapped.

PAULA BURGESS A former English and Drama teacher, writer for the Times Educational Supplement and copywriter, Paula loves to write about the wonder of the natural world. Her current passion for earthworms was inspired by Charles Darwin, who declared they were one of the most important

creatures on the planet. Yet they’re so unloved! Paula’s mission is to

convert as many people as she can to her ever-growing worm appreciation club. She lives in a village outside Cambridge with her husband,

daughters and cosy worm farm. Paula graduates with distinction from the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University.

A BOY, HIS GRANDAD AND HALF A WORM

Ten-year-old, insect-mad Jake loves his grandad more than anything in the whole world. One day, a bully tricks Jake into biting a worm in two.

Distraught, he rushes home with the barely alive half-worm. Thankfully it survives. But Grandad is poorly, and Jake desperately wants him

to regenerate like the worm he looks after. Using his knowledge of

insects to help make sense of the world, Jake overcomes self-doubts and stands up to the bully. But as the worm heals, Grandad’s health

gets worse and Jake turns to nature to learn how to finally let him go. pmbwriting@aol.com

A BOY, HIS GRANDAD AND HALF A WORM Chapter 1

Giant Asian Hornet

The Giant Asian Hornet is terrifing! Even Grandad says so. It's the

biggest hornet in the world and likes to prey on honey bees. Be careful not to make it angry, or it'll stng you over and over.

t started the day I ate the worm.

It was lunchtime, and the school hall was buzzing. I grabbed

my lunchbox from the trolley and noticed something odd. Why

was mine open?

Shutting it, I followed my best friend Shane towards the back of the

hall. As we sat down, I told him about the European hornet Grandad found in the shed that morning.

‘It was this big!’ I showed him with my finger and thumb. 46

‘Did he get it out?’ Shane asked.

I nodded. ‘There’s one from Asia that’s bigger. Longer stinger.

Sharper jaws. Honey bees’ worst nightmare. These hornets are five times the size of them and rip their heads off!’

Shane’s eyes widened. ‘What? When they’re still alive?’

‘Yep.’ I picked up my sandwich. ‘They hover round their hive, ready

to attack.’

‘Jake, that’s gross.’

As tables filled up around the hall, the buzzing got louder. Someone

laughed behind us. Putting my sandwich down, I turned, and my

stomach dropped when I saw who was there. Connor. He was hovering round a table with his friends. They looked over at us and smirked. ‘Don’t look now, but Connor’s up to something,’ I said. ‘Hurry up, then we can go.’

I picked up my sandwich again. Someone sniggered.

‘Those really big hornets, do you get them here?’ Shane asked. I watched Connor whispering to kids at other tables.

‘There’s been a few sightings. Asian bees have found a way to kill

them. Sadly, our bees are easy prey till they work out what to do.’

The hall grew quieter. Something wasn’t right. Grandad said an

insect’s body reacts if it senses a threat. The hairs on my arms stood up and my neck prickled. He said bees beat their wings faster. That’s how they send alarm signals.

I looked at Shane. ‘Why’s everyone staring at us?’ He shrugged, stuffing cake in his mouth.

It was so quiet I could hear my stomach rumbling. I took a bite of my sandwich. SQUELCH

Something squirted into my mouth. Urgh! What was that? It wasn’t

honey! There were bits in it, like grit or something. I spat it into my hand. It was brown and gooey.

Someone laughed.

‘You alright?’ Shane asked.

I shook my head, wiping my hand and willing the sick feeling to

stay in my stomach.

More people laughed.

I peeled open the top of my sandwich and saw what I’d done. Two

halves of a worm were squashed into the bread. The top half was moving. The bottom half was still.

Some blood had mixed with the butter.

‘What the heck’s that?’ Shane asked, looking at my sandwich.

‘Worm,’ I tried to say as sick came up into my mouth. Connor had

done this. He’d put a worm in my sandwich. That’s why my lunchbox was open.

That poor worm.

Connor was looking over, a big smile on his face. He walked towards

me, acting surprised. ‘What is that? Is it a worm?’ He was talking loudly and looking round the room so everyone could hear. ‘Jake’s eating worms. What a freak – he’s bitten one in half!’ I wished I’d bitten him in half.

Kids swarmed all around me, looking at the mangled bread and

making sick noises.

I picked something out of my teeth and scraped it onto the bread.

Shane swallowed uncomfortably. I tried to send him alarm signals with my eyes. Help me!

But he stood up and stepped back.

Connor started a chant: ‘Freak! Freak! Freak!’

Soon, others joined in. Julia and Aaron watched in silence, and

Shane just stood there.

Why’s no one helping me? The chanting got louder. Freak!

Freak!

Freak! Cheeks burning, I stuffed the sandwich back into my lunchbox. Pushing

everyone out the way, I flew across the hall and outside, the word stinging me over and over.

My hands shook so much I struggled to lock the toilet door. I put the lid down and sat on it, bending forwards and staring at the white squares on the floor.

Heart pounding, I pulled my keyring out of my bag and held the orange

resin up to my nose. It felt cool and smelt of pine, like Grandad’s shed. Rubbing it, I felt the dragon picture engraved into the surface. Grandad’s voice was in my head telling me what to do.

Breathe in through your nose and out of your mouth. That’s it, Jake.

Nice and slow.

As I breathed in, my finger traced the dragon’s serpent body and up

to its head spitting fire at its enemies. As I blew out, I imagined shooting

flames from my mouth and Connor running away screaming. Everyone high-fived me, laughing at how stupid he looked.

Connor had always made fun of me for liking insects and worms, but

he’d been loads worse since the science quiz. I never meant to embarrass him. It just sort of happened. I knew he was angry but had no idea he’d do something like this. That poor worm.

I reached into my lunchbox and took out the bread. The worm was a night

crawler, and I’d bitten through some of its annuli – the segments running through its body. Grandad said they have five hearts, and where I’d bitten looked dangerously close to one of them.

The worm’s top half was still moving, though. It was amazing it was still

alive. I watched its muscles tighten and squeeze as its front end moved across the bread away from the pale, dead part of its body. My stomach sank to see how injured the worm was.

But Grandad was right. They were tougher than they looked. I wished I was.

When I walked into the classroom after lunch, Connor and his friends made sick noises.

Mrs Green sat at her desk marking. She looked puzzled. ‘Stop that please.’ My legs shook as I walked to my seat.

Shane was already in his chair. ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere. You okay?’ What do you think?

I nodded, remembering how he’d just stood there.

Mrs Green clapped her hands. ‘Okay, year six, today we’re going to plan

our superhero paintings.’

Why hadn’t he helped me?

As she spoke, a bee flew into the window. Julia jumped up and moved away. Mrs Green came over. ‘It’s not going to hurt you. Just a little wasp. That

right, Jake?’

I looked at it and whispered, ‘I think it’s a honey bee.’ Connor rolled his eyes behind her.

Mrs Green looked at me, waiting for me to explain, seeing my red eyes. ‘You okay?’ No.

I nodded, biting my lip.

As she walked back to her desk, Connor mouthed 'Freak!' at me,

and his friends laughed. I glared at them, heat shooting through my

body. I thought about the way those hornets kill bees and grew five

times bigger in my head. I imagined I was the Giant Asian Hornet

flying towards their stupid smiling faces and ripping their heads off one after another.

Chapter 2 E a r t hwo r m

Earthworms are awesome! Some people think if you cut them in half,

to worms will grow. That’s wrong. Everything worms need to survive is above the ring. If anything important is damaged, they die. But if

anything below the ring is hurt, the worm can grow it back. That’s their amazing superpower.

After school, I ran home and went straight round the back to the garden.

Our garden was a big rectangle with a long path down the side. I

walked past the herb pots and wildflowers until I reached the greenhouse. Behind it were the two bug hotels, which I helped build, the pond, and the start of the winding path around the apple trees. 51

And behind the apple trees was my favourite place in the whole

world. Grandad’s shed.

Grandad built it before I was born. Mum said it was meant to be a

small shed but ended up more like a barn. She said he’d never have got away with it if Grandma was alive.

Now, the shed was old. Faded wood was patched up with tape, and

it leaned to the side, like that tower in Italy. Some loose felt on the roof flapped in the wind.

I stepped in and dropped my bag on the mat. Shutting the door, I

breathed deeply.

I smelt wood and straw and something sweet.

‘Jake. Come in. I’ve been waiting to show you something.’

The crickets were beating their wings so loudly Grandad had to

shout.

I couldn’t work out where he was.

My head throbbed as I walked past the worm farm, the long ant

trails, and the earwig boxes up to the big net area by the back wall. ‘Where are you, Grandad?’ ‘Over here!’

Heading towards the quieter beetle section of the shed, I looked

down.

Grandad was on the low green stool. Reaching forwards with his

hands flat on the floor and bony knees bent high on either side of his body, he looked like a grasshopper resting on a leaf. ‘Come and see, Jake.’

I knelt next to him and looked at the tray on the floor. There was a

beetle the size of my thumb with long, dark antennae, a black thorax, and a brown hard back. ‘What’s that?’

Grandad’s eyes were wide. ‘The wireworms have pupated.’ He 52

pointed to a second tray full of them. ‘It’s taken four years. Now they’re click beetles and they have quite a party trick to show you.’

I looked at the little beetle and wondered how it felt to be inside its

grown-up body. ‘Does it know how to walk straight away?’

As if in answer, the beetle scurried across the tray, confident on

its little legs.

Grandad put his finger in front of it. ‘Watch this.’

The beetle moved back against the edge of the container.

Grandad put his finger closer, and something amazing happened.

The beetle snapped its body with a loud click, shot into the air, and landed back on its feet.

‘Woo-hoo! That’s its superpower.’ Grandad grinned. ‘It’ll be safe now.’ ‘Safe?’

‘That’s how they escape predators.’

Grandad put the beetle back on the tray. ‘Want a go?’

I put my finger in front of it, like Grandad did, and CLICK, it flipped

in the air.

I jumped up. ‘Did you see how high it went?’ He nodded. ‘Brilliant, Jake.’

Grandad picked up another beetle. ‘To start with, this one fell on

its back, but it kept trying until it landed on its feet.’ He looked up at me. ‘It never gave up.’

I helped pull Grandad up, surprised how light he was.

‘Ooh, thank you. Be handy being able to spring onto your feet like

these little fellows, wouldn’t it?’ His eyes lit up. ‘Did you know they

can blast into the air a hundred times faster than a rocket into space? Truly incredible creatures.’

I wished I could blast into space, far away from school and Connor

and his friends.

Grandad’s hair was flat on one side and sticking out on the other. He

put his arms out and I swallowed the lump in my throat as he hugged me, and I breathed in his sawdust smell. ‘Good day at school?’ he asked.

Shrugging, I took out my lunch box and gave it to him. ‘Can you help?’ ‘Looks nasty.’ He looked at the blood on my bread. ‘What happened?’ Everyone laughed at me and called me a freak and Shane did nothing— ‘Just a stupid joke.’

I couldn’t tell him because of his illness. He had enough to deal with. The deep lines creased around Grandad’s eyes. I nudged him. ‘I’m worried. Will it be alright?’

He grabbed his magnifying glass. ‘The tear is close to the ring.’

Grandad had taught me how important the worm’s ring was. When

they become grown-ups, the ring means they can have babies.

He examined the worm’s ripped body. ‘It’s in quite a state.’ He

pointed above the tear. ‘Brain is here. That’s fine.’

‘What about here?’ Hand shaking, I pointed to the highest point

where the skin had split. It might be near one of its hearts.

Grandad shook his head. ‘Can’t say for sure, Jake.’ He looked at me.

‘Let’s see if it makes it through the night.’

The next morning, as soon as Mum let me, I ran out the back door. She said Grandad had been in the shed for hours.

I sprinted past the wildflowers and down to the greenhouse. Please

be okay. I raced past the pond and round the apple trees to the open shed door. Please be okay.

My whole body tense, I hurried to the worm pot and leaned in.

Worms breathe through their skin. They don’t have lungs, so it’s hard to tell if they’re alive or not.

The worm smelt okay, like dirt and leaves and wood, but it hadn’t 54

eaten any of the eggshell Grandad had given it. That wasn’t good. I stroked its head. It felt cold.

Grandad cleared his throat. ‘The worm’s tough, Jake.’ He looked up

from where he was working with the click beetles. ‘Like you.’

I pictured myself hiding in the toilet. You’re wrong about me.

I looked at the worm’s short body. Its blood had gone black where

I’d bitten it.

‘It’s not moving.’

Grandad came over and gave it some melon rind from his pocket. ‘It’s resting.’

Standing next to me, he squeezed my hand. I swallowed, my mouth dry. ‘Are you sure?’

We both looked into the pot.

And my half-worm moved its muscles one after the other as if to

say: Of course!

REBEKAH CURTIS Rebekah writes hopeful middle-grade fiction with an interest in mental wellbeing. Prior to graduating from the MA in Writing for Young People

at Bath Spa University with distinction, she covered international crises as a journalist, having trained at national newspapers. Prone to finding

silver linings, she loves crafting accessible verse and prose to sow hope for young people in an often-challenging world. A former translator who

adores words, she reads dictionaries for fun when she’s sure nobody is looking. Following years living on narrowboats to explore the wilds of

London, she now wanders West Country woods collecting metaphors for mindful stories. She writes among her treasured cats at her family home in Bristol.

THE BEAST OF WILDER MOOR Ever since her grandad died, thirteen-year-old Una struggles to speak because she counts words to keep her family of five safe. To honour

his memory, she yearns to brave a school poetry performance and to defy lying, tongue-tying Nerve —the invisible girl making Una count words compulsively in fives. Exasperated by everyone saying, ‘Don’t

lose your nerve’, Una vows to do just that. But, crossing the wilderness to return Nerve to the island where she appeared, Una encounters her grandad’s own invisible friend – the legendary Beast of Wilder Moor.

Through a new friend from Poetry Club, Una learns this fierce big cat, like Nerve, can only be tamed with compassion and understanding. rebekahcurtiswriter@gmail.com 57

THE BEAST OF WILDER MOOR With Nerve by my side, I cross the bare moors to start my new school – Nerve making sure I count every single word I think.

In fives - that’s the rule.

‘Counting makes it hard speak!’ One, two, three, four, five. ‘Nerve, I’ll sound like freak!’ One, two, three, four, five. But she whispers more rules:

Five words in five rows.

One, two, three, four, five, two, two, three, four, five, three, two, three, four, five, four, two, three, four, five, five, two, three, four, five.

Now five times five rows.

Nerve looks thirteen, like me. Same jeans, same baggy hoody but hers black, mine green, same red hair but wispy. Like an echo of me.

You need to keep counting!

As we pass Grandad’s lighthouse – stripey as snapped candy cane – I shake her off again. ‘I’ll never make any friends! Can’t you leave me be?’

You’ll never lose me, Una. You can count on me ...

I take five deep breaths, edging into my new classroom like prey on the moors being stalked by a beast – Nerve’s fingernails piercing like claws. Skulking to the back row, I know how this’ll go. In the next five seconds, Nerve will knock my chances of making friends to zero.

Let’s run for the door.

You’ll mess up – I’d know!

Where I go, Nerve goes – always one step behind me yet always one step ahead, putting ideas in my head, like at my last school.

You’ll act like a fool.

She can be really cruel. But Mum made me vow I’d overwrite Nerve’s rules now and make real, human friends. Trouble is, NERVE WON’T GO.

I’m invisible, invincible, untouchable, unstoppable.

I hear her wispy voice. I see her sitting there counting, and plaiting her hair, while the other kids stare because I’m tapping my chair.

One, two, three, four, five …

‘UNA?’ Miss looks around the classroom. I’m hiding behind my tangles. Hiding from answering the register. Hiding from answering to Nerve who’s beside herself beside me:

One times five is five, two times five is dicey, three times five’s still risky, four times five is nasty, FIVE TIMES FIVE MEANS SAFETY!

As Nerve twists her hands, I turn my silver ring – a cat chasing its tail five times around my finger. Then I hear the teacher:

‘UNA GREEN?’

But I can’t answer her

because Nerve’s in fives overdrive – tying me in numerical knots,

which always stop me thinking, or saying the right thing.

I can’t say a word.

‘JUST SAY “HERE, MISS”.’ I can’t say two words. ‘ANSWER ME, PLEASE, UNA.’ Or three or four words.

‘FIVE ...’

… is the perfect number.

‘FOUR ...’

… is too dangerously even.

‘THREE ...’

… kills, like the sea.

‘TWO ...’

… leaves you and me.

‘ONE!’

… will be you, all alone, unless you count to five

to keep loved ones alive.

If you DON’T reach five, EVERYONE YOU KNOW MIGHT DIE!

I’ve had enough of Nerve

repeatedly naming me, blaming me,

constantly prodding me, counting obsessively,

haunting, taunting, and nagging incessantly,

messing about till I SHOUT:

‘HERE, MISS,

HERE, HERE, HERE.

LET ME OUT OF HERE!’

L is for Loud Laughter.

A blonde girl, Bellicent, shouts, ‘Una Green is HERE, HERE, HERE, HA, HERE, HA, HERE, HA!’ Then they all pitch in, clubbing together, pointing at

me.

‘HA HA HA HA HA!’

Till miss stops their fun:

There’s nothing funny about me counting my words in fives. I do it to keep loved ones safe and alive. Nerve insists it will work.

Make every word count, Una.

She eyes me with hate when I dare to miscalculate. Every single sentence must comprise the right number of words: five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five ...

... always divisible by NUMBER FIVE!

Miss, crouching by me, whispers,

‘If something’s wrong, you can tell me privately.’ I think in fives quickly because I do it CONSTANTLY. But speaking’s not so easy. With miss focusing on me, my words go all clunky:

‘Counting Same Time Speaking’s Hard.’ ‘I seeee.’

Miss squints at me thoughtfully, like she’s trying to divine who’s behind my teary eyes, where Nerve inhabits my mind like it’s hers not mine.

‘I’m sorry if I seemed unkind. Bellicent will be staying behind.’

If those kids were grieving Maybe they’d fixate on five, turn their back on four, never blink thrice or twice, and be scared of one ...

... two, three, four, five.

My name, Una, means One. I am the only one who does everything by numbers. Sometimes I’m scared of myself because my mind is limitless. People have always called me a bit of a worrier, a bit of a loner, a bit of a skiver because I prefer staying home.

Count from five to infinity.

You’re doomed to being alone.

Home with Mum and Dad and my little brother, Ray, with Grandad always popping by ... Everything always felt so safe when it was us five ...

... four, three, two, one.

But I didn’t always count. That problem arrived one, two, three, four, five months ago, on the cold spring morning my family went into mourning. The day Grandad was gone.

I didn’t see Nerve coming. She snuck into my mind as swiftly as sea fog

rolls up the shore before

blocking out the light completely. She appeared on Poet’s Island, the day after the storm

as we sought Grandad everywhere – his lighthouse on the mainland shrinking as we sailed there.

Scouring the rocky, little island, seeking signs of his boat, I found Nerve curled up

in his wind-battered writing cabin where he wrote his poems. I should have turned away the very moment we met.

But her words dragged me in like a fishing net.

Words I still can’t forget:

If you count to five, he’ll come back to life! As I turned my ring – a slender, little, silver cat – broken oars and cracked planks clanked against the island’s rocks. My grandad wasn’t coming back.

Grandad always suggested I write a poem just for him.

But even on Poet’s Island

I could never write anything I felt confident to share.

Now he’s not even there.

I never feel good enough.

That’s what makes school tough. Day One’s been extra rough.

Bellicent keeps making everyone laugh by shouting in every class,

‘UNA’S CRAZY!’

Maybe Nerve’s crazy, not me. My mum calls Nerve Grief and Dad calls her Anxiety.

Ray, who’s three, calls Nerve

BIG SISTER’S SUPERPOWERED IMAGINAWY ENEMY.

I’m more of a frenemy.

My therapist, Steve, calls Nerve:

‘OCD’ or ‘Obsessive Compulsive Disorder’.

The disorder obsessed with order. An obsessive side of me

who rises when I sink ...

... to control how you think.

Thankfully, the school day ends. Kids spill down the stairs, pushing past me in pairs,

forcing Nerve into my arms as we grip the bannisters. Dad’s waiting in the car.

‘Hey, superstar!

Make any chums?’

Everyone thought she was dumb.

I want to go home but Dad drives to Steve’s. Steve is the only one

who translates Nerve’s Fiveish language and can interpret my anguish.

I hate discussing Nerve’s games but Steve promises I’m sane.

Like today, when he explains Nerve is a mega storm

wreaking havoc in my brain:

‘OCD and anxiety and grief can swirl together like thunder, lightning, rain.’

‘The past still feels frightening.’

‘That’s just thunder catching up with lightning.’

Steve offers Nerve an armchair.

Thanks for inviting me here ....

ANDREW DUFFY Andrew worked in factories making aircraft ejector seats, teabag paper,

and dog baskets, before becoming a journalist. As a travel writer, he

showered under a waterfall, prodded a timid shark with a stick and

shot at fish (he missed). And before that, he grew up on the edge of

the woods where he roamed wild and fell in love with it, even after the encounter with the weird guy with the sack over his head and the

kitchen knife. He now lives in deepest Dorset where he goes for walks with his family who forgive his enthusiasm for moss and fungi.

JACK’S BACK

Overnight, woodland covers half of Britain. Jack-in-the-Green, the

primeval spirit of the forest, has come back. Two teenagers, Guin and

Eden, go into the woods to protect Jack, the magical new forest, and their future. They face more than wolves and wild boars: the savage

Wild Hunt of dark mythology is on the loose; a millionaire with a private army wants them dead; and a secretive government isn’t telling the truth about its plans for the country. Guin, Eden and Jack must survive more than just the forest to save more than just the myth. andrewduffyisawriter@gmail.com

JACK'S BACK Prologue

Wild Again ack had been away too long. Time to go home. It tightened its green coat, jammed its hat on its head, slipped through the swirling Darkwood, and came out into the greenwood of home. Except the wood wasn’t green. And the green wasn’t a wood. Jack emerged from the Darkwood into Harvington, an old market town now surrounded by low-rise industry making flat-pack furniture, vacuum cleaner bags and chocolate bars. If there hadn’t been the castle, Jack wouldn’t have recognised Harvington at all. But even the castle looked different. In front of the walls was a dead, blue pond with straight sides and an inflatable unicorn, but no fish; and a flat, striped lawn with a pink plastic flamingo, but no bees. Jack tasted bitterness in the stale air. All around it was the hum of machinery in grey buildings and hard roads streaming with hot metal cars. Something had gone very wrong while it had been away. No matter. Time to change the country back. Jack snapped a branch from a tree, walked into the middle of the groomed lawn and pushed the branch into the ground. It waited patiently and looked around at the uptight stripes on the grass and the unnaturally smooth topiaried shrubs. For a moment, there was silence. The branch shuddered. Then, with a surge, the greenwood came back. Trees cut a path through the grass. Their trunks swelled and in

seconds, a full-grown wood stood there. Then sycamore trees hurled their spinners, rowans flicked berries, beech trees dropped nuts which buried themselves into the ground and it all started again. Mushrooms popped up from underground, and slabs of fungus ate into fallen tree trunks. Woodlice, beetles and centipedes swarmed. Bluebells radiated out like a pulse of light, and died back. Jack directed the trees down streets behind houses and filled gardens with alders, birch trees and beeches, thickets of holly and walls of hazel. It surfed on branches and jumped from one tree to another as it wove the greenwood around fields of wheat and barley, cabbages and leeks. Livestock bleated and bellowed as trees pushed them aside. Pigs escaped with grunts of delight as pens and fences were shattered. They trotted into the woods, digging though the earth to snaffle up crunchy roots. Wild animals sprang from among the trees: deer and badgers, squirrels and rabbits, flocks of birds, swarms of bees, armies of ants, squadrons of dragonflies. And wolves. Hundreds of wolves. Jack loved wolves. In one night, Jack covered the country with greenwood. Jack chuckled to itself. It was giving the country a second chance. This time, the greenwood was going to stay. Everyone would love it.

Chapter 1

T h e S e c re t s o f C a s t l e H a r v i n g to n Same as everyone else in the country, I remember exactly where I was when the woods came: I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the ballroom, eating noodles from a cardboard carton.

OK, a twelve-year-old girl on her own in the middle of a ballroom 79

needs some explanation.

The ballroom is mine. Mum and Dad – Sir Lawrence and Lady

Susannah Mackenzie-Macaire – bought Castle Harvington just after I

was born. Software millionaires did that kind of thing, and Mum and Dad are super-rich software millionaires who invented Xcrubb, which

can completely delete anything online. Not many people have ever heard of it – that’s the point – but some seriously rich people have found it seriously useful.

Mum and Dad aren’t as grand as they sound. He was plain old

Larry Mackenzie and she was just Sue Macaire when they met. And the knighthoods? It seems the Prime Minister was very grateful for something Mum and Dad took off the Internet.

I was sitting on the floor because there are no chairs in the ballroom.

We keep it empty in case we have a party. We don’t have parties. I don’t

mind. I don’t want parties. I’d settle for a friend, a movie and a laugh. So, I had a castle, a ballroom, multi-millionaire parents and a

problem: I was absurdly bored on a Saturday night. The kind of boredom which feels like spiders are trying to escape from your spine and crawl

down your legs. The kind of boredom where putting spiders into your spine seems like a pretty good idea because it’s better than the gaping emptiness of Saturday night at home alone. Loads of girls dream of being princesses. But not Rapunzel.

I moved the chopsticks from my right hand to my left to make it

slower to eat the noodles. It was midsummer’s, the longest evening of them all. Gangsta rap thumped up the stairs from the kitchen, then

heavy feet on long legs clumped down the hallway and Granny peered in. ‘How’s it going, Miss Guin?’

We fought the battle over ‘Miss Guin’ a long time ago. Granny prefers

it. I don’t. Granny won. Granny usually wins. 80

‘Good, thanks, Granny.’

Granny looked at the noodles. ‘Those need something more. Chilli

oil? Nori flakes? Cilantro?’

‘They’re already yummy, really.’

‘I am meant to cook for you, you know that?’ ‘I like doing it myself.’

‘Takeaway noodles isn’t “doing it yourself.” I could teach you.’

This was true. Granny had already taught me a lot. Not just cooking.

It started with foraging for ingredients and turned into all sorts of country stuff. I know about poisonous mushrooms – I think. I could probably skin a squirrel if I had to. I can definitely identify five kinds

of duck when they’re flying, and which ones not to shoot because they’re endangered.

Granny taught me to shoot, too. Only shotguns so far, but I’m

optimistic. He’s a better shot than me. For one thing, he’s almost two

metres tall, so he’s closer to whatever we’re shooting at, so of course it’s easier for him to hit it. At least, that’s what I tell him. For another, he’s had more practice with guns, whatever kind they were. I’m not supposed to ask questions, and Granny’s not supposed to give me

answers. Mum and Dad keep him around to look after me while they’re

away. They think I don’t know about how Granny got his ‘skills’, and about that five-year gap in his life they never talk about. There are a lot of secrets in Castle Harvington.

‘How about we cook lunch together tomorrow, before you drive

me back to school?’ I offered.

Granny nodded. ‘OK. You know where to find me.’ ‘Sure. Crazy Saturday, hey?’ I said.

‘Crazy like the day I was born,’ he answered. He didn’t know when

that was. Nobody did. He left, leaving the door open. I was used to him 81

doing that. He’d had enough locks.

OK, I had a ballroom, a castle, millionaire parents, and Granny to

look after me. I should have been happy with that.

I lay on the floor and stretched out my arms and legs, imagining I

could fill the room. Ancestral portraits gazed down at me, the men with red cheeks and pointed collars, the women smirking in lace

collars. Not my ancestors but certainly someone’s, bought in some stately home sale to add a bit of class to the castle. I called Kari.

The phone went straight to message. I called Steffi.

The phone rang twice, and she answered, ‘Hi, hun, how’s it going?’

‘Pretty quiet. You?’

Like everyone at Lady Sebastian’s Overpriced School for

Overprivileged Girls (that’s what we called it), Steffi’s phone was

crystal clear. I could hear music, shrieks, laughter and the sound of splashing from someone’s swimming pool. ‘Yeah, not much happening here either,’ she said.

‘No worries. Let’s talk when there’s something to talk about.’ I could

hear the relief in her voice as she said, ‘Sure thing, hun,’ and hung up halfway through a splash and a scream of laughter. So, the good news

was that Kari wasn’t answering her phone because she had better things to do. And Steffi was having a pool party. My Saturday night just kept getting better.

Still, I wasn’t bored for long. Conan, Mum’s Irish setter, came in and

sat next to me. His deep brown eyes looked longingly at the noodles

and then even more longingly into mine. But experience has taught me that it’s an explosively bad idea to feed chilli flakes to a dog. Instead, I stuck my chopsticks in the noodles, scratched the top of Conan’s 82

head and hugged him while I stared mournfully through the French windows at the trees.

They were moving. No, really moving.

Woodland crashed across our lawn like a wave on the shore. Saplings

sliced through the grass like sharks’ fins. The earth rolled away around them as if there was a massive underground army pushing

it. Trees grew in seconds and their leaves shook as they turned green

and then rattled as they went brown and fell with a whoosh, like a year was squeezed into seconds. The wood rippled outwards from the middle of the lawn. The maze Dad planted when I was six was wiped

out, tangled up in a wood which had sprung up in ten seconds. Our swimming pool was smashed and my inflatable unicorn was snarled

up in a holly bush and sucked down into the earth. Mum’s hammock was wrenched down, twisted round itself, and then vanished.

The woodland was alive with more animals than I’d ever seen in

my life, all in the same place at the same time, here and now. Flocks of birds – crows and ravens, pigeons and starlings, hawks, falcons

and buzzards – flew out of the trees. Deer and badgers, foxes and

ferrets, weasels and something else long and thin and vicious-looking scampered in every direction. Squirrels jumped between the trees. Wildcats wailed, boars grunted, and somewhere on the other side of the trees, I could hear a wolf howl. Then another, and another.

And someone was there, in a long green coat and hat, surfing on

the branches and conducting the chaos. They saw me looking at them and they vanished. Who was that? What was it?

There wasn’t time to think because just then, the trees crashed 83

against the castle walls and stopped. Wind blew a handful of dried leaves through the windows and left a chestnut bumping up and down as if it wanted to plant itself. I picked it up. It quivered in my hand.

One thing was certain, it had no chance of growing in the polished hardwood of the ballroom floor, so I threw it as far as I could into the woods and shouted, ‘Be free! Live your life!’

I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the chestnut, or myself.

I should have been scared. I wasn’t. I was just shocked and that got in the way of all the other emotions I maybe should have felt. The thing

is, it made a kind of sense. Lady Sebastian’s was big on teaching us

about environmental degradation, rising oceans, spreading deserts, melting glaciers—the whole thing. And especially rainforests, as long as they were far away. I knew more about what was happening in Brazil than in Bedfordshire.

But one thing was clear: trees were good. Trees would help save the

planet. Trees were part of the answer to a whole load of our problems.

Which meant that someone was doing the right thing, even if they were doing it a bit faster than we were used to. Like the Big Bang, everything

in the universe compressed into a tiny ball and exploding outwards, except starting in my garden. I guess it had to start somewhere, but why here?

So: shocked and not scared, but definitely curious. I lived in a castle

full of secrets with parents who could keep anything quiet – for enough

money – and not think twice about it. And here was something no one could cover up, not even them. Something so big that no software would erase it, no government could keep it hidden.

And it was beautiful. And dangerous. I’d heard wolves. In Harvington,

the most boring town in the country. On the other hand, though, it was 84

utterly magical, too. I remembered a poem I’d read at school. ‘Whatever we seek, like a would or a could,

It’s always ourselves that we find in the wood.’

If I wanted to find something (and maybe that something was me)

then this wood was a good place to start. And I was pretty sure that

the me I’d find in the wood was going to be a lot more interesting than the me who was letting her noodles go cold in her ballroom.

It was impossible and it was there. What kind of a person would I

be if I stayed at home? Exactly. That kind of person. I switched from Rapunzel to Sleeping Beauty. Her castle was surrounded by a forest no

one could get through for a hundred years. I didn’t have time for that, and the last thing I wanted was a prince to rescue me.

The woodland was alive and noisy and a cool, damp wind blew out

of it, smelling of leaves and mould and something animal. Conan whined and strained against all his instincts that told him to see where the smell came from. ‘Conan!’ I scrambled to my feet. ‘CoNAN!’ I shouted just as

he barked once and bounded into the forest. That decided it. I had to go. Conan wouldn’t last an hour out there. And if anything happened

to him, Mum would kill me. In a choice between me and Conan, she’d choose the dog every time.

But this wasn’t just about Conan. Nothing happens to the princess

who stays in the castle. I put my phone in my pocket and went to get a jacket, some boots, a banana, and a gun.

TIA FISHER Tia’s parents told so many stories about the Second World War, she feels like she lived through it herself. She hates fireworks, eats anything

and is a frugal make-do-and-mender who can’t throw anything away. She lives in South London in a house which is gradually silting up with

objects that might come in handy one day (including her husband) and two shouty cats. When not writing or visiting schools with her

teen verse novel Crossing the Line (Hot Key Books, 2023), Tia works

in a busy children’s library where matching a child with the right book makes her day. She’s really chuffed to have got a distinction in her MA.

THE LAST LAST POST

Croydon, 1944. Twelve-year-old Stan can’t accept that his father is

‘missing, presumed killed’ after D-Day. Nor can he face his terror of being buried alive as Hitler sends over wave after wave of revenge rockets. If only he could be as brave as his pugnacious friends Billy

and Nellie! When they’re all evacuated to Norfolk, a mysterious piece of shrapnel seems to point to his father’s survival in a POW camp. Now

Stan must find the courage to discover what really happened to Dad, and in doing so, learn what bravery really means. linktr.ee/tiafisherwrites

THE LAST LAST POST Croydon, Surrey. April 1944

Chapter 1

e’re almost at the station.

It’s still so early, the sun ain’t really up yet. It’s stuck on top

of the Clocktower like a lolly on a stick, and the low rays would poke my eyes out if I wasn’t trotting in my dad’s tall shadow. It don’t matter how fast I go to catch up, Dad’s still ahead, striding along, checking his watch.

Come back, Dad.

He’s taller in that new uniform than in the crumpled old kitchen

whites he wears for work. Like he’s got more angles. Like he’s sharper. But he ain’t.

‘You’re daft!’ I yell at his back – and I know he can hear me. ‘Joining

the Army when you ain’t even been called up!’

He stops and turns. He’s so big, my dad, he blocks the whole

pavement. Folk tut-tut and step off the kerb to get to the station, but

Dad don’t care. He stoops down so we’re level and looks me in the eye. ‘Stan,’ he says, ‘Stan, we’ve been through this a hundred times. All

this talk about a “big push”, about us driving Jerry out of France –’ Please don’t go.

‘But bakers is still reserved though, ain’t they? No one says you

gotta fight.’

‘No ...’ he says slowly. ‘They don’t.’ 88

‘Well, then, why?’

‘Because ...’ Dad straightens up and grabs his lapels. Not now, Dad, please, please.

I’m begging him with my eyes, but Dad clears his throat and rocks

back on his heels in his best Churchill impression. ‘There is ...’ he growls, ‘no time for ease and comfort. It is time to dare and endure!’

I look away. I know he’s only trying to cheer me up, but nothing’s

funny today. ‘Ain’t we endured enough without you going off?’

He puts his hand on my shoulder. I can smell his pipe smoke. ‘Listen,

son, I know the Prime Minister ain’t saying bakers have to, but I’m

going, all the same. I’ve done my bit at home, and now I’ve gotta do my bit in the Army. I owe it to all them who didn’t come b—’ He shuts up quick. ‘Well, I’ve just got to. I’ve got to. Britain needs soldiers, not

bakers. Loaves and cakes aren't going to win the war, are they?’ Dad gives me a great old wink. ‘Well, except your Mum’s biscuits. Eh, Stan, eh?’ He nudges me. ‘They’d make good ammo, they would!’

When he sees he ain’t getting a smile, he sighs. ‘Well, I can’t just

stand around and not do my bit to win the war. I won’t be away for

long. And your mum’s got you to look after her, ain’t she? You’ve got to be the man of the house now, Stanley.’ He slings his kitbag back over his shoulder and turns for the station again. ‘C’mon now, son, or I’ll miss my train.’

We hurry past the baker’s where Dad works. Where he worked.

Dad sees me looking and gives me a great old grin, like we got nothing

to worry about. ‘Cheer up, son! I’ll be back baking before you know it.’

In the window there’s a big wedding cake that’s been there for

blooming months. It looks all proper and fancy, with twiddly bits of

white icing and all, but I know my dad made it out of cardboard and

plaster-of-Paris. Four-and-half years into the war, there ain’t enough eggs or sugar in the whole of Croydon for that cake. 89

Just like Dad’s smile, it’s a fake.

East Croydon Station’s busy as an ant hill. School children and

workers are charging off in all directions, porters criss-crossing the concourse pushing trolleys piled so high they’re tottering. Groups of troops stand guarding their bags like precious eggs. The station even smells busy, of sweat and steam and coal and cigarette smoke.

Under the high roof, sounds are muffled and echoey, like in a church.

Against all the chatter and chuffing and laughter, a newspaper seller shouts the headlines.

"READ ALL ABAAAAAHT IT! MISSING CROYDON SOLDIER BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

Dad backtracks and picks up a copy of the Croydon Times. He whistles. ‘Look, Stan. That’s Mrs Piper’s husband. He was posted missing, assumed

killed a few weeks back.’ He scans the front page. ‘Seems he’s a prisoner of war in Germany.’ Dad tucks the newspaper under his arm. ‘I don’t suppose being a prisoner is any fun, but it’s a darn sight better than being dead.’

A woman in a Women’s Voluntary Service uniform is serving teas

from a wagon. She flashes us a bright smile. I got to confess, after all

these years of explaining why my father’s not off fighting with the rest, I get a little glow of pride. But then she wishes Dad good luck, and I feel sick.

Train doors are slamming. A guard blows his whistle – Pheeeeep!

– and makes me jump. Dad laughs. I don’t.

Dad’s got to catch the coast train at quarter past. The big station clock

says only ten more minutes together. Tears are vinegar at the back of my nose; I swallow them down and blink. I must not cry. I WILL not cry. 90

He checks the platform boards. ‘That’s my train, over on Platform

Six. Where are the others in my unit?’ He glances round, then points towards a clump of khaki uniforms around the tea stand. ‘That could be them. Look like a jolly bunch, don’t they?’

They do? They’re just drinking tea and smoking and talking quietly,

berets balanced at an angle or tucked into shoulder straps. Most of them are a lot younger than my dad. ‘Excuse me.’

There’s a boy with the same cap badge as Dad standing behind

us. His beret’s jammed on, his ears stick out like jug handles, and he

don’t look jolly at all. He looks as miserable as I feel. He can’t be a day over eighteen.

‘Do you – do you know where we’re supposed to go?’ His dark eyes

flick nervously round the station. His kit bag’s fatter than he is and

he’s holding an odd-looking black bag, like a fat briefcase, in one hand.

Dad points. ‘I reckon that’s our lot.’ He gives the lad a broad smile.

‘I’m George. What’s your name?’

‘Arthur. Pleased to meet you, George.’ His voice is all posh, sharp

as a squeaky recorder.

They shake hands. Arthur looks at me.

‘And this is my son, Stan. We need to say our goodbyes,’ says Dad

gently.

The young soldier steps smartly away.

This is it. A giant hand reaches inside my ribcage and squeezes my

heart till it hurts. I can’t speak. I don’t think I can breathe. The blood begins beating in my ears.

Dad looks down at me. ‘Stan, I – I –’ Like a needle jumping on a record,

his voice slips. He clears his throat. ‘I want you to have something.’ He unclips the watch from his wrist and clasps it round mine. 91

It’s too big, of course.

‘Here, you look after this for me,’ he says. His voice is hoarse. ‘It’s

too posh for army life. I’ll get another.’

Dad’s precious gold watch. The one Mum gave him. I know what

this means. He’s giving me this in case he don’t – he don’t – I duck my head down so he can’t see the tears spilling over, but now I can’t stop

the words any more than I could hold back Niagara Falls. ‘You said

we should all stay together! You, me and Mum! Always! You said we’d never leave each other!’

Dad’s big hands rub my back like I’m two years old, not twelve. ‘Hey,

hey, sonny, don’t. Don’t take on, so.’ He sighs. ‘Oh, I knew you should have stayed at home with your mum. Listen, I’ll be back soon, just as soon as I’ve given old Hitler the heave-ho, eh?’

I breathe in his familiar smell of tobacco and Brylcreem and bury

my head in the rough material of his shoulder. ‘But what if you don’t come back? Is that why you gave me your watch?’

‘Don’t be daft. I want that watch back. You better keep it safe while

I’m gone.’ Dad tips my head back to make me look at him. His face is sort of naked without his beard, like a shaved cat. ‘Chin up, lad. I’m coming home, I promise.’

It might be stupid, but that helps ... because my dad ain’t never

broken a promise to me, never.

Chapter 2 It feels like a long, long walk back from the train station. The new weight of Dad’s watch slips up and down my wrist.

I always loved this watch; it’s even got a luminous dial so you can see

the time at night. It feels warm and heavy, like having a piece of Dad still with me. I’m just going to look after it for him, that’s all. Like he said. He’s coming back. He promised.

The day’s warming up. A tram goes rattling past. Mum gave me

some money so I could have a ride as a treat, but I’d rather save it and get dolly mixtures from the corner shop.

I like dolly mixtures best when I can get them. The best thing is

they don’t weigh much. The ration card don’t say how many sweets you get, only what weight. The three ounces of sweets a week is almost

a whole bag full of dolly mixtures. Billy, my best mate, gets two big gobstoppers instead, twisted in a scrap of newspaper. He likes them

cos they last longer. He sucks till it changes to the next colour then puts it in his pocket for later. It gets a bit mucky, but he just spits and rubs away the fluff. Lasts days sometimes.

If I had sixpence I could’ve got a matinee ticket for the Scala and

sat in the dark with cowboys chasing Dad out of my head, but I’ve only

got a penny. Anyway, Mum’s waiting for me. She said she didn’t want

to come to the station because she’d only get upset and that wouldn’t

be a nice way for Dad to remember her, with a red nose and puffy eyes. You’ve got to be the man of the house now, Stanley. I don’t feel like much of a man.

There’s a lump of mortar lying on the pavement, just begging for a

big old kick. I swing at it, and it explodes into the road like a grenade – but now there’s a great split across the toe of my boot. 93

That’s all I need. You can’t get boots no more. Mum’ll kill me.

As I get to the crossroads at the top of the hill, I’m still staring at

the split across my boot, so I don’t see Billy coming towards me. But I hear him all right. ‘RAG A’ BONE! RAG A’ BOOOOONE!’

I don’t know how such a big voice got inside such a little body, I

really don’t.

There’s the grinding of cart wheels over cobbles and the sweating

red face of Mr Mason appears between the shafts of the cart. No one calls Billy’s dad ‘Mr Mason’ though. Everyone – sometimes even Billy himself – just calls him ‘Nobby’. He don’t mind.

Nobby didn’t always pull the cart himself. There used to be a horse,

called ‘Carter’. Nobby’s little joke. Carter was the same warm brown colour as his own dung, and he smelled cosy and his muzzle was soft

as velvet. He only ever kicked by accident, and didn’t bite so long as

you held your hand out flat. But they had to sell him to the knackers’ yard last year because they couldn’t afford the hay any more; all the

vegetable peelings and what-not that housewives used to pop in his bucket has to go in the bins at the end of each road for feeding pigs.

I look down at the apple core in my hand. Carter would’ve crunched

it between his long yellow teeth and harrumphed a thank you. Pigs are all right, and bacon tastes great when you can get it, but they don’t

blow hay out of your hand and lean their necks against you the way old

Carter did. Billy says he was ancient and it didn’t matter, but I heard Billy crying in the school lavvy the day the knackers took him. I didn’t

knock on the door. Billy don’t want everyone thinking he’s a crybaby.

‘Wotcher, Stan!’ Billy’s perched on top, king of the cart, sitting back

on the scorched throne of a bomb-damaged armchair. Around him are

rolls of tattered rugs, heaps of plates and saucers, a bucket for bones

and a big old heap of rags. Under the rags, I spy a few precious saucepan 94

handles. Billy sees me looking and tugs a rag to cover them, quick. Any

scrap metal’s s’posed to go to the war effort to make into Spitfires and such, but sometimes it don’t make it as far as the collection point, if you know what I mean. I nod. ‘Billy.’

Nobby limps alongside and drops the shafts. He rubs his scarlet

face with the spotty kerchief round his neck and smiles with a perfect set of pearly-white false teeth.

‘Morning, Stan!’ Nobby ain’t in the Army because he got a gammy

leg in the last war – Billy says he was poaching rabbits and got caught in a French farmer’s mantrap.

‘Nobby.’ I don't manage a smile back.

Nobby glances toward the train station. ‘You’ve just seen your dad

off, have you?’

Billy stretches down a grubby hand. ‘C’mon up on the cart, Stan.

We’ll ride home together.’ He grabs hold and yanks and I scrabble up beside him. I don’t often get to ride the cart; Mum don’t like it.

‘Here you go.’ Billy gets out of the armchair and makes this big show

of dusting down the seat for me. ‘Wanna do the calling?’

I shake my head and settle my gas mask case upright on my lap.

S’only made of cardboard and it’s got a bit bashed.

Billy passes me the brass hand bell. ‘You do the ringing, then.’ Blimey. Billy’s never let me ring before.

‘And if you’re not calling, you can have this, if you like.’ From the

frayed pocket of his shorts he pulls out a fuzzy grey ball.

‘Hang on.’ He sucks and spits out a shiny blue gobstopper. 'Here.'

I ring the bell till we’re home and I’ve sucked the gobstopper purple,

and I don’t have to talk at all.

REBECCA FRANKS Rebecca was born in London and spent every summer holiday on the Isles of Scilly from the ages of six to sixteen, running barefoot across

the remote island of Bryher and solving clues in treasure hunts set by her friends. It sparked the idea for Tideslip, which she wrote while studying for an MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University.

Rebecca lives in Bristol, where she works as a classical music journalist

for The Times and a variety of magazines. She’s studied children’s writing with the Golden Egg Academy and in 2021 was awarded Arts

Council England’s Developing Your Creative Practice grant. She loves scribbling in her notebook in cafes, is a big fan of her local library and has too many books on her to-be-read pile.

TIDESLIP

Samson, Isles of Scilly, 1855. Grey (11) is a treasure-seeker on

these remote islands on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. One day she unexpectedly stumbles on a hoard of treasure on Bryher that has the

power to change her life. Bryher, Isles of Scilly, 2023. Coral (11) is on

a family holiday she’d rather miss, thanks to her bickering parents. But when she hears a legend of lost treasure, she can’t resist joining

the hunt for gold. When tide and time merge, Coral falls back through the centuries. The two girls race through time to reclaim the treasure,

escape the dangerous sea – and save both themselves and their families’ futures.

rebeccafrankswriter@gmail.com 97

TIDESLIP Chapter 1

G rey, 1 8 5 5 n the last night, Grey and Da lit a fire on the beach.

As she threw on another piece of wood, the orange flames

danced and crackled. Out in the channel, the moon cast silver

light on the dark surface, as if treasure were lurking beneath the water. Da was busy preparing the food. It was going to be their final proper

meal on the island, and Grey had been dreaming of buttery potatoes and battered fish.

The scrape of a knife against a shell gave it away. Bloomin’ limpets, again.

‘Anything else to eat?’ Grey asked, hopeful even though the past

year had already taught her the answer to the question.

‘Not tonight,’ replied Da, as he scooped out the soft insides, discarding

the hard cases on the ground. Grey poked the fire with a stick. It hissed and spat out sparks of gold onto the cool sand.

When Da had finished, Grey gathered the shells up and added them

to the large pile at the edge of the beach. It had been growing taller and wider over the summer with each campfire.

The limpets didn’t take long to cook. Grey and Da sat in the warmth

of the fire, chewing them in silence, listening to the waves on the shore.

They drank cracked mugs of tea, brewed with precious leaves from a

box washed up on shore one storm. And even though Grey was sick of eating the same thing over and over, she wanted to slow down time and make the evening stretch out forever.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise, and the tide would come in and 98

out – just as they always did – yet Grey knew everything else was about to change.

‘I’ve got you something,’ she said, reaching for the small parcel by

her side.

‘What’s this then, Grey?’ Da asked, taking it from her. ‘Go on, open it.’

Grey watched intently as he undid the twine, unfolded the oilskin

and took out the object inside. He placed it in his palm and inspected

it, taking his time. But Grey was so eager to tell him about it that the words came tumbling out. ‘I found it on the hill last month and kept

it specially for you,’ she said, ‘I think it’s really old and look, it’s in the shape of ...’

‘... a sun,’ said Da. The firelight lit up the smile creases in his face, the

dimples in his cheeks. He held up the bead between his fingers, letting the light catch its blueish-green colour. ‘It might be from ancient times.’

‘It’s so tiny that you’ll definitely have room for it when you go to

the lighthouse,’ said Grey. ‘And whenever you look at it, you can think of home.’

She pushed down the wave of fear cascading inside when she

thought of Bishop Rock. Da had sailed her out there on the calmest

of summer days and it was still the wildest place she had ever been, and impossible to believe that he would be living in a shelter on one

of the rocks. It didn’t look as if a seal could survive there, let alone a group of men.

‘Whenever it’s cold and dark, I’ll get this out and it’ll make me think

of my favourite person,’ said Da. ‘You’re a clever puffin.’

‘That’s because I’ve been taught by the best treasure hunter,’ replied

Grey.

When the tides were high, they scoured the shoreline, finding

colourful sea glass like shards of a fallen rainbow. When the sea was 99

low, they would go out into the shifting sands to dig. When there were wrecks, they knew the best places to find washed-up goods. And when they were tired of the ocean, they roamed the land, finding the broken pottery and flint tools that lay under the earth.

Some might say the treasures didn’t belong to Grey or Da. But who

else did they belong to? They were gifts from the sea, gifts from the islands.

‘Thank you, Grey,’ said Da. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’ He wrapped the

bead back up and tucked it in his pocket. ‘I have a present for you too. But it’s a bit different – it’s a story.’

Grey huddled in closer to the fire. She loved Da’s stories. He told

her tales of sailors and smugglers and pirates, and she knew each one by heart.

‘We don’t know if our ancestors always lived on these islands. Some

may have come here by boat from elsewhere,’ began Da. This was a new

story. Not one she’d heard before. ‘But there have been people, whoever they were, living on the Isles of Scilly for hundreds, even thousands of years. Walking on the same ground, sailing on the same sea.’

Grey silently wondered how old the sea was, but she didn’t want

to interrupt Da when the story was just beginning.

‘Humans even lived here when the islands were joined together.’

‘When it was Ennor.’ Grey couldn’t resist piping up. One of Da’s

stories was about the great flooding of the land, when Ennor was split into dozens of islands.

‘Yes,’ said Da, without losing his flow. ‘And back then there was a

warrior. Her name has been lost in tide and time, but she was known

as a leader, a courageous woman who fought for what she believed in.’ Grey tried to picture her, imagining her roaming Ennor with sword

in hand.

100

‘This is the part you’ll like best, Grey,’ said Da, pausing and smiling

at her. ‘She left behind treasure.’

‘Where?’ Grey could guess what the answer would be. If someone

had known where something valuable was, whatever it might be, it

wouldn’t still be there. Da would be telling her a different sort of story.

‘Somewhere on Ennor, but no one knows exactly where,’ said Da.

‘After she hid it, she went to sea – and was killed in a storm. She hadn’t told anyone where she’d hidden it.’

In her eleven short years, Grey had lived through storms that

shook the world upside down, and wind and waves that unleashed the power of the ocean, more terrible than any nightmare. She knew how dangerous they could be.

‘And what did she leave?’ asked Grey.

‘No one knows. Apart from that it’s of great value,’ said Da. ‘Some

people don’t believe it exists. They think it’s nothing but myth and legend.’

‘But just because something’s not yet been found doesn’t mean

that it doesn’t exist.’

‘Exactly,’ said Da. ‘And there’s another part of the tale: many believe

the treasure was hidden on Bryher.’

Understanding dawned on Grey. ‘I can look for the treasure when

I’m there.’

‘Yes. Though it may be hard, even impossible, to find. The legend

says it will be discovered by the person who most deserves it.’

‘Oh,’ said Grey, mulling it over. ‘But that’s alright. Even if I’m not the

right one, it’ll be fun to look.’

‘Just don’t get too carried away,’ said Da, giving her a serious look,

but with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Promise me you’ll behave for Evie while I’m away.’

101

‘I promise.’

She and Da sat in silence for a while, listening to the murmur of the

waves. Staring up at the speckled sky, Grey connected the stars in her

mind to make mermaids and sea monsters, ten-legged crabs and sevenarmed starfish. And an ancient warrior, striding across the heavens.

Chapter 2

C o ra l , 2 0 2 3 The tiny plane quivered as it took off, skimming over treacherous cliffs

that gave way to a magical blue sea. Coral took a deep breath, twiddling with the homemade friendship bracelet on her left wrist. She glanced

out of the window, where the propeller whirred into a blur. In the

background, the other passengers’ chatter blended into a gentle burble. ‘It’s only twenty minutes, Coral,’ said Mum, who had the same

heart-shaped face and green eyes. ‘Time will fly.’

Coral nodded, but she didn’t really believe her. Twenty minutes

was going to feel like forever. She just knew it. She fiddled with the straggly knot on her bracelet.

‘Maybe this will help.’ Mum pulled a brown-paper parcel out of

her rucksack. Coral took the present, torn between curiosity and annoyance. Was Mum bribing her? Trying to make her forget that her best friends were starting secondary school without her? By the time

Coral came back, Meera and Tomasz would have met new people and she would be left behind.

‘Go on, open it.’ Mum nudged Coral’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll like it.’ Coral untied the turquoise ribbon, grappling with the tight knot.

She wished Mum had listened to her arguments rather than try to 102

make it up with some stupid gift. But no. Mum had simply said Coral

should be grateful for the chance to go on such an unusual trip. She didn’t think it mattered that Coral would be missing the most important week of her life.

An announcement crackled over the speaker.

‘We’re on course for the Isles of Scilly,’ the pilot said, sounding as

if she were genuinely excited about the journey. ‘Sit back, relax, and enjoy the views.’

Coral paused from her struggle to loosen the ribbon and peered

through the window. Far below was the inky sea: deep, shifting,

dangerous. A sideways gust of wind caught the plane. Her stomach lurched.

‘It’s okay, Coral,’ said Mum, reaching over to hold her hand. Coral pulled her arm away. ‘Stop it. I’m fine.’

Mum shook her head wearily. ‘Suit yourself.’ She rummaged in

her bag, finding a reporter’s notebook filled with dense handwriting,

flipped through the pages until she found a blank one, and began jotting down notes.

Coral felt a twinge of guilt. She finally untangled the ribbon and tore

off the paper. Inside was a layer of bubble wrap, which she pocketed to pop later. Despite her anxiety and anger, she couldn’t help smiling when she discovered what was inside.

‘Is this really for me?’ she asked Mum, lifting the phone from its box

and turning it over in her fingers. Coral braced herself for an ‘I told you

so,’ but Mum said, ‘Yes, it’s yours. I thought you could use it to make a film while we’re away. Show Meera and Tomasz when we’re back.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Coral had been badgering her for a phone for ages,

but she was always told it would have to wait until she was a teenager. She grinned as she held it, so solid and shiny. It felt like she was holding 103

independence in her hands, a portal to a new life.

‘I picked it up from the shop along the road,’ said Mum, ‘so it’s not

new, but it works fine.’

Coral didn’t care if it was new or old. It was hers. She switched it

on and tapped the camera icon. Mum had already gone back to her

work, but Coral snapped a photo of her, head bent over the scribbles,

furrow between her eyebrows. Not a bad picture, actually. Very Mum.

Coral twisted her body towards the window, wriggling around in the

seatbelt as far as she could, and held up her new possession to the glass. The chirpy pilot piped up again. ‘We’re making good time and

shortly you’ll get some great aerial views.’

Coral watched as the islands appeared. They seemed to glow, to

thrum with life force. If she had been asked to create magical islands for a film, places that only exist because of saying the right spell or waking up in a dream, they would have looked like this.

London was tarmac and concrete and polluted air that made her

snot black. The Isles of Scilly were bursting with bright colour.

‘Mum, is it true what Dad said about there being treasure buried

on the islands?’

‘What’s that?’ said Mum, though Coral could tell she was only

half-listening. She hadn’t looked up at all from her scribbles. ‘Something Dad said? I’d ignore that if I were you.’

Worried Mum might be in a mood with Dad, Coral didn’t push it.

She turned back to the window.

Deep navy sea turned into luminous turquoise shallows, as if the

water was lit up from underneath. Between the islands, dark shadows

alternated with silver patches and the underwater landscape echoed

the pattern of rocks, beaches and fields above. It was as if a forgotten land shimmered just out of reach below the surface. 104

‘Excuse me.’ Coral felt a tap on her shoulder. She glanced back. The

woman sitting behind her was leaning forward in her seat.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,’ said the woman.

‘I’m Angie, by the way. I work on the boats on Scilly.’

‘Hello,’ said Coral somewhat cautiously, uncertainty entwining itself

with excitement inside.

‘I thought you might like to know your dad’s right. There is lost

treasure,’ said Angie. ‘From ancient times, so the story goes.’

‘Really?’ Coral wasn’t sure if Angie was winding her up. She some-

times found it hard to tell with people, especially when she desperately hoped something was true.

‘That’s what the legend says. Been told for generations now. Appar-

ently it’ll be found by the person who most deserves it. Doesn’t stop the busybodies with their metal detectors trying to find a hoard of gold though.’

Coral smiled at Angie. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘Might give you something to look for while you’re on holiday. You

never know,’ said Angie, settling back in her seat.

The sound of the plane engine faded. Even the churned-up worry

in Coral’s belly felt calmer. She picked up her phone and pressed the button for selfie mode.

‘Hi Tomasz and Meera. It’s me, Coral.’ She pulled a stupid grin. ‘And

these are the Isles of Scilly,’ she said, flipping the camera back so she could film out of the window, ‘where I’m going to be stuck for the next fortnight. But it’s OK, because I’ve just discovered something exciting.’

Before too long, the plane was right over the islands, tilting gently

as it circled round.

Coral watched the toy-like boats travelling across the water. ‘Where

do you think a good place to hide ...’ She broke off mid-narration. The 105

picture on her screen was completely different to what she could see out of the window.

Where there had been water, there was now solid land.

Rather than dozens of islands, there was one large island.

A jolt of electricity ran through her, and she glanced round the

cabin. The other passengers were chatting and reading or gazing at the landscape. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Coral whipped back round – and almost dropped her phone in

surprise. The image on her camera had changed again and the islands, speckled like leaves on a puddle, were back. It made no sense. Had she imagined it?

‘Get ready for landing, folks,’ said the pilot. ‘Seatbelts fastened and

put any loose items under your seat.’

Coral gripped her armrest tightly with one hand and held up her

phone to film the landing with the other. Somehow, it gave her courage.

As she watched the land loom closer, she wondered if her phone had a glitch. Or whether she’d clicked on to a filter without realising it and that’s what she’d seen. With a bump, they hit the ground. Coral took a sharp breath, holding the air in her lungs as she was pressed back

into her seat by the braking plane. When it came to a halt, she slowly exhaled.

Another tap on her back. ‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ said Angie, but

Coral’s mind was whirling with questions about what she’d just seen, and she couldn’t find her voice to reply. And something about Angie’s

serious tone and insistence unsettled Coral even further. By the time Mum finally looked over to smile at Coral, she could only scowl back.

‘We’ve arrived,’ announced the pilot over the clicks of seatbelts

being unfastened and the zipping up of bags. ‘Welcome. Your time in the Isles of Scilly has begun.’

106

107

108

GERALDINE GILES Geraldine was born in New Zealand, grew up in many libraries and now

lives in Hertfordshire with her family. She has called three different countries home, and her work is inspired by myths, fairy tales and

folklore from all over the world. Her stories often have magic in them, but really they’re about love and fear and courage. Geraldine is a

former primary school teacher who believes that every day is better with a story in it. She loves going for rambles, the walking type and the reading type, because both are good for thinking.

ARTURA AND THE LOSTLINGS

The Guild City is full of secrets and the biggest one surrounds thir-

teen-year-old Artura Pen and the Memory Guild she lives in. Who can Artura trust, and why is the king so intent on destroying Lostlings, the

artefacts her guild has sworn to protect? As Artura is forced to question

everything she believes in, she competes in a series of gruelling guild trials. Through them she must find the magic she needs to save the Lostlings, and with them the people she loves. The Girl of Ink and Stars meets Nevermoor in this feminist reimagining of King Arthur. geraldinegileswriter@gmail.com

109

ARTURA AND THE LOSTLINGS Chapter 1

T h e C ro s s i n g rtura huddled on the deck of a lurching ship and wondered

if this was the day she was going to die. The storm had come

out of nowhere and now the wolf wind was everywhere. As the

waves grew, so did Artura’s fear. She was also cross, and it was hard to

know exactly which feeling was making her hands shake. They were just one day’s sailing from the Guild City. She’d be furious if they drowned now and never saw it. Some people just couldn’t catch a break.

She clung to her sister’s hand, their fingers plaited together. She

and Morgan wore matching red cloaks, the bottoms sopping with the

water that skidded over the deck. Morgan perched on her knees, still

and watchful. Even in a storm, she was calm. With her other hand, Morgan cradled her goshawk, Blaze. The bird’s feathers rippled wildly

with each gust of wind. He raised his white eye feathers, unimpressed with all the fuss.

It was getting dark, and the two sisters hid between the sailors’

deckhouses, out of the way of sliding crates and the eyes of the captain who had ordered them below deck. All the other apprentices were

weeping or being sick in the hold. It had been pea soup again for supper, and the smell wasn’t pleasant.

As the ship rocked, so did Artura’s thoughts, between hope and

despair and back again. She remembered her hagstone in her pocket 110

and let go of Morgan’s hand to hold it. Her thumb and index finger

dipped in and out of the hole at its centre. Silently, she begged the stone to protect them, and then cursed it for doing nothing.

Artura peered out to see what the sailors were doing. The ship

was taking on water at an alarming rate. The tall merchant ship had

felt sure and solid when they boarded it, and now it felt as flimsy as a liar’s promise. Sailors bellowed at each other as they pulled at the

rigging and struggled to lower sails. Another wave swamped the ship and there was a crack of wood from above.

‘It’s the foremast,’ said Artura, leaning close to Morgan. ‘With the

next gust or two it will snap clean through.’

‘I need you to keep a lookout,’ said Morgan. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Artura replied.

‘Think about what?’ Morgan asked, staggering to her feet with Blaze.

The wind caught her cape, and it flew out around her. Another huge wave slapped the deck and made the boards creak.

‘Get back here! You’ll be swept overboard,’ said Artura. She clung

hard to Morgan’s arm, so that her sister couldn’t shake her off.

Morgan crouched back down. She looked Artura dead in the eye.

‘I have to try.’

‘You’re meant to be the sensible sister,’ said Artura. ‘Don’t you dare

leave me to be the sensible one. Magic is heresy. Even if you manage to do it, they’ll kill us. But they’ll torture us first.’

‘This is our only chance. The other choice is drowning.’ Morgan

shakily stood up again.

Artura raised herself up as tall as she could, steadying herself on the

wooden wall of the hut. She was much smaller than her sister. ‘Don’t

do it,’ Artura begged. Morgan hesitated, and she saw her chance to play her last card. ‘You promised Sarah, no more magic.’ 111

‘Sarah isn’t here. Sarah didn’t tell us what to do when our ship was

sinking. I’m in charge. Now do what you’re told and keep a lookout.’

Bristling at her sister’s words, Artura inched her way towards a

good vantage point at the corner of the deckhouse. There was no point

arguing when Morgan got like this. She was only a year older than her, but she acted like it was ten. It didn’t feel like a lot to ask for your death to be quick and torture-free.

The crew were all at the ship’s bow, surveying the damage and

getting the last sails down. They didn’t have much time. Artura surveyed the giant crate teetering beside her and hoped it would stay secured. Numb with cold and fear, Artura truly meant to be a good lookout

for her sister. She planned to firmly keep her back to her and to have

eyes only for her task. But the problem of her curiosity remained. Her

mind always burned with questions, but she’d never before had to ask ones like these. Could Morgan really calm a storm? Had her magic

grown that strong? So instead of watching for sailors, she snuck looks

at what Morgan was doing. Before long she turned around completely, which wasn’t a great way to keep watch.

She saw Morgan talking quietly to Blaze. Morgan’s goshawk was

her heart in feathered form. Sometimes it was hard not to wonder if she loved that bird more than her. The more Morgan talked to the bird,

the more the storm intensified. Heavy rain came and the wind howled.

When Morgan sent Blaze out on a loop of the ship, lightning flashed

and the dark sky lit up in mauve, like a fresh bruise. His wings struggled

to lift and straighten as the wind pummelled him. Blaze called out three

times as he battled the currents of air trying to knock him off course. He went up higher and higher, far from any stray glances from the

crew. Thunder boomed out. Artura wrapped her soaking cloak tighter

around herself. Just for a moment, she saw a pale golden thread between 112

Blaze and Morgan, but when she blinked it was gone. Had she imagined it? Blaze landed back on Morgan’s glove. Were the waves smaller?

There was a loud creak and bang as the mast snapped completely

and fell. The shouts of the sailors drifted through the air, followed by more thunder.

Blaze went out again. Artura saw the tight strain in Morgan’s face

and body, as she directed her magic towards him and they calmed the

water. On Blaze’s third circuit the wind became a whine, and then only a whimper. Lightning flashed one last time. There was an eerie silence, followed by a jagged chorus of cheering from the sailors. The speckled goshawk returned, and Morgan cried.

It was only in the quiet that Artura heard the sharp intake of breath

of someone behind her. She turned around, slowly.

Artura’s eyes locked with Squeaker, the deckhand. He had been

watching, too. Her face became warm with shame. Morgan had calmed the ocean, and she had ruined everything by not keeping watch.

Squeaker’s eyes were wide with shock. He kept shaking his head,

over and over, as though he had forgotten how to stop. He was the youngest member of the crew, and mercilessly teased by the other sailors. They would be sent to their deaths by a scrawny eleven-year-old.

His voice would probably break when he called over the others. It would make him a hero.

Stealing a glance back at Morgan, Artura was relieved that she was

turned away from them and didn’t know yet. She wanted to comfort

her sister, but instead, she’d condemned her. Her stomach churned with guilt. It felt as though it was full of the weevils she found in the ship’s bread. They would eat her from the inside.

‘Your sister is magic,’ whispered Squeaker. He finally stopped shaking

his head and went very still.

113

‘That’s an outrageous thing to say,’ Artura whispered back. She

straightened her shoulders and pushed her dripping hair back. ‘I saw everything.’

‘I wrote a letter for you and this is how you repay me?’ Artura asked.

She’d written dozens of letters for the crew. When they’d learnt she was

a manuscript apprentice, she had been put to work. None of the sailors knew how to read or write themselves. Artura knew that Squeaker’s real name was Peter, and that he missed his little sister Maude. ‘You have a sister you love. Why would you accuse mine of magic?’

Artura’s words seemed to bring Squeaker back to himself. Colour

returned to his cheeks. ‘I paid half a crown for that letter, thank you

very much. You’ve been doing very well out of us all. I’d never rat you out. Why would I? Your sister saved us.’

Artura carefully watched Squeaker’s face. People’s eyes always

gave them away. But there was no fear or repulsion there, just interest. Maybe they stood a chance.

Morgan appeared beside them, with a sleeping Blaze nestled in the

crook of her arm. ‘Stop it, both of you,’ Morgan hissed, as she yanked them both into the hiding place. ‘Who would believe a girl could calm a storm? Nobody, that’s who.’

‘They’d laugh their heads off at that one,’ Artura added for good

measure. She felt her hope growing. Who would believe a story like this?

A sailor passed by. All three of them froze. Blaze opened his eyes

and looked at them all with a reproving look. His red eyes shone in the dark, but the sailor didn’t look their way.

‘No, they won’t believe you calmed the storm,’ whispered Squeaker

into the gloom. ‘They’ll just believe you caused it, by meddling with things you shouldn’t.’

Artura felt sick then, properly sick. ‘If you turn us in, you’ll be 114

cursed.’ She didn’t know if that was something Morgan could do, but neither did Squeaker.

‘Stop that,’ said Morgan, squeezing Artura’s arm tightly. ‘I’ve never

cursed anybody.’ And she sat down exhausted and defeated, making a gentle splosh as she landed.

Squeaker slid down the wall, too. ‘I told you I wouldn’t tell, and I

meant it,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve got to be more careful. There’s still

magic about, you just can’t be caught. Never ever give people something they can pick on you for.’ He sighed heavily.

Artura knew Squeaker wasn’t just talking about magic. She sat

down wearily with the others. Shouts and commands from the crew

pierced the air, as they worked to fix the mast. It felt like the ship was still rocking. Artura tried to steady her thoughts. What choice did they

have but to trust Squeaker? He could accuse them at any time, whether or not they’d done anything. And they certainly had done something.

Morgan’s magic was powerful, that was for certain. It made Artura shiver to think of it. Could she be cured? She nudged Squeaker. ‘I’ll

write you a letter about the storm and tell your family how brave you were,’ she whispered.

‘They’d like that. You’re good with words, you are. Maybe tell them

about Blaze and how I got to hold him.’

‘Not likely,’ said Morgan. ‘He doesn’t like strangers.’ Blaze opened

his eyes. He raised his eye feathers up a fraction. The odds of Squeaker winning him over didn’t look good.

‘Tomorrow I will,’ whispered Squeaker, confidently. ‘I can tell he

likes me.’

Heavy footsteps came towards them, and an angry face peered

down. ‘Oi, Squeaker, stop skiving and get to work. And you two should be down in the hold. You’re just lucky you weren’t drowned.’ The sailor stomped off. Squeaker scurried away. 115

It was being called lucky that set Artura off. She let out a strange

giggle that ended in hiccups. The hiccups were too much for Morgan,

who laughed too. A couple of orphans, with too little money and too much illegal magic, were many things, but lucky wasn’t one of them.

When the hiccups finally stopped, Artura rested her head on

Morgan’s shoulder. Numb and cold, they both dripped on each other

like trees after the rain. They had so much to say that they said nothing at all.

Chapter 2

The Guild City The Guild City came into view late the next afternoon. Artura watched it change from a speck on the horizon to a teeming mass of bustling city. The mountain it was built on was shaped like a sleeping dragon and the smoke from its many industries puffed up gently to the sky.

The buildings of the city were tall and handsome, made from a type of honey-coloured stone that Artura had never seen before. They

were topped by the many-coloured flags of the guilds, which flapped proudly in the wind. Amongst them was the Memory Guild and soon they would join its ranks and become Guilders.

As Artura spied the turrets of the great castle and the spires of

the cathedral, the setting sun lit up the whole scene in a golden haze.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and in her mind she painted a picture of it all, so she could remember.

It was strange the difference a day could make. Yesterday Artura had

felt terror; and today she was giddy with relief and excitement. Morgan said she was being skittish, but she was grumpy after all the strain. 116

So what if she was, anyway? She’d worked her whole life to be here.

Blaze flew in carefree circles above the ship. The handful of other

apprentices chatted excitedly among themselves, relieved to be safe and close to dry land. Only three of them on the ship knew what had really happened. Three of them and a goshawk.

The harbour was dotted with tall ships and the docks looked full

already. It felt as though the whole world was here to trade. Morgan had remained silent during the approach to their new home.

‘This is it,’ said Artura. ‘This place will change everything.’ She wasn’t

sure if she was trying to convince Morgan or herself. The more she

looked at the Guild City, the more she was intimidated by how big it was. They were a long way from Provenance.

Morgan sighed. ‘If you didn’t raise your hopes up so high, they

wouldn’t have quite so far to crash down. It’s just a city. A rich city, but one with problems like any other.’

Before they arrived at the Guild City, Artura quietly dropped her

hagstone into the sea and watched it sink. How could she keep a stone

that was meant to ward off magic, when the magic came from her sister?

117

118

LUCY GRIFFITHS From her 170(ish)-year-old former miner’s home, Lucy loves listening

for the stories that are whispered around her. She’s convinced that her house should be haunted, but no ghosts have appeared… so far. Living in Somerset with her husband, two sons and an ancient cat,

Lucy loves finding quiet, tucked-away places to write. Being beside the sea brings her great joy and she escapes to the coast with her family

whenever possible. Having spent over 20 years teaching Drama, she now works one-to-one with SEN students. She has just completed the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University.

IRIS AND THE INVISIBLES

When Iris and her dad move to Batchley to make a fresh start after

she’s had a bad time at school, everything changes. Iris discovers that

she can see the dead. Always having invisible friends more than real friends, Iris discovers that they are actually ghosts. Her new-found

ghost friend, Albie, and elderly neighbour, Betty, give her a mission to

discover the truth about Albie’s death. Iris is just beginning to feel she belongs somewhere when she encounters Aterquar, an ancient force

lurking below Batchley. It threatens not only to bleed its darkness into the world around her, but also the very lives of Iris and her family. lucygriffiths711@gmail.com

119

IRIS AND THE INVISIBLES Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in? As if you’re not the same as everyone else your age and no matter what you do or say, it will never be right. That something about you is just – wrong. That was me. Then we moved to Batchley.

Chapter 1

A N ew H o m e t’s just up here, Iris,’ Dad said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain bouncing off the van’s roof. He glanced over from the driver’s seat and smiled at me.

Phyllis miaowed plaintively from her cat box on the seat between

us. ‘It’s alright, Phyll,’ I said softly. ‘We’re nearly there.’

It was just beginning to get dark. The headlights lit up the rain as

it blew across the road ahead of us. I pressed my face against the cold glass of the window to get a better look.

‘Are you sure this is right, Dad?’ I asked. ‘It doesn’t seem like it goes

anywhere.’

‘You’re right, it is a bit tucked away up here, but that’s why I like it.’

The road was lined with banks of huge brown brambles. The wind

made their spikey tendrils wave around as though they were telling 120

us to stay away. My breath made the window fog up and I wiped it with my sleeve.

The road ahead widened, then curved off to the right, down a steep

slope. Branching off from the hill was a long, tall terrace of houses that stretched so far away I couldn’t see the end. There was an identical row at the bottom of the slope; they would have been a mirror image of one another if the hill hadn’t been so steep. ‘Welcome to Batchley,’ said Dad. ‘Isn’t this Colstock?’ I asked.

‘We’ve just driven through there – that’s the local town. Batchley’s

really just the name of the road, but the people who live here call themselves Batchleyuns. It’s funny that Mum was once a Batchleyun and now we are too. She’d have loved that you’re here, Iris.’

The orangey street lights gave the pale stone walls of the terraced

houses an eerie glow. Billowing branches made weird shadows dance over the steep road as water rushed down its broken surface. I swallowed. ‘Do we have to drive down there?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not that steep, but we’re on the top row anyway.’

We turned down onto the higher road, the houses looming tall and

thin above us. Dad drove slowly, bumping and splashing along as it

was too narrow to avoid the potholes. He did his best not to scratch

the wing mirror against the high wall on the opposite side of the road, but as we passed a campervan parked outside one house, I heard Dad mutter something under his breath as plastic scraped against stone. Phyllis’s miaows were becoming increasingly desperate. ‘Not far to go now, Phyll,’ I said.

At the end of the row were some rickety old garages made of

corrugated iron with wonky wooden doors that moved in the wind. Dad parked the van in front of the one at the far end. 121

‘This is ours,’ he said as he switched off the engine. The headlamps

went dark. The streetlights didn’t come far enough along the road to

get here. Today’s murky weather had stolen any light that was left from the day. It felt very dark.

‘Come on then,’ Dad said. He opened his door a crack so the light

inside the van would turn on. Reaching over Phyllis’s box, he clasped my cold hand with his warm one.

‘It’ll be fine. I promise. We’re going to be happy here,’ he said softly. I sighed and stared at my knees.

Phyllis let out a low, growling miaow.

‘I think she wants to get out of the van,’ he said, squeezing my hand

three times – I love you.

I squeezed his hand four times in reply – I love you too.

‘Shall we?’ he said, grabbing the handle on top of Phyllis’s box.

Pushing open my door, I stepped out into the darkness and felt a kick

of energy pass through me. It started at the soles of my feet and zipped

upwards, making my scalp tingle under my hood. The feeling reminded me of the time I touched an electric fence, but this was different.

I slammed the door closed. The smell of woodsmoke mixed with

damp earth intensified as the rain got heavier. Its drumming on the metal roofs of the garages grew deeper. My breath clouded in the cold

air. It’s strange how our brains look for patterns in things – for faces.

At first, it didn’t seem that strange that I saw a face in the cloud my breath was making. In fact, I was quite impressed. Two dark circles

for the eyes and a wider one for the mouth. But then the misty shape shifted and the face seemed to be looking straight at me. The mouth widened. Iris ...

I opened my mouth, wanting to scream, but nothing came out. 122

‘Come on, slow coach. Keep up,’ Dad called. It was gone.

No face. No sound.

The rain dripped off my hood.

I caught my breath, turned and sprinted over to Dad, nearly crashing

into him I was running so fast. ‘You OK?’ Dad asked.

‘Did you say my name?’ ‘When?’

‘Just now.’

‘No. Why?’

‘I thought I heard my name, but I couldn’t have.’ Phyllis yowled angrily.

‘We’d better get her inside, come on,’ he said, walking towards the

path.

The path ran along the whole terrace, between the backs of the

houses and their gardens, which sloped off down the hill into darkness. As we walked along, Dad told me that these houses were right on the edge of the countryside and so that meant we were closer to all sorts of wildlife. I kept checking behind us, but I couldn’t see much through the murk. It gave me the feeling that we were being watched. Something had said my name.

My stomach tightened and burned.

When we reached our gate, it squeaked when I pushed it. The wet

metal was cold against my fingers.

Dad handed me the cat box while he searched to find the keys. As

he pulled them out of his pocket, they slid from his slippery fingers

and made a plinking sound as they hit the concrete. The dwindling light, pouring rain and clutter of flowerpots around the door hid them 123

from us. I scrabbled around trying to find them, but they seemed to have vanished.

My nails scraped against the concrete underneath the moss and

decaying weeds around the door. The rain dripped from my hood, encouraging the dark earth to stick to my fingers. I could feel cold

wetness across my shoulders as it soaked through my coat. Dad’s

torch eventually found a reflection and I grabbed the keys and passed them over.

We stepped inside. It was dark in the porch, the switch for the light

was behind the inside door. Fortunately, this one wasn’t locked. Dad flicked the switch. The bulb, which hung from the roof, was eye-squint-

ingly bright. I could see my reflection on the glass against the blackness beyond. A shiver went through me. Was something out there, watching?

‘You’d better get that coat off, you’re beginning to make a puddle,’

Dad said.

I let out my breath. My shoulders sank back down.

I took off my shoes before stepping into the living room. I needn’t

have bothered, there was no way we were going to keep the ugly,

patterned, worn-out carpet. The wallpaper was strangely lumpy, as

though it was hiding secrets beneath its beigeness. The air smelled musty and smoky, but there was no sign of a fireplace.

Our sofa was sitting in the middle of the room, still with a plastic

sheet over it. Around it were a few other bits of furniture: the armchair,

the thing that Dad used for his record player as well as loads of cardboard boxes.

Dad opened Phyllis’s carrier, but she stayed there, growling. When

I looked in, she’d pushed herself up against the back. Her ears were flattened against her head. I’d never heard her make that sound before. ‘Give her time. You know what she can be like,’ Dad said. 124

‘What’s for dinner?’ My stomach was rumbling.

‘I’ll sort something. Do you want to go and find your new room?

It’s up at the top.’

The stairs were wooden, narrow and steep, curling up around the

corner of the house. When I got to the landing, there were three doors: the bathroom first, then Dad’s room and the final door was facing me

at the end of the corridor. Although the house had three floors, it was tall and narrow, making all the rooms quite small. I could hear Dad

banging around in the kitchen, but it sounded like there was someone upstairs – walking about. ‘Dad?’ I waited. ‘Dad!’

The footsteps stopped.

‘You alright?’ Dad’s head appeared at the bottom. ‘Is there anyone upstairs?’ I asked. ‘No, just us,’ he said.

‘I thought I heard someone.’

‘Might be coming from next door – these houses are all joined

together.’

‘Yeah. I guess so.’

Dad smiled and disappeared again.

I sat on the stairs and listened. I could hear the rain reverberating

across the roof, intensified by the wind, which was now howling around

the chimney. But there were no footsteps. If anything was up there, it had stopped moving.

Maybe I’d imagined it.

Maybe whatever it was had heard me and gone away. Maybe something was up there waiting for me.

125

Chapter 2

D i s c ove r i e s My room was right at the top of the house, behind the doorway at

the end of the corridor and up another set of stairs. The old door was covered with layers of yellowing paint. The catch clicked and the

hinges creaked as I pulled it towards me. The stairway was dark. I flipped on the light. Footsteps again.

My skin prickled. I had a heavy feeling inside me that stopped me

from moving straight away. The lightbulb flickered.

I stepped back, about to go downstairs and get Dad, but I stopped

myself. I swallowed and before I could change my mind, I climbed the stairs.

At the top, I found a closed door at the end of a narrow corridor. I

waited and listened. There was definitely something inside the room. All by itself, the door began to open – as though an invisible hand

was pulling it from inside, inviting me in. Its creak sounded like Phyllis’s

lazy miaow. When it was fully open, I could see that the room was empty and then I watched as the light switched itself on. ‘Hello?’ I croaked, my mouth dry as burnt toast. Every part of me tingled.

I wanted to run downstairs, but I couldn’t move. Maybe if I stayed

completely still, whatever was here might leave me alone.

Inhaling deeply, I took a step forward, but as I did, out went both

lights, leaving me in darkness.

My fingernails dug into the wooden bannister and my other hand

felt for the switch I’d seen at the top of the stairs. Footsteps.

126

Coming towards me. Faster now.

A blast of air swept past me, blowing my hair and leaving my name

behind.

Iris ...

Everything went still.

Whatever had been there was gone. And it knew my name.

Moving into the room and fumbling around for the light switch,

stark white brightness flooded the place from the overhead bulb which hung limply on its cord. It was empty. The ceiling in here was quite low

because the room nestled into the eaves of the roof, the edges curving down towards two small windows which sat close to the floor. The old, stone walls were thick enough to make the windowsills look like seats.

I investigated the rest of the room, just in case. There was nothing

behind the door or under the bed and the big built-in wardrobe was

empty. The floor was covered with boxes. It had been such a rush to

pack. Dad always leaves everything to the last minute, and I don’t think he realised how much stuff we had in our small flat. I thought we’d

have lots more space here. From the outside, these houses look like they’re going to be much bigger than they actually are on the inside. They’re like reverse Tardises.

The photograph of Mum which I’ve always had in my room – that

Dad picks up and smooths when he comes in and sets us talking about

her – was sitting on top of my chest of drawers. I picked it up. Her smile somehow seemed bigger than before.

Most of my stuff had been quickly shoved into boxes. I was surprised

how much I’d kept from when I was little: mainly stacks of drawings, some just scribbles, some labelled with interesting spellings and some 127

that were actually recognisable. Mum was in all of them. Always there but separated from me and Dad. ‘Iris?’

My body jolted.

The door creaked another miaow.

Dad appeared as the sound of rain on the roof deepened.

‘Do all the doors in this house open by themselves, or is it just in

my room?’

‘Depends,’ he said. ‘Did I give you a fright?’ ‘No.’

There was a creak from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Draughts,’ he said confidently.

I watched the door, waiting to see if it would move. Miaow.

Phyllis jumped onto the bed.

I sat and stroked her tabby fur as she used her paw to give her

face a wash. When she’d finished, she was about to settle down when suddenly her whole demeanour changed. She was staring back at the

doorway that she’d just come through – the blacks of her eyes grew

so big that they were the only part that showed. Her fur spiked up and her tail fluffed to twice its normal size. She arched her back as she fixed

her gaze on the door, hissed sharply and then bolted from the room at a speed I’d never seen before. I looked at Dad.

‘Shall we go have some dinner?’ he said.

128

129

130

TANYA LILLEY Tanya didn’t grow up in a house full of stories or books. She was raised, along with her half-brother and sister, by a single mother on benefits and bleach fumes. She holds a degree in Textiles from Central Saint

Martins, and since deciding that losing one of her four children wasn’t enough of an excuse not to risk anything, she found herself completing

an MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University. Before moving to Bath, she raised her menagerie of children and animals, including emus, in both France and Suffolk, and now she gets to raise something more permanent in the pages of a book.

THE FOREST AND THE FOX

Deep within the Hidden World, night is not the home of darkness; it is

the place where light goes to dream . . . Far beneath a chocolate-coated sky and only slightly beneath the rich treasure of soil, was a hole. Not

worm-like, burrow-like, or cathedral-cavernous-like, made-of-solid-

rock type. But Sky-Hole-like: an absolutely colossal lump of real, living breathing sky, a mini world within a world, pushed into the ground hundreds of years before, when the first mighty giants roamed the

Earth, when the footsteps of almighty trees clomped through the land. tanyasnow11@gmail.com

131

THE FOREST AND THE FOX Chapter 1 eep within the Hidden World night is not the home of darkness. It is the place where light goes to dream ...

Far beneath a chocolate-coated sky, and only slightly beneath

the rich treasure of soil, was a hole. Not worm-like, burrow-like, or cathedral-cavernous-like, made-of-solid-rock type. But Sky-Hole-like:

an absolutely colossal lump of real, living breathing sky; a mini world

within a world, pushed into the ground hundreds of years before when the first giants roamed the Earth, when footsteps of almighty trees

squelched and sucked and spat underfoot, moulding the once pristine landscape like squidgy butter, churning waves of hillocks that piled up into mountains, tramping out well-worn paths, plateaus, basins and

forks, sending lakes right up to the hills and mushing rivers, clouds and

more rarely sky, down low underground as their great gnarly knees rose up to their necks and clomped through the land. Never in brutality – no,

not at all – simply fixing the sky to the land, plugging it, stitching it, and tethering the silky blue expanse, the swirling curtain of drama, to the mellow sturdy features of the Earth.

Death-defying ledges came naturally to the limestone walls of the

Sky Hole. Jutting out at the top and so slender in places that Zezolla’s

wide stomach bulged over the edge of the slimmest sections if ever he clomped along, precariously carrying Euphemia on his back. A maddening 132

arrangement of ancient scars, grooves and ridges meant rats, mice, weasels and stoats could pitter-patter about their business, enveloping the Sky Hole in a living, breathing wall of furry activity. And because nature hides its gems, the likes of calcite and dolomite studded the rock

face, winking like stars in the night. Small trees grew on the arms of big trees, ferns frilled and velvet mosses tiptoed over the motionless

floor in swathes of undulating green, and never thought to leave. A thermal spring swelled into a lake of milky-blue minerals, so rare and

life-giving nothing failed to thrive. Plants of every description grew in

the unsullied air: lichens hugged, fungi flourished into a rainbow of

unusual forms, strange birds flew among the trees and tiny puffs of cloud came and went as they pleased.

Not one human knew of its existence.

Euphemia Scuttlesworth had been sleeping soundly up until now,

lying on a sumptuous pile of golden leaves and only part way through

her winter-long hibernation. Surrounded by soil that buzzed with intelligence and leaves that told endless stories, she had let her eyelids close on the possibility of dreams as thick as custard, while the dark days of winter did what they thought they needed to do.

This day thought it needed to wake Euphemia. So, without any

warning whatsoever, her cosy corner of leaves began to explode into an uncontrollable swirl, twisting around her chamber, whipping and streaking about in a frenzied display, puffing her up off the ground and promptly dumping her back on the damp floor with a thump.

She had thought she was hearing a pretty little tinkling sound in

the fantastic dream she was having. But she wasn’t dreaming. Her jars of puddles and bottles of wind were clinking together along the walls,

yet she still refused to be flustered. She simply yawned, stretched and

opened one large brown eye and scanned her chamber suspiciously. 133

When one of the leaves boldly dared to crinkle just once, she snatched

it up in her paw, sniffed it, licked it, and proceeded to interrogate it.

‘Explain yourself, dear. One moment I’m lost in the most enchanting little tale, the next moment I’m rudely awakened – for what, may I ask?’

All the forest creatures used leaves: birds made nests from leaves

to tell stories to their chicks while they were away. Hedgehogs had spikes for the sole reason of collecting leaves, for they were the mobile

library of the forest. And hibernation was just a good excuse to bed down with an entire book of the things for a solid three months of the year. However, this little leaf had no intention of talking, which left

Euphemia no choice but to tuck her into her pocket until she was able to use one of her more trusted methods, if or when the need arose.

Zezolla the donkey filled the space which would have normally

been filled by Euphemia’s bedroom door. He had it in his head that he

could protect her better than dead wood (meaning a door), which was absurd because he was always found slumped in the doorway asleep

on his front knees. It was more hazardous for Euphemia to try and get past him than simply opening a door, but he was nice and stripy.

Even he was awake now, though not in a particularly agreeable mood.

‘Zezolla, I don’t understand. My barometer tells me it’s still very

cold. What on earth could be wrong?’ asked Euphemia.

‘You mean that pot of wax you insist on sticking your paw in?’ he said. ‘It works. I can’t see the weather up there from down here, now,

can I?’

She ignored him and began to pack. First, she picked the brightest

glow-worm she could find off the wonky branch shelf and placed him in a jam-jar. ‘Something is up, Zezolla, we must be on the move. Come now. Speed is of the essence.’

‘Really, must we? Some leaves sneezed, Euph. I say we ignore them. 134

See what happens tomorrow.’

Euphemia ignored him once again as she bundled up all her precious

orphaned plants, animals and insects. She stuffed things in dried-out seed pods, swaddled grubs in moss and gathered any incubating eggs.

She sucked up reeds of puddle water she had in jars and plugged them with mud as little feeders for her orphaned babies and plants (she had no idea how long she would be gone for) and placed them quickly into

Zezolla’s hand-stitched saddlebag of pockets and pouches, and set off on a treacherous journey to wherever that trusty nose of hers led her.

If ever there was a time when she’d find comfort in the presence of

her father, it was now. She hadn’t brought it up with Zezolla, but she had wrapped her father around her neck, tucked him under her coat,

just in case. She could hear Zezolla complaining in her head already: Not bringing that dry rag out again. Does he have to come everywhere

with us? He gives me the creeps. But she loved and treasured her father. He was her guardian angel.

A dank mist snuffled sneakily through the dark silhouettes of the

forest, smothering each and every charcoal leaf as it snaked up into

the night sky. Two days had grown into two nights when finally, at last, in the far-off distance, Euphemia’s peculiar pinprick of light came into

view. Spluttering and flickering upwards and downwards, journeying in

and out of view, jumbling onwards, with every single creature waiting, wondering when the heck she would actually make an appearance, if she even made one at all.

Rattling, clanking and sniffing sounds undid the quiet, rather untidily.

Zezolla should have been following Milton the snail’s instructions as he

walked, ever so slowly, over hillocks, trenches and dips. Euphemia knew Zezolla was in one of his terribly sullen moods where he deliberately tried to make everything worse than it already was. But he carried 135

on bobbing and weaving tirelessly through the undergrowth until

Euphemia asked him to stop. At which point he let out the longest, loudest possible sigh he could manage from his tired little body and semi-crushed lungs, all in an effort to gain some extra sympathy. But Euphemia just ignored him.

Raising her jar of glow-worm (bottom) light, illuminating her

frighteningly large snout in all its glory as it rose to sniff the night air, Euphemia’s suspicions caught a whiff of something not entirely familiar. ‘The smell of enchantment, Zezolla, is everywhere,’ she whispered.

‘Um, that might be me, sorry,’ said Zezolla sheepishly. ‘What? I get

nervous, not to mention the fact that I’ve been asleep for – for – forever and everythin’s on the move again. If I said nuffin’ you’d have picked up the wrong message, Euph!’

Euphemia twitched her large ears back and forth and counted calmly

to ten. They were going to her most reliable measuring tool, especially now that odours appeared to be disguising themselves behind her back. ‘Well, it’s a little bit late for that now, isn’t it,’ said Euphemia crossly.

‘I’d appreciate a little less detail, next time, thank you very much.’ She was unsure if the counting had helped.

‘And there was I finkin’ you appreciated my honesty.’

‘Can we simply proceed – or does one need to find a bush?’ she

said, scowling at him.

‘I hadn’t realised we’d stopped, actually,’ he said, trotting off with

more speed than was absolutely necessary given the precious cargo he was carrying.

Euphemia thought that she must pay more attention to what wasn’t

there – her forest was obviously up to some of its older tricks and it

needed a firm hand. She wasn’t going to let it get the better of her. But what was she missing?

136

Zezolla’s confession was puzzling her. He’d said that smell was him,

but she had this niggly feeling in her bones. Euphemia had always felt

things. And she felt the trembling of the earth like teacups rattling on

saucers. Not only did she carry a light, she also carried a deep sense

of foreboding too, which was extremely heavy for a fluttering little heart like hers.

She wasn’t deaf to the world; she knew it had been a jumble of

nerves all day, but now there seemed to be a deep measure of ‘unfolding’

happening. She remembered how the world didn’t shout in darkness. That in her world, darkness was the colour of whispers. Whispers? That was it, she thought – that’s what wasn’t there.

Only then did Euphemia become aware of the deafening silence

that had been brewing on the breeze as if everything, everywhere,

was listening. Like even sound was too afraid to make a noise. Ear borrowing – that’s what they were up to. She had sussed those wild beasts out.

Clambering down from Zezolla, she shouted out into the forest: ‘I

can hear you all trying to listen further than you can see!’ She knew they could all hear her.

She knew how crafty her forest was. The bats were no doubt listening

to the moths, and the moths, she was sure, were listening to the bark

beetles. And they must have been listening to the trees, who were

more than likely listening to the moon, the stars, the soil and the wind. It was one of the classic laws of the forest: when your hearing loses range, borrow someone else’s (stick yourself on said creature, insect, plant or tree who has ears that can go to places you will never be able to, not ever, certainly not in this lifetime).

After a moment’s pause, still nothing responded.

Euphemia was starting to feel extreme unease now. She had always 137

understood the intricacies of the forest because she was part-forest

herself. Quite literally. With each forest year that passed, she morphed into something less human-like than before – so there was absolutely

no telling what she might end up being. At this moment in time, she was in an animal phase. Which meant she got to see her nose grow to bulbous proportions not long after her tenth birthday. Shortly after that, she found it to be more on the wet side than the dry. And decades

would pass before her whiskers left her chin for her snout and more than a century went by before she realised she was never going to be the kind of creature who grew something that allowed her to fly.

But she had made her peace with it and she had more important

things to worry about.

‘Now concentrate, Zezolla. Exactly how far have we come on this

treacherous journey? To tell you the truth, I don’t even recognise this

place,’ said Euphemia, peering into a forest she had been part of for centuries but now didn’t seem to recognise as her own.

‘Well,’ Zezolla replied slowly. ‘I’m concentrating very hard, just like

you said, and I can see your front door just over there – so I’d say not very far,’ he said, swallowing nervously.

Euphemia was absolutely exasperated and shouted at the snail,

‘Milton! You were directing us – what’s got into you? Honestly.’

Where Zezolla was rather compact in size, Milton the snail was

abnormally large, owing to her age. She’d been stuck to the top of

Zezolla’s head because her swivelling eyes on stalks should have meant she was an expert in navigation. But she appeared to be unresponsive.

‘Milton – Milton!’ said Euphemia, tapping her exquisite shell

gently with her claw. She couldn’t bear anything happening to Milton. Euphemia had been Milton’s pet for decades. Milton had been on lots of smaller spying expeditions due to her outstanding ability to 138

stick to any surface, at any angle (upside down), eyes that could look

around corners, and her ability to blend in, unseen, in pretty much any

environment. She was a one-stop, get-the-job-done reconnaissance queen (ignoring the gloop trail).

‘Not to worry, Zezolla, she’s just asleep. Her eyes are flopped out in

front of her, can’t you feel them, dear, they’re resting on your brow?’

asked Euphemia with concern. ‘Milton – Oh Milton, dear, do wake up!’ ‘What’d she say?’ asked Zezolla.

‘I’m not sure, I think she’s suffering from dry-eye,’ Euphemia said,

rummaging around in Zezolla’s pouches for Milton’s regular eye drops. ‘What! And she didn’t think to mention that?’ ‘Clearly not, Zezolla.’

‘What! That’s all she’s got to say. Oh, what’s her problem?’

‘Let’s not worry for now. By the looks of things here, we’ve all got

some major problems.’

Looking up to the sky, Euphemia was flabbergasted. An onslaught of

snow was heading their way. She secretly hoped that the Cloud Merchant was short on ice, and they would be let off a full-on snowstorm.

‘Me way’s blocked, Euph. What would you like me to do?’ asked

Zezolla.

‘It’s snow, just walk through it, please,’ replied Euphemia, impa-

tiently.

‘Walk through it!’ he said. ‘Can you not see how big those things

are? Like giant goose feathers crisscrossing in front of me eyes – I’ve gone blind – I’ve literally gone blind. I’M SNOW BLIND!’ he shouted.

139

140

GABRIELLE AMELIA REEVES Gabrielle is a children’s author with a musical background. A composer, orchestrator and songwriter, Gabrielle has worked on Hollywood scores

and West End shows. She’s an enthusiast of fairy tales, classics, fantasy and magical realism, and all these elements feature in her writing. If

she could fall down the rabbit hole for a Mad Hatter’s tea party with Alice, Coco Chanel would be first on the invitation list for a cup of Earl

Grey tea. Gabrielle writes picture books and middle-grade fantasy and is passionate about engaging children with the creative arts through her stories.

THE SECRETS OF LA BELLE ÉPOQUE In the heart of Montmartre, Paris, a grief-stricken Cosette has lost her

Ma and her passion for dancing. She knows life will never be the same after she is abandoned by Papa and forced to live with her aunt. But

when she discovers a mysterious sketchbook, Cosette is drawn into a magical ballet realm where she uncovers a long-lost family secret

that has the power to change everything. But will she be able to dance again? Set between the parallel worlds of Ballets-Russes bohemia and 1950s Paris, this story will appeal to anyone chasing a dream. gabrielle_amelia_writes@outlook.com

141

THE SECRETS OF LA BELLE ÉPOQUE Chapter 1

M a’ s S a tc h e l eulogy doesn’t have to be long,’ Eleonore said, as Cosette

placed the last porcelain plate into the wooden rack. ‘It can be a poem if you like. Just a few words about your Maman

would really help your Papa out.’

Cosette had grown up calling Aunt Eleonore by her first name,

having spent little time with Papa’s side of the family. But ever since

Ma had died, all of that had changed and now Eleonore had become like a piece of unwanted furniture Cosette couldn’t get rid of.

It had been fifty-six days since Ma had passed away, but to Cosette

those couple of months had felt like forever. And although her Ma’s

death hadn’t been a surprise to Cosette, there was nothing that could have prepared her for a life without Ma.

Eleonore would stay at the house whenever Papa needed her to.

But, as the days had gone by, he’d become less and less present, and now only stepped over the threshold to sleep and heat up leftovers.

‘That’s me for the evening,’ Eleonore announced. As she stood up,

Papa’s chair legs screeched against the kitchen floor. ‘I’ll be gone before you wake, so be careful not to oversleep in the morning.’ She took a

glass tumbler from the kitchen table and poured a glass of water from Ma’s water jug.

‘Goodnight, Eleonore,’ Cosette muttered. 142

Eleonore paused as she turned to leave the kitchen.

‘I almost forgot. A young boy called Georges dropped round this

afternoon,’ she said, pushing the heavy pantry door open.

Eleonore held the door ajar with her foot as she leant down to reach

for something on the floor.

‘He asked me to give you this,’ she said, reappearing from the pantry

holding something in her hands. It was Ma’s old leather satchel. Cosette hadn’t seen it in months.

‘That’s mine,’ Cosette lied, snatching it from Eleonore’s grasp. ‘I’ve

been looking for it everywhere.’

Eleonore gave a disapproving glance as she left the kitchen and

made her way upstairs. Cosette waited by the door, listening out for the old loose floorboard on the landing to creak. It was only then that Cosette would know she would be left alone for the evening.

Clinging onto the satchel, Cosette walked over to Ma’s chair. She

ran the palm of her hand against its wooden grain before pulling the chair out from under the table to sit down.

For the first time in fifty-six days, she finally felt at home.

Placing Ma’s satchel on the tabletop, Cosette admired its beautiful

hand-bound stitching and delicate brass buckles. She couldn’t wait to feel Ma’s belongings again. To smell the paint and gaze at her pencil sketches.

But when she unbuckled the satchel and peered inside, Cosette

discovered something she’d never seen before. It was a dark red

sketchbook which was leather-bound, like Ma’s satchel. Holding the sketchbook in her hands, Cosette stroked the leather with her thumbs. A tingling feeling rushed around her body. Nothing could compare

to the excitement of finally being reunited with Ma’s most treasured

possessions. But when she turned the sketchbook over to inspect it,

Cosette couldn’t ignore the feeling that someone was beckoning her 143

inside, urging her to unveil the drawings and lose herself in Ma’s world. She took a deep breath and prised back the cover. But as she did, it

wasn’t the colourful drawings that had grabbed Cosette’s attention. It was an envelope that was tucked inside the cover’s sleeve.

Cosette pulled it out to reveal Ma’s unmistakable handwriting. My darling Cosette, it read.

Cosette smiled as she brought the envelope to her nose. Only it

didn’t smell of Ma. Any trace of her had been replaced by the rich woody scent of the leather from the satchel.

Be brave, Cosette told herself, convincing herself Ma was right there

beside her. She unfolded the letter and began to read. Cosette,

If you’re reading this, then I couldn’t hold on any longer. But this isn’t goodbye. Remember, I’ll always be with you. Just as I’ve always been. I’d always dreamt of making memories with my own Ma, but that was never meant to be. And although I never had the chance to meet her, that doesn’t mean you can’t. Find her for me, Cosie – while there’s still time. Follow your heart, chase your dreams and make sure you keep these treasures safe. I believe in you. Love, Ma x Cosette clutched hold of Ma’s favourite necklace which was hanging

around her neck. She hadn’t taken it off since the day Ma died. When the world around her turned dark, the necklace gave Cosette a sense of

strength. It had a way of making her feel as if Ma was still close by. But

where it had originally come from was still a mystery to Cosette. The necklace’s pendant took the form of a pair of wings, framed in a rich, 144

golden setting. Around the edges were delicate, ocean-blue sapphire stones, which glistened as the light shone on them. All Cosette knew

about the necklace was that it was made in La Belle Époque, a time Ma

always talked about, when Paris was bursting with hope and artistry, before the wars had changed everything.

She glanced at Ma’s letter on the table, remembering how lucky

she was to have so many memories of Ma. Cosette knew Ma hadn’t wanted her to suffer in grief and now the letter had confirmed what she wanted. But Cosette couldn’t help feeling guilty. There she was

feeling sorry for herself that Ma had died, when Ma hadn’t even had the chance to meet her own mother. Why hadn’t she realised just how desperate Ma was to find out where she had come from?

Cosette continued to search inside the satchel, finding nothing but

blank scraps of paper. But as she rummaged through the front pocket,

which was small enough for safekeeping, Cosette’s fingers brushed past a soft, crushed velvet. Cosette fumbled to find its edging, before pulling out a teal jewellery roll with something hard inside. She unravelled the velvet roll and discovered a familiar, rusty antique key tied to a label with peach ribbon.

Stage door, read the card label written in Ma’s beautiful calligraphy.

It was the key to La Scène, their family theatre.

Cosette had never known a life without the theatre because Papa

had inherited it before she was born. It was like an old friend. The

place where she and Ma would go when they couldn’t make sense of the world. But she hadn’t been there since Ma had died. Maybe going

to the theatre would help her work out what to do, like it used to help her and Ma.

Cosette rubbed the cool metal of the key between her fingers, as

the grandfather clock chimed eleven. She knew it wasn’t wise to visit 145

the theatre so late at night, but with it only being a short walk away, Cosette knew she could be back within twenty minutes if she was quick.

Cosette placed the theatre key back inside the velvet roll and

returned Ma’s chair to exactly the same position where Ma had left it. Tiptoeing into the hallway, Cosette wrapped herself in the navy-blue jacket coat that had been draped over the bannister. Leaning one knee on the fleur-de-lis tiles, she bent down to tie her brown bootlaces.

As Cosette took the door off the latch, a strong gust of wind blew

it back on its hinges. Stepping out onto the pavement, she listened to

the hustle and bustle of Montmartre calling out to her. Cosette closed

the front door quietly behind her, and in a flurry of excitement, fled through the cobbled streets to her favourite place in all of Paris.

Chapter 2

T h e S ke tc h b o o k The wind rushed through Cosette’s hair as she whirled through Montmartre, her heart thumping like a bass drum. She stopped just short of the stage door, pausing to catch her breath.

The door’s crumbling, moss-green paint was illuminated in the

moonlight. Cosette’s heartbeat slowed as she looked up towards the

stars. The fiery, orange glow of the iron street lamp bulb flickered on and off. On and off. On and off. Cosette stood still for a moment, to

listen to the persistent sound of Parisians chattering in the distance. But even though the city was still awake at this late hour, Cosette felt

excited that neither Papa nor Eleonore were any the wiser to what she was up to.

Removing the antique brass key from her pocket, Cosette searched 146

for the lock in the shadows. But when she tried to unlock the door, the key wouldn’t turn. It was already open.

Cosette stepped inside the dingy lobby, covering her nose with

her jacket cuff. An overwhelming smell of mould filled the air. Ma had always joked that Papa needed to give the stage entrance more attention.

It is only for the performers, he would say to Ma. But tonight, the theatre had never felt more unloved.

She crept down the long corridor to the dressing room. It was a

special place she and Ma would visit together. Cosette would watch

Ma sew, in awe of her extraordinary talent to transform the ugliest of

outfits into the most beautiful costumes she’d ever seen. But as she went to open the dressing room door, Cosette’s vision blurred. Unable

to stop her eyes from blinking, a tear ran down her face. She dabbed

her cheek with her cuff as she peered into the depths of the room. She was all alone.

Cosette turned on the light, and the bulbs around the mirror stations

illuminated like a warm and familiar smile. But the dressing room was barely recognisable. What had once been the heart of the theatre, was a shadow of its former self. Clothes were strewn everywhere, shoes piled high, and beautiful dresses were draped carelessly over costume rails. One by one the lightbulb filaments blew, leaving her with just

enough light to see what a mess everything was. Her and Ma’s secret world was now nothing but a distant memory. No more painted faces, no more outfits meticulously pinned into place. The magic was gone. How could Papa have let this happen?

Cosette rushed over to a large heap of tulle skirts and knelt on the

floor beside them. Grasping one of the delicate, lilac skirt hems, she ran her thumb and forefinger along the edging. Cosette remembered

the time when Papa asked Ma to hand stitch thirty-four of them for 147

their opening night, and how she’d never complained. And this was how Papa repaid her?

She gazed over at the mirror station tabletop, buried in junk. With

her heart pounding and the dim lights blurring between her tears, Cosette lunged towards the mirrors with her arm outstretched and

swiped everything from the surface. Handbags, lonely stilettos and

memorabilia flew across the room to join the wounded mess on the floor. Her limbs felt heavy, and everything hurt. She had to do something.

Cosette hurried back to the pile of skirts and picked them up one

by one from the floor. She positioned them on the tabletop beneath the mirror stations, exactly as Ma used to do.

She clenched her fists tightly. Ma’s satchel was calling to her from

the doorway. Marching across the room, Cosette scooped it into her arms and clutched it towards her chest. If only it were Ma she could hold in her arms. She slumped to the floor. There was no way she was helping Papa now.

Cosette reached into the satchel for the sketchbook and her finger-

tips swept over the creases of its leather cover. Prising it open, she closed her eyes for a moment to inhale the earthy aroma of the oil

pastels before continuing to flick through the pages. As she lingered

over dazzling drawings and vibrant colours, it was like entering a bohemian world filled with a cast of fascinating characters, each with their own story to tell. Mesmerising and flamboyant, every figure more eccentric than the one before.

One page revealed a detailed sketch of an extravagant feathered

headdress with long plaited locks rested on the head of a bohemian man. The charcoal outline had been embellished with mustard yellow

and blazing orange pastels. On the following page there was a sombre 148

man with diamond shapes on his rose-pink harem trousers. They were gathered at the waist with a pistachio green belt, and the long billowing legs were tied at the ankles.

Cosette smiled as she thought of Ma hunched over her drawings,

lost in a world of her own. She would spend hours drawing dresses and skirts, before turning to her trusted paints to bring them to life.

But Ma wasn’t fond of pastels and she never drew people. Only the clothes themselves. So where had these drawings come from?

When Cosette turned the page, she noticed a date stamp on the

back of the previous sketch. 1909. Then she realised the next sketch

had been dated too. 1911. But how could that be? Ma wasn’t alive then. Cosette forced herself to picture the engraving on Ma’s headstone. It was a harrowing image she wished she could have forgotten.

Anneliese Ida Revere – our beloved wife and mother. Born in 1917, died in 1953.

Cosette’s heart sank.

They couldn’t be Ma’s sketches if they were drawn before she was

born.

But if they weren’t Ma’s, then why did she have a sketchbook that

wasn’t hers? And someone else’s precious drawings?

There was a sudden reverberation from above, as a large piece of

furniture was scraped across the stage. She was no longer alone.

What if it was Papa? Cosette panicked, slamming the sketchbook

shut.

But as she jumped to her feet, someone was already marching in

the direction of the stairs.

149

150

MELANIE WOODWARD Melanie’s dream of being a writer started at just nine years old when her first ‘novel’ found its way onto the page. She is a story-telling

magpie – capturing family stories and fairytale weddings through her

photography studio, creating tales of heartbreak or elation through her dance school, and hiding adventures in the pages of her stories. From

this, all she wanted to do was inspire and guide children, including her

own. During her MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University,

she learnt her voice mattered too and her unique perspective of being Malaysian-English is what inspired Mei and the Black Heart.

MEI AND THE BLACK HEART

Mei wants to be the same as everyone else. When hiding from bullies

becomes her whole existence, her mum moves them to her ancestral

home in Malaysia. But being of dual-ethnicity, Mei doesn’t fit in here

either. Desperate to appease her mum, Mei risks it all to retrieve a stolen heirloom – a black heart locket. Treacherous landscapes, tormenting

weather and dangerous criminals stand in her way of finding the locket and returning home. With the help of the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac, will Mei embrace who she is and stand up to the bullies? An

own-voice magical realism adventure, where learning to love who you are will help you find home.

melaniewoodwardauthor@gmail.com

151

MEI AND THE BLACK HEART Chapter 1

H e a t h row, L o n d o n here’s a storm in my stomach. It swells the more I think about leaving home.

Snow drifts through the crisp winter air, stinging the back of

my throat and settling on the sleeping planes like a blanket. Standing on

the airport tarmac, I wonder if I’ll ever feel the cold again after today.

Our plane whirrs, preparing for us to board. Mum strides towards

the Boeing 737 that stands like a polished bullet in front of us – there’s not a single snowflake on its slick frame.

My legs wobble as I follow her up the steps to the plane, my feet

dutifully stepping in time with hers, though my insides are screaming at me to retreat. Looking over my shoulder, I wonder if I can make

a dash for the terminal – make us miss our plane. But I’m met by a line of impatient faces. A sigh escapes me, curling into the air and disappearing into nothing.

‘Come on, Mei!’ Mum calls, stepping inside the cabin. ‘You’ll catch

your death out there.’ Like she cares.

A broad-painted smile is frozen on the flight attendant’s face.

‘Good morning,’ she says, talking to me as though I’m a five-year-old.

‘Are you off on holiday?’

152

‘No.’ I push past her pressed uniform. Her citrus perfume, like a car

air freshener, wedges itself up my nose. Great.

‘Have a lovely time,’ she chirps before repeating the lines to the

next passenger.

We shuffle down the aisle, following the congestion of people, until

we find our row. Seats 34A and 34B – where I’ll spend the next thirteen

hours stuck on this flight to Kuala Lumpur. I shove past Mum, so I can

sit by the window. My feet dangle off the floor, meaning my legs press even harder into the firm seat.

If Kitty was here, she’d stretch her legs right under the seat in front.

We’d be flicking through the inflight channels as if this were a proper holiday. But she’s not. And this isn’t a holiday. I miss her already. That’s

the thing about a best friend – they’re sort of part of you, like your liver. You don’t notice it’s there, but if it stopped working, you’d get really sick. That’s how I feel right now. Sick, with a massive Kitty-sized hole inside me.

I smell the attendant before I see her. She helps Mum, reaching up

to put our bags in the overhead locker. ‘Give me my bag!’ I snap.

Mum stares at me, causing my cheeks to flame. I can’t bring myself

to say sorry. Instead, I thrust my open palm towards Mum.

The flight attendant looks at me sadly. Shame fizzes inside, like

cola, threatening to burst into a sob.

Mum hands me my backpack. I scrabble around inside for the

scrapbook, then throw my bag under the seat in front, flop back into my seat and clutch hold of my precious memories.

I can feel Mum’s apologetic expression. ‘I’m sorry. She’s a bit sensi-

tive.’ Mum’s making excuses for me. I wish she wouldn’t do that – speak for me. She doesn’t know how I’m feeling. It makes me feel … weak. 153

Mum switches to Cantonese – probably so I can’t understand. The

attendant touches her arm, like some kind of unspoken connection. They understand each other – and I don’t.

A family tries to squeeze down the aisle. They give Mum and the

flight attendant a long look, then glance over at me. I stare back at them, and red circles form on their pale cheeks. The man pulls down

on his England shirt and pretends to look elsewhere. Doesn’t he know the World Cup was over last month, and England lost? I bet they

were trying to work me out, too, like everyone else does. I can almost hear their thoughts. Where’s her dad? Is he white, or is she just a pale

Chinese girl? That’s what Angie and her gang would shout out in the playground when the teachers weren’t about. Mum and the attendant are completely oblivious to the couple and their children edging past them. They keep chatting away in Cantonese like old pals.

‘Mum!’ I hiss. ‘Sit down. You’re embarrassing me.’ Why can’t she

be normal?

My palms burn, the sweat soaking into the scrapbook in my hands. The attendant reapplies her smile like she’s putting on lipstick, and

she draws something from her jacket pocket.

‘For you,’ she says, offering me a red packet. ‘Ang Pow, to bring you

luck and good fortune.’

I accept it with both hands, just as I’d been taught.

When she’s gone, I study the crimson envelope. I usually love

celebrating Chinese New Year with Mum, but not this year. Inside is twenty-five ringgit, about five pounds. A gold dragon and phoenix

swirl across the red paper in an elegant battle. They appear so real; I

think they might fly out of the packet and into the air. The scales and feathers flash like a spark. ‘Ow!’

154

‘It’s just a paper cut,’ Mum says, placing her hand on mine. I snatch

my hand away, and the packet drops to the floor. Mum seems hurt, and a small part of me is glad she is. This is all her fault.

‘That was nice of the attendant to give you some lucky money,’ she

says.

There’s nothing lucky about it. I don’t believe in luck, or magic, or

supernatural signs. Because if any of that were real, I’d use it to get off this plane and go home.

I’ve done up my seatbelt too tight; I feel trapped. The plane’s engine

rumbles like a wild beast. Dad used to love flying. He said, ‘Adventures are when your heart is most free, and the world is full of adventures.’

I remember Dad’s photo and remove it from my jacket pocket. I’d

slipped it out of Mum’s purse when we were in duty-free. An ache

sits in my chest at seeing a little fold in the corner. I smooth it with my thumb, then slot it in the scrapbook Kitty gave me, to keep it from getting damaged.

Leafing through the pages, the scrapbook is filled with the faces of

everyone I know. There are loads of photos taken in the last six months. Our last day of year seven, with proud smiles after surviving our first year in secondary school. A picture of Kitty’s thirteenth birthday party

at the bowling alley. I’d persuaded Mum to wait in the bar and let us

bowl on our own because we’re teenagers now. Well, Kitty’s three months older, but I’ll be thirteen next month.

The scrapbook’s only half filled – half a year that should have been

full.

Our year-group photo is taped across a double page at the front of

the book. Kitty has drawn little horns on Angie Gibbs' head. I know I

should laugh about it, but seeing her face, freckled like a poppy-seed bun, and her perfect straight smile makes my blood run cold. Everyone

thinks Angie’s so pretty. But I’ve seen her icy blue stare, filled with 155

anger and hate, which makes her the ugliest person I’ve ever seen. I guess that’s the only good part about leaving. No more Angie Gibbs. Valentine’s Day is still a month off, but Kitty made me a card: To Mei.

Happy Valentine’s Day. I’ll miss our Valentine’s sleepovers. But maybe one day I can stay with you? When you’re settled. Best friends forever, no matter what, no matter where. Please don’t forget me. Love, Kitty x Kitty makes cards and things to give away because they make people

happy. But I love scrapbooks. It’s like keeping every precious memory close to you so you’ll never forget.

Glitter from the card falls into my lap.

‘That’s a beautiful card, Mei.’ Mum nudges me with her shoulder.

I slam the book shut and hug it into my chest. The tears sting. I turn

my head towards the window. I hate her.

‘We need to go back home. It will help,’ she says.

Using my earbuds, I shield myself from her words.

I am home. England is my home. Malaysia is hers, not mine. I’ve

only been there twice, both times when I was a baby. I don’t need any more family, and I don’t want any new friends.

Mum leans in to hug me. I wriggle free. She pulls out an earbud,

holding it in a tight fist. ‘Hey!’ I protest.

She looks at me with pleading eyes. I turn away again. 156

‘It’s important that you get to know your grandparents, Mei. You

may not have long with them before they are gone. Family’s important.’ ‘If family’s so important, why are we leaving Dad behind?’ Her reflection is blurred in the glass. It’s started to rain.

‘You know why we’re leaving.’ She flicks through the inflight maga-

zine, distracting herself as she always does when she’s stressed.

She said being different here is too hard and that it will be easier

for us both if we have family to support us.

‘I wish Dad was here.’ I lower my head and pick the varnish off my

nails.

She misses him, too. I hear her crying at night when she thinks I’m

asleep. Even though I was only seven when he died, I still remember

him. She made me lay flowers on his grave yesterday like we were never coming home. I won’t leave him behind. Or Kitty. I’ll show her how miserable I’ll be, and we’ll have to come home. Perhaps I can delay things, there’s still time. We can still get off the plane.

I turn to face her and do my best to force a smile. ‘Our stuff’s not

even there yet. Why don’t we rebook in a few weeks when the container arrives?’ That might give me time to persuade her to change her mind.

‘Mei, we’ve been through this. Your cousins have plenty you can

borrow until your things arrive.’

‘I don’t want their things. I want my stuff.’ The blood boils in my

cheeks.

‘We have our cases.’ Her smile hovers like it might fall off at any

second.

I clutch hold of Kitty’s scrapbook, trying to huff the hurt out through

my nose, but it just makes my eyes sting even more. Mum opens her

palm, the earbud presented to me like some kind of peace offering. Or, more likely, saying this is the end of the discussion.

I shove the earbud back in, fixing my eyes through the window as 157

the plane turns to face the runway.

I try to take it all in through blurry eyes – my last view of England. The sun splits the sky, shattering the clouds with orange and red.

The morning light sets the January frost on fire and glistens in the puddles like pools of lava.

As the plane lurches forward, I’m thrown back into my seat, the

pressure squeezing my aching heart. My stomach drops as the nose lifts and the plane soars far away from everything I know.

Chapter 2

Ku a l a L u m p u r, M a l ays i a The airport chaos makes my head spin. No one seems to know which direction they’re heading, and the air is a spaghetti of different

languages. Tongues trip over one another, and the sounds race out of their mouths so fast I wonder how they can keep up with what anyone’s saying.

Mum keeps herself distracted – first finding the bags and then

clearing security. ‘Look, Mei, a mini rainforest. Isn’t Malaysia beautiful?’

She tries to get me excited about the jungle terrarium in the centre of

Kuala Lumpur airport – which is pretty cool, but I won’t let it show.

The trees inside are boastful, reaching to the sky with wide-spread palms. But the moment’s lost as she rushes us through the terminal towards the car park.

At the carpark pickup point, a blast of humid air hits me – the

smell of sweat and durian clinging to it. Mum told me durian smells

like stinky feet or bad cheese. What she didn’t tell me is that once you

smell it in tropical heat, you can’t unsmell it. I can’t believe this stench comes from a fruit.

As she gives directions to someone on the phone, I pick at the tag 158

on my luggage label – our new address taunting me.

Before long, an old people carrier pulls up, with flaky paint and a

sticker that says ‘happy day’ on the side.

Auntie Jun, who I recognise from photos and video calls, drops out

of the passenger side and hugs Mum. Through the open door, Mum’s brother, Uncle Kai, leans over and waves at me.

I feel the urge to retreat behind Mum but stop, remembering I’m

mad at her.

Auntie Jun yanks at the handle and, with a groan, the rear door

slides open.

‘Hāi. Come. Get in. It too hot,’ she says, as if this is abnormal weather.

But I’ve read online that this is what the weather is like all the time in Malaysia. ‘You thirsty? I bring you water in the car.’

She takes me by the arm and helps me to the back seat.

Mum and Auntie load the luggage into the boot before Mum climbs

in next to me. She squeezes my knee. I move away, closer to the window, letting the narrow stream of the air conditioning trickle over my face. ‘How was the flight?’ Mum’s brother asks. They have the same

cheerful tone and the same eyes as he smiles in the rear-view mirror. ‘Good,’ Mum replies. ‘It’s come on a long way since we were last here.’ ‘Yes, big improvements. You won’t remember your last visit, Mei.’

‘You were just a baby,’ Mum cuts in. ‘You’ll get to know everyone

properly now you’re …’

As if there’s a word that will cause me less pain, she pauses, trying

to find it. This only makes it worse. I swallow down the ache that’s

rising in my chest. Now we’re living here forever. Now I’ve lost my home, and we’ve left Dad alone. ‘… now you’re here.’

Uncle Kai gives me a forced smile that makes his face stretch like

a plasticine model, then turns away. He pulls the car into the steady flow of traffic leaving the airport.

159

I huff.

Mum leans between the seats in front. ‘I’m sorry about Mei.’ She

apologises for me. Again. ‘She was so excited to come before.’

Before, when it was a holiday. Not now, she’s ruined my life. I refuse

to be a part of this. She can’t make me like it here.

Mum, Uncle and Auntie are wrapped up in a criss-cross of conversa-

tion, interrupted by Auntie’s passenger-driver rants about other drivers. I look out the window at the lanes of traffic streaming by. Four, maybe five lanes bunch together, with motorbikes needling their way in and

out. My reflection is almost transparent in the window. My dark eyes

and hair disappear into the thick foliage through the glass. I press my

forehead against its cold surface, feeling myself sink into my invisible reflection. Mum continues to chatter as if this is just any other day.

We’re heading straight to Grandma and Grandad’s house – a four-

hour drive away. I’d rather stay in Kuala Lumpur. At least they have fast-food and cinemas. But Mum says they don’t use the KL house

much, because they need to help with Grandad’s shop. Li’s the only

one who stays in KL – he’s eighteen. If I were eighteen, I’d get back on the plane and go home where everything’s normal.

Glossary Ang Pow: A red packet containing money given to children at Chinese New Year.

Durian: A large fruit with a hard, spiky shell. Inside is custard-like flesh with a smell often compared to smelly feet. Hāi: A casual hello between friends. Ringgit: Malaysian currency.

160

161

162

163

164

TASHA L. BARRETT Tasha considers herself a dreamer, always looking for hope in the darkness. Since moving to Bath to study, Tasha has found her writing style lies within uplifting and emotional YA, facing issues prominent

in today’s society. She considers herself a mental health advocate, not shying away from hard-hitting subjects, with the hope to provide life

rafts for those who need them most. Tasha’s not-so-secret secret is that she often draws on real-life experiences to ensure that no matter who reads her stories, no one ever feels alone. After digging deep emotion-

wise, Tasha likes to unwind in her sunny garden with her partner and a glass of crisp white wine!

BLUE

The ones that love us never really leave us… Maddy’s world comes tumbling down when her best friend, her Uncle Neil, dies suddenly

and mysteriously. With no explanation for his death so far, she can’t understand why this has happened. After the funeral, a figure appears

behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder and speaking to her with a voice she knows all too well – Neil. Is he a ghost? Or a figment of her

imagination? And will they find out the dark truth about his death together? With the help of biker boy, Jay, maybe Maddy can finally learn to live again.

tashalbarrett.96@gmail.com

165

BLUE Chapter 1

A s h e s to C i g a re t te A s h e s lue-tinted roses and desert bluebells wind around his name.

The violet blooms gleam under the morning sunshine. Of all the days to be sunny.

Behind the flowers is a shiny ebony coffin. The sight of it makes

my stomach twist and turn, rocking around the hastily eaten pain au

chocolat Mum forced on me. I quickly bring my hand to my mouth as I feel it bobbing around my stomach like a dinghy on a rough sea.

Mum stands beside me shivering, her teeth chattering. It’s hard to tell

if it’s from the cold January breeze or the sight of the hearse. I rub my

hands together, feeling the sudden need to warm them despite how clammy they are.

‘Is … is he really in there?’ My thoughts come out of my mouth

before I can stop them.

Mum nods, taking my hand in hers and squeezing. Hers are clammy

too.

‘There’s well over fifty people here,’ I blurt out, wanting to fill the

silence between us.

She sighs sadly. ‘I know, he wouldn’t believe it.’

Mum and I walk towards the chapel hand in hand, following the

dark shadow of the coffin.

The room is filled with all black clothes and white waxy faces, the occasional person with puffed red eyes, others with their heads bowed to the ground.

166

The sun shines brilliantly through the stained-glass windows,

painting rainbows on my black Converse. Is the sun trying to tell me

the world goes on without him? The sun still shines, the wind still blows, traffic still piles up outside the house, queues form outside coffee shops. People continue to get on with their lives. So, why is it I feel my life ended with his?

The priest has been hovering at the front for quite some time now.

His polite grin to the many guests is getting on my last nerve. He’s doing the usual greetings: ‘Hello, thank you for coming,’ for each guest who

meets his gaze. Why is he greeting people in that way? It’s not a house party. I can almost imagine him greeting people at his front door, his white collar discarded on his black leather sofa, a red plastic cup full

of cheap vodka in his right hand whilst slurring: ‘Cheers for coming, guys, want a pint? Help yourself, drinks are in the kitchen.’

I shake my head at his constant smile. Neil would not like him.

He approaches the podium, standing directly in front of my uncle’s

coffin, and clears his throat.

‘Hello all. Thank you for attending today.’

My eye twitches in a desperate attempt to avoid a gigantic eye roll.

‘We meet here today to honour and pay tribute to the life of Neil

David Youngman, and to express our love and admiration for him.’

His voice is all one volume and one tone. It already forces my mind

to wander. I picture Neil beside me now with a large takeaway coffee

in his hand and a lit, rolled cigarette in the other. I watch him take a slow drag as he sniggers to himself, pointing his coffee to the front. ‘Who is this clown?’ he laughs, before taking another long puff.

I shudder. Mum’s cold hand on mine brings me back to the now. She

squeezes my fingers reassuringly, her baby-blue eyes already shining

with her tears. I squeeze her hand back, fighting the lump in my throat. 167

I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry. It always feels like a defeat to

me, like I’m proving to myself I’m weak … because I feel weak. Weak and alone. I steady my breathing as best as I can and turn back to the front of the chapel.

‘Neil has gone and it’s only natural that we should feel sad, because

in a practical sense he’s no longer part of our lives. The comfort of

having a son, a brother, an uncle and a friend may indeed be lost, but the comfort of having had that friend is never lost.’

I sigh, shuffling in my seat. The crematorium has a musty, stale

smell of old books and damp wood. I twiddle my thumbs anxiously as I

remember I must give my speech next. I was the type of person in school who stuttered about merely having to stand at the front of the class.

‘Today is also a day for memories. Today will be remembered for

many reasons, but mainly I hope it will be remembered by you all as

a very special day. A special day in which you shared some time with

others in order to pay your last respects. And speaking of which, Neil’s niece, Maddy, is going to speak now, I believe, to share with us some of these lovely memories.’

I gulp, as if trying to dry swallow a big pill. Mum squeezes my hand

a final time as I unfold the piece of paper that has been waiting on

my lap. My legs already start to shake as I stand, and all eyes are on me. Suddenly I’m eleven years old again, being picked on to write the answer on the board.

I try my best not to look at the coffin, but its shine catches my eye. Is he really in there?

The person who picked me up from school in his red car, who helped

me to make Mum’s birthday cake as we had a flour fight, who chased me around the garden when I was younger. The person who taught me how to learn to believe in myself, that I’m made for better things. 168

The person who became my best friend when I had none.

I steady my breathing as I cautiously approach the podium. The

priest puts a hand on my back, gesturing me in further.

I briefly look up from the creased piece of paper in front of me and

there are so many faces looking back. I know there must be people out there in the crowd that I know, but right now I can’t recognise any of them. They all have the same look on their faces: a pity smile. That’s the worst kind of smile.

I look back down to the paper and take a deep breath.

‘Neil,’ I hear my own voice shaking. ‘You … you used to call me

Rooney,’ I search for the next line, but the words jumble themselves around the page.

My eyes start to blur.

‘I …’ The words are now wobbly blobs as my tears trickle onto the

paper, smudging the ink. I look up for Mum in the crowd, but she’s already on her feet, on her way to me.

‘I – I can’t do this …’ I stutter as the tears keep falling and the feeling

of nausea is constantly rising. The ache of his absence throbs in my chest. Why is this happening? Why?

Why, Neil? Why?

Mum’s by me now, her arm around me. I rest my head on her

shoulder, sobbing into her black cardigan. My last words to Neil. My

final goodbye and I can’t even read it myself. I can hear Mum reading the rest of my speech, but I don’t hear the words. There’s nothing but ringing in my ears and the faint smell of tobacco and coffee beans.

Mum ushers a dazed me back to my seat and the priest has taken

his place at the podium again. He announces that a song will now 169

be played, and everyone must stand. My heart is in my mouth, and I

don’t even know if I can listen to it. The Show Must Go On by Freddie Mercury fills the room.

The whole room stands in unison as the intro to the song begins.

My heart beats ever faster, my eyes fixated on the coffin now as the

burgundy curtain slowly drops down to cover it up. I start to sob again, this time hysterically. I put my face in my hands, holding back a scream which clings to the back of my throat.

After the funeral, everyone walks outside.

The sun is still shining brightly. If the weather reflected my mood

today, it would be grey and foggy. Cold and damp with silent air. The clouds dark and gloomy, bursting with rain. The kind of day that makes you want to stay home tucked up in bed.

But yet the birds sing and the flowers still bloom on the frosty grass. I walk away from the busy crowd and their sympathetic apologies

which mean nothing to me. Trying desperately to shake the thought

that, as I walk the grounds, his body is becoming ashes and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

A fellow mourner visits a grave, dressed head to toe in motorbike

leathers, hovering by his lost loved one. He leans down and whispers something before tapping the grave gently with a kiss. I watch him,

transfixed. Is that going to be me? Visiting Neil’s grave, talking to him but never getting an answer? Never hearing his voice again? I don’t want that. I don’t want this.

Loud heels tapping on the pavement bring me out of my daydream.

They don’t notice me, or pretend not to.

‘He was so young. How old was he?’ an elderly woman says, linking

her husband’s arm.

170

So much for Billy-no-mates Neil. I hardly recognise anyone here.

‘Fifty, I think. That’s too young to die,’ her husband replies. I sigh

heavily, running a hand through my hair. When will today end?

On the frosty grass in front of me, a robin appears. His head twitches

from side to side, cleaning between his feathers. I watch him closely as he bursts into song before rising into the blue sky.

A gentle hand rests on my shoulder from behind, startling me. ‘Forty-nine, actually. Not fifty yet,’ a voice whispers.

I take a deep breath, the hair on my bare neck standing on end. ‘Never will be now, I guess,’ says the voice.

I don’t move. I stand there frozen to the spot. This voice I know.

I can smell him. He smells like everything I remember: the tobacco,

the coffee beans, the cheap aftershave. He smells like Neil.

I want to turn around. I want to turn around so desperately, but

I’m scared if I do, he won’t really be there.

I inhale slowly as I place my hand on top of his that still sits on my

shoulder. My heart jumps. It’s his hand. It’s his hand.

‘… Neil?’ My voice comes out choked and high pitched. ‘Yeah, Rooney?’

Chapter 2

B l u e - t i n te d G l a s s e s I stand there, not moving a muscle. It’s as if my feet are stuck in deep, sludgy mud. The hand on my shoulder remains. Neil’s hand?

My heart pounds loud and fast through my black lace dress, so hard 171

I’m sure I can see it. Please be there. Please.

I breathe out heavily, aware that I have been holding my breath

this whole time. As I close my eyes, I spin around fast as the hand falls from my shoulder. Please be him.

I slowly open my eyes … and a blurry figure comes into focus.

A silver chain hangs around his neck, glistening in the winter

sunshine. It sits above a navy-blue hoodie with white drawstrings,

accompanied by faded denim jeans and large red-and-black high-top trainers. His hair is short all over, like when he’s just been to the barbers.

His jet-black hair has speckles of silver running through it. He hated that he was going grey. His eyes are hidden by sunglasses with blue

reflective lenses. He’s clean shaven, but in this light, there’s a hint of

a stubble on his chin. I peer down to his hands which fumble in his hoodie pockets. He’s not wearing his watch.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he retrieves his leather tobacco pouch

which I know so well and begins rolling a cigarette. What. The. Fu—

‘Do I not get a hug, Rooney?’ He looks up at me from under his

sunglasses and rolls the cigarette between his thumbs and fingers.

It’s him. My eyes blur again, this time filled with tears. It’s really him. I lunge forward so quickly I knock the paper and loose tobacco out

of his hands. It falls all around me like snow as I cling my arms tightly

around his waist, burying my face in his hoodie. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my forehead.

‘Is it … is it really you?’ My voice comes out as a muffled squeak. I

loosen my grip and step back to look at him again. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Yes, it’s really me and you owe me some baccy!’ he laughs, gesturing 172

to the loose tobacco and papers still blowing in the wind at our feet. I laugh too, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

‘But how? Why? How?’ I’m losing it. Or maybe I’ve already lost it.

He shrugs. ‘One of my life’s big mysteries.’ He picks the last of the

tobacco out of the pouch and rolls another. He licks the paper and smooths it together with his fingers.

‘Surely you know?’ I run my hand through my hair. Am I talking to a ghost?

Or a blank space of nothing? Get it together, Maddy. ‘This is crazy.’

‘You know what’s crazier? How I barely know any of these sods.’ He

turns back to the crematorium as he sparks up his cigarette. ‘… You don’t?’

‘No! Who are they?’ He takes a long drag, watching the mourners

make their way to the carpark.

‘Don’t look at me, I thought they were your friends.’

He blows smoke out, coughing on it as he laughs. ‘Me? Friends?

You crack me up, Rooney.’

I smile to myself. This is crazy and unbelievable, and I can’t explain

it. But I’m glad it’s happening.

‘I missed you,’ I whisper, looking down at the ground. I thought I’d

never see him again.

He throws the cigarette on the floor and stomps it out until it’s a

pile of ash and papers. He takes off his sunglasses, hooking them on his hoodie.

‘I missed you so much, Rooney.’ He smiles, but there’s a sadness

behind his grey-blue eyes.

‘What happened to you? How did you—’ 173

‘Maddy?’ Mum’s voice calls for me in the carpark. I spot her purple-

tinted locks amongst all the grey-and-black suits.

‘Mum’s looking for me. What do I say?’ I turn back to Neil, and he’s

gone. The only reminder which tells me I didn’t imagine everything is a cigarette paper, still clinging to my Converse.

174

175

176

ROMILLY BROWNE Romilly was born in the city of Bath and raised on a diet of 50s movie

musicals. Her parents are an ex-DJ/headmaster who sat on her pet snail, and a dancer/teaching assistant who played the bassoon on the lawn of the White House. Romilly began acting, singing and dancing at the age of three because she wouldn’t talk except in lines from a

musical. This led to a few child acting roles. It also led to a diagnosis

of autism when she was nine, which made for traumatic school years

and to lecturing widely about her experiences to parents and teachers.

In her spare time, Romilly collects vintage toys, red lipstick and copies of The Wizard of Oz.

VIOLET CLARKE DOESN’T BREAK RULES 2010s Catholic school is a social minefield of skirt lengths, side-swept fringes and Taylor Swift. Fifteen-year-old Violet Clarke is struggling

with teenage life and her autism diagnosis. Her controlling best friend

has a secret adult boyfriend, there’s a new boy with neon-coloured jumpers in her drama class, and the star of the rugby team won’t stop targeting her with smutty comments. After an assault at school that

no one witnesses, will Violet be believed? A memoir-based YA novel, Violet’s story covers the final year of secondary school life. A fresh

take that shines a light on the struggles and cringe-filled moments of a neurodivergent teenager’s life. romillybrowne@gmail.com

177

VIOLET CLARKE DOESN'T BREAK RULES Chapter 1

Monday: 1/10/10 f anyone walked into this Maths lesson and was asked to pick out the girl with special needs, they’d probably not choose me.

Although the separate desk at the front of the class might be a

giveaway. So might the support worker sat next to me, although that could be a red herring – maybe I’m their support worker? But even so,

I sit apart. Separate to all the seemingly normal teenage girls behind me, with their sideswept fringes, Hollister body sprays and matted

hair extensions, chatting about which member of JLS they’d rather go out with, while I imagine which classic screen idol from the Fifties I’d rather go out with.

If the person trying to point me out was playing Disability Hotter

or Colder, they’d eventually be told that anywhere near my ‘social

separation’ desk was flaming hot. Then they’d look at me and say, ‘But

you don’t look autistic, Violet,’ even though I don’t know what that looks like, because it’s an invisible condition, and I’d say, ‘Well done, you managed to root out the special, points to you,’ and then tally them up in the margin of my algebra book.

What they’d be implying by saying, ‘I don’t look it’ is that I’m tall

with mousey blonde hair, I have a River Island tote bag to carry my books in (which I made my parents pay a small fortune for in a Norwich shopping centre), and I wear my uniform sensibly. I straighten my hair 178

and wear a tiny bit of makeup every day. It all means I can’t possibly

have something ‘wrong’ with me, never mind a (deep shocked breath

in) disability! (Lightning and thunderclap in the style of an old-timey Frankenstein film).

Of course, if I was having a bad day, they’d know straight away that

I was the odd one out.

Having a friend seems to make a difference to opinions, though.

We’re not supposed to be able to make friends, us different ones. My best friend Tori (Victoria) is head of house, deputy head girl and volunteers for all the school music events. Her dad is also a school

governor. Being friends with her also seems to mean that I’m in some way ‘normal.’ As if all people with some sort of difference are incapable

of forming social relationships, as if we live in caves and grab passing people by the legs saying ‘thank you for being my friend’ over and over again when they offer us friendship.

‘I wouldn’t know you were any different … on appearances,’ Tori

says at lunch when I break this theory to her. ‘Well, I might if I saw

you go to the Art Room for most breaks, but to look at, you wouldn’t know.’ She’s right, of course.

We’re complete opposites, Tori and me. We made friends over the

erasers in my pencil case that look like little biscuits. She said they were ‘super kawaii’, which she says is Japanese for ‘cute.’ I’m tall and

she’s not. I have long blonde-ish hair; she has cropped black hair. I’m my parents’ only child. Tori has a little brother with autism. So that’s

good because she understands it. We’ve never had a major argument, just several little ones. And I always apologise in the end.

My daily school routine isn’t what you’d call normal. Every morning

Mrs Sykes, the most amazing SENCO (Special Educational Needs

Co-Ordinator) meets me outside the student entrance. Her soft West 179

Country accent is comforting now I’m used to it. When I’m feeling super panicky, just hearing, ‘Alriiight, my darrrling?’ echo across the staff car park is a relief.

I used to arrive by myself in the first few years of school, but I

found it so difficult that she meets me every morning now. I still find it hard, maybe even more so, but I’m good at covering it up. You learn

how to play the pretending game after a while, apart from at the start

of the week. That’s when my cover is weakest. Very often I’m not there on a Monday.

Then we walk to my tutor room together, sometimes with Tori

when she’s not in a Student Council meeting or Prom committee thing.

That’s what happens when you go into your final year of secondary – everyone starts getting voluntary jobs on councils or committees.

Then I sit through Tutor Group where Miss Crowther will read a

long prayer and fill us with Catholic guilt for the day. I’m not Catholic, I

just go to St Catherine’s College because it’s a performing arts specialist school. She’ll probably ask me to help with another charity cake sale, and I’ll say yes because I don’t think I could say no. That’s the right

social thing to do, anyway, to say yes when someone asks for help. That’s what my psychologist, Lucy, says anyway.

Then I’ll head to a lesson, five minutes before everyone else to avoid

the big crowds winding their way around the Bistro or the Piazza (which are trying-to-make-it-seem-posh names for cafeteria and playground).

When break hits, I’ll sit in the Art Room and sketch my future self’s

life. As an escape, I like to imagine my grown-up life. How much more

popular and social I’ll be. The thought of having no problems when I

grow up often gets me through the day. I look into the life of Adult Me and imagine the grown-up, issue-free life she has. Adult Me won’t be sitting alone; she’ll be funny, engaging and living a fabulous life with 180

loads of friends. She won’t get comments from the people in charge

about how different she is, or struggle to talk to other people her age. Miss Crowther gave me a spare GCSE portfolio book to doodle in,

where I draw the Woman I Will Grow Into and what her outfits look

like, the contents of her handbag, her flat, etc. I keep it stashed in my schoolbag.

Then I’ll head to a normal classroom lesson, like Geography or

Spanish or something, and sit at my special little separate desk. The

boys sitting behind me will prod me in the back with a shatterproof ruler because they’ve forgotten a pen or pencil and need to borrow one. I’ve lost many good pens like that. Even a few of the scented ones.

Now I carry spare Bics in the front pocket of my blazer so I don’t have to give away the good ones.

One time I gave Christian a mint and he spat it across the classroom.

It’s still stuck to the filing cabinet in Maths B8.

Of course, the row behind me is all the ‘bad behaviour’ boys on

report, usually Ben Flanagan and Kieran Matthews. They’re seated

behind me because the teachers think that I’m the non-fun person who will stop them from chewing gum in class and swapping Girls of

Hollyoaks screensavers for their new Nokias. Why is this the system?

The school have made a mistake here. They’ve just made it easier for them to make comments about me.

If I had to sum up the first-row boys, it would be with what happened

in Drama last week. We were discussing Lady Macbeth. I love Shake-

speare and understand it. Probably because when I was little, I had

a Tales of Shakespeare children’s book. The four boys couldn’t stop

giggling all the way through me reading the opening monologue.

Eventually Mrs Shelley stopped me. ‘Boys, what is it you’re laughing

at? Because Violet’s actually doing really well.’ She put down her can 181

of Diet Coke as she said this.

Mrs Shelley is awesome. She has a nose piercing and a rose vine

tattooed on her shoulder. Plus, she went to actual Drama School in London.

‘It can’t be Violet’s acting; it surely can’t be the words.’ She stood

up then, high-top red Converse plonked down on the Drama Studio floor as she hopped off the front of her desk.

The boys didn’t stop laughing, just started hitting each other with

their borrowed copies of the text. But even though I was stood there, on my own, I felt defended by my Tattooed Heroine. ‘Maybe if I start reading the text, you could point out what it is,’ she said.

She stood in front of them, making complete eye contact with

Christian. The ringleader. She started, ‘Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts. Unsex me here …’

On ‘Unsex me here,’ they all fell about laughing again. So did Saff

and Ali.

‘Why is that funny to you boys?’ asked Mrs Shelley defiantly. ‘There

is nothing funny about a woman planning the murder of her husband’s rival or the rejection of her own femininity.’ She’s so cool, I thought to

myself. She must have learnt so much amazing stuff about Shakespeare at Drama School.

They behave like that in every lesson, but even worse are the creative

ones that they think are ‘gay’. Horrible to say that. But that’s Catholic school for you – homophobia all the way.

At the end of the day, I’ll leave via the main entrance to avoid the

crowd, and Dad will meet me under the one-way sign for the school

road. Then we’ll get into his ancient Renault Laguna and talk about my day. What I won’t mention on the drive home is the comments from some of the boys and the girls, but mostly the boys. I might mention 182

that they weren’t very kind and that I found it funny because that’s

what Tori told me to do. She says to just laugh it off, they don’t mean any harm, ‘they’re just stupid teenage boys.’ And Dad probably won’t question it, although he might mention it to Mum.

I feel a sharp jab to my side. It’s Tori’s gel pen. I’ve been in this mind-

world of recounting my routine for a while, it seems. When I focus in on the situation, the whole class is filtering out of the room. The bell’s gone so I can’t leave early like I usually do.

‘You missed the bell. I tried to whisper to you, but you weren’t

listening,’ Tori says as she picks up her Nightmare Before Christmas satchel bag that’s been slung over her chair.

‘Sorry,’ I say, panic setting in as I realise Ben Flanagan hasn’t given

back my best rollerball pen, the one with the little raindrops on it which Tori got for me at the Southeast Asian Supermarket in town.

‘Did we have any homework? I missed getting my planner out for it,’

I say, terrified that I’ve missed a key piece of information that everyone else knows. Tori shakes her head, but she’s not looking at me, so maybe she hasn’t really heard me. I won’t push it. I don’t want to annoy her when she’s got so much on. I can’t ask Mr McBride because he’s filling out Kieran’s report card. My head fizzes with anxiety as we leave.

I’m not going to be first in the line for Chemistry now, but that’s

OK because we have a seating plan for Chemistry, I tell myself, but the

audible brain-fizz is still there. We cross the playground to the Science Block with the rest of St Catherine’s, all 861 of us, weaving around each

other trying not to get shoved or pinched. There’s been a lot of bum

pinching from the boys in my year recently, so I keep my hands behind my back as we walk. Not that they’d ever target me. I’m not pretty.

Tori is telling me about the newest Muse album. I don’t know who 183

they are, I just know the lead singer has orange hair. That seems to be enough knowledge to get me by.

As we climb the old concrete stairs to Science Block F Room, she’s

still talking about how she’s going to get her nose pierced in the same way as the girl from the band. Everything in the Science Block smells

like burning fibre, probably because of the practical where you burn

different crisps. It might also be because all the benches are still wooden

and easily combustible. We shuffle in as everyone else starts to take their pencil cases and water in Lucozade bottles out of their bags.

‘Hey Clarke,’ Ali Stevens shouts across at me, using my last name

rather than a cruel twist on my first name today (sometimes she uses

Violent or Vile-et). Her hot-pink bra is showing through her school shirt, and she’s got her blazer off even though it’s October. She twists

her chestnut hair around her finger as she says, ‘Nice hair accessory.’ The other girls around her giggle and carry on comparing fake-tan

streaks under their blazer cuffs and spritzing themselves with Solana Beach body mist.

I’m confused. I didn’t wear an Alice band today or a clip. Then Tori

says quietly, ‘There’s tape in the back of your hair.’ I reach back and

find the long strip of shiny Scotch tape stuck in my highlights. But I’m interrupted pulling it out.

‘Stop it, Ben!’ giggles Ali. He’s running away from her desk playfully,

smirking as Kyle high fives him. ‘How am I gonna get it done back up?’

she laughs while reaching around her back. Ben Flanagan has undone her hot-pink bra through her shirt.

184

185

186

ANNABELLE CORMACK Annabelle realised she wanted to be a writer when a teacher told her that scribbling stories about dragons on a maths test was frowned

upon in civilised society. She decided that civilised society was not for her and has been writing about cheerfully amoral witches and deadly curses ever since. Growing up in rural France, with the only

phone signal to be obtained by balancing on the hen house, nature is a constant source of inspiration to her. She writes poetry for several magazines and was longlisted for the National Poetry Competition

2022. Currently, Annabelle is the Bard of Bath, organising literary events and sending altogether too many emails.

LIKE THE MOON WE RISE

What if you were the villain all along? In the conquered kingdom of

Talismere, ruled by the tyrannical Empire, young witch Auriel makes

her living as a poison-maiden, murdering for money with the help of her accomplice Faolan. When she is hired by the resistance to assassinate

the Empress Liana, her loyalties are tested when she discovers that the

Empress is her long-lost sister. Auriel is torn between her allegiance to the enigmatic leader of the resistance, Ambrose, her growing feelings

for Faolan, and her understanding of Liana’s darkness – the same darkness that is stirring within her own heart. One witch’s choices will shape the future of her world forever. annabelle.cormack28@gmail.com

187

LIKE THE MOON WE RISE Chapter 1 here were a growing number of outlawed objects in Auriel’s chambers that could see her hanged for high treason.

If the Empire’s soldiers dared to enter the strange old house,

they would have their pick of reasons to arrest her. There were the

stacks of occult books to begin with, not to mention the illegal runes

carved into the walls. And if an intruder failed to notice these things, perhaps what would give it away was the portrait of the Empress herself,

looking down from the wall with haughty disdain, an obsidian-hilted throwing knife embedded in her right eye.

But fortunately for its inhabitants, no stranger had entered the

house on the hill for as long as anyone could remember. And if Dakr’s unpleasant nature wasn’t enough to repel unwanted visitors, Auriel had

ensured the house was well warded: salt on every windowsill, black

tourmaline in the skirting boards, the clock hands turned back by an

hour to trick death. It put her mind at ease. A place like this needed a little enchantment.

Today was not a particularly enchanting day. Muted colours filtered

through the curtains, the muffled golds and greys of clouds pregnant with snowfall. Once upon a time, Auriel might have spent a moment

watching the sunset, but not tonight. She’d long since learned that the sky didn’t dance for her benefit – the world was just minding its business, which made her feel like she should mind hers. She snatched 188

her medicine bag from the door and slipped into the gathering dark. Early evening, midwinter’s night and blue milk moon. Time for a witch to go wandering.

Shadows stretched beneath the gas lamps and mist clung low to

the ground, casting the night in an ochre haze. Pressing close to the

hedges, Auriel made her way into the village, where smoke plumed like banners from the chimney tops. Today, the snow in the cart ruts

was speckled with mud, coal, and in places, blood. It wasn’t unusual to see blood in the snow in Toru Morag, especially after market day.

As she cut towards the square, she was jostled back by a straggle

of villagers rushing home to beat the curfew. For a second she envied them. They had families to go home to, homes with buttery light in

the windows and teakettles always full. But that life was not for her.

She didn’t miss the uneasy glances thrown her way or the whispers. Childkiller, childkiller. She wondered how many knew the rumours were true.

She didn’t miss the soldiers either, standing to attention on the

street corners, the silhouettes of rifles crisscrossing their backs. She had the vague knowledge that it hadn’t always been this way, before the Empire, before the fall, but she’d been too young to remember it.

Widow Gallowglass’s house was on the slightly more upmarket side

of town, which wasn’t saying much. A row of magnolia trees divided

it from the rest of the village, which helped keep out Toru Morag’s

various smells and prevented anyone from looking in, which was how they liked it at the Gallowglass house.

Widow Gallowglass wasn’t technically a widow yet, a minor point

that Auriel would rectify before the night was up. Auriel’s knack for poisons had been the making of Toru Morag’s most affluent widows

– settling one’s affairs was a delicate business, best managed with a 189

tincture of cyanide and a little bit of spite. No one dared report her to the authorities, of course. To do so would be to risk finding poison in their own morning porridge.

Auriel slowed as the house rose into view, all sharp gables and

stained-glass windows that threw geometric shadows across the lawn.

One last job, she told herself. One more payment, and she’d be free of

her debt, free to leave Toru Morag forever. She pictured a cottage of her own, something remote and modest, a garden with a beehive and

an orchard. She pushed the image down. She had one more night to survive first, one more promise left to keep.

She checked her cloak and crossed to the servant’s entrance behind

the building, fingers brushing the twin vials in her pockets. Then she rapped on the door and retreated into the shadows, face tilted so the street lanterns caught the hollows beneath her eyes.

A square of brightness bisected the lawn as the door swung open.

Auriel kept her head bowed as the housekeeper gave her a sharp once-over.

‘Trathnóna mhaith,’ Auriel said in Talisi, keeping her voice low. She’d

had years of practice imitating Dakr’s rasp, and she laid the highland

accent on with a trowel, rolling her r’s like thick whisky. ‘Yer mistress sent fer me. Lord Gallowglass has taken ill.’

Auriel flashed a glimpse of her medicine bag. It wasn’t difficult to

pass as a hag in the darkness. Her hair, once beautiful and dark, had

become a snarl of knots the colour of spider’s webs. Paired with Dakr’s black cloak and a lungful of hickory smoke to hoarsen her voice, most

people only needed the slightest convincing. It wasn’t magick, she told herself. Not really.

‘Dakr,’ the housekeeper said. ‘I haven’t heard of sickness in the house.’ ‘Aye, ye wouldn’t have. The mistress said it was a personal matter.’ 190

Auriel fought a smile. ‘Regarding the master’s . . . male wellness.’

The housekeeper flushed. ‘In that case. The master’s study is

upstairs, third door on the right.’

Auriel inclined her head. Dakr’s name carried a certain weight

around here. Impersonating her employer had started out as an enter-

taining game, but she’d soon discovered that it was much easier to get things done when she was anybody besides herself.

She made to step past when the housekeeper gripped her arm.

‘This is no time for an old woman to walk alone at night. You ought to bring your apprentice next time.’

Auriel cocked her head, extending her awareness, listening to the

tell-tale ticking in the housekeeper’s chest. She would die that winter from rotten lungs, but she didn’t need to know that yet. If things went well tonight, Auriel might propose a treatment, for a price. But if things

went wrong, it was reassuring to know that it would only take a frost to eliminate her.

‘My apprentice is away trading,’ Auriel said. Dakr always said that

the best lies blended seamlessly with the truth so that one was as

impossible to separate from the other as a drop of poison in a glass of dark wine.

The housekeeper was still flustered by the mention of male wellness

and Auriel entered without comment. She passed the soon-to-be

Widow Gallowglass on the stairs – their eyes met for a second before

both women continued on their way. As planned, the mistress was calling on a neighbour to give herself an alibi. She was like many of Auriel’s clients, willing to pay a premium if it allowed her to spend her

newfound inheritance without having to bother about trivial things like morals and guilt and prison.

Auriel paused before a gilded mirror to strip off Dakr’s cloak, 191

revealing the emerald satin beneath. It had been a difficult balance to

find an outfit that was sufficiently suggestive whilst also covering her

from ankle to collarbone. The dress fit badly, and her skin, once as rich as goldroot tea, carried a sallow tinge of sickness that no quantity of

cosmetics could conceal. She sighed. It was a particular kind of curse to grow up in a place like Toru Morag with aspirations of elegance.

There was no time to do anything about it now. She paused before

the door of the master’s study. ‘Lord Gallowglass?’ she called.

Silence. Auriel sent up a hushed prayer. Thane, keep me. Ishtar,

protect me. Agneyi, lend me your courage. Watain, show me the way.

She’d tried all kinds of ruses on her gods before; curses, bargains,

even blackmail, but deities seemed to be above the notice of such things. Tonight, she kept her prayer short and sweet. A night that didn’t end in death or dismemberment was good enough for her.

‘My lord?’ Auriel pressed against the door, making her voice playful,

a sharp transition from the gravelly old lady from before. Over the years, she’d worn many disguises, changing faces like the moon did, shifting from maiden to mother to crone.

She nudged the door open to reveal a spacious study. She barely

had time to take in the marble fireplace and opulent desk before her

eyes settled on the man behind it. He wasn’t particularly old, nor did he look the type to beat his wife, if you could indeed tell these things from a glance. With a shrug, Auriel strode inside.

‘Always working, my lord.’ She ignored Gallowglass’s bewildered

expression and plucked the ledger from his hands. ‘And on a Sunday. This won’t do.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He removed his spectacles. ‘Do I know you?’

She did a swift inventory of the room, eyes settling on the decanter

of whisky by the fire. ‘You will soon.’ 192

Lord Gallowglass gaped in confusion as she poured the whisky into

two crystal tumblers. With her back turned, she slipped the vial from

her pocket and added a generous dose to the left glass, the sickly tang of turpentine scorching her nostrils.

‘There’s been a mistake.’ Lord Gallowglass took in her costume with

pursed lips. ‘You have the wrong house.’

‘I don’t think so.’ She set the glass before him. The firelight turned

the drink to liquid amber, and Auriel fought back a wave of nausea.

She only needed to hold on a little longer. She perched on the desk, swallowing her distaste as she brushed a finger along Gallowglass’s arm. It was always easier with skin-to-skin contact. She leaned towards

him, making her eyes both wicked and bashful beneath lowered lashes.

It was the simplest of glamours – a tilt of the head, a certain walk and anyone could do the same. Not magick. Not really.

She leaned in to kiss him and he let her, riveted to the spot, his

pupils dilated to black moons. It wasn’t awful. He wasn’t old or drunk or rancid. Briefly she allowed herself to wonder what it might be like

to kiss someone with a life expectancy of more than several minutes. Just one last night. What was one more night after six years? And

then there would be no more disguises, no more false kisses, no more

bartering her power for coins. One more night, and she’d never touch another drop of poison again.

Then Lord Gallowglass grabbed her throat, quick as a snake.

‘You’ve poisoned my drink,’ he said, pupils growing and shrinking

as he fought her magick. ‘Haven’t you?’

Auriel tried not to cough as his fingers crushed her windpipe. His

placid, plodding look was gone, replaced by one of triumph as he pinned her against the desk.

‘Your wife warned me you were observant,’ Auriel choked. ‘I expect 193

a man who spent his career in the sawmills of the Wildwood to know turpentine when he smells it.’

Gallowglass’s face fell. Not figuratively, but literally: the left side of

his face sagged, his eye receding into the socket. He released her with a jolt, hands flying to his face.

‘How—’ His gaze darted between Auriel and the untouched glass.

‘But I didn’t drink it.’

Auriel smiled, and Lord Gallowglass touched his fingers to his mouth. ‘Oh,’ he said. Then his foot caught on the leg of his desk and he fell

in a surprisingly graceful arc.

Auriel approached him slowly. ‘A wise old woman once told me the

best way to steal a man’s wallet is to pretend you’re trying to steal his

wife. You were too busy watching me lace your drink to notice what the rest of me was doing. You business types always think yourselves so clever. But moonbane is a recent discovery of mine. Very easily

absorbed through the skin, perfectly mimics the symptoms of a stroke.’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Take note, Mr Gallowglass. These are trade secrets.’

Gallowglass began convulsing on the rug.

‘The poison’s on your skin.’ He brought up a trickle of bloody foam.

‘You’ll die too.’

‘You’re an educated man,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d have it all

figured out by now.’

Auriel smiled wistfully. She was thirteen the first time Dakr had

poisoned her. Nightshade. The bitter kind. She remembered that terrible hour scrambling to concoct the antidote as her vision blurred. Dakr had always believed in a practical approach to her teachings. Auriel still hadn’t forgiven her for it.

But over the years, she’d built an immunity to poison. A non-lethal 194

dose, taken regularly, could build the body’s resistance. Now, she

could carry poison inside herself to pass onto the skin of her victim.

The poison training had wracked her body, stunting her growth and

turning her hair as white as a crone’s, but right then, it was worth it

to see the look on Gallowglass’s face as she shook back her sleeves and stepped into the shaft of moonlight slanting through the window.

‘Witch.’ Gallowglass’s eyes widened. For as she stepped into the light,

the runes on her skin flared to life, mirroring the moon in a silvery

glow. The first mark had appeared when she was a child, the day after – The day after.

She snipped that thought off quickly, like the head of a rose. ‘You’ll

die in a moment or so,’ Auriel said. ‘You’ll probably choke on your tongue

before the poison stops your heart. From one professional to another,

it’s best to be aware of these things. Nothing personal. I’m very sorry your wife wants you dead. I’m afraid you didn’t meet her by chance

that day at the market, either. You were married under the influence of an aphrodisiac potion. This isn’t helping, is it?’ Auriel plucked the

handkerchief from the Lord’s pocket to wipe the drool from his chin. ‘Perhaps you recall the charming fellow you spoke to about upgrading

your life insurance last summer? I’m afraid that was my colleague, Mr Flynn. He took a sample of your signature to . . . update your medical

records. You appear to have acquired a degenerative heart condition.’ She patted his hand. ‘My condolences.’ Gallowglass moaned.

‘Yes, it’s very tedious,’ Auriel agreed. She frowned at the sensation

of sweat beading her brow. ‘It’s time I took my leave. I’m not one to deprive a dying man of peace.’ She slipped the remaining vial from her

pocket. The liquid inside was as thin as spit, as white as a lie. ‘Here’s to hoping you have better taste in women in the next life, my lord.’ 195

She toasted the air. She’d accustomed her body to metabolising

poison, but large quantities of moonbane couldn’t be carried for long without leaching into her bloodstream.

The first drop of antidote had just touched her lips when something

smashed into the side of her head.

196

197

198

JULIA DIELMANN Julia is a German-born, but English-at-heart poet and author of books

for teenagers and adults. In any medium, her writing is as queer as she is. Julia has a BSc in Creative Writing and Psychology and an MA in

Writing for Young People from Bath Spa University. When not writing,

she guards bookish treasures in a library and volunteers as a counsellor for LGBTQ+ teens. For fun, she reads everything she can get her hands

on, learns musicals by heart and searches for random historical facts

to annoy her friends with. She lives in a ramshackle, book-filled house in Bath but would always rather be in Paris.

LOVE AND LIBERTY

Paris, 1832. seventeen-year-old Adrienne de Clairmont has always

chafed against the constraints of their aristocratic life, but it takes the threat of an arranged marriage for them to finally break free.

Reinventing themself as male and adopting the name Adrien, they dive into the Paris of the poor and downtrodden. Along the way, they find friendship, romance and a cause worth fighting for. But as the city turns

into a powder-keg of rebellion, they are forced to decide just how far they are willing to go for justice. Is tomorrow worth fighting for, even when you might not get to see it?

juliadielmann.writes@outlook.com

199

LOVE AND LIBERTY Chapter 1 Paris, March 1832 y quill darted across the page, barely fast enough to keep

pace with the words spilling out of me. I had to finish this commission tonight. These days, the newspaper editors

always seemed hungry for more. Maybe Parisians wanted something

lighter to read alongside all the articles about hunger, peasant uprisings, and the poor dying of some mysterious disease. Still, it never ceased to

amaze me that anyone actually wanted to read the adventure stories I’d first dreamed up six years ago, when I was eleven. But then, I supposed

my protagonist, Florent, was inherently likeable: daring and clever, irreverent of authority.

One day, I wanted to be like him. To finally have an adventure in

real life, not just on the page. To be someone other than Adrienne de Clairmont, someone free to go where they chose and do as they pleased.

With a wistful sigh, I turned the page, throwing a quick glance at

the grandfather clock by the window. I had to be done before my aunt

fetched me for dinner or she’d expose the careful ruse that Sebastien,

our old servant, and I had concocted over the years. We always told her that he was taking me to confession, when really, he waited for me outside the newspaper while I delivered the next instalment of my story.

If Aunt Joséphine ever got wind of our exploits, she’d dismiss Sebastien on the spot and lock me in my room until I forgot what a pen was.

She lived her life in the past, still longing for the pre-Revolution 200

days, when our family had flourished, when our house had hosted

glamorous soirées rather than crumbling to pieces around us. I’d grown

up on her stories of crystal chandeliers and costly Flemish tapestries, of lavish wallpaper and specially commissioned portraits.

But most of that had been sold over the past few years, and now all

that was left was the peeling stucco on the ceiling and the moth-eaten velvet curtains on my bed.

I shook off the thought of what would happen when there was

nothing left to sell and focused back on my work, absent-mindedly

fiddling with the gold medallion at my throat. It had been my mother’s before she passed, and I liked to believe it brought me luck. It worked this time as well, as moments later, I finished the final sentence, briefly revelling in the satisfaction of a tale well told.

But my triumph was dashed when I heard a sharp rap at the door.

I flinched, dropping my quill.

There was only one person who knocked like that.

I hastily crammed my pages into a desk drawer before Aunt

Joséphine swept into the room, her skirts whispering along the floor. Looking at her, you would have thought the Ancien Régime was still in

power. She’d never given up the old fashions, all high collars and long

sleeves, her dresses as tightly buttoned as her expression. Draped in

the mourning black she’d worn since our family was almost wiped out during the Revolution, she barely resembled the jewel-encrusted young

woman from the hallway portraits. I sometimes wondered how grief could change a person so completely. My aunt might have physically survived the riots, but part of her had died back then too.

Now, she stepped closer, surveying me with her usual disapproving

gaze. I could smell the mothballs in her garments, barely obscured by the lavender essence she used to tame her iron-grey hair into its fierce knot.

201

‘You were supposed to come down for dinner half an hour ago,’

she reprimanded me.

Seemed like I had lost track of time after all.

Before I could think of an excuse, she’d already seen the quill lying

on the desk and the black stains on my hands. Her mouth pinched into a tight line.

‘Have you been writing? At this hour?’

There was no point denying it, so I met her gaze with my head high.

‘So what if I have?’

Aunt Joséphine sighed, glancing down at my ink-spattered hands

in disgust. ‘What man will want a wife with a head full of literary pretensions? And fingers as black as a charbonnier’s?’

Ouch. Comparing me to a coalman was harsh even for her.

‘Well, I’m not getting married any time soon,’ I said, half-confused,

half-exasperated.

She huffed. ‘I think it is high time that you did. At your age, I was

already engaged to my Antoine, God rest his soul.’

She crossed herself and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I knew

I should be grateful she’d taken care of me after Maman’s death, but sometimes, I found her theatrics unbearable.

‘Yes, but those were different times,’ I said, more sharply than I’d

meant to.

‘Certainly. Back then, children respected their elders.’

I stifled a sigh. ‘Is there anything in particular you wanted to discuss

with me, Aunt?’

If not, could you please just leave me in peace? ‘There is indeed.’

She pulled up a chair and slowly lowered herself into it. Her joints

always pained her when it was this cold, especially now we had to be 202

careful with firewood. Once she was seated, she smoothed her skirts and adopted her most pompous expression. ‘I have excellent news for you, Adrienne.’ ‘Oh?’

I already knew that her definition of ‘excellent’ and mine were

entirely different things.

‘You see, I met the Marquis de Beauregard at a soirée last week

and he happened to mention that his great-nephew is still an eligible bachelor.’

My stomach twisted. I knew all too well where this was heading.

And while I despised my current existence under my aunt’s strict rules, becoming the lapdog of some spoiled aristocrat would be even worse.

If this marriage went ahead, I’d end up catering to my husband’s every whim and giving birth to a child a year until I died of exhaustion.

‘But why me?’ I asked, struggling to keep my voice from shaking. ‘Our

house has nothing. Surely, they could find someone more … suitable?’ ‘We have a name,’ Aunt Joséphine said coolly. ‘Yes, but …’

She carried on like I’d never spoken. ‘If we managed to secure this

marriage, all our problems would be solved. The Beauregards regained their fortune after the Revolution and with this match, so could we.’

‘And you’re not even going to ask me what I want?’ I demanded,

anger swirling through my veins like ink spilt on a page.

My aunt raised her eyebrows like I’d said something utterly ludi-

crous. ‘Do you think anyone asked me if I wanted to be married? In this world, women do not want. They obey.’

I knew she was right, but that didn’t lessen my anger. I searched

for a cutting retort, but all that came out was, ‘You can’t make me.’ I sounded like a petulant child even to my own ears. 203

Aunt Joséphine’s flint-grey eyes bored into me. ‘I can. And I will, if

that is what it takes to restore our house to its former glory.’

There was no doubt in her voice, no room for negotiation.

‘But how can I marry someone I don’t even love?’ I asked in a final

desperate attempt to change her mind.

She scoffed. ‘Love? Did you get that foolish notion from one of your

books? Marriage is not about love. It’s a transaction like any other.’ ‘You loved your husband, though.’

My aunt shrugged. ‘I felt affection for him, but love? No. That was

for someone else.’

Her eyes lost focus for a moment, fixed on a distant past only she

could see. But then, she pulled herself together, regaining her steely composure. Before I could ask her what she’d meant by that last comment, she went on: ‘Be that as it may, you know as well as I do

that women of our standing need to marry well to secure our futures.’ I tried not to wince at the word women, even as it made my skin itch

with wrongness. Every time I’d been called it, every time I was forced into dresses and caged into corsets instead of being allowed to run

free, I’d lost a little more of myself. A little more of the person I knew

I was, but that no one else seemed to see. I should have accepted it by now, but somehow, it never got easier.

I clamped my lips shut to keep my irritation from spilling over and

my aunt used the opportunity to carry on speaking.

‘Be realistic, girl. What other options do you have?’

Instinctively, my eyes darted to my quill. She followed my gaze and

her face hardened. Her eyes flashed with the cold fire I’d learned to

fear as she said, ‘Get dressed. We are leaving for a ball at the Marquis’s house in an hour. You’ll be meeting your intended tonight. And you will be docile and charming. Not … this.’ 204

She gestured at my ink-stained hands, my crumpled housedress

and the unkempt hair cascading down my back. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘And what if I refuse?’ I snapped.

‘You won’t if you know what’s good for you.’

She rose to her feet as imperiously as she could, sucking in a sharp

breath as her knees creaked. It had been a long time since we’d been able to afford the medicine that brought her at least some relief. But I refused to pity her, anger still hot in my chest. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not going.’

‘Oh yes, you are. For once in your life, you will stop being selfish

and do as I say.’

‘I’m being selfish?’

I was about to unleash an angry tirade, but Aunt Joséphine held

up her hand. ‘Enough. I will not argue with you any longer. You will be ready in an hour, or I will come and drag you to the ball myself.’

She swept out of my room like an overgrown bat, leaving me behind

with my impotent rage. But as I sat there, brooding, an idea slowly took

shape in my head. Maybe going there would be a good opportunity to

gather inspiration for my next set of villains? The idea made my skin tingle with excitement, as always when a good idea blossomed in my

mind. If I couldn’t get out of being a noble, I could at least satirise them, vent my anger on the page to break the silence I was forced to keep.

‘How’s that for “docile and charming”?’ I muttered as I rose from

my chair and went off to select the least awful of my dresses.

205

206

ELEANOR DRAGE Eleanor is a fervent reader, writer and overthinker who enjoys weaving worlds out of words when she should be concentrating on other things.

She spent many years attempting to trick her distinctly odd-shaped brain into holding down a “proper job”, trying her hand at marketing, events and fundraising, as well as dog rescue, professional scuba diving

and that one stint as a professional Cat in the Hat impersonator. She lives in Brighton where she likes to swim in the sea (when it’s sunny),

talk loudly in the pub (when it’s rainy) and walk her dog along the Sussex Downs (whatever the weather).

SWEETER ON THE OTHER SIDE

When Liv breaks up with her best-friend-turned-secret-girlfriend, her world splits in two: literally. With part of her soul trapped in a surreal

purgatory of regret, Liv must learn to accept the consequences of her decision if she ever wants to feel whole again. As she battles through her darkest fears, Liv fights to regain control of her destiny, journeying

back to the moment of the separation and reversing her fate. But as

reality begins to unfold in this altered destiny, Liv soon learns that sometimes life’s biggest mistakes are made for a reason. eleanor.drage@outlook.com

207

SWEETER ON THE OTHER SIDE Prologue y soul split in two the moment I let Tally go. That’s not some angst-fuelled metaphor for a broken heart. There’s

nothing vague or figurative about what happened to me.

I mean, quite literally, that my entire being was ripped down the middle

when I looked into Tally’s eyes and spoke the seven words that would change my life forever.

One decision, that’s all it took. Who knew my soul was hanging by

such a gossamer thread?

I watched as my stupid, stubborn body walked away from me,

oblivious to the shadow it was leaving behind. I saw the way it cried and stomped and pulled its hood up against the rain, but never once turned round. I tried to reason with it, begging it to take back the

words that had just tumbled from its disobedient mouth. But it just

kept walking as I was scooped up out of thin air like a shrimp from a rockpool, and cast into the depths of purgatory.

That’s what we call it here – this endless expanse of regret. And if the

leaden remorse that’s heaped onto your shoulders with every passing day isn’t enough to break you, then the wailing fog should do the trick.

I remember the way it swarmed over me when I arrived – how it

billowed around my legs and curled up my torso as if it was claiming me. Within seconds it was wrapped around my arms, my shoulders, my

neck and I’d started to scream. But a tentacle of fog slithered its way 208

past my open lips and down my throat, coating my lungs with the taste of sulphur. The screaming had given way to retching soon after that.

I told myself it couldn’t be happening. I needed to get back, to put

things right with Tally before I lost her for good. I stared into the gaping

yawn of nothing that stretched out beyond the steps of the Gallery, searching for a pinprick beacon of light to guide me home. But the darkness just widened its jaws.

I wanted so badly to be brave, to plunge headlong into the unknown

and fight my way back to reality. But the fog grew fresh fingers and the wind sharpened its teeth as soon as I started to run. It clawed at my

skin and raked through my hair, and sent me sprawling to my knees, sobbing like a child.

And so I had no choice but to turn back. To take the Curator’s hand.

To walk through the doors of the Gallery and watch them seal behind me. One bad decision and my life was torn in two.

But I haven’t given up. Not yet. I’ll find a way out of here, even if it

kills me. Because the alternative is a life without Tally; and that might as well be no life at all.

Chapter 1 There’s a place we go that’s only ever ours, a hidden pocket of privacy

where it’s safe to set our secret free. No one can find us here. They’d

have to cross the river at the bottom of Lavender Heath housing estate first; although river is a generous word for the dank trickle of water that coughs its way past the woods, choking on the detritus of this

Nowhere Town as it goes. There’s no bridge, no inviting trail of stones

to trip across. And sure, someone could clear it in one leap if they 209

gave themselves a run up – but why would they? There’s nothing on the other side but brambles, coiled like barbed-wire and every bit as

sharp. People take one look and keep on walking, not wondering what might lie beyond the thorns. Which is exactly why Tally and I like it.

We call it the Glade. And on days like today, when the September sun

is nudging its way past the clouds and there’s the scent of honeysuckle dancing on the breeze, it almost lives up to its name.

I pick my way down the hidden track, my pulse quickening as I pass

the rusting carcass of an old shopping trolley. I know what’s waiting for me around the bend. ‘Liv, is that you?’

Tally’s voice floats out from our secret sanctuary – rich and golden

as butterscotch. My skin tingles at the sound of my name on her lips and I scramble through the opening that’s there if you know where to look.

She’s sprawled across a picnic blanket, one arm thrown over her

forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. There’s a fresh sprinkling

of freckles dusted across her cheeks, and her loose curls are splayed

around her head, pooling like molasses. It’s been two years since we

met, four months since we first kissed, seven weeks since we started going out; but still Tally takes my breath away.

‘I thought you’d stood me up,’ she says, grinning as she shuffles to

make space for me.

‘As if I ever could.’

‘So what kept you?’

‘I had to go into town,’ I reply, deflecting from the answer I don’t

want to give. Tally’s my escape, my oasis when the joy dries up at home. ‘To pick up some bits for the new term.’

It’s a half-truth. I did go into town, but only because Mum had

forgotten to do a food shop again, and I knew it’d be beans on toast if 210

I didn’t do a Tesco run. Still, I don’t want to taint my time with Tally talking about Mum’s depression.

Tally seems content with my tepid answer. She sits up to crown me

with a daisy chain she’s made while she waited, leaning back to inspect her handiwork. ‘Stunning. Pass me the camera, will you?’

I kneel-walk over to the waterproof holdall we keep stashed in the

bushes, rummaging around until I find a camera that’s still got a few

photos left in it. Tally doesn’t take pictures of us on her phone in case her friends or family ever look, so we’ve spent the summer filling up

a dozen disposable cameras instead. I’m going to make a scrapbook once they’re developed.

After posing obediently, I toss Tally the speaker from the bottom

of the bag, and grab a couple of extra cushions, adding the finishing touches to our little paradise. I first discovered this spot during study

leave when I was looking for somewhere quiet to revise outside of the house. But as soon as I found it, I knew it was destined for greater things

than solitary revision sessions. I returned with a pair of secateurs and a giant rubble sack, and spent days bagging up empty crisp packets

and old Carling cans, clearing a patch big enough for two people to lie

comfortably side by side. I brought cushions and blankets from home in a giant IKEA holdall – as well as magazines, facemasks and nail varnish, and a Tupperware filled with all Tally’s favourite snacks – and finished everything off by hanging solar-powered fairy lights over the brambles.

I’d been nervous when I first showed Tally, afraid she’d turn her

nose up at my rustic take on romance. But she loved it for its roughand-ready charm, and the total privacy it granted us.

‘It does smell of fox piss, though,’ she’d observed, a problem she’d

remedied with copious amounts of Prada Candy on her next visit. She

sacrificed an entire bottle, sloshing it into the earth as if drawing a spell circle to ward off evil. And so far, it seems to be working. We’ve 211

still never been caught.

Tally fiddles with her phone and our summer playlist starts humming

through the speaker. We nestle into the mound of blankets, lying nose-to-nose.

‘I really love you, you know that right?’

‘I know,’ she grins, before pressing her lips to mine. The heady scent

of coconut suncream baked onto warm skin mingles with Prada Candy, and I shiver with a longing that still feels too good to be true. Kissing

Tally is like drowning in syrup: it’s both the sweetest thing you’ll ever know, and the absolute end of you; like you’ll never breathe again but you’d rather die with the taste of sugar on your lips than come up for air.

I run my hand through her curls, my lips never moving from hers as

I tuck a long, shining strand behind her ear. My thumb traces a gentle

circle across the soft skin of her neck and I swear I can feel her purring beneath me. My Tally Cat.

For a long, blissfully excruciating moment, it’s nothing but racing

pulses and hungry mouths and hands creeping beneath T-shirts. And then … Crack.

The sound of a breaking branch snaps through the air. Tally’s body

stiffens. She sits bolt upright. Her eyes are wide as they dart back and forth, scanning the thickets beyond the Glade.

‘It’s OK, there’s no one there.’ I keep my voice low as if calming a

spooked colt. ‘It was just a bird or something. No one’s going to find us.’ But the spell is broken.

Tally makes a show of smoothing down her mussed-up hair, reaching

for her phone, turning off the music.

‘Dad’s texted. I should go. It’s Santi’s last dinner before he goes back

to uni, and Mum’ll be pissed off if I’m late.’ 212

‘It’s OK, Tally Cat.’ I place my hand on her leg and give her knee a

reassuring squeeze. She tenses beneath my grip.

A cloud rolls overhead, summoned by the change in mood. ‘Tally?

What’s wrong?’

I ask it like I don’t already know. Like saying it out loud might

inspire a different answer.

Tally shrugs. ‘I just don’t see how we’re going to make this work.

It’s not just the practical difficulties of all this –’ she waves her finger back and forth between our chests as though signalling to the invisible

thread that runs from heart to heart ‘– but, you know, the other stuff.

Different schools. Different schedules. Different lives.’ She sighs, picking at a yellowing tuft of dry grass. ‘Besides, what do we do about the

practical stuff? Like, where will we even meet when it starts pissing down with rain?’

She looks so miserable, so defeated that it’s hard not to feel the

same way. A splinter of anxiety burrows into my heart and I can feel the hairline fracture snaking outwards, threatening to break it. But Tally’s right to be concerned. We’ve had it too easy these last few months.

Tally’s friends were whisked away to their far-flung family homes,

and some hotshot rugby club scouted Josh for their summer training

academy, keeping everyone safely out of sight and out of mind. And thanks to her parents’ gullibility – so delighted with the idea their

perfect daughter was volunteering at a retirement home that they

never bothered to fact-check her cover story – Tally’s been free to spend most days however she wants, floating along inside the bubble

I built for us. But now normality’s looming, needle-sharp, and we’re going to have to brace for the pop.

One more year, I remind myself. Just one more school year and then

we’ll be free.

213

Bolstered by the thought, I take Tally’s hand in mine, bringing it to

my lips and planting a kiss on the centre of her palm where her fate and head lines meet.

This is just how it works with us: Tally catastrophises; I put things

right again.

‘Mum works late shifts on Saturdays,’ I offer. ‘So we could do Satur-

days at mine and Sundays at yours?’

Tally wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t like hanging out at my house,

not since the time Mum finished early and came home to see Tally brushing her teeth in nothing but a pair of knickers and my old Teletubbies T-shirt.

‘Besides,’ Tally sighs. ‘Dad’s less than impressed with my latest

results so he’s signing me up for Saturday school. I might even have to

board afterwards which means I’ll only get to come home on Sundays. Apparently I can quit at half term if my grades have gone up.’

‘OK,’ I say, ignoring the fresh worry that’s spangling across my chest

like cracks in a frozen lake, ‘so we’ll just have to make the most of our Sunday nights. I can come over to yours as soon as your parents are out. I know it’s not much, but one dose of Tally a week is better than no Tally at all.’

She smiles at that, giving me the confidence to ask, ‘Unless ... I

mean, we could always try meeting in public? Not with your friends or anything, and obviously we’d be discreet, but ...’

It was meant to sound like a throwaway comment – casual and

compliant – but when her eyes flick to mine with sudden, startling panic, it’s immediately clear I’ve said the wrong thing.

‘Sorry,’ I blurt, blushing furiously. ‘Ignore me. I know you’re not

ready for that, I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not trying to be a dick, Liv.’

Her voice is small and fragile but her hand twitches back to life in 214

mine. She starts tracing a candy-coloured fingernail over my palm, etching three letters into my skin. O.L.S.

I shiver at the hidden message, our private mantra, and squeeze

her hand hard in reply. ‘You’re not being a dick, Tally. It’s complicated, I get it.’

‘I just think it’ll be too hard. I’m not ready to do all this in the real

world yet. And even if we tried to act like we’re just friends when

other people are around, I don’t think I could keep it up for long. Not anymore. I don’t ever want to have to pretend like I don’t care about you, Liv. You understand that, right?’ O.L.S.

She looks up at me at last, her melted-honey eyes wide and deep

enough to bathe in. Her finger’s still dancing over my palm, our promise to each other coded into every letter. O.L.S.

‘But I’m probably asking too much …’

‘Don’t say that. I understand, I honestly do. Who cares if we can’t

do normal couple-y things for a while? Who wants “normal” anyway?

We’ve found something special, and if that means we have to do things a bit differently to keep our secret safe, then that’s fine by me.’ ‘OLS?’ she says.

‘Our Little Secret,’ I agree, smiling as I recite the mantra back to

her. ‘I like it so much, I think I’m going to keep it.’

And I wrap my arms around her, drawing her into a hug that’s deep

and fierce and loaded with conviction. Neither of us pull away this time. We stay locked in the embrace, holding ourselves still as though trying to preserve this perfect moment in our minds forever: a tiny eternity trapped in amber.

215

216

LEXI DYER Lexi Dyer lives in Dorset with her family and two demons masquerading

as very cute dogs, and recently graduated from the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University. She grew up near the beach

but, just to be difficult, preferred getting lost in woods searching for

magical creatures or that elusive animal that will finally talk back. Lexi previously taught English and PSHE, as well as working in school welfare. Now she is an educational guardian for international students. When not writing or working, Lexi embraces all things nerdy or is

singing with Curtain Up Productions (or just all the time if the demons – dogs! – are asked).

THE BOUNTY HUNTER’S APPRENTICE How do you escape an enemy who cannot die? The Empire is a place

of extremes: frozen wastelands, a dust storm that can strip flesh from

bones in moments, and a forest so filled with magic no one who enters returns. When Daniel escapes his gang after his brother’s death, he’s saved from their vampiric leader by infamous bounty hunter Wilson. The hunter kills the gang leader and Daniel becomes Wilson’s unwilling

apprentice. But vampires don’t die easily and this one has a particular interest in Daniel and his unique ability. Can Daniel learn to control his ability in time, or will it destroy both him and his immortal enemy? lexidyerwrites@gmail.com

217

THE BOUNTY HUNTER'SAPPRENTICE Chapter 1 t’s been four days since my brother was killed. Somehow, I’m still alive.

But I won’t be for long if I don’t get out of Wolfhollow. And to

get out quickly, I need money.

I lean back against the wall of the alley, my hat pulled down low to

hide my face. The heatwave hasn’t eased in weeks, and sweat trickles

down my neck and between my shoulders. Through the side door I watch the store owner talking to the farmer who just arrived with a half-filled cart. Although half-filled may be generous, and from the

quick look I had, I’m not sure how much is sellable. The drought has hit the farmers hard.

I bet two minutes until they leave through the back door. It’s a game

my brother and I used to play when waiting to move on a mark. I clear

my throat against the pain of not having an answering wager and look up and down the alley.

Ratways are the routes street kids take to move through town

unnoticed. Lucas and I used them when we were Rats, but the marks scratched on these walls are faded now. This was part of the main

Ratway through the town back to the warehouse where the sick and injured kids hide. Something bad must have happened for them not to use it anymore.

I glance back at the store to check where the owner is. He’s gone. 218

Dammit. He’ll be out with the farmer for about five minutes, but

now I don’t know when they left.

You get distracted too easily, Daniel. The memory of Lucas’ voice

scolds me, and with it comes the familiar shame.

I glance down the alley again, then cross it in a couple of quick steps

and quietly ease the door open. There’s only the slightest of squeaks as I slip through and move towards the cash register.

The wood of the register is splintering, only a few specks of paint

still cling on, and the drawer sticks when I push the button to open

it. It takes a few precious seconds for me to unstick it. Lucas always made it look so easy when I was lookout, but he’d never let me do the job myself.

You’re not ready, Danny. You don’t focus enough. My fingers tremble. How much longer do I have?

Coins glitter in the tray. I reach out, my hand hovers over them and

I fight with the temptation to shove them all into my pocket. A moment of indecision I can’t afford.

Just take them and get out of there.

Lucas would have grabbed them all and walked out without a second

thought, confident he needed the money more than the shopkeeper.

I look around the store. Half-empty shelves, some of them at strange

tilts where they need repairs. A rusting hook waits for a replacement

bell over the entrance. Everything about the shop tells the story of Wolfhollow’s decay: once one of the main trading stops, now bypassed by the new railway line and only useful for the silver mined in the hills.

You’ve got to be quick, Dan. In and out before anyone sees.

It was one of the first lessons Lucas gave me.

I reach into the drawer and pull out one gold lion and two silver

griffins. Hopefully it’s not enough to be noticed, at least until I’m on the train out of here.

219

I slip the coins into the pouch on my belt, push the drawer closed,

and head towards the side door.

Why did you leave some, you idiot? I half turn to go back for the rest.

We don’t take more than what people can afford to give, pup. This time it’s Mama’s voice reminding me of a lesson she gave before she died.

I walk out of the door. The stifling heat scratches at the back of my

throat, along with the fresh grief that Mama’s voice brings.

I peer around the side of the building, looking down the main street

for any sign of the gang. The train station, now the largest building left

in Wolfhollow, looms opposite, leaning tiredly to one side as it waits for the silver miners to come down at the change of shift.

The old Ratway is gone, and with it the safe pathway we’d used to get

to the station from the rest of the town. The warehouse, where Lucas

and I had slept the first night the Rats accepted us, is now a scorched shell. I hope no Rats were in it when it burned down.

The Ratway Scratches haven’t been removed yet. I idly trace the

mark at the base of the wall next to me, the lines and curves familiar

and oddly comforting. My finger catches where the recent re-marking has left some splinters still to be worn smooth. If this mark had been scratched again, the warehouse must have burnt down recently. Sweat

runs into my eyes. I swipe at my forehead, blinking away the sting. At the other end of the street, three familiar figures come out of the

tavern: all of them are tall, but one is much skinnier in comparison. As he turns towards me, I duck back around the side of the building.

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I swallow, the movement

sore in the intense heat. I open my eyes, reach for the water canteen hooked onto my belt, and bring the warm metal to my lips. 220

Nothing.

I’d planned to use the warehouse’s water supply once I got into town. My eyes are drawn back to the empty shell. Was the fire a result of

the drought? Someone getting careless? Or was it the tall, skinny man at the other end of the street?

I rub at my shoulder where a hand-print burn scar serves as a

reminder to listen to my betters. Spark is a fire mage, with none of the restraint most magic users have. I know of at least three buildings

he’s scorched when the occupants couldn’t pay Carter’s protection money. If that bastard thinks he’s going to be the one to catch me, he can think again.

Lucas got us places in Carter’s gang when he became too old for

the Rats. He said we needed the extra protection. For once, my brother had been wrong.

I risk another look. Spark and the other gang members are still by

the tavern. Even if I made it across to the station, they’d easily spot me and I need time to buy a ticket.

There’s a commotion further up the street, a group of voices getting

louder, and the stomp and scuff of tired feet being dragged along the

dusty road. Twenty or thirty miners, back from the shift change, head to the station.

Finally, some good luck.

The group shuffle along the street, kicking up clouds of dust that

make it look like there’s a hundred of them. Even from this distance I can

see the three gang members scanning each man’s face as they go past. They don’t know I’m already in town.

I pull my hat down further and step out to meet the approaching

group. It’s not difficult to imitate the exhausted shuffle. My ‘sixth

sense,’ as my brother used to call it, is a constant low ringing in my

ears, meaning there’s at least a couple of supernaturals in this crowd. 221

I risk a glance over my shoulder and see Spark and the other two still searching the stragglers as they pass the tavern.

The wooden boards of the station creak beneath our feet, each

one threatening to give way under our weight. Dust and dirt from the outside cover the floor in a red carpet.

The miners continue towards the platform, through the open side

of the far wall. The doors had been destroyed years ago, the last time a bounty hunter had come after Carter. I head towards the ticket booth, feeling exposed without the press of bodies around me.

‘Where you heading?’ The ticket master’s voice is rough, the suffo-

cating heat of the drought is even stronger in here.

You idiot. Why hadn’t I thought of somewhere before now? I look

at the timetable and quickly check the stolen coins in my pocket for the furthest the next train can take me.

‘Elkstone,’ I reply, my voice scratchy from lack of use.

He nods and prepares my ticket. ‘Don’t look like you got the luggage

for going that far.’

I shrug. ‘Meeting family.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘One griffin.’

It’s more than I wanted to spend, but it’s worth it to get into the

Western Territories and away from Carter’s influence. I’ll just have to think of something when I get there.

I hand over the coin and take the ticket, before half running out

onto the platform just as the train pulls into the station. It feels like

an age passes before it squeals to a final stop, and I sense a hundred pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head. The train unleashes a

cloud of steam that half conceals those of us waiting to board. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

Raised voices mix with a panicked cry, and the thud of a body 222

hitting the wooden walls comes from the station building. I turn and the crowd parts enough for me to catch a glimpse of Spark and the other two gang members. They’re here.

You’re so oblivious to your surroundings, Dan.

‘Where do you think you’re running off to, boy?’ Spark asks a young

miner up against the wall of the station.

‘Please, let me go.’ The boy’s pleas cut through the throng of bodies.

He barely sounds old enough to have been let into the mine.

Another miner tries to reach the boy. ‘That’s my son, let him go!’

The other gang members head him off, each pinning an arm against

their chest so he can’t move forward.

Spark’s mouth turns up in a nasty grin. ‘What did you promise to

get him to lie for you then, boy? Better answer quick, it’s getting a bit warm in here.’

Someone moves and blocks my line of sight, but the boy’s scream is

still piercing. When the crowd parts again I can see fire dancing along

Spark’s hands, the flames covering his skin like a pair of gloves. He’ll

leave the boy with some serious burns. Phantom pain at my shoulder makes me flinch and I force myself to look away.

The boy’s father begs with the three men that he’s not the one

they’re looking for. That he’s not me.

He doesn’t realise that I’ve been Spark’s favourite victim for years.

He knows it’s not me, he’s just having some fun.

The crowd moves uneasily, wanting the carriage doors to open so

they can get away from the confrontation. Everyone has the same practised blank look on their face, eyes resolutely forwards. It’s something

everyone in Wolfhollow learns before they even learn to speak: ignore whatever Carter and his gang are doing if you want to keep on living. 223

It used to make me sick how people could turn their heads. Now

it’s second nature.

The boy’s screams take on a higher pitch, and when I force myself

to look back, Spark has set fire to the boy’s shirt, the flames spreading along the material. There’s a maniacal grin on the fire mage’s face.

I catch the eye of one of the older miners, his face is lined with

sadness and dirt and he shakes his head minutely.

Even if I did turn myself over to Spark to save the boy, no one would

come and help me.

I let the crowd push me towards the now open doors, hoping the

train carriage will block out some of the screams.

224

225

226

BETHANY FRANKEL A lover of abandoned places and natural spaces, Bethany looks for

stories in everything: the unfamiliar tune floating from a music box,

the rustle of wind through leaves, the sea air drying on the back of your neck. She grew up in a small town, wandering the marshlands and searching for ghosts on the rural backroads. A graduate of the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University, she writes books with

magical metaphors and complicated characters. She lives in Delaware with her dog and mountains of books.

CROSSROADS

Ezra Collins has dedicated his life to protecting New Orleans from supernatural threats. Petra Lukacs is running from her past and

searching for someone who will help her control her cosmic powers. Jordan Aguillard is the youngest of an ancient Vodou bloodline, caught between magic and music. Lily Remington has demon blood running through her veins, more comfortable in the city’s seedy underbelly

than at home. Kit Smith is the prodigal son of a preacher, desperate to make a deal with the devil for a bit of clarity. Thrust together by an unnerving prophecy, they have thirteen days to stop the world from ending . . . but they might just start the apocalypse instead. bethanyfrankelwrites@gmail.com

227

CROSSROADS Chapter 1 etra Lukacs squinted into the blinding blaze as it consumed

everything around her. The air boiled. Sweat crept down her neck and soaked the strands of dark hair clinging to her skin.

The fire ignited everything in its path, cleansing the world.

Logically, she knew the fire wasn’t real — merely a manifestation of

her turbulent thoughts. In reality, she sat on the faded macrame rug in

the study of the Shipley Street School for the Supernatural, safe from the flames. She knew that. And yet …

It felt real. It felt like the end of the world.

In her mind, she stood in the road in front of the school, surrounded

by wasteland. Gone was the Queen Anne style house she had moved

into last week, with its baby blue shutters, warped glass windows, and swamp-stick Vodou crosses swinging on the front porch. This was its ruin, concealed by great plumes of black smoke.

Pavement cracked beneath her shoes. The sky hung low, painting

everything a red warning shade.

The air was saturated with burning herbs as fire engulfed the

apothecary room: crackling cinnamon, smoking lavender, the sweet

stench of caramelizing sugar. Petra’s lungs burned as the wind shifted. A coughing fit ripped up her throat as she scanned the street. Every

house had the same air of abandonment, the desolate silence after devastation. Houses crumpled inward, hollow skeletons swallowed by

fire. Once grand porches with wicker rockers and mint-filled hanging baskets were reduced to splintered columns and melted iron balconies. 228

Petra surveyed the radius of destruction emanating out around her.

Everything surrounding the school had burned — hell, maybe even New Orleans itself. All the earth was scorched … except for where she stood. The grass was stark green in contrast with the wasteland

a short distance away, the earth untouched. Almost as if the fire had come from her.

Torn pages of books drifted around Petra’s ankles, kicked up by the

smoke-tinged, dusty breeze. She glimpsed sketches of monsters and hand-drawn maps of the city. A paper with burnt edges pasted itself

to her leg, still sizzling. She peeled it off, revealing a Bible page from

Revelation. Someone had scribbled a Vodou cross beside its Christian companion.

With sudden, horrible clarity, Petra remembered Madame Melania

clutching a well-worn Bible.

Petra dove toward the blazing house. She yanked the collar of her

shirt up to fend against smoke. Several objects were buried in the

blackened grass: a silver lighter, an engraved revolver with the initials EC. Charred magnolia branches draped across the scene, separating

from the trunk with a resounding snap. Shattered glass crunched beneath her feet.

Smoke thickened with every step. It slithered through the air,

crafting human silhouettes out of shadows. Three forms strode toward

her. One dissipated in a burst of white-hot sunlight. Another seeped

into the ground with a whisper of half-remembered holy words. The last shadow tangled around her, enveloping her in a cloud of warmth.

It smelled like pine, like apple cobbler, like home. It vanished with the utterance of her name.

Despite the heat, Petra shivered.

The humidity smothered her, sucked the air from her lungs. She 229

tried to cry out to see if anyone was still in the house, but no sound scraped past her lips.

A pinprick of hope fluttered through her. Maybe everyone had

escaped.

The thought vanished as soon as it rose. Lilac glasses lay on the

ground nearby, one lens shattered. A swatch of purple paisley poked out beneath a fallen wall.

Petra sprinted toward it, eyes stinging as smoke filled her vision.

She dropped to her knees. Her hands burned and blistered as she dug through the wreckage. The drywall crumbled beneath her fingers, giving way to blackened wood beams.

Between the slats, Petra met Madame Melania’s unseeing gaze. A

dark shadow colored the left side of her cheek where the bones had caved in.

Her hand clutched a Tarot card. Petra shoved her arm between the

wooden studs, shoulder grinding into the wall as she strained to reach the card. It rested several inches below her searching fingers. Gritting her teeth, she drove her arm farther in, gasping as a splintered piece

of wood stabbed her. Her fingers brushed the card, enough to glimpse its identifying image: the Star.

A sudden rumble echoed through the air. The school’s roof collapsed,

spitting and hissing. Petra whipped toward the noise, catching a glimpse of another horror.

The world tilted as she ran.

A hand stuck out beneath a pile of bricks. It stretched out, reaching.

Semi-liquified rings melded with the fingers, a few drops of silver trickling down to the wrist.

Petra recognized those rings. They belonged to Jordan, the first

friend she made when she moved here. Her only friend in this godfor-

saken city.

230

She screamed so loud she swore it would break the world.

Fire seeped from the house, traveling across the ground. The flames

crawled toward her. Strange, ancient symbols burned in the wake of its trail.

As the first tongue of fire licked cool against her skin, she rocketed

back to the present.

She opened her eyes.

A reassuringly alive Jordan crouched in front of her, face inches

from hers. The echo of a scream still reverberated through her skull.

Judging by the concern on Jordan’s face, that much had been real. Over

his shoulder, she saw Madame Melania, mirrored worry lining her brow. Awareness came back gradually, cutting through the thunder of

Petra’s heartbeat in her ears and the tightness in her chest. Her senses returned as understanding did.

She was still sitting on the floor at the school, like she had been

when Jordan suggested trying this new ritual. The rug was bumpy beneath her, her legs numb from sitting in one position for so long.

Jordan’s hand gripped her shoulder, rings gently pressing into her skin. No hint of fire anywhere. Everything was fully intact, like nothing

had ever happened.

Because it hadn’t. It was going to happen.

Petra took a deep breath, grounding herself in her body. The faint

scent of patchouli wafted from the oil diffuser on the windowsill. The candles forming a circle around her were all extinguished. Someone

had thrown open the windows, revealing a blue, crystal-clear sky. Sunlight floated lazily through the room.

Jordan cleared his throat, the sound dragging Petra’s attention

back. ‘Are you okay?’

Images of his hand buried under bricks replayed on a loop in her

brain. She opened her mouth to reassure him, to say something, but all 231

that came out was a half-choked cry. She threw herself forward, flinging her arms around him, and sobbed into his shoulder. She couldn’t help it. ‘Oh,’ he breathed, arms tentatively wrapping around Petra’s shaking

frame. ‘So, I can tell by your response what a pleasant experience you had.’

Petra balled her fists in his shirt, gasping for air as she cried harder.

She cringed as she sniffled and hiccupped, the sound wet.

Jordan rested his chin on top of Petra’s head as she drenched the

fabric at his shoulder. Leaning back, he gently pried her fingers from his shirt and helped her ease into a sitting position. Her head pounded, her face slick; she tasted salt on her lips. Her chest hitched as she sucked in air, dragging the heels of her hands over her aching eyes.

Jordan offered an encouraging smile as she rapidly blinked away

tears. ‘Hey, look. I know I’m really hot and it’s overwhelming, but c’mon Petra. This is a lot.’

A laugh that sounded like someone drowning erupted from her.

All the true smiles she’d experienced since moving to New Orleans had come from him.

Her voice came out as a cracked whisper. ‘I’m really glad you’re

not dead.’

His mouth flattened into a small, bewildered line. ‘Well, thanks. I’m

glad I’m not dead either.’

Petra looked across the room to Madame Melania, leaning against

a pink writing desk. Even hunched, she was incredibly tall, arms and

legs a little too long for her frame; her afro added another few inches

to her height. She resembled a pile of silks more than a woman, all

mismatched shawls and veils and beads. She was mystical, something which stepped from another world — exactly how Petra had always imagined a Vodou priestess would look.

Medallions of every shape, size, and metal dangled from her neck, 232

along with her lilac reading glasses.

It took several tries for Petra to tell them about her vision, how real

everything felt. A lump formed in her throat, the words coming out higher pitched as she recollected finding their dead bodies. Madame

Melania draped an arm around Petra’s shoulders, drawing her in and planting a kiss on top of her head. Tears threatened to spill again.

It was such a small, simple gesture, but something Petra had never experienced before.

Almost as quickly as she comforted Petra, Madame Melania rounded

on Jordan. ‘I told you this was a bad idea, but none of you youngins ever listen.’

Jordan threw his hands up. ‘Mama, you’re the one who told me

mistakes needed to be made so we would learn from them.’

She fixed her son with a challenging glare. ‘And what lesson have

you learned, huh? Maybe not rush blindly into using Vodou without properly researching what you’re doing?’

A glimmer of guilt panged in Petra’s chest. She was just as complicit

as Jordan in this. Sure, he suggested the ritual to trigger her powers by forcing a vision, but Petra had readily agreed. It didn’t really matter

that he’d never tried it before. All week, Madame Melania had done everything to coax Petra’s powers into appearing, but nothing happened. They never worked when Petra wanted them to.

Petra had spent seventeen years waiting — for an explanation, for

answers, for something. Waiting for a sign of her powers only for them

to explode without warning. Every day pushed her closer to the edge. She was a ticking time bomb, awaiting detonation. It’s what landed her here, after all.

‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Jordan said. ‘I mean, something happened.

Her powers aren’t dormant anymore, so now you can start training her for real.’

233

Madame Melania spoke in that authoritative mothering tone which

haunts long after the argument’s end. ‘That is not the point, Jordan

Emmanuel, and you know it. I don’t know how you’ve made it to eighteen in one piece with some of the things that brain of yours cooks

up. You best thank God our ancestors favor you, or else I don’t know

what would’ve happened. Especially stepping into the summoning circle like that — you know better! You could have gotten caught in the veil between life and death. You—’

‘Please stop,’ Petra said, pressing a hand to her temple to ward off

the approaching migraine.

Mother and son both nodded, settling into chairs on opposite sides

of Petra. Silence sank between them, unspoken words drifting through the room and out the window.

Petra picked at the knobs on the rug, staring at the ground. ‘What

do you think the vision means?’

Madame Melania’s gaze darted to Jordan, brows drawn down and

chewing on her lower lip. Petra caught the look out of the corner of her eye, watched it evaporate.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Madame Melania said, worry

melting into a warm smile. ‘It’s probably just how your powers reacted

to a forced vision since they haven’t been in use since, well … since the incident at your old school. What you saw probably had more to do

with your powers reawakening rather than anything real that might happen in the future.’

‘But it felt real,’ Petra urged, running her fingers along the rug. ‘And

if it really was a vision of the future, that means it could happen, right?’

‘Oh, sweetheart, no. Visions aren’t the most reliable source of

information, especially under such volatile conditions like yours. It’s

only one version of the future — there are millions of possibilities. 234

Don’t fret your pretty little head over it for a second longer.’

‘Yeah. Okay.’ Petra offered a soft smile to cover the fact that she was

definitely going to fret over it for many more seconds.

She jerked her thumb toward the door. ‘I’m kinda exhausted from

the whole thing, so I’m gonna head up to my room … if that’s okay with you?’

Madame Melania’s smile spread like molasses, slow and sweet. ‘Of

course, sugar. You’ve been through a lot today.’

Jordan held out a hand and hauled Petra up. He walked close beside

her as he accompanied her to the door. As she turned the knob, he leaned in and whispered, ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

Petra’s heart melted a little and she reached down to squeeze his

hand as she stepped into the hall. ‘I’m sure. I just need to lie down for a bit.’

The door closed behind her with a soft thud. Compared to the

brightness of the study, Petra had to squint to adjust to the dim hallway.

Only candles illuminated the maze of halls. Small flames danced atop iron candelabras, shifting as she passed them.

A flicker darted across the hallway, casting a candlelit shadow on the

wallpaper. Petra felt her heart kick up its pace, even after she blinked and it vanished. Gripping the stair railing, she practiced a breathing

exercise her psychiatrist taught her. Four seconds to breathe in, eight to breathe out.

Petra trudged up the stairs, migraine pounding. Guess crying hyster-

ically and seeing a vision of the end of the world does that to a girl.

The stairs seemed endless as she climbed, spiraling on and on until

they deposited Petra on the second floor. Petra shuffled down the hallway, fumbling for her key. As she did, the peephole popped into

a glass eye which swiveled around to gaze back at her. She pounded 235

a fist on the door, hard, and it shifted back to normal. Only so much weird magical stuff she could deal with in one day.

The door creaked open to reveal her postage stamp room. Kicking

off her shoes, Petra flopped down on her bed atop the covers. She rolled onto her side and grabbed the picture frame resting on her bedside

table. Inside was a photograph of Petra and her parents. Her sister

used to be in the photo, too, but that changed when she disappeared. She replaced the picture and buried her face in her pillow. A week

ago, she’d stuffed her entire life into a suitcase, packed her past in a box. Now, she was having visions of the apocalypse.

Petra tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position.

Exhaustion pulled on her, beckoning her to sleep, but bits of her vision played every time she closed her eyes.

She exhaled slowly, shakily, trying to swallow back the tears that

scraped again at her throat.

When she breathed in, she swore she could still smell smoke.

236

237

238

NELL GRIFFIN Growing up, Nell spent so much of her time reading, she completely forgot to develop any social skills – which led to many embarrassing

situations in her teenage years. Never one to miss an opportunity, Nell draws on her (extensive) experience of being an awkward teenager in her writing. Growing up in a rural community also heavily influences her work as it provides a never-ending well of unintentionally comedic inspiration. Nell has a penchant for horror as well as comedy, and

constantly consumes spooky content including horror movies, ghost stories and paranormal podcasts. Although she enjoys living in the middle of nowhere, Nell does occasionally like to leave her house – mainly to visit bookshops.

PLAN A PLAN B

Amy is screwed. In her final summer before college, she hooks up with her best friend Libby’s ex-boyfriend and now she thinks she might be pregnant. While embarking on their ‘summer of freedom’ Amy has to

juggle her burgeoning social life, lie to Libby and try to figure out what to do about her possible pregnancy. As summer continues, she spends

more time with Libby’s ex and starts to think he might really be ‘the

one’. But soon, her web of lies spins out of control and Libby discovers the truth. Amy is left with the ruins of her own self-destruction and is forced to decide what matters more, friendship or love? nellgriffinauthor@gmail.com

239

PLAN A PLAN B Chapter 1

A S p o t o f B re a k f a s t his might possibly be the worst day of my life and it’s only 8am.

It took twenty minutes to get here. Twenty minutes of

valuable time. I couldn’t risk going to the pharmacy in the

village. Word would spread like wildfire. Libby and I walked straight from the party. She certainly seems less hungover than me – makes

a change – which means she must’ve drunk less than me, which also makes a change.

‘Bloody hell!’ Libby says, shielding her eyes against the fluores-

cent lights as we step into the shop. It’s lit up like Christmas and the self-service checkouts are bleeping like their sole purpose is to give hungover teenagers migraines. I scan the entirety of the shop until I see it, far, far away in the distance.

‘There!’ I point to the green and white sign at the very back of the

shop. Pharmacy.

‘Christ, it’s like a mile away,’ Libby says, huffing out a peach schnapps-

smelling breath.

We start our long journey to the pharmacy, and I really think my

feet might be made of jelly. They’re tender in a way that’s only possible

after wearing heels all night, then walking nearly a mile this morning

in a pair of Libby’s old trainers which really aren’t my style and are about two sizes too big for me. I feel like a new-born fawn, stumbling 240

down the slippery aisles of Tesco.

‘You know, you can tell me who it was,’ Libby says as she trudges

beside me.

My whole body tenses. I really can’t tell her who it was. She might

never speak to me again if I did.

‘I told you I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet anyway. I just want

to sort this out first.’ My upper lip is starting to sweat.

‘Fine. You’re right. I totally get it. Deal with the matter in hand and

all that,’ Libby says, her voice still raspy from singing her heart out to every single Taylor Swift song last night. Evidence that she is still upset about being pied off by that rugby-playing idiot from the other

school even though she constantly says that she’s, “fine! Never been better, in fact.”

‘Was it Oliver Peterson?’ Libby asks.

‘Ew! No! Libby, I told you, we’re not talking about this right now.’ ‘OK, OK. Yeah, totally fine. Fine, fine, fine.’

Despite saying that she was going to help me with "no questions

asked", this is Libby we’re talking about, so it’s practically impossible. We’re approaching the pharmacy counter where a guy who looks

about our age is packing prescriptions.

‘Want me to ask?’ Libby whispers so loudly that she might as well

have shouted it.

‘No,’ I say, ‘I can do it. It might be weird if you ask for me. They might

think something’s going on.’

‘Right, yeah. Good idea.’ She nods enthusiastically. ‘If you need me,

I’ll be over there,’ she says, pointing to the electronics aisle. ‘Fine. I mean, thanks.’

‘No problemo, muchacho.’ With that, she saunters off towards the

toasters.

241

Once she’s out of earshot I huff out my breath. I don’t know how

I’m going to keep this up. I can’t lie to Libby, but my insides are coiling like angry snakes at the thought of telling her the truth.

The pharmacist hasn’t turned around even though I’m sure he

knows I’m here. I clear my throat loudly. Nothing. ‘Ahem?’

Still nothing.

For God’s sake. ‘Excuse me?’ I ask in my best Karen voice.

He finally turns around and my stomach drops. It’s Oliver Peterson’s

older brother. He used to go to our school. Why, oh why, is this happening to me? I came to this pharmacy to avoid running into people I knew.

I look over my shoulder, but I can’t see Libby. Is it too late to leave?

Is there another pharmacy where we won’t know anyone?

‘Hi! How can I help?’ he asks, suddenly upon me. He’s flashing his

best customer-service smile.

I don’t think he recognises me, which must be a good thing. My

cheeks are red hot but there’s no backing out now. I have to do this.

‘Do you have ellaOne?’ I ask, exactly the way I rehearsed it in my head. His smile fades. ‘You mean … the morning-after pill?’ he asks quietly.

He’s like years older than us in school but right now, with that startled look on his face, he seems even younger than me. ‘Yes.’

‘Right. Okay, uh,’ he says, turning around on the spot, seemingly

looking for something but not finding it. His eyes find me again. ‘Um, how old are you?’

‘I’m … why? Well, actually, I’m sixteen.’

I can’t believe he doesn’t recognise me. I don’t look that different, 242

do I? He certainly doesn’t. He still has those big, Harry Potter glasses, and that deer-in-headlights look. The only difference is that his hair has

grown wildly out of control and is now a mass of dark curls orbiting his head.

‘Okay, cool,’ he says.

Which is a weird choice of words after finding out someone’s age.

I don’t exactly feel cool right now. But I’ve passed the first test. I am ‘sixteen or over’ so I can buy the pill without a prescription. It was one

of the first things I checked online this morning, along with where to buy it, how effective it is and when I need to take it. The digital words are etched into my mind: ellaOne can be taken within 120 hours (five

days) of having unprotected sex, but it’s most effective if taken as soon as possible after having unprotected sex. As soon as possible.

‘We’ll need to go into the consultation room,’ Oliver Peterson’s older

brother says, almost apologetically.

He steps out from behind the counter with a clipboard in his hands

and starts making his way to a little door. A sterile white plaque reads: Consultation Room.

Suddenly the bottom falls out of the world. My stomach sinks at the

thought of going into a tiny room with an almost complete stranger and

having him ask me embarrassing questions in the harsh fluorescent light of Tesco. My mouth has gone dry. I can’t see Libby anywhere. Am I really going to have to go through this alone? I know I said I wanted to do it by myself, but right now I can’t think of anything worse.

Libby peers around the printers, wearing a straw hat and a pair of

sunglasses with the tag still attached, dangling over her nose, items I can only assume she’s taken from a summer sale display. Maybe doing it on my own wouldn’t be so bad after all. 243

I gesture at her to come over.

She takes off the glasses and comes running in that waddling way

of hers.

‘I can have someone with me,’ I tell Oliver Peterson’s older brother. He nods eagerly. If he thinks having another person around might

make this any less mortifying, then he is sadly mistaken. Libby takes off the straw hat and holds it to her chest like she’s a lowly peasant asking the estate owner for a wage increase.

‘You can come with me,’ I say, by way of explanation.

‘Sure,’ Libby says, fixing her eyes on Oliver Peterson’s older brother. He holds open the door for us. It looks like a room that was made

to be invisible. Libby frisbees the straw hat to the nearest shelf, then looks at the sunglasses and decides to hold onto them.

We step into the room but there’s only one table with a chair on

either side of it. It looks like a prison interview room. I take the chair on the far side as I assume I’m the one being interviewed. Libby stands

behind me, leans in and whispers, ‘that’s Oliver Peterson’s older brother,’ loud enough for him to hear.

He closes the door and when he turns to face us, his cheeks have

flushed red. God, he looks like a blushing schoolboy. And this is the supposedly responsible adult who decides whether or not I can buy emergency contraception?

He takes the seat across the table and clears his throat about three

times. ‘So, you’ve had unprotected sex?’ he asks, staring down at his clipboard.

The question is so abrupt I can’t answer it.

Libby, assuming that I’m too embarrassed to answer, decides to

do it for me.

‘Yes,’ she says with confidence, ‘well, not me, her. Not us – I mean, 244

obviously or else we wouldn’t be here. Can’t get pregnant from lesbian sex.’

Then, presumably taking his silence and befuddled stare as a coun-

terargument, she asks, ‘Can you?’

I wish the ground would swallow me up.

‘No,’ he mumbles as he looks back to his clipboard with the pen in

his hand and the ghost of a smile crossing his face.

Is he finding this funny? I turn to look at Libby and she’s blushing.

Libby, embarrassed? That’s never happened before. What is going on? ‘So,’ he clears his throat, ‘you had unprotected sex?’

It’s the first time he’s properly looked at me. It’s also a loaded

question. It’s not like I decided for the condom to break but I guess

the outcome is the same. I wonder if pharmacists go through judgement-training to make you feel as embarrassed as possible. I nod.

‘Right, so I better explain some things.’ He pushes up his glasses

and I see his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows.

I cross my legs in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Is it hot in here

or is it just me? This room is so cramped. I just want to be back out in the fresh air again.

He lists off (in slightly confusing medical jargon) all the reasons

emergency contraception shouldn’t be used regularly as a means of preventing pregnancy; the risks involved, the lack of one hundred

percent effectiveness and somehow manages to add a few more jabs about having unprotected sex.

I can practically feel a dark cloud descending over the memory

of me and Elliot last night. Even though all the repercussions were swirling somewhere at the back of my mind, they just didn’t matter.

It was like we were the only two people in the world. And now, in this 245

stark, clinical room, shame blooms in my stomach.

All of a sudden, Oliver Peterson’s older brother stands up and holds

the door open. I’m not quite sure what’s happening but the open door looks like freedom, so I rush towards it with Libby in tow. Was that it? Have I passed the test?

Back behind the counter, Oliver Peterson’s older brother looks

much more at home. ‘Give me one second,’ he says, holding up a finger to indicate the ‘one’ second he needs. ‘Take your time!’ Libby says.

He nods in acknowledgement, then disappears behind the shelves

of medicine and ready-made prescription bags.

‘Well, I think that went pretty well,’ Libby says, fiddling with the

sunglasses in her hands.

‘Are you flirting with him?’

‘No! I’m not flirting. He’s like years older than us.’ ‘Okay, then.’

After a beat she asks, ‘Why? Do you think he was flirting with me?’

Before I can answer, Oliver Peterson’s older brother reappears

and places a small purple box on the counter. Beside me, Libby tries

(and fails) to throw her mass of hair over her shoulder in a glamorous swoosh. I don’t think he notices.

My foot starts tapping involuntarily. The internet’s advice is running

through my head like a banner. Most effective if taken as soon as possible. ‘Sorry,’ he says, tapping at his computer screen, ‘it’s a new system.’ ‘Don’t you just hate that!’ Libby says loudly.

He flashes a closed-mouth smile at her. I can’t tell if he’s amused

or sympathetic. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he finally says.

I hold out my card, ready to pay the price for my peace of mind. ‘Clubcard?’

246

My hand hovers in mid-air, still holding my debit card. I stare at

him. ‘No. No Clubcard.’ ‘OK —’

‘Oh, wait! I have one.’ Libby rummages through her pockets and

pulls a card out of her phone case.

My mouth falls open as I watch her.

‘What? Might as well get the points,’ she says with a shrug as she

scans her card.

Oliver Peterson’s older brother is definitely smiling now. ‘There

you go,’ he says, gesturing to the card machine.

I tap my card, ready for this strange situation to be over.

He picks up the box, places it in a completely indiscreet brown bag,

and hands it over to me.

‘Thanks,’ says Libby, waving wildly for some reason.

I grab her arm and steer her away from the counter. ‘Have a good day,’ she says over her shoulder.

‘You too.’ Oliver Peterson’s older brother laughs as we leave. I wish

I was invisible.

I walk as fast as possible, clutching the little brown bag in my fist.

Libby keeps looking over her shoulder as we make our way back to the front of the shop.

‘Can you remember what his name was? Do you think we can ask

Oliver?’ she asks.

‘We are not asking Oliver Peterson what his older brother’s name

is. We’re not mentioning this to anyone, remember?’

‘I think it was Adam? Or Archie? Andy?’ she wonders aloud as we

march back down the aisles.

‘Libby, come on. I need to buy a drink to wash this down.’ My eye

falls on what she’s fiddling with in her hands, ‘and you need to pay for those sunglasses.’

247

248

REBEKAH HARLEY Rebekah is a multi-lingual, cinema-loving, cosy gamer. Through her

writing she aspires to help everyone who feels as alone as she did

growing up, and provide escapism for when it all gets too tough. Fantasy was her first love, and contemporary YA is her calling, but secretly she dreams of writing animal adventure novels. Between her travels to fantastical worlds, she resides in Southampton with her dog, Misty.

SEARCH HISTORY

Fiona Harrington is spinning a web of lies. She’s happy with her new

boyfriend. Lie. Her parents are good people. Lie. She’s perfectly fine. Lie. Ever since her parents chased her sister out the house, she’s been questioning everything and lying to everyone, but most importantly to

herself. With her GCSE exams on the horizon and under her parents’ constant surveillance, Fiona has to find out who she really is and what

she really wants, with only the Internet for guidance. But will she really

be able to keep deleting her search history, or will she finally have to face the truth?

rebekahharleywrites@gmail.com

249

SEARCH HISTORY Chapter 1

H ow to k i s s hat was wrong with me? I needed to know and was in

the perfect place to work it out: the last party before exams. There were large speakers, bright flashing lights,

even a bar, and there were hundreds of teenagers who, only weeks

away from their GCSE exams, were dancing, drinking, and chattering. ‘Have you been in the garden yet?’ ‘Who has a fountain that big?’ ‘It’s basically a pool!’

‘Nah, dude. Have you seen the actual pool?’ ‘There’s a pool?’

I filtered away the noise and set my mind on my mission: find out

what I’m missing. Why don’t I have crushes? Why don’t I get what sexy means? Why would I rather debate whether aliens are real than talk about kissing?

There was only one way to work it out and it was in these four,

ridiculously expensive and over-decorated walls. My entire year group

was here. That made it around 250 people. Statistically, it was a huge sample size to work with. I just had to go for it … whatever it was.

‘Let’s get wasted!’ Andy whooped, causing a wave of cheers. This

was Andy’s scene, and G was comfortable too, on the lookout for her

crush as we made our way onto the dance floor. My best friends, G (Gloria Ugwoeme) and Andy (Andrea Kim) hadn’t forced me to this one. I was here to kiss guys – maybe some girls – and to finally fit in. 250

First things first: boys.

There were all kinds of boys here. Mostly in groups hanging out,

drinking, playing games, and all too intimidating to approach.

Justice, Zakhele, and Deonn, three of my friends, were with the rest

of the basketball lads. Why they had actually brought a basketball to a

party was beyond me. If I approached them, they’d see straight through me – Justice had a keen eye.

The only guy I could spot hanging out by himself was Jared – noto-

rious for being a class clown – because he was passed out under the pool table.

Then I spotted Isaiah Owens. He was squeezing around the enor-

mous group of dance-obsessed girls who were surrounding the dance floor.

He was in my science class, but I didn’t know him well. He had an

objectively nice face – sharp nose, jawline, and cheekbones. He was

just naturally chiselled, and he smiled so brightly and nicely. He fit the formula for a model. Did that mean I liked him? He disappeared into the kitchen.

G grabbed my hand as the song changed. ‘We’ve already lost Andy.

Want to bet she’s making out with some guy?’ She laughed and I did

too. It was easy for G and Andy. They just ‘made out’ with people. I didn’t get it.

That’s why I didn’t usually come, but it was my last shot before

prom and I couldn’t go to prom solo. G would go with Leah, her crush, if she said yes, and we were still trying to convince Andy to ask Deonn.

A thought pierced my mind: the other reason I didn’t come to parties. My parents.

I’d lied to them that I was studying. They were at one of my dad’s

work dinners, which always ran over. 251

I forced the image away.

They were out. There was no reason they would be back before

me, but still, a cold wave of anxiety came over me. I needed some space, some room to breathe.

‘I’m going to get something to drink!’ I yelled in G’s ear over the

music.

‘OK,’ she mouthed back, but I could tell she didn’t really hear me.

Her eyes were fixed on a group of girls across the room. I spotted Leah in the group. G had been crushing on her since Christmas.

Isaiah’s friends were in the kitchen – they were all from the same

tutor group. I didn’t know them well, but I recognised a few. They were

all people who wouldn’t know my name, let alone want to talk to me.

They surrounded a table in the centre of the kitchen, which was

the only clear surface I could see. The counters were littered with half-

filled abandoned cups, bottles, cans and piles of empty packets and

snack bowls. The spotlights under the cupboards lit the countertops, illuminating the room in a mystical blue glow of WKD bottles.

‘Ah, sorry,’ I said as I came up behind Isaiah. He was bobbing his

head to the thumping bass coming from the next room as the rest of his friends chatted. ‘Could I get to the fridge?’

‘Hm, oh, hey Fi,’ he said and I was surprised he knew my name

well enough to know I went by Fi, not Fiona. ‘I’ll grab you one, what do you want?’

I followed him into the free space by the fridge, deflated bin bags

crinkling under our feet. ‘Um, I’m not sure what there is.’

Isaiah opened the fridge. It was filled with different kinds of bottles

and cans. He was lit up bright white, giving him an out-of-this-world look. ‘You drinking?’

I should be, right? It’s a party. Drinking and partying went hand in 252

hand. But what would I have? What should I say?

He gave me a smile, dazzled by the fridge light. ‘I’m not. I’m having

a Coke.’

‘I’ll have the same.’

He grabbed us both a Coke and cracked mine open. ‘Here.’ ‘Oh, thanks.’ I was a bit surprised he wasn’t drinking.

He leaned back against the countertop. ‘Didn’t expect to see you

here, to be honest. What do you think of the party?’

‘It’s alright.’ I was uncomfortable. In the stinking heat. In one of

my older sister’s too-small dresses. With these people. Sure, they were people I knew from school, but most of them had a bad memory attached to them.

As I recognised how many people were around me again, it was like

a camera was zooming in on me, the already stuffy room was feeling

more and more cramped. Shouldn’t my older sister be here, guiding me through this party?

I had to force the thoughts away with a long sip of the fizzing drink. Focus, Fi.

Isaiah could be a model, that is how I’d sum up his face. He had

dynamic features that were incredibly symmetrical and well-proportioned. It was a nice face.

Was it a kissable face? I really didn’t know what that meant. Was

he sexy? The word made my stomach squirm. ‘Do you like this song?’ Isaiah asked.

I really couldn’t hear anything beyond the vibrating and thumping.

It was like the music wasn’t restricted by physical atoms anymore and was filling up my insides. ‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted.

‘You don’t seem like the type for this one,’ he said and he was right.

The music definitely wasn’t my type. I liked a song that made me think 253

about the lyrics or the composition – that I could analyse. Oh my gosh, did he just look at my lips?

Well, he is pretty, so it wouldn’t hurt to kiss him, right? If he wants

to kiss me. Might as well.

My thoughts were getting ahead of the situation. The situation

would never go there, right? Why would this guy want to kiss me? I must have been mistaken.

‘Anyway, it’s not my type either,’ Isaiah said. ‘It’s too loud. Do you

want to head out into the garden? It’ll be cooler.’

‘Uh, sure?’ I pulled at the sleeve of my dress. It was rubbing into my

armpit. He took my hand and it felt like I was on fire. My head swam

for a moment, the heat choking me. I stumbled after him, not seeing or feeling anything beyond his fingers gripped around my sweaty palm. I was holding a guy’s hand.

He led me out into the summer evening air. It wasn’t super cold, but

I was shaking and felt weak all over. Did I have a fever all of a sudden? At least there was some relief from the noise and heat.

Isaiah let go of my hand. I drank some Coke. The liquid washed

through me, settling my insides.

The garden was centred around the large fountain. Spotless stone

paths led up to it and past it, further into the garden. We walked towards it, alongside the trimmed hedges and flowerbeds laid out like it was a garden for show. The fountain was made of a thick, grey stone and

was grand and deep. There was a spray of water arching across the top. There weren’t many people out here. A couple were sitting on the

fountain wall, backs towards us.

My knees hit the stone fountain wall. I spotted our reflection in the

ripples. I could hardly recognise myself in this dress, face smothered in makeup, with this boy by my side. 254

I could sense his gaze on me.

‘It’s quiet out here,’ Isaiah said. It was, and it was extremely spacious,

so why was he standing so close that our arms were brushing?

This was the third time we had made close contact. If I was going

to get any experience with any of this, work out what was wrong with

me, perhaps this was it. Have a magical first kiss, under the spray of the fountain, and everything would be OK.

I turned towards him, keeping our closeness. He turned more

towards me as well. Our feet were almost touching. But what now?

Could I just lean in, pucker up, and kiss him? Was that even socially acceptable? Maybe I should just come out with it. He was leaning closer to me. Oh.

Tension rose up my throat, and for some reason, I wanted to laugh. His hand covered mine. ‘Can I kiss you?’ Well, this was it, I guess. I nodded.

I was still shaking though. Could he tell?

He pressed a hand softly on the top of my arm. His warm breath brushed against my cheek.

Stiff with tension, I felt hotter than when we were inside. I wanted

to move away, but I forced myself to stay. I had to see this through.

My thoughts were turning sluggish. Everything was blurring. My

brain wasn’t keeping up.

He was too close to me and was only leaning closer.

Then the lips touched me. The squishy wet flesh pressed against my

mouth. My stomach lurched. What was this? It was wet and repulsive.

There was no magic. Only his lips and hands and I didn’t want

them. Not at all.

I had to move him away. My hands dug into him. He was so strong,

though. I pushed harder and his lips came off mine with a pop, like a 255

suction cup.

Oh gosh. His eyes flickered to mine. His lips were slightly parted.

Then his eyes widened.

I was still pushing him.

He was getting too far away from me. He fell back.

Submerged into the gigantic fountain.

The couple on the fountain wall yelled.

I was frozen, staring down at Isaiah. He put his hands to the bottom

and pushed himself up, gasping and spluttering for breath.

People began coming out of the house and crowding around. ‘Oh

my gosh! Isaiah Owens is in the fountain!’ ‘Pool party!’

People streamed past me, throwing themselves like seals into the

fountain-turned-pool. The last I saw of my first kiss was him getting trampled by some football boys.

I gasped for breath, shellshocked.

If that was a kiss, I never wanted it to happen again.

Chapter 2 W hy i s k i s s i n g g ro s s ? I backed towards the house, against the flow of those desperate to join the fun, first slowly, and then I was barging through the masses

of bodies, breathing hard. I had to get away. I hoped they were all too wasted to notice me.

Soon I was through the crowd, and I stumbled back into the house. 256

Somehow it was still hectic with people dancing and shouting. I felt eyes on me. I tried to look normal. Stand straight. Walk slowly. But I

thought I might be sick. My lips felt weird. I put a hand over my mouth. Everything was pounding. Was I still shaking or was that the floor?

A hand caught my arm. I turned. It was G. ‘I heard someone fell in

the fountain.’

My throat was burning like I might cry. I wasn’t quite sure why. I

shook my head. Now wasn’t the time to analyse myself. ‘I need to go.’

G grabbed me tighter, keeping me from backing towards the door.

‘Are you OK?’

I pulled against her arms. ‘Yeah – no. Please. Let’s go.’

I knew any minute Isaiah, or someone, would spill what happened

and every one of those eyes would turn to us. All of those jeers would turn to us. We had to get out.

There were cheers from outside. Despite the open doors, it was

still sweltering inside.

‘We have to go!’ I insisted. ‘Where’s Andy?’

G threw her thumb over her shoulder. ‘She’s making out by the

stairs. What’s wrong?’

I grabbed G’s wrist and pulled her towards the stairs. Andy was

indeed making out, pressing some guy up against the wall. I tapped

on her shoulder. My entire body was pounding. G was texting on her phone next to me.

Andy turned to us, makeup smudged.

‘I need to go.’ I didn’t hear my own voice over the music, over the

thumping.

I was shaking now.

Andy pushed away the guy, nodded and grabbed my hand. She led

us out the house into the night air.

257

G kept pace with me. ‘My mum’s nearly here.’

‘Can we start walking?’ I asked. I was going to explode. ‘Yeah.’

We were walking. My brain was numb.

Seconds later, G’s mum pulled around the corner and to the side

of the road. We got in – all three of us in the back. It was warm again. I began to cry.

They didn’t pressure me with questions or tell me to stop crying.

Both of my friends just let me cry, a hand on my shoulder.

Embarrassment clawed at my stomach, but I couldn’t stop the tears.

Why was I crying?

G’s mum put soft music on as she drove us home.

Once the tears all dried up, I took some deep breaths, easing the

tension in my stomach. ‘Thank you,’ I croaked and both girls nodded. ‘Are you OK?’ Andy asked.

‘Yeah, I just –’ I didn’t know what to say.

‘As long as you’re OK, you don’t have to tell us. But if you need us

to beat someone up, we’re here, OK?’ G said. I saw G’s mum smile a little in the rear-view mirror.

I nodded. ‘I just got overwhelmed, I think.’

G said, ‘That makes sense. Honestly, there were too many people.

It was hard to move. And you were outside, right? I’d freak out too if all those people started charging at me.’

I was able to take more deep breaths and steady my heart and

stomach.

‘Hey, who was that you were making out with?’ G asked Andy all of

a sudden, a sly smile on her face.

Andy pretended to think. ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘Are you going to date him?’

258

‘As if I have time for that,’ Andy said before opening her little handbag

and pulling out some makeup wipes. ‘You want some?’ she offered me. I nodded and took a couple from her. I began scraping the makeup

off in big swipes across my face.

Why had that happened? Why had that kiss been so horrible? Why

had I cried about it?

Embarrassment and confusion fizzled in me again, but they were

overtaken by a gnawing in my stomach. Would my parents be at the

front door? And beyond that, what would happen at school on Monday?

259

260

KRISTEN HAWKE Kristen loved books from the moment she was able to hold one, and has photographic evidence to prove it. As a teenager, she grew into a

hopeless romantic with a nice singing voice and an anxiety disorder. She was very happy about two of those; she’s still working on the

third. When she isn’t writing books filled with humour and romance,

Kristen can be found curled up with a cat and drinking hot chocolate.

To spite her anxiety, she wears bright clothes and talks to large groups of people whenever possible. She lives in Oxfordshire where there are pretty buildings and lots of family and friends to bother.

THE HEARTVINE PRINCESS

Women don’t rule in Grishmore. Everyone knows that. So, when Oriana ends up the last of her family standing after an invasion, she flees rather

than fight for her crown. The last thing she expects is to find a valley of magical Heartvine plants which could be the key to saving Grishmore

from plague. But the longer she’s away from her royal life, the less she

wants to go back. Especially when sparks begin to fly between her and Durand, the darkly attractive royal guard. As the plague worsens and invaders search the land for her, Oriana must decide whether to sacrifice her newfound freedom to help her people. kristen_hawke@outlook.com

261

THE HEARTVINE PRINCESS Chapter 1 he sweet scent of rosemary, baking bread and roasting hog

trickled between the mass of sweaty bodies in the room and settled on Oriana’s tongue. The door to the kitchen garden

had been propped open with a sack of potatoes, the arched windows

flung wide, but it did little to ease the sweltering heat of the room.

Spoons clanged against bowls, pots thudded, her knife hit the cutting

board in chorus with a dozen others as they chopped vegetables. Every so often, the breeze would flutter the sweaty hair stuck to her forehead, providing a brief respite.

Despite her best efforts to concentrate on the work, her thoughts

wandered like gauzy fabric fluttering in the wind.

Prince Tassian, third son of the Ishmali royal family, would be here

by nightfall and, with luck, she and Kate would leave with him in a few days’ time. She’d be firmly established as an Ishmali princess by her eighteenth birthday.

Her future was so close she could almost see it in the steam of the

castle kitchen.

Across the table, the two scullery maids, Betsy and Anna, whispered

together.

‘My brother swears it’s a woman,’ Betsy was saying. ‘Said he saw

her skirts when she was making one of her deliveries to the camp.’

Anna snorted. ‘As if a woman would go dropping supplies to the 262

sick. The shock of seeing a woman out on her own after nightfall would finish them off.’

Oriana kept her eyes down, her excitement rapidly surrendering

to trepidation.

‘I’m telling you, it’s a woman. He says he knows exactly when she’ll

appear – M’lady!’

The knife slipped in Oriana’s sweaty hand, slicing into her finger.

She yelped, blood welling up around the cut. In a heartbeat, the kitchen

staff descended upon her, crowding in to get a look at the damage,

urging her toward a stool. The head cook herself, Mariya, rushed to find a clean cloth to wrap the wound.

‘It’s nothing,’ she tried to protest. ‘It hardly hurts.’ The fuss was

harder to bear than the pain; she didn’t want to be fawned over, treated like a delicate butterfly. Especially not when she needed to think. Could

Betsy’s brother really know The Silver Cloak’s routine? Was he the

kind of person who would indulge it, have sympathy for the plague

victims Oriana’s father had forbidden from entering the city? Or would he reveal what he knew?

Through the cluster of women flapping around her, she saw Betsy

surreptitiously gathering the last of a tray of rolls from the kitchen sideboard into her apron. Oriana wouldn’t have blamed her for sneaking one away, but the girl tipped them all carefully into a linen cloth and

added them to the scraps pile by the back door. It was an open secret

amongst the kitchen staff that The Silver Cloak stole from the pile. Nobody had yet done anything to stop it, and this wasn’t the first time Oriana had seen someone add perfectly good food to it.

‘I have the Heartvine, M’lady. Should I call for Mrs Howell?’ Anna

held the wooden medicine box out as though it were worth more than

her own life. She supposed her father might well feel it was, considering 263

the price Heartvine powder commanded. That was why Kate’s mother was the only one with the key to unlock the box.

‘Not for a scratch,’ Oriana smiled. She might be sick, but she wasn’t

so fragile as all that. Not yet, anyway.

‘Here, M’lady.’ Mariya returned, holding out a handkerchief embroi-

dered with rings of swallows and daisies.

‘No, that’s too fine. I couldn’t.’ Oriana tried to pull her hand away,

but Mariya caught it.

‘A fine bandage for a fine lady.’ There was a softness in the way she

said it, a gentleness as she wrapped the cut. ‘Besides, your father will have my head if he knows you’ve been down here again.’

A twittering of agreement rose from the other kitchen maids, all

watching anxiously as though Oriana had lost a finger rather than nicked one.

‘Well,’ Oriana brushed her apron down and stood, trying not to

look at the blood staining the beautiful handkerchief, ‘what my father doesn’t know can’t hurt him.’

‘But it can, apparently, hurt you.’ A male voice with a harsh Ishmali

accent scattered the circle of women as surely as a loosed arrow. Captain Durand Flynn – tall, handsome and infuriatingly self-righteous – stepped

through the gap. His skin was a golden olive tone, his eyes sharp and dark, choppy sable hair curling over the top of his ears. His knee-high

leather boots, gloves and jerkin were worn over black breeches and a long-sleeved tunic in Grishmore teal. He made the guard’s uniform look better than anyone had a right to.

She hid her injured hand in the folds of her silk skirts. It was too

late to pretend it hadn’t happened, but she wasn’t about to let him stare at it like a crack on a porcelain doll. His eyes slid over her, taking in the cloth wrapped over her scarlet hair and the stained apron tied 264

around her dress. Despite herself, she flushed. A smile rose at the corners of his lips.

‘Do you need something?’ she asked, scowling.

‘The King wanted to make sure you’re ready for your guests this

evening.’

Oriana raised an eyebrow. It was hours yet before the feast. ‘You’re welcome to pick up a knife if you’re so concerned.’ One of the kitchen maids snorted.

The smile melted from Durand’s face. He drew himself up and

folded his arms across his broad chest. With his imposing stature and the sword at his hip, it didn’t take much for him to look intimidating.

‘You know you’re not supposed to be here. Don’t make things

difficult, Princess.’

She eyed him warily. Her father must really be in a bluster if he’d

sent Durand; any other member of the royal guard she might have

wheedled her way around with a carefully chosen word. Sweet-talking Durand was about as effective as cajoling a wooden post.

Her father had brought Durand back from the Ishmali King’s court a

few months ago to replace Christos, the retiring Captain of The Guard. He’d also been assigned to train her brother, Ophir, personally. Ishmali warriors were supposed to be the best in the world, but it still seemed

unfair that someone scarcely two years older than her commanded the

entire castle guard. She suspected it had more to do with her father’s desire to impress the Ishmali than Durand actually being the best choice.

He, a foreigner, almost a boy, was allowed to swan around with a

sword, ordering her about, but she wasn’t even allowed into a library,

was forbidden from bearing arms, and couldn’t venture out alone after

curfew. All because she was a girl in a kingdom built on the backs of men. Don’t make things difficult, he’d said. Things are already difficult, 265

she wanted to reply.

‘I need a moment,’ she said instead.

Turning her back on him, she crossed to Mariya.

‘I meant to stay longer.’ Oriana grimaced at the mountains of vege-

tables, dough, and fruit still waiting to be prepared. She’d taken her

morning dose of medicine for the first time in weeks to make sure she would be able to help. And now Durand was yanking her away.

‘Make nothin’ of it, M’lady.’ Mariya took the apron and hair-cloth

back. ‘You always give what you can.’ Her smile was warm and soft as freshly-baked bread. For a whisper of a moment, Oriana wondered if that was how her mother might have smiled at her if she had lived.

Durand met her at the doorway, scowling. She swept past him up

the stairs, straightening her skirts and arranging her face into the

placid agreeability that was expected of a Grishmore Princess. As she climbed, Durand following her, she couldn’t help but feel some piece of her was left behind.

When she was a child, perhaps six, she’d developed a fondness for

gingerbread, demanding it at all hours of the day. Her mother, who hadn’t been born royal, had informed her that if she craved it so badly, she could learn to make it herself. It had been a sobering experience

for the girl whose food had magically appeared on her plate up until

then. It had been the beginning of her mother’s campaign to ensure Oriana knew exactly how much work it took to keep her in comfort.

When her mother had passed and her father’s courtiers tried to

insist she rest in her room and preserve her strength after the shock, it had been Mariya who’d given her a bowl of dough to pummel and a

sense of purpose. Though the kitchen staff fluttered around her like anxious hummingbirds if she injured herself, none of them treated her as though she might faint at the mere mention of exertion. 266

In the main castle, the halls were built of grey stone, stained-glass

windows depicting The Flight of the Angels looking out onto the sea

that Grishmore castle backed onto. The wood floors smelled strongly of beeswax polish, the wall sconces shinier than they’d been in years. The eyes of Oriana’s ancestors followed her from freshly-dusted giltframed paintings as they neared her quarters, passing a dozen harried servants carrying bedsheets or buckets of firewood.

Ordinarily, she would have paused to help them, especially on a day

as busy as today, but Durand’s presence at her back prevented her. He might well tell her father, and it would be the servants she’d helped who would face the worst of the King’s wrath if he did. King Oberon’s rages always came sudden and bitter.

They rounded the corner to her chambers in time to see Harris, the

elderly steward, catch his foot on the edge of the rug lining the hall, the

vase of flowers in his hands going flying. It shattered, Harris tottered, overbalanced, and crumpled amongst the pieces.

Snatching her skirts up, Oriana dashed to him.

‘Are you hurt?’ She grabbed his arm to try and help him up but, old

as he was, he was heavy.

A moment later, Durand brushed her aside, hefting Harris back

onto his feet. The old butler was pale, the knee of his breeches torn, but otherwise unharmed.

‘I’m fine M’la–’ His eyes flicked to Durand, evidently mindful that

the casual title Oriana preferred was not one her father allowed. ‘Your

Highness.’ He looked down at the shattered vase and turned paler still. ‘I’ll find a maid to clear this, no need to inform the King.’

Because on a day as important as today, that was all it might take

to kick up a fury in her father. He would likely take the cost of the vase

out of Harris’ wages. Well, as she’d said earlier, what her father didn’t 267

know couldn’t hurt him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. They’re busy enough as it is – I can do this

very well myself.’ If Durand wanted to object, he could. Then she could ignore him. ‘Go,’ she urged.

‘As you wish.’ Harris nodded uncertainly, pointedly not looking at

Durand.

He hurried off down the corridor, leaving Oriana, Durand, and a

heavy silence in the hall. She sensed confused disapproval radiating from him.

‘I’ll just ... clean this up.’ She took a step toward the mess, but Durand

stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

‘The last thing we need is you cutting yourself a second time.’

Oriana shrugged him off, rounding on him furiously. But he was

too close behind her. Their chests brushed and she stumbled back a step. He caught her elbow to steady her, and her stomach fluttered.

‘What do you care,’ she snapped, voice breathier than she’d intended.

‘I’m not so sick that it’ll kill me.’

His dark eyes flitted to her wounded finger then back to meet her

gaze. Then he released her and stepped away.

‘You’re a princess. I’m surprised you’d bother with cleaning.’

Oriana stiffened. ‘What do you suppose I do all day? Sit in my room

until someone summons me?’

‘As that’s what the King orders, yes.’

She lifted her chin and levelled a glare at him. ‘Would you expect

such blind obedience from an Ishmali Princess?’ Across the sea, women headed households and answered to themselves before any other.

‘We’re not in Ishmalia.’ He looked her over again. ‘And you’re

certainly not an Ishmali Princess.’

He made it sound like an insult.

268

‘You’re a Grishmore Princess to the bone. Soft, kind. Weak.’ Turning

on his heel, he strode to her door and held it open.

Oriana’s nostrils flared. If he thought insulting her would stop her

clearing the shattered vase, he was sorely mistaken.

Then she caught sight of the peasant’s dress, and silver-grey cloak

at the foot of her bed where Kate must have left them. Her heart caught in her throat, and she rushed forward into her room, catching the door and shoving it with all her weight. Durand stumbled back.

‘I thank you, Captain Flynn,’ Oriana said, tone falsely sweet. And

she slammed the door in his face.

Leaning back against the wood, she breathed a sigh of relief as

she heard his footsteps retreat down the corridor. He hadn’t seen; everything was okay.

Soft, kind. Weak. As though the first two added up to the third.

Once The Silver Cloak’s disguise was safely hidden in her wardrobe,

Oriana slipped back out into the hall to pick up the pieces of the vase, half-hoping Durand would come back and try to stop her so she could argue with him some more.

Soft and kind she might be, but she was the furthest thing from

weak. Tales of Ishmalia had taught her so.

To her and Kate, two girls who felt abysmally out of place, Ishmalia

had always seemed an unreachable paradise. She’d stolen books on the land across the sea from the Grishmore library, she and Kate poring

over Ishmali legends in dark linen cabinets and under the sheets of Oriana’s bed. Kate had marvelled over warrior women who charged

into battle alongside their men, but Oriana’s favourite had always been the story of Sarissa, First Queen. Sarissa had outwitted her warrior

brothers and sister to claim the throne and ruled with all the sharp intelligence and ready kindness that Oriana aspired to. 269

Tassian was their ticket to that world, so close now Oriana almost

felt the sands of Ishmalia beneath her feet. Perhaps Durand didn’t remember Sarissa, but others would. Across the seas, nobody would confuse kindness and femininity for weakness.

As far as she was concerned, Tassian and his proposal couldn’t

arrive fast enough.

270

271

272

CHARLI HAYNES Charli survives the real world by believing in magic. She is perpetually enrolled in the University of Pop Culture and lives and breathes

everything geek: from graphic novels (which she studied as part of her English degree) to video games (which she writes) and all the

bits in convention halls in between (she was part of the team that used to run MCM Comic Con). Charli grew up hanging out in Pigeon Park in Birmingham and now, after a decade working in social media

in London, she lives back in the Midlands teaching her two cats how to navigate the mosh pit. Charli graduated with distinction from Bath Spa University’s MA in Writing for Young People.

A SECRET NEVER TO BE TOLD

Can sixteen-year-old Allodie protect her second chance at life by

succeeding as an apprentice angel of death? Allodie must balance her secret job with school exams, thrifting the best vintage boots, and the

growing popularity of her band Feathered Dragons. Will she trust her instinct and unlock her powers to protect the life (and the boy) she loves

before the balance of life and death is changed forever? This is Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets Daisy Jones & the Six with the cinematic heart

of a Japanese anime. A YA fantasy set in contemporary Birmingham about trusting in life even when your boss is the angel of death. haynescharli@gmail.com

273

A SECRET NEVER TO BE TOLD Chapter 1 ignored the feeling.

The feeling deep in your gut that says: don’t go that way, don’t say that thing, don’t eat that, you’ll regret it.

Of course I ignored it. We were seeing One for Sorrow for the first

time and tonight was my chance to see Zed Sudeiky perform one of

the greatest guitar solos the world has ever known. I was getting to the front even if it killed me – how bloody ironic that turned out to be. Lolo tugged on my arm. Our signal that she didn’t want to push

forward any further. Two years ago, a horrible security guard told

her she was too big to be lifted out of a crowd crush even though

he continued to hoist out the fully grown men. Felix and Jimmy had

boosted her to crowd-surfing safety to prove that prick wrong but the damage to her confidence had been done.

‘See you when your mum picks us up, Allodie! Near McDonald’s!’

my fuchsia-haired best friend shouted over the hum of the crowd.

Looking back between the bodies closing in, Felix and Jimmy flanked

Lolo protectively. Something inside told me to stay with my best friends. My bandmates. But they knew me too well.

‘Give Aaron a lick from me.’ Felix stuck out his tongue. He wore a

black waistcoat over his bare chest and mirrored sunglasses inside as

only a frontman could do. I saw my reflection in the glasses, auburn hair already fluffy in the human-made humidity, black eyeliner smudged 274

sort of on purpose.

‘She’s saving that lick for Zed,’ Lolo teased. ‘Don’t forget to invite

us to the wedding.’

I tried to pull rock devil horns but I was roughly shoved and knocked

off my balance. It was my fault for facing the wrong direction in a crowd crush. Jimmy reached a hand out over Lolo to catch my forearm.

His gun-metal eyes glittered and the natural curl of his deep brown

hair started to flick up. He’d asked me to try and smooth it down but

I liked his hair most when it refused to be tamed. I wanted to squeeze his hand and stand beside him, feel his hands wrapped around my

waist while we sang together, let him kiss my neck like we did in his room when the slow songs came on.

But I couldn’t raise suspicions, so I gave them all a lame thumbs

up. ‘See you at the end!’

Diving into the depths of elbows and shoulders, I buried the feeling

that told me to go back, a longing for Jimmy which would be too

dangerous to toy with. We were less than a week away from Birming-

ham’s Band Slam – the gig we had been rehearsing for relentlessly. And I didn’t doubt Lolo would kick us out of Feathered Dragons if she knew the guitarist and drummer were secretly dating. Pushing forward, I made good progress. Until the house lights went out.

The roar was huge like a hungry creature ready to devour. I was

held up body to body with strangers who all had one thing in common:

a desire to be fed by electric guitar notes, deep-in-the-chest bass and banging-heart drums. It was a wave that crashed over my worries and powered my spirit like nothing else.

A guitar chord rang out and the safe shoal of bodies split open like

a knife cutting through a sacrifice.

275

Oh no.

I was on the edge of a mosh pit. The good thing was that it meant I

was central to the stage. The bad thing was that trying to cross it was

like swimming through Hades’ river of souls. Arms and legs grabbed you from every direction, trying to pull you under. ‘BIRMINGHAM. ARE YOU READY?’

One for Sorrow’s lead singer, Aaron Vengeful, backlit by a stage

light with his foot up on a front speaker, addressed the wild mob like a necromancer beginning a summoning.

I joined in with this cult of heavy metal’s unified howl.

The first chords of ‘Unholy Rapture’ screeched out. A very fast, very

angry opening to satiate the sacrifices. I could see the other side of the pit. I ran.

The next thing I knew I was being picked up off the floor. My ear was

ringing. It felt wet. Whether it was bloody or if it was sweat I didn’t care.

I made it across from the other side and my sacrifice had been worth it. I saw a tiny slither of the metal barrier and squeezed in closer to the person ahead to put my hand on it.

A girl, slightly older than me, turned to see who had pushed against

her. She was shorter than Lolo and looked like she belonged in a K-pop

band. Her black hair was cut into a blunt fringe and tied at her neck in a perfectly messy bun. Somehow, she still had her leather jacket on in the heat of the gig.

K-pop didn’t return my ecstatic grin. Her face was serious, almost

disgusted. It was an odd reaction to witness when everyone else around us was jumping and singing. She had winged eyeliner straighter than a

sacrificial dagger point. It framed her eerily purple eyes. She looked away from me to the stage before I could ask her about her contact lenses. Then Zed, in a sleeveless denim jacket and Misfits T-shirt, started the 276

guitar solo that took over my soul.

Hooking the toes of my oldest boots into the metal grates of the

barrier to give me some more height, I reached up to Zed’s guitar like a drowning spirit gasping for the surface.

Right at that moment I was invincible. Captivated under the spell

of how quickly Zed’s fingers whirled around his fretboard. Lost in the wonder if I could ever mimic their speed in my guitar playing. This was the best moment of my life.

I guess it was good enough to be my last.

A signature guitar solo gives the lead singer some free time. Aaron

chose to use that time to perform his famous microphone trick. The one I had watched a hundred times on videos. He gathered the lead like a noose and swung the mic in a circle.

For every completed spin he added more and more length to its arc.

Zed stepped out of its trajectory and pointed at me. I screamed.

Was he offering me his plectrum? A touch of his talent? A transfer of rock-god energy?

He was trying to save my life.

Attempting to touch invisible notes in the air, I leant closer and

didn’t notice the mic coming back around.

Until there was a bright slice of pain in the soft bit of my head by

my left eye.

Apparently, the thud into my skull echoed out over the PA system;

Zed abruptly stopped his guitar solo and Aaron called the song to a

halt. The crowd booed when the house lights came on, the stark light cleansing away the ritual frenzy.

Of course, I didn’t hear any of this, because at that moment I was

dead.

277

Chapter 2 Mum always told me off for having my music too loud. I liked the

sensation of the bass ricocheting around my body. The thump thump

beat propelled my heart. Gigs were the few places I could immerse myself in the feeling. Or when Mum and Dad went out and I could turn up the Sonos.

I was always told that I was going to ruin my hearing. Never warned

that loud music might burst my heart. A rhythm hammered into my chest that crushed my rib cage so hard I thought it was exploding. The hammering stopped.

Then my nose was pinched roughly. I couldn’t shake my head to

escape whoever was holding onto it. A rush of air was forced down my mouth.

This wasn’t anything to do with music. Which meant—

‘Did you know there’s a lower success rate of CPR at night time

than there is in the day?’

I didn’t recognise the female voice that whispered into my ear.

Whoever it was, they held my hand tight, fingers cool and smooth against mine, while somebody else counted breathlessly in time with each compression of my chest.

I tried to wriggle my fingers or flutter my eyelids. Anything to stop

the pounding punches.

‘My theory is, your mortal body is too programmed to go to sleep

at night and too simple to realise this sleep would be permanent,’ the hand-holder whispered casually.

If I could have stopped the weird philosophising with a withering

glare, I would have. But the counting reached thirty and hot air blasted 278

down my throat in two short bursts. Then the pattern started again. ‘Do you know CPR?’ the counting person puffed.

‘I do,’ hand-holder spoke normally to whoever was responsible for

denting my internal organs.

‘There’s no signal down here for me to radio to get the defib from

the ambulance. I’m going to run and get it —’

Two more warm blasts of wind blew into my mouth, stopping her

from explaining.

‘I don’t want to send you and you get questioned by security to get

back in. We’ve only got two minutes to do this —’ The lips on mine were starting to feel rough.

‘After this round of thirty, I’m going to give her rescue breaths and

then you take over the chest pumps, OK?’

‘Got it.’ Hand-holder sounded cheerful. ‘Ready?’

The stranger’s hand moved to my chest. A door opened and closed with a slam.

‘I’m not snogging you. You should be able to move now.’

A soft, fluffy dressing pad bandaged over the side of my face

prevented me from opening my right eye. Next came the scissure of

pain. The skin of my face was tight and swollen to the size of a planet, and even the tiny movement of my eyeball in its socket was enough to make me want to throw up.

Booms rocked the walls and I gripped the edges of what I was lying

down on. My nails dug into the cheap plastic of a table. Squinting with

my good eye, I saw a strange light dimly illuminate the room. I could see the top of a metal clothes rail with black T-shirts thrown over it,

and on the edges of my vision, there was a long horizontal mirror with naked light bulbs around it. The eerie light wasn’t coming from them. 279

They were all switched off.

Bass ricocheted through the walls. I heard the distant cry of a crowd. I was backstage at One for Sorrow.

Ridiculously, I was disappointed that the gig had continued without

me.

I knocked empty crisp packets and half-drunk Sambuca shots onto

the floor as I sat up on the table. The strong smell of liquorice made me swallow hard. I hated throwing up.

Taking a breath through my mouth, I focused on the hand-holder.

The girl I stood next to in the crowd. ‘Who are you?’ I gasped.

‘Dabria,’ she answered as though I should already know.

‘Have you got any paracetamol?’ I held my brains together inside

my head with my hand.

She scoffed. ‘You’re gonna need more than that.’

Behind her in the mirror, I could see my hair was a mess underneath

the bandages that covered half of my head. Everything else seemed

normal: my oversized band T-shirt under my corset harness, the scuffed, laced-up boots, black jeans and a glowing opalescent orb above my stomach. What?

The eerie light in the room was coming from me. Or, more specifically,

the tiny circle spinning out of me.

I looked down and it was still there, no trick of the mirror. I shifted

so I could touch it.

Dabria placed a many-ringed hand in my way to stop me getting

near it. ‘You’re dead.’ ‘I’m Allodie.’

‘Allodie, you’re dead.’

‘I can’t be. I’m talking. I’m breathing, I —’ 280

I acknowledged the eerie silence in my body. The vibrations of the

walls had masked it. But there was a rhythm in my own body that was missing. My heart wasn’t beating.

I scrambled to stand up, ignoring the screaming shouts in my head

yelling at me to stay still for longer. I overbalanced and was caught by arms much stronger than they looked.

‘You need to sit still. There’s only so much I can do to keep your dɛt

connected to your body.’

‘What the heck are you on about?’ I pushed her away and braced

my weak limbs against the cabinet.

‘I’m a dɛt collector. Sounds like debt but it’s written d-ɛ-t.’ Dabria

sounded like she was reading one of those telephone scam scripts.

‘Basically, I’m an Angel of Death. You’re dead. I’m here to claim your dɛt and bring your life to its rightful end.’ I stared at her.

‘Is this a joke?’ I asked, genuinely.

‘We don’t have much time. The paramedic will be back in a minute.’

Dabria ignored my question and grabbed the glow from my stomach

with two hands. I tried to move away but there was a sharp resistance. ‘Don’t make this even harder.’ Dabria’s voice was strained. ‘You’ve

got a choice.’

The purple eyes I had noticed in the crowd glowed ultraviolet.

‘This.’ She squeezed my orb firmly. ‘Is rightfully mine. But I’m feeling

generous. I’ll let you keep it if you promise to be my apprentice.’ ‘Apprentice what?’ ‘Angel of Death.’

‘Have I gone insane?’ I tentatively touched my bandage again and

noticed the warning heat of a wound not wanting to be messed with. Surely I had to be hallucinating.

Dabria regarded me coolly. ‘Someone’s just been run over on the 281

ring road. It makes no difference to me – I can offer this opportunity to him instead.’

I watched her slowly release a sparkling finger from the grip on my

orb, or dɛt, whatever it was. With each finger she removed, the pain in my skull lessened but so did my grasp on the world.

Dabria’s right hand came loose. Some part of my brain screamed to

move my lungs in and out, but I was far away. It didn’t matter anymore.

The orb in her hand started to flicker and stutter like a disrupted internet connection, or maybe that was my senses slowly switching off. ‘Idon’twanttodie.’

‘Will you be my apprentice?’

I couldn’t see her anymore. I couldn’t see anything. ‘Yes.’

282

283

284

LUKE LITTLEJOHN Luke Littlejohn grew up lost in the worlds of Roald Dahl, Paul Stewart

and Chris Riddell, superhero films and the games he played. It was then that he decided he wanted to be a storyteller and wrote his first stories

down. Growing up, Luke continued to love writing and, despite the best advice from his teachers, chose to study publishing. These days,

Luke spends most of his time building Lego, fending off the resident peacocks of Corsham, laughing too loudly in public, or reading facts

about astronomy (his favourite planet is Jupiter). When he’s not doing any of those things, he’s at home in Stoke, writing, with his dog Henry.

HECTOR’S GUIDE TO RUNES, RACING AND RUINING ROMANCES Hector Nova feels the pressure to live up to his ambitious father’s expectations. When his father enters him in the biggest race in history,

he sets out to join his heroes on the track. There he must navigate new friendships and rivalries while trying not to embarrass himself too much in front of the whole empire and his surprise crush, Jasper.

But when Hector discovers the stakes are higher than he could have

imagined, he finds himself racing for his life and must decide how much he’s willing to sacrifice for victory. luke.littlejohn.writes@gmail.com

285

HECTOR'S GUIDETO RUNES,RACINGAND RUINING ROMANCES Chapter 1

B e c a u s e W h e re E l s e Wo u l d I S t a r t ? egendary racers beam out at me from their posters, their

hair flying in the wind, runes glowing on their flight suits.

Each of them stands in front of their ships and floating planets,

their emblems painted above them in different colours. I imagine myself there for a second, then remember that every time anyone takes a

picture of me, I look like I’ve just rolled out of a coffin. And there isn’t

enough make-up in the world that’ll hide my moon-crater acne scars. Today, though, provided I don’t fly into a wall like last year, I might

get a chance to join my heroes. My hands are sweaty just thinking about it.

BANG

Luckily, I live with my uncle, who doesn’t let me dwell on anything

for too long without making something explode.

I take a second to steady myself as the house stops shaking before

I march across my room and wrench the door open. I normally don’t

mind the random bangs, smells, and strange creatures that run around the house, but it’s graduation day. Just for today, I’d like things to go to plan.

Pretty much every single stair creaks as I run down them. Uncle 286

is sitting on the floor of the living room, or at least what he calls a

living room, examining a smoking teacup. It’s more like a library that’s exploded out of its shelves and buried everything else under its tomes, except for a threadbare sofa which sticks out from the mountain of literature.

‘Uncle,’ – I call him that because his actual name is Erasmus and I

can’t think of a way to shorten it – ‘what the hell was that?’

‘Good morning, Hector,’ Uncle says, as if he hasn’t just caused an

explosion with nothing but a tea set. He’s a thin man with brown eyes

which are used to smiling, and an explosion of hay-coloured hair. Unfortunately, the hair is a feature of every member of the Nova family, including me. Even my father has a wild mane before he tames it with enough hair oil to cause an ecological disaster.

I sigh and hold out my hand. ‘Let me have a look.’ Uncle gives me

the teacup.

The runes he’s written on the cup spiral out from the bottom; they’re

still crackling with electric blue energy.

‘Trying to make it float?’ I ask, inspecting each of the intricate

rune lines. Each one consists of two canals of blue magic with runes bridging them. One line reinforces the teacup so the magic flowing

through it doesn’t instantly shatter it, and the float lines make it forget about gravity.

‘I followed the book exactly,’ Uncle says, sticking his nose back into

the tome in question. You’d think a respected scholar would be a bit

better with runic engineering, but no. If Uncle even looks at a rune, he blows something up or turns it into an armadillo.

‘Here’s the problem,’ I say, showing him where two of the rune

spirals touch each other. ‘You’ve got a short circuit.’ I rub my thumb

along the wonky spiral, sending blue sparks spiralling into the air.

Then I take the runewriter from my belt, a long thin shard of a deep 287

blue crystal with a wooden handle, and use it to rewrite the lines. They glow. The weight of the teacup vanishes, and it floats out of my hand, spinning slowly as it bobs around the room, bumping into the dusty light fitting. My uncle claps and whoops. I can’t help but smile at him. ‘Anyway, I gotta go. Graduation day.’

‘I’ll be on the front row to watch,’ Uncle calls after me. I grab my

coat and head outside, closing the front door which still has scorch marks on it from when Uncle tried to write a security rune.

It’s not a long walk to the track, and it’s not busy yet, just a few early

merchants setting up stalls and food stands. The smell of gargle-worm

burgers makes my stomach grumble. Hotel ships float overhead, their

solar sails extended like white butterflies shining in the early morning light of the sisters, the two stars at the centre of the solar system. I wonder if Dad is up there. Some stupid part of me hopes he is, to see me race. To watch me win. Maybe even to tell me I’m worthy of being

his son. But realistically he’d rather eat a float scorpion than be found at a graduation race for a school he pretends he didn’t send his son to.

Even with my coat, I’m shivering by the time I reach the door to

the pit area. The academy looms over me. I take a deep breath, trying to get a handle on the tidal forces of excitement, nerves, and fear that are smashing into each other in my chest. Then I type in the door code and the huge silver doors swing open.

The sounds and smells of the pit engulf me. Students shouting to

each other, grease, and the burning aniseed smell of magic. Each team has their own pit. Ours is right at the end, so I get to peek at the other ships. They come in just about every shape and size I can think of, from

the zeppelin tributes to Tusk, the current champ, to the ships that are

barely more than mechanical suits. But when I round the corner to our pit, all my excitement goes cold. Our ship, which should be long

and elegant with two wings stretching out from the front, with runes running along the hull, is in three pieces and half the hull plating has 288

been stripped off. A pair of legs sticks out from underneath, which I assume belong to Ivy, but knowing my luck, probably don’t.

‘Um, Ivy?’ I have to nearly shout over the noise of other teams.

There’s a clanging thud. ‘You know you’re meant to slide out from under the ship before sitting up, right?’ I say, barely disguising the fact I’m trying not to laugh. She slides out, scowling.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, gesturing at the pieces of racer which

should be very much attached to the ship.

‘Oh, just final tweaks, really,’ Ivy says. ‘Adjusting the rudder, checking

the energy core, trying to make it fly.’

‘Oh, nothing major then. Might even strap the wings back on while

we’re at it,’ I say.

Ivy wipes blue grease off her hands with a cloth. ‘It’s the antigrav.’

‘Sister’s sunsets.’ I drop onto the float next to her and shuffle under

the ship.

‘I took it for a test flight this morning,’ Ivy says, pulling down the

hull plate that covers the antigrav circuit. ‘I say I took it for a test flight. I tried to, but it wouldn’t take off.’ A ruby about the size of my fist with softly glowing runes etched across its surface, sits in a nest of wires. Ivy reaches up, pulls the ruby out with a crunching noise, and flips it over. There’s a jagged crack through it. ‘That is a problem,’ I whisper.

Chapter 2 T h e Ru by, T h e R a c e, a n d t h e T h re a t to my A r s e Ivy storms back into the pit, looking like a star that’s about to go supernova. ‘I don’t get it. How does an academy for racing not have a single ruby anywhere?’

I’m putting the last panels back onto the ship, careful not to scratch 289

any of the paint, and the Nightingale looks good. Her wings now fill

most of the pit and her body stretches back nearly fifty feet. In my head,

she’s just as eager to race as Ivy and I. Except for the fact she can’t fly. ‘Surely one of the other teams must have one?’

‘Nope,’ Ivy snaps. I look nervously at the longsword she’s holding.

‘Graduation race, isn’t it? Only the top three get out of this hellhole so

everyone’s hyper-competitive. I should’ve just …’ She swings the sword through the air. Panic starts to fill my stomach. I go to sit at the tool station, where the cracked ruby is still on the workbench.

‘I read a book once,’ I muse. ‘The theory went you could repair a

ruby mid-flight, provided you knew the right runes.’ Ivy stops swinging. ‘And do you?’ ‘Nope, but I can guess.’

‘You’re not inspiring confidence in me here.’

‘I can give it a go. What’s the worst that can happen?’ I try not to

think about the answer to that question. Instead, I pick up the smallest

rune writer I can find. It’s barely more than a thin blue needle. I write

a repair rune line along the crack, keeping it as small as possible so they don’t interfere with any of the runes already chiselled into the red surface. Then I write a vanishing line which should take away all the runes I wrote so the flight runes can re-join properly.

‘Time?’ I ask, carefully drawing out the last swirling symbol. ‘We’ve got five minutes to be at the start line.’

I try to keep the image of Uncle sitting alone in the stands, craning

his neck to see the Nightingale, out of my head. The runes are done. I don’t have time to check them properly so here goes nothing. In a

couple of seconds, I’ll either have a functioning flight ruby again, or I’ll have blown up half the academy.

I put my finger onto the rune lines, feel the hot spiky feeling of

magic flowing into them and hold my breath. The blue magic shoots 290

up thin engravings, filling in the intricate patterns as they go. The air fills with the smell of aniseed, then there’s a crackle, a spark, and they start to shine.

‘Get back!’ I say, diving out of my chair and scrambling to the other

side of the pit.

Ivy follows, her eyes wide as she glances back at the shining ruby.

‘What? Why?’

I don’t have time to explain, instead pulling her behind the

Nightingale and closing my eyes to listen.

‘If you get me blown up with your stupid magic experiments again,

I will ram this sword right up your—’ Thankfully she doesn’t get to

finish that sentence because the room fills with a bright white light.

There’s a sound like someone stepping on ice. Then a quiet grinding sound and the light fades. Nothing’s blown up. ‘Ivy, nothing’s blown up! We did it.’

I run back around the side of the ship. The ruby is sitting quietly on

the desk, steaming slightly. Where the crack once was, there’s now just

a thin line that I can barely see. I grab it. Which is a horrible mistake

because it’s searing hot, and burning pain rushes up my arm, forcing me to drop it back onto the table. I wrap it in a cloth and try again.

Ivy’s already choosing weapons for herself, picking up each one,

examining it, then either placing it back on her weapons rack or strapping it to herself. She discards a massive, curved axe and picks up an oversized sword.

‘Go get her started, I just need to put the antigrav back together.’

I lie on one of the maintenance boards and push myself under the

ship, fast. Too fast, actually, because I slide right past the panel and out the other side.

Ivy pokes her head over the top of the ship. ‘I hate to break it to

you, but that’s not where the antigrav is. Or the ship, for that matter.’ 291

I don’t reply, instead using my feet to shuffle myself back under the

ship. I hear the engine start with a low thrum, then the flight runes

along the hull start to glow. I push the ruby back into its cradle. All the runes around it light up as well.

We’re ready to go. I feel like I’m lighting up too.

Everyone else is already in the air, filling the pit area with a rumbling

roar. I clamber up the ladder, then kick it away and it clatters onto the

floor. The airlock is already open, so I slide straight down and pull it shut behind me. Ivy’s already in the co-pilot chair, flicking switches. I sit down next to her.

There’s barely enough room for the two chairs in the cockpit.

Most of it is dominated by the dashboard, which is covered in dials, measuring devices, and the start of rune lines which lead up the walls

and then disappear behind hull plates to cover the ship. Even the glass has runes etched into it. They aren’t part of longer lines, but they still make the glass stronger. ‘How’s she looking?’

‘Like she should be fifty feet in the air by now?’

‘Good point,’ I say, then pull the steering wheel towards me, making

the float runes give off a more intense blue light. The Nightingale

responds immediately, floating up through the air. The low hum of the engine grows louder as she does. My whole body fizzes with nervous energy.

The ceiling to the pit opened hours ago, leaving behind a thin blue

layer of energy that our ships can pass through. The barrier is meant

to keep heat in, but judging by the fact that the pit is about the same

temperature as an ice whale’s blow hole, I don’t think it’s particularly functional.

I love coming onto the track. Even on the days when the stadium is

empty, there’s an energy that crackles in the air, and today the stands 292

are full. I can hear the crowd even over the growling engines and a balloon of warm air fills my chest. I can’t help but smile.

The track isn’t massive, mainly just the start line and an oval of

tarmac for warming up. All the real racing happens out on the ice fields. The other racers are already lined up, four lines of four floating

above each other. The radio crackles to life and Professor DaCosta’s voice comes through.

‘Line up, Team Thirteen. You’re late.’ How is it that even through

the radio I can feel her glaring at me?

‘Sorry, Professor. Just some teething trouble,’ I say, shooting a grimace

at Ivy. She smirks.

‘I don’t need your excuses. Just get to the start line.’ There’s a hiss

of static and the radio goes quiet.

‘I will not miss her,’ I say, guiding the ship into our spot in the top

line of racers. ‘At some point, someone really should tell her that this whole racing thing should be fun.’

‘I don’t think she’d be able to hear them over the sound of her

berating the nearest lost kitten.’ We both laugh.

I look at Ivy, thinking about the last three years. ‘This is it. We place

today, we’re into the pro scene.’

‘Oh gods, does that mean I have to put up with you even if we win?’

She winks.

The runes on the radio throb again and the tones for the race start.

The crowd roars louder. Engines all around us rev and the smell of magic gets stronger. Three, Two, One, Go. 293

294

DANI MAC Dani is a self-employed hustler and has had many prestigious jobs within the arts: actor, tea-maker, floor scrubber, toilet-cleaner, and more (including this one time when she was paid to let Doctor Who play the spoons on her bottom... don’t ask). She studied acting at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School and is a qualified fight director, living in Brixham with three little girls who regularly beat her up. Dani graduated from the MA in Writing for Young People with distinction and in 2023, was awarded a DYCP grant from Arts Council England to explore a new middle grade novel idea inspired by her experiences growing up as a neurodivergent young person. BIG STAR

Belinda Mulch lives in the shadow of her dead superstar mum, never quite living up to expectations. She dreams of getting an agent and becoming a BIG STAR – only thing is, her life is one big cringe. When

she’s cast as an understudy to her arch nemesis Katie Dunt, Belinda

decides to take matters into her own hands. Together with her best friends Wacky and Lol, they steal some latex makeup, make Belinda look

like a 40-year-old talent agent and set up a fake agency… Introducing Bella Melody of Big Star Talent! What could possibly go wrong? danimacswriting@gmail.com

295

BIG STAR Dame Medina Raj’s dressing room,

Belinda Mulch

Piccadilly Theatre,

(Ur goddaughter),

16 Denman Street, London,

1 Higgledy Hill, Brixham,

W1D 7DY

TQ5 9GH

Dear Godma Dame Medina, Today, Belinda Mulch is no more. I’ve killed her of and chosen a new name.

Well, a new ‘stage name’. Ur going to love it. Screams superstar. But I wanted to run it past u frst cos it’s a bit . . . well, u’ll see. My new stage name is ‘drum roll, please.’

‘Bella Melody.’

What do u think? Do u reckon Mum would mind? I mean, she doesn’t need her surname anymore. I did wonder about checking with Dad, but he’d only get all doomy. Do u love it? Write back if u love it. I’d be so happy to hear

fom u or just to know that u’ve been gettng my letters. Don’t worry if ur

too busy. It must be hectc being a massive musical theatre star and a Dame.

All those hotels, late-night afer-show partes, ft blokes throwing themselves at ur feet, u must be well knackered.

It’s my 16 birthday today (don’t worry about my card), and u know what that means - Dad can’t tell me what to do anymore. Soon as school fnishes, it’s

296

goodbye Brixham, hello London, hello Godma! I’m coming to stay – if that’s ok? I need a Dad break. He’s such a negatron. Keeps telling me to start

thinking about a real career. I know I’ve got a few things to sort out if I

want to be super famous like u and Mum. But I’m totally committed. Here’s the list of things I’m going to change in order to become a superstar. 1. Buy some new GHDs so my hair isn’t all fizzy.

2. Do a hundred sit-ups every morning to fx my jelly belly.

3. Do some drama workshops to work on my confdence (sort out my problem with singing in font of people).

4. Change my accent so I don’t sound so much like a farmer. I’m working on R.P. (Received Pronunciaton - how posh actors talk). 5. Get a nose job.

6. Sign up to Spotlight. Have u heard of it? It’s like this huge castng website. I’ll send u a link to my profle.

Oh, by the way, u don’t have to, but I’m auditoning for Bugsy Malone

tomorrow. My local theatre company, Big Star, are doing it in the summer

in a massive theatre in Torquay. I’m going for Tallulah. I probably won’t get it,

but if I do . . . do u wanna come? Maybe u could bring ur agent, Nina? I know Devon’s a long way fom London, but I’d love u to see me perform. If u’re not

flming, or on stage, or at a massive part. Write back if u can. No pressure. I just think Mum would’ve loved us to stay in touch.

Lovie dovie air kisses and jazz hands (and ft blokes with no tops on). Belinda

Bella Melody xxxx

297

Chapter 1

T h e Au d i t i o n o, no biggie, but it’s the day of the Bugsy Malone auditions, and I’m feeling totally chill and super prepared. You see, my whole

life has been building up to this moment. The moment I become

a BIG STAR. The moment I become . . . Tallulah.

Wacky and Lol spent the whole morning in the attic, helping me choose

my Tallulah outfit. Dad was at the shop ordering carpets or something

yawn, so couldn’t freak out that we were trying on Mum’s clothes. Lol kept suggesting ridiculous outfits, but I didn’t want to go too OTT. I mean,

there are all sorts of show costumes in the attic: Mum’s Grizabella coat, her jet-black Chicago wig, her Pink Lady jacket. And they’re all legit, straight from the West End. Can’t believe Dad’s such an ignoramus. If I ever want

to wear anything, I have to sneak up there and smuggle it out the house. Father Doom:

Keep out of the attic, Belinda.

Father Doom:

You better be back by nine o’clock, Belinda.

Father Doom:

No, Idon’t have your Godmother’s phone number, Belinda.

Only two more years, and then all Mum’s clothes belong to me. She

left them to me in her will. That’s the only reason Father Doom hasn’t chucked it all out. He’s so duh.

Wacky and Lol are the only ones who care about me looking amazing

for my audition. They know how important it is I get Tallulah. Wacky sat

there all morning watching me model various outfits, pretending to be a

Latino fashion photographer and taking loads of pics. He made me laugh so much I had to run my cheeks under cold water. He’s so funny.

Most of the time, he speaks like me, pure Devon, but when he gets 298

passionate about something, he starts shouting Spanish in his Mum’s Mexican accent. Most of the time, I have no idea what he’s saying, but he still manages to make me laugh more than any other human on this planet.

And Lol’s brilliant. She spent ages doing my hair and makeup, so

I look vaguely normal for my audition. I’m so rubbish at beautifying myself. I try. In fact, I try very hard.

My morning hair routine takes over an hour. I follow the Curly

Girl technique Lol taught me: wash with silicone-free conditioner (no

shampoo), oil, wet comb, mousse, scrunch, gel, scrunch, finger curl,

scrunch, diffuse, and, whatever you do, don’t disturb the curls. Problem is when I do it on my own, I end up looking more Scarecrow Girl than

Curly Girl. Lucky for me, Lol’s a hair and makeup genius. She always

manages to look effortlessly perfect, like her makeup just fell onto her flawless skin. But she’s not one of those horrible musical theatre girls like Katie Dumb Dog Dunt. She’s nice and genuine and totally gullible,

hence the name Lol, because she makes us LOL, and because her full name is Charlotte April Jada Serenity Boyce – Lol’s a bit easier to say. Charlotte April Jada Serenity Boyce and Joaquin Gibson Lopez are

my best friends in the entire world. They’re fellow members of Big Star Theatre, our region’s most professional amateur theatre company, based right here in Brixham. And they’re the only ones who get exactly how much I’m freaking out about having to sing in front of other people

today. So, to help me stay calm, they made me a Be-Great-At-PlayingTallulah tool kit.

Belinda’s Be-Great-At-Playing-Tallulah Tool Kit

1. Mum’s old feather boa and the genuine corset she wore when she

played Velma in the musical Chicago (to make my belly look less jellified).

299

2. Makeup essentials so I can powder the nervous shine away.

3. Dad’s credit card (so we can stop in the high street to buy some baby-pink leggings and bright pink nail varnish).

4. Cough sweets in case I get something stuck in my throat on the way to the audition.

5. A litre bottle of water. A healthy singer is a hydrated singer.

6. A rolled-up poster of Katie ‘Dumb Dog’ Dunt playing Annie a few

years ago. Wacky got two versions of the poster, cut the chihuahua

out of one and positioned it on Katie’s skirt so it looks like the little

rat dog’s biting her foof. Me and Lol think it’s très LOL, so I’m keeping it as a good luck charm to remind myself what happens to bad people

who are not kind to others. (I’ll tell you about the chihuahua biting Katie on the foof later. It was hilarious and also is the reason why Katie Dunt is forever to be known as Dumb Dog.)

7. A Sharpie to write some of the words to 'My Name is Tallulah' on my hand in case I go wrong.

8. My lucky signed photo of Godma Dame Medina. She sent it me a few years back. It’s the only time she’s ever replied to one of my letters, even though I write to her, like, once a month. Sometimes, I wonder if she isn’t getting my mail at all.

9. My CV. Highlights include my list of recent credits: Policeman 2 in Annie, Ooompa Loompa 27 in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,

Lizard in Cinderella, the Hyena that laughs a lot in The Lion King

and Rudolfa in a gender-flipped devised piece called The Runaway Reindeer (I was the lead in that one).

Having a CV proves that I am a professional and ready to take the

next step away from Big Star Theatre towards a glittering career in the musical theatre industry. Plus, Dumb Dog won’t have thought to put a CV together, so ha.

300

And now, here we are at Big Star headquarters, Brixham Primary (my

old school), and the auditions have started. Wacky’s in the middle of

his rendition of Fat Sam. I spent ages learning the lines with him. How is it I can remember all of his, but when it comes to remembering the

words to 'My Name is Tallulah', they fly right out of my head? Everyone around me’s laughing and clapping. Wacky’s doing some really good gangster shouting and pouring water from his Superman water bottle

all over Colin Lawson’s head – bants. If I weren’t so overwhelmingly nervous, I would laugh.

Oh God, stop watching Wacky. Concentrate on the words to 'My

Name is Tallulah'. I lost my Sharpie on the way here, so I’m just gonna have to rely on my memory, which is sievy at the best of times. I did

try to write a few reminders on my palm in biro, but I’m so clammy it’s rubbed straight off. I hope I don’t sweat through my baby-pink leggings. Wet crotch marks don’t scream nineteen-twenties speakeasy

superstar. I wriggle around, trying to air my crotch without looking inappropriate.

Lol can sense how nervous I am and is trying to calm me down by

doing that thing from In the Night Garden that the mum does to the

little kid’s hand, drawing a circle with her skinny finger on my palm

again and again and again. It’s tickly and a bit annoying, but Lol’s so

nice I let her do it. And it is kind of making me feel better by irritating me into not thinking about my audition.

Geoffrey Rowden, the Chairman of Big Star, holds up his hand.

‘Thank you, Joe-a-quin.’

Lol stifles a laugh. Even though Wacky (a.k.a. Joaquin – as in the

Spanish name, Joaquin) has been a member of Big Star for, like, ever,

Geoffrey still pronounces his name wrong. It should be said, Wak-een, like Joaquin Phoenix, not Joe-a-quin. He sometimes even calls him 301

Joe as a nickname, despite the fact that everyone else calls him Wacky.

‘Let’s all give Joe a great Big Star round of applause,’ Geoffrey says, clap-

ping in a big circle. ‘If you’d been auditioning for my old agency, Rowden Talent, I would definitely have taken you on. Have I ever mentioned I used to be an agent?’

A few people groan. Geoffrey’s so weird. He was some old darling

showbiz agent twenty years ago, goes on about it all the time. But he’s

actually all right. He’s a good musical director. And compared to Miss Jackie, he’s a saint.

Miss Jackie is everything I hate about musical theatre. If I could,

I’d pull off her leg warmers and shove them up her bum. As Geoffrey’s

saying well done to Joe, Miss Jackie stands up in her lilac, velour tracksuit and completely interrupts him. ‘Thank you, darling, for showing such commitment. A very professional performance. Have you put on weight especially for that part?’

I can’t believe she just said that. Wacky sits down next to me on the

bench, avoiding eye contact. He’d never admit it, but I can tell he’s upset.

Geoffrey claps his hands. ‘Quiet, please, everyone. Before we continue

with the auditions, I have a very important announcement.’ He unclips a large brown envelope from his clipboard and holds it up. ‘Last week, I

received a generous donation for the students of Big Star. One hundred free theatre tickets.’

Somebody whoops, and a few people clap. Miss Jackie makes an

oooooooh sound. ‘How exciting, Geoffrey. Who donated them?’

‘I’ve no idea. The envelope was empty apart from the tickets.’

Miss Jackie looks like she’s just personally won the lottery.

‘An anonymous benefactor, how thrilling. What show are the tickets for?’ ‘Matilda?’ Colin Lawson calls out.

302

‘Hamilton?’ Lol shouts over him. ‘Please be Hamilton.’ Wacky leaps up from the bench. ‘Frozen?’

Geoffrey clears his throat. ‘Now, hold on. Don’t get your knickers in

a twist. The tickets are not for a show in the West End. This production

is on at the Princess Theatre in Torquay.’ There’s a collective groan. ‘Oh, come on now. It’s a super exciting opportunity to see some really … solid professional theatre. When I was an agent…’

‘What show is it?’ Miss Jackie snatches one of the tickets from him.

As she reads, her excitement morphs into a sneer, ‘Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat’. A few people boo.

‘Cheese fest!’ someone shouts.

Wacky roars with laughter beside me.

Geoffrey looks a bit hurt. ‘Well, I think this is a fantastic opportunity.

If you want to come, I’ll need a signed permission slip from your parents by midday tomorrow.’

Wacky mouths, ‘I’ll fake your dad’s signature.’ I shake my head. Dad

won’t let me go on this stupid theatre trip. If there’s one thing my dad hates, it’s Musical Theatre and my love of it. . . .’

Geoffrey massages his temples. ‘Okay, let’s take a ten-minute break Miss Jackie snatches Geoffrey’s clipboard. ‘Before the break, we’re

going to audition for one more character.’ ‘I think . . .’ Geoffrey tries to say.

Miss Jackie lifts a finger. ‘Just one more. Trust me. We’re going to

need to do Tallulah before the break.’

Oh no, no, no. Please don’t do Tallulah next. I’m not ready. My

corset’s too tight and my nail varnish feels tacky and I’ve still got a 303

cough sweet in my mouth and I’ve drunk too much water so I really need a wee. Ahhhh! I can’t breathe. I spit the cough sweet out and chuck

it under the bench, then fumble around in my bag for my emergency no-shine powder.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. I can’t find it.

Stop it! Calm down. Get it together, Belinda. No! Not Belinda . . . Bella.

Bella Melody. Yeah, that’s right, you are Bella Melody. And you’re

gonna get this part so that Godma Dame Medina can bring her agent to the show. And when you’re signed with the UK’s biggest agency,

you’ll get a job in a massive musical. Then you’ll move to London and have a perfect life with straight hair and a really fit celebrity husband. Now get up there and show them what you can do. Bella Melody – it’s your time.

304

305

306

JENNIFER PIERCE Jennifer writes emotional stories about small towns and the messiness of growing up. She graduated with distinction from Bath Spa

University’s MA in Writing for Young People and works in publishing.

Originally from New England, she now lives in London where she can

be found walking the Thames Path or searching for the perfect coffee shop to write in.

THE TIDES

Sixteen-year-old Sophie has planned the perfect summer: exploring

the coast with her boyfriend, Alex, beach days with her best friends,

and writing romance novels inspired by her New England hometown’s Gilded Age history. But when a sexual assault case divides her closeknit community and gains nationwide attention, Sophie is forced to

re-examine her past experiences with Alex. As she struggles to write and her friendships fracture, she begins searching abandoned places

on the outskirts of town, seeking out new stories and trying to make sense of the truth about Alex.

jenniferpierce16@gmail.com

307

THE TIDES Chapter 1 have a list of abandoned places: drowned towns and ghost

towns and a gold-mining town stifled in dust and swallowed

by nature. A sinking church with its stained glass shattered,

Bibles bloated in its rotted pews and seaweed twisted on the crucifix.

Homes deserted in a rush, uncapped lipstick left on bathroom counters to crust and jewelry to rust.

All year, I’ve been obsessed with these places. I light up my bedroom

with documentaries about their decline each time the clock slinks past

midnight and I’m too scared to sleep. I study side-by-side photos of what they once were and how they’ve decayed until they’re as familiar as the beach paths we keep secret from tourists. I’m always searching

for something that will bring my words back so that I can start writing again. Then I’ll remember how to be myself. But nothing ever works.

So here I am, driving through town, back to where everything started.

It’s the first day of break, already late-July-hot. Nothing but endless, empty days ahead, too much time to think.

A voice in my head whispers that this is a bad idea. I silence it with

radio commercials, turning the volume up until Steve Sullivan Jr. from

Sullivan Pool and Patio is screaming at me about their start-of-summer sun lounger sale. Buy one, get one half off. And for a limited time, save up to forty percent on all clearance closeouts. That voice is wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

308

I’ll find something there. I have to.

My knuckles are white from how tightly I’m gripping the steering

wheel. I try to relax them. Every intersection is lighting up green, urging me forward, and I force myself to see it as a sign.

Around me, Clarendon is primped for the summer tourists due to

arrive this afternoon, choking our roads with stop-start traffic on their

way to admire the Gilded Age mansions and coastline we’re famous for. The Main Street shops are freshly painted bleached-teeth-white and

clad in brand-new American flags, window boxes bursting with violet verbena and pink petunias. The roads have been repaved, smooth as just-shaved skin. It feels like the town itself is taking a deep breath,

arranging itself at its best angles, stomach in and chin out before the

first click of a camera. Almost defiant in its commitment to being white-picket perfect, like it has something to prove after last year.

Left on Elm Street, past the first hints of decline they’ve been

denying. Straight past the old McGrath’s Plaza, then right at Scott’s

Seafood, where my dad used to pick up greasy paper bags of clam cakes on Friday nights until it closed for the season two years ago and

never reopened. Past motels with fallen letters and flickering vacancy signs, past a half-dead strip mall with white-and-yellow closeout

posters wilting in the windows. One more intersection and I’m there. Another green light.

My hands shake as I pull into the empty parking lot. It’s just from the

air conditioner, I tell myself, reaching for my notebook. I count slowly to three as I inhale, and again as I exhale, and then I get out of the car.

The humidity clings to me like wet clothes. Heat rises from the

asphalt and the soles of my sneakers feel like they’re melting as I cross the lot into the woods, remembering how we walked all the way here 309

from Alex’s house early last summer. Back when I had dark red hair and wrote down everything to spin into love stories later.

I wade through the overgrown ferns and thorny vines, following the

path we took, and I can almost hear our past selves. The click of Alex’s

camera, Jessa’s laughter, Kelly imitating bird calls as we slipped through

the gap in the fence to find the remains of a children’s amusement park that closed five years before.

But now the fence is gone. And everything else is missing, too. The

tarnished tracks, the sculptures of storybook characters with peeling paint, the sagging buildings named for fables. All the wild plants that took over, every weed and sapling, every fleck of moss. It’s all been razed. Nothing left but dirt.

The emptiness turns me cold, even with the sun glaring gold-hot on

my face. I fumble for my phone and search the park’s name. There should be a news story. A nostalgic look back at its history. An explanation.

Maybe I missed it on one of the days I spent memorizing the ceiling, phone off, the way I’ve missed so much else lately. There’s nothing.

Things in Clarendon don’t change without resistance or goodbyes.

So how is this just gone?

I kick up dust, watch it settle on my shoes. And there’s that voice

again, reminding me how easy it is to disappear in front of everyone.

I flinch as a breeze flings my hair across my eyes. The color, the

absence of brightness, still startles me. I started dyeing it brown in December, when I needed something—anything—to change.

‘Are you sure?’ the stylist had asked, running her hands through

my hair almost mournfully as I sat in a chair at her salon. ‘People pay a lot of money for this color, you know.’

I’d nodded, then stared at my face in the mirror until it wasn’t me,

that sharp-collarboned girl who looked like she’d forgotten how to 310

laugh. And when different hair wasn’t enough, I went to Kelly’s cousin for a second ear piercing and almost cried. Not from the pain itself, but from the fact that this kind of hurting made sense. It was uncomplicated.

Intentional. I walked home after with my key in my fist, afraid of my own thoughts, afraid of footsteps behind me, afraid of the sun breaking

and weeping shadows into every corner of American-dream streets before I was safe in my bedroom.

The metal spiral of my notebook cuts into my palm, pulling me into

the present. I flip it open and stare at the blank page. I can’t write. Can’t think of a single word.

What I need now is proof this place was ever here. Proof that I was

ever here. The sun’s so strong it could split my skin open and draw blood, turn my vision white. Sweat drips down my neck. I sink to the ground and stab my key into the dirt.

Childhood summers, this place New England-famous: nursery

rhymes sing-songing through staticky speakers on the hour, the indigo spin of the teacup ride. Pressed pennies and cotton candy. Last year:

Alex’s lips on mine in the empty ticket booth, golden hour glinting through the dusty windows. Jessa weaving pale dandelions and wild

laurels into crowns. Kelly with a bottle of vodka from the only place in town that doesn’t card; the way we passed it between us, cross-legged

and tipsy in crabgrass and goldenrod and stayed until dark. All of us

walking back toward the ocean, our laughter cresting over the dunes.

I toss the key aside and use my hands, grasping at the parched

earth in search of scraps. Tracks, ticket stubs, a broken letter from the sign. I make promises, almost prayers. If I can find melted candy

or canopy stripes or one of the lights that used to drip from the trees like painted rain, it will be okay with Alex. If I can find those souvenir pennies stamped with crooked castles, I’ll be friends with Jessa and

Kelly again. If I can find our crowns of weeds and wildflowers, I’ll forget 311

the feeling of drowning.

I dig faster, faster, deeper, stubbing my fingers on buried rocks,

running my nails ragged. I don’t stop until the dust and sweat and sunlight make my eyes stream.

There’s nothing here but my own footprints.

So I walk back through the woods, thorns grabbing at my clothes.

In the parking lot, I hunch my shoulders against the leering sun. Somewhere behind me, a bird warbles. Nothing answers.

As I unlock the car, I accidentally catch my reflection wavering across

the window. I stare at that face, those limbs until they’re distorted.

The girl who was here last summer wouldn’t recognize me now. That

Sophie, in her brand-new sundress, would hate the loose, long-sleeved clothes I’ve been hiding myself in. She wouldn’t understand the duller hair, the half-moon shadows on my skin. She wouldn’t understand why I came here alone.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them slowly. My reflection

sharpens. I lean in close enough to feel heat whispering off the glass. The expression in my eyes is half-dead, half-wild.

Driving home, I realize that people can be ghost towns, too.

312

313

314

JANETTE TAYLOR When Janette was 10 years old, her ambition was to live in a cottage

on a Cornish cliff and write books. Everyone told her that was silly, so she gained a BSc in biochemistry before training as a teacher, but she

always had a head full of stories. She gave up full-time teaching to return to her dream of writing fiction. There is still no sign of the Cornish

cottage. Janette loves green open spaces and is deeply concerned about environmental issues. She enjoys harnessing the natural benefits of

plants to make cosmetics and walking in the countryside with her husband and her Tibetan terrier, Bella.

THIRD CHILD

In a world with tight population controls, illegal third children like Lily live restricted lives. When other third children disappear, Lily

must escape from her eco-city and venture through the unpopulated wilderness to find the escaped community. Toby, a legal third child, longs to get away from his bullying father. When two third children escape from the city, he jumps at the chance to lead the mission to

recapture them and find the illegal group hidden in the wilderness.

As Toby tracks Lily, he is torn between his duty to the city and his own desire for freedom. Will he choose to capture the outlaws or join them? janettetaylorbooks@gmail.com

315

THIRD CHILD Chapter 1

L i ly – 2 5 t h Fe b r u a r y

look out over the city garden as the sinking sun splashes orange

across the underside of the clouds. My breath mists the window

and I wipe it away with my sleeve. It’s cold outside – cold enough

for crystals of ice to cling to the plants in the living wall below our window. They glow like amber in the evening sun. I wish I could go out there and touch them, watching as my breath clouds in the air. But I know the risk.

Illegal third children like me are not allowed the freedom of the city.

We’re climate crimes. If we’re caught outside our family apartment, we are never seen again.

The door slides open, and Leo is silhouetted in the doorway. He

touches his finger to the control panel and the apartment is filled with

light. ‘Hi,’ I say, eager to have someone to talk to, even if it’s only him. ‘How was your day?’

He just grunts and heads to the food dispenser. The unit lights up at

the touch of his finger and he scrolls through the list of drinks and snacks. ‘Can I have something?’ I ask as he puts his food on the table and

flops into a comfy chair. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he says. ‘I’ve used my snack allowance, but I’ll save you a

bit.’ He switches on the wall screen and flicks through channels until he finds a new game in which transport buggies race each other through

the city corridors. I watch for a few minutes as the buggies tear down 316

pastel-green corridors with thick plush carpets, past an exercise room with a large glass window.

‘Is that what the city really looks like?’ I’ve peered through our

front door but all I’ve seen is scratchy blue carpet and the blue wall opposite. Mum doesn’t let me lean out in case I’m caught.

Leo shrugs. ‘I don’t know. This is set in Tier 3, and we’re stuck in

Tier 1, thanks to you.’

That’s unfair. He shared the womb but he doesn’t like to share

the blame. Being stuck in Tier 1 and only allowed to do menial jobs

is just one of the sacrifices our parents made when they refused to choose one of us to die in the womb. They lost a lot of their friends, too, because who wants to associate with climate criminals? Dad’s best

friend, James Jarvis, disowned him to avoid damaging his career. James has now risen to become Director of the Department for Planetary Regeneration. Rose’s new boss.

I don’t say any of this though because Leo is unwrapping his snack

bar and I don’t want to ruin my chances of getting a piece. I wish he

would break off a bit before he starts eating, but he never does. I always get a tiny piece at the end with a half-moon dental imprint, slick with

his spit. Today, he deliberately gives me a piece that’s so saturated in saliva that I have to blot it on my T-shirt. I pop it in my mouth without

complaining. Rose says I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I often think about how different my life would’ve been if I’d pushed

my way out of the womb ahead of Leo. Then I’d have his life, full of

school and friends, able to operate everything with the touch of my fingerprint. He would be the one unable to even turn on a light.

The door opens again, and Mum comes in. ‘Hi, how was your day?’

she asks.

I assume that the question is directed at Leo. My day was the same 317

as every other day.

‘Fine,’ Leo answers, eyes fixed on his game.

‘Something’s come up, and I need you to stay in with Lily this evening,’

Mum tells him.

‘That’s so unfair!’ he shouts. ‘I’m meeting friends. Why is your stuff

always more important than mine?’

‘Because mine’s a work thing. Leo, we’ve been over this time and

time again. Don’t be so selfish. Your sister’s been on her own all day. Can’t your friends come here?’

Please, no. Leo is always so mean when his friends are here. It’s like he

thinks the more unpleasant he is, the more impressed they’ll be. ‘Why am I selfish? It’s not my turn to stay in.’

‘Leo, I’m tired and I’ve had a bad day. Just do as I ask. Rose stayed in

yesterday and your dad’s coming to my work thing.’

‘It’s not my fault your job’s shit and you hate your boss. I’m not the

third child.’

‘Leo!’ Mum chokes out his name in an angry sob. ‘That’s an awful

thing to say. You leave school next year – it’s about time you grew up. I’ve got a headache so I’m going to lie down.’

She shoots me an apologetic smile, then goes over to the double sleep

pod she shares with Dad and touches her finger to the control. The door slides open, and she crawls in. The door closes behind her. I wish I had a sleep pod to retreat to when Leo’s being awful.

Mum only emerges when Dad and Rose come home. She and Leo

don’t look at each other as the family all choose their dinner from the

dispenser, but neither of them mentions the argument. Everyone selects a large portion because they all have to share with me.

If it wasn’t a family rule, I’m sure Leo would select just enough for

himself and leave me hungry. As he’s in a mood with me, he chooses 318

smoky aubergine stew with sprouts because he knows I don’t like it.

I take my share anyway. Rose senses the bad atmosphere and lets me

choose her dinner – my favourite, spicy bean bake. Then she insists she’s not very hungry and gives me an extra-large portion.

When they have finished eating, Mum and Dad drop their containers

and cutlery into the re-use chute and head out. Leo picks up the controller and scowls at the screen.

‘You go out if you want, Leo. I’ll stay,’ Rose offers. ‘Really?’ Leo’s face brightens.

‘Yes, but make sure you get back before Mum and Dad.’

‘Thanks.’ He drops the controller onto the chair and disappears into

the bathroom, spending such a long time taming his unruly brown curls that I wonder if he’s meeting someone special tonight. He wouldn’t tell any of us if he was.

I’ll never meet anyone special – I don’t even have friends. But I’m

so glad I have Rose.

‘What would you like to do?’ Rose asks. ‘We could watch something

on the wall screen or go in my pod?’

Rose is the only one who ever invites me into her pod, and I love

trying out all the different functions, so I choose that. We climb up the steps and crawl into her pod, sealing the door shut.

I look at my reflection in the shiny white walls. I’m paler than the

rest of my family, having never been out in the sun. I have large grey

eyes like Mum and Rose. My hair is always pulled back into a ponytail but, if I let it loose, I have the same unruly curls as Leo and Dad.

Rose catches me looking at myself. ‘I could braid your hair like

mine if you want.’ I nod.

Rose presses a button on the wall of the pod and a small drawer 319

slides out. She pulls out a comb and selects a blue stretchy band. We’re

quiet as Rose concentrates, gently combing my hair and separating the top section into three strands. I love the way it feels when Rose does

my hair, the gentle pull as she weaves the strands together. When she’s

finished, I look at myself on the pod wall. I have to admit, I do look better. Taming my hair accentuates my eyes.

‘You’ve got nice eyes,’ Rose says, as if reading my mind. ‘Now, where

would you like to go?’

The Coastal Experience is my favourite, but I want something different

for a change. I watch as Rose scrolls through the options. There are too

many to choose from. ‘Tropical Beach, Wilderness or Lakeside. I don’t know, you choose,’ I say, lying back on the bed.

Rose smiles. ‘Okay, we’ll have the Wilderness today.’

The Wilderness is so close, just beyond the city walls, but only the

scientists are allowed to leave the city. What would it be like to touch things I’ve only seen on screens? A moment later, my reflection disap-

pears, replaced by a forest glade in summer. Dappled sunlight flickers across the bed, and a warm breeze wafts through the pod, filled with the

fragrance of wildflowers and damp earth. Does the Wilderness really smell like that?

We lie side by side, enjoying all the tiny details of the fake world

around us. A bee drunkenly zigzags from flower to flower, its legs heavily laden with bright yellow pollen. A small butterfly flutters towards me,

its wings as blue as the sky. It disappears for a few moments and then reappears on Rose’s side.

‘Thanks for staying in with me.’

Rose smiles. ‘I didn’t really want to go out anyway.’

‘Do you think the experiences are accurate?’ I ask. ‘I mean, if the

Wilderness was nothing like this, how would we know?’

‘I expect they only show us the good bits. If they made a pod function 320

for ‘cold damp day in November next to a dead badger,’ I don’t think it would get much use,’ Rose laughs.

‘Dad put on one of those old wilderness survival programs he’s

obsessed with last time he stayed with me. The man got so cold that he had to climb inside a dead sheep to get warm.’

‘Eww, disgusting!’ Rose rolls over to face me, eyes shining with

excitement. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I nod.

‘I might be going to the Wilderness soon. My job’s going really well,

and Mr Jarvis says he wants to take me out with the next expedition.’ I peel my attention away from a squirrel scampering up a large

oak tree and face her. ‘That would be awesome.’

‘He was like an uncle to me until ...’ She pauses, choosing her words

carefully. ‘Until he and Dad stopped being friends. Perhaps it’s his way of making it up to me. After all ...’

‘It’s not your fault I was born.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Rose turns away, looking hurt. She lowers

her gaze to study the pastel blue bedding for a moment, fiddling with the malachite pendant that always hangs from a silver chain around

her neck. It came all the way from Africa in the days when no one cared how far things travelled. It’s been in my family since before the Climate Disaster.

‘There’s something important I wanted to talk to you about.’ Rose

looks at me intently.

My pulse quickens and my skin tingles as I sense a big secret hanging

in the air between us. I love it when Rose tells me things that she won’t tell anyone else. ‘More important than a trip to the Wilderness?’

Rose nods. ‘That’s partly why I wanted to stay.’ She reaches for my

hand, and I notice that hers is trembling slightly. ‘What I’m about to tell you, you must never tell anyone else. My life depends on it.’ She pauses 321

for a moment, chewing her lip. ‘I’ve joined a secret organisation – one

that rescues third children like you and helps them reach the community of escapees living in the Wilderness. We have an escape planned in three weeks’ time. There’s a space for you if you want it.’

322

323

324

VILLY TICHKOVA Growing up without a television, Villy loved reading stories and poetry and dreamt of being a writer. She was 8 years old when Communism ended in Bulgaria. In her twenties, Villy emigrated alone to the UK.

She first worked in a fish factory, then acquired a BSc in Psychology, nannied for 17 years, studied homeopathy, trained as a Conscious

Dance teacher, became British, and all the while she danced. Villy

now lives in Bath with three West Highland terriers, writes poems for

breakfast, reads YA for lunch, snacks on middle grade magical realism in the afternoons and skips dinner so she can dance.

DANCING ON FIRE

At home she is Bulgarian. At school she is British.

In the rise of Brexit, 16-year-old Rose feels like she’s walking on burning coals.

Her uncle Miro – whose name means Peace – is violently attacked and the family seeks solace and safety in their native Bulgaria for

the summer. There is hot sunshine and a rave that goes wrong, an attempted rape and prejudice against the Roma. Called by the fire in

a mystical dance ritual, Rose burns the generational thread of shame and discovers her right to choose who she wants to be. vtich@icloud.com

325

DANCING ON FIRE Prologue

Shame is a tight

a hidden dark thread

knot

between my sister and me.

in my stomach,

stretched

out and tangled

Rada is ashamed of

Mum’s thick Bulgarian accent and her coarse manners.

I am ashamed that

I hide my Bulgarian roots

and tell everyone at school

I am English.

Rada is ashamed of being Bulgarian.

326

I am ashamed that

I let Rada

talk me into it. Shame is a disease It cuts

a burning fire,

it hides in my guts.

through my core

the longer it stays the bigger it grows.

Shame is all I have.

My story, in my bones, from my mother,

and my family.

It binds me and Rada in secrets, holds us together.

327

PSHE Class I shake

PowerPoint

How Prejudiced is the UK?

and dread the conversation this polarising content will create.

‘Today we are going ...’

Ms Jobs pulls out a pile of newspapers and plops a front page on the visual pad.

The screen glows red.

‘... to discuss ...’

A smashed face slides into focus.

‘... how violence

My head spins.

against others

I fight with my chest. I push for breath.

Ms Jobs’ voice is buzzing

rises in us.’

her mouth opens and closes, a colony of bees flies out of her mouth. I am a rose under attack, they sting my brain my ears screech. ‘This is a recent case of a hate-crime attack on a Bulgarian man.’ 328

From all the pain in the world,

she chose

to bring into class my uncle’s pain. She chose

my pain.

Accusations

‘He was drunk,’ Arthur says. ‘These East Europeans are always drunk. They love their vodka.’ I don’t ask just how many Drunk-East-Europeans this posh boy with a double-barrelled name has ever met. I don’t shout Uncle Miro never gets drunk! He just takes water, except when we walk by the lake to the fish and chips restaurant. We’ll sit in, he’ll order a lemonade and say, ‘No straw’.

329

That evening selfish Rada refused to go out to ‘the fishy chippy’ and risk that fat-stink in her hair.

to get us

alone

So, Aunt Peppa sent Uncle Miro

a takeaway

get beaten up.

To get his teeth knocked out, skittles in a bowling alley.

Ms Jobs smacks the table, ‘Thank you, Arthur, for that fine example of ...’ PREJUDICE is written hard and black upon the board.

‘But Miss, he was about to roast a swan! The boys just tried to stop him,’ Jarred says. ‘I read it in the Sun, they eat swans.’

The room is steeped in sticky laughter.

330

STEREOTYPE ‘My dad says they’re all criminals and prostitutes.’

I push my elbow into my gut and keep down a fire long fed by

hate and injustice.

Wishes vs Reality I long for my unwanted feet away from this cold foreign land.

to wobble out of the room Frozen, I stay and stamp on my heart.

Four more weeks until the end of summer term, until the end of a lie for now for this year. The bell chimes and I run. I have a leaflet for a Conscious Dance class, whatever that means. I need to dance and disappear, any

dance, dance

331

dance.

Wanted I step on the cold wooden planks,

the floor softens and becomes a forest.

My body welcomes the fresh movements with no direction.

Maybe I was once wanted

despite what Mum whispered

despite Brexit, to Aunt Peppa

behind the thin plaster walls. I move, I swirl, I spin,

I stumble but I don’t fall, I dance on one leg and wonder what I open my eyes

holds me, helps me

my face is wet.

No one comes to asks me, ‘What’re you crying for?’ So I don’t have to hide and lie.

332

move.

Mindful Vs Mindless Last week Ms Jobs taught mindfulness

and I imagined my mind as a cupboard

filled with cans of baked beans and tomato soup, boxes of cereal and a jar of Marmite,

one of peanut butter

A fridge full of cheddar cheese Bulgarian yogurt and

raw smoked sausage.

and one of Bulgarian honey. and feta,

a blue-top milk. Sliced ham and

I imagine the boys who kicked my uncle in the stomach,

broke his leg, cracked his jaw, trampled on his pride.

I want to throw up.

Ms Nerot’s voice sneaks through the cupboard door and calls me back into dance class:

‘Be mindless, let go of your thoughts

and let your body move, for a moment The image of his bloodied face flies across my eyes and

I become a Lamia, a fierce female dragon, from the mountains of Bulgaria.

333

forget who you are.’

‘Yes!’ Ms Nerot shouts, as if by watching my body she reads my mind.

‘Switch roles, play, act from either side until you spin so fast between them

you trick yourself and forget to insist so strongly on being one way the wrong way the right way the only way.

Be many ways.’

‘Pause,’ she says. ‘Pick up a pen and write.’

I write of dirty foreigners and clean-cut cruelty.

Of slapping statements and shameless shamers. ‘Write for five minutes

of the many ways you could be. I’ll time you.’ I am Rose, I am fire,

Daughter of Daughter of

daughter of the Sun.

beaten-down immigrants the Black Sea of tears

334

with a crumbled past. wept by the women

before me.

Me too

Daughter of

of Britain

of Brexit

of Bulgaria

of discrimination

Pain, Reality and Tomatoes

and marginalisation.

I sneak in through the back door, not in a mood for conversations. The front room is open,

and Mum complains to Aunt Peppa.

‘He just came, saw it and didn’t do anything, again. This damp, it affects their mood.

I wish Mum would give up on it, it’s been four years.

It’s toxic, no?’

Or maybe she chooses a permanent solution.

‘We won’t have damp

if we go back to live in Bulgaria.’

But Aunt Peppa is quiet,

she must be worried sick about Uncle Miro and cares little about our damp.

335

‘What else could it be? They are dressed, fed, but always so moody.’ Mum goes on, ‘Rada wants a phone,

the newest one, and I don’t know

And Rose, you should see her, she hangs down like

I climb up the stairs unnoticed.

Maybe growing up in another country a water bag.

Bulgarian tomatoes are fresh, juicy,

how I’ll pay the rent.

a wet cloth on the sink tap.’ is like growing a tomato in

soft-skinned and almost meaty like Mum and Aunt Peppa.

I am like an English tomato,

hard on the outside,

They grew up on Bulgarian soil and sunshine.

tasteless and empty inside.

And I grew up on rain, wind, and damp,

floating around this big island

336

not belonging.

337

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We would like to thank the following people:

Dr Alexia Casale, for braving the venomous snakes, slashing the brambles and clearing us a path through the undergrowth.

C.J. Skuse, for good compass skills, for whooping and hollering and whipping us into shape with language that wouldn’t get past the gatekeepers.

Lucy Cuthew, for your unending kindness and skill and support, for bending the briars back so we can squeeze past.

Annalie Grainger, for support and encouragement in putting together this anthology, and her network of trailing vines in the publishing world on which we may swing.

These other amazing tutors past and present, without whom we would

have been lost in the woods: Sue Bailey-Sillick, Sam Beckbessinger, Alex Campbell, Fox Benwell, Gina Blaxill, Lucy Christopher, Tracy Darnton,

Karen Gregory, Rachel Hamilton, Finbar Hawkins, Anna McKerrow, Jo Nadin, Louisa Reid, Dashe Roberts and Steve Voake.

The many fascinating, knowledgeable, talented authors who gave us their wisdom in the guest lectures.

The poor authors, editors, teachers and librarians who patiently answered questions and filled in surveys for our research articles. 338

Our student representatives: Simon Bor, Olivia Wakeford, Kate Allison, Rupert Barrington and Annette Luker.

The staff at Corsham Court. We were so lucky to spend time in this magical place.

Dr Alison Hems and Dr Sarah Morton of the School of Writing, Publishing

and the Humanities, Bath Spa University; Dr Lucy English, and a special thank you to our amazingly helpful librarian, Katie Rickard.

Simon Bor for the imagination and skill of his wild, wild, artwork.

Melanie Woodward for making us look so good. Pansy Santiago for her fabuloso typesetter skills.

The editors of previous cohorts for their help and guidance, especially the 2022 team.

A special mention of our friend and colleague Christopher Piper, for his help and inspiration on this project.

And last but not least, the 2023 class of MA Writing for Young People.

We have learned so much from each other. Let’s use our wild words always, and hold hands as we journey through the woods.

339

340

341

342