The Velvet Fox

by Catherine Fisher

  After ten minutes she opened her eyes and sat up in bed.

  She could try and read a book. That might help. Mr Sherlock Holmes always had good advice.

  She swung her legs out of bed and, slipping through the curtains, she found that her room was lit with a strange, coppery light. It was coming from under her door. Then, far off in the house, the creaky music of the carousel started up.

  Was that Tomos?

  Seren flung her dressing gown on and ran to the door. She grabbed the handle and rattled it, shaking the door as hard as she could. There must be some way out! If she could only…

  A small clatter.

  She put her eye to the keyhole; it was empty.

  The key had fallen out!

  She knew exactly what to do because it was in all the books. She scrabbled on the table and found a ruler; then she flung herself down, lying splayed flat on her stomach on the floor, her head sideways, her eye to the gap under the door. She slid the ruler through, then back and forth in a smooth arc until … yes! Got it! It touched the key.

  Carefully she tried to sweep it in. It was difficult, because it kept sliding away – she couldn’t get the ruler behind it. But at last the key jerked just a little closer, and then she could scoop it towards her, until the dark edge just showed under the door.

  At once she had it in the lock; it turned, and the door was open.

  The music drifted in. And yet no one came out to see what was happening. Only the portraits of ancient Joneses gazed down at her as she flitted along the draped corridors among the dark masses of furniture.

  Seren looked back. Had that been a soft creak?

  The corridor was shadowy. A suit of armour at the far end seemed to stare at her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.

  Curtains moved in silent draughts.

  Seren frowned. Out of the shadows came a soft, velvety laugh.

  It scared her. There was something dark and mocking in it, so she turned and ran until she got to the landing with its swagged drapes, and then looked back.

  The corridor was empty.

  The tinkly music was louder here, and there was an odd, circular, whirring sound. Lights moved softly down the walls and over the furniture – gaudy fairground colours – red, then green, then blue. Glints of gold sparkled off mirrors.

  Seren reached the bannisters. She peered through, and gasped.

  The carousel was standing in the very centre of the hall. It seemed to have grown bigger, and it was turning with a creaky motion. Music and light flickered; the golden ball shimmered, the striped pole spun, the empty horses galloped. Tomos sat beside it in his tartan dressing gown, cross-legged, staring at it with wide, dark eyes as if it had hypnotised him completely now. Behind him sat Mrs Honeybourne in a large chair, cramming sweets into her mouth from a glass bowl on her lap.

  But what astonished Seren most were the Others. They were as tall as people and They were quite clearly alive. The Soldier was leaning in the drawing-room doorway, beating a brisk rhythm on the drum, and the Juggler, in his green striped tailcoat and silver wig, sprawled lazily across two chairs, his feet crossed at the ankles, flinging six balls in the air in mesmerising patterns. The Dancer was beautiful; delicately she spun and leapt around the revolving platform, her white dress rippling like snow. They were all tall and thin. Their eyes were slivers of silver and their hair as pale as thistledown.

  They were the Tylwyth Teg.

  Seren crouched low, behind the bannisters. Where was the little Velvet Fox? And was Tomos asleep or awake? Because now he was up on his feet and even laughing, and the Dancer had both his hands and was lifting him and spinning faster with him.

  At that moment Mrs Honeybourne raised her head. Then, suddenly, her gloved hand.

  The music stopped in mid-note.

  ‘A Human,’ Mrs Honeybourne said softly, ‘is spying on our revels.’

  Seren held her breath.

  Mrs Honeybourne looked at the landing. ‘Up there!’

  Seren jumped back. But it was too late.

  The Soldier pattered a rapid war beat and came running up the stairs. The others crowded behind him, the Dancer laughing an icy laugh, pointing a sharp finger at Seren. ‘There!’

  At once the Juggler stopped and flung a ball at her; she ducked but the ball rebounded from the wall in a white flash and exploded, showering sparks of stinging gold light everywhere.

  Seren turned and ran.

  The three faery creatures were close behind; another ball just missed her shoulder and the eerie tinkle of the music was making all the floorboards ripple under her feet so she fell and had to scramble up.

  Curtains tripped her. Doors got stuck. The house itself seemed enchanted. She raced along the corridor and through a service hatch cut in the wallpaper on to the servants’ stair, then ran down through the Lower Hall and into the kitchen corridor, hardly daring to look back. She fled through the dairy and the milk went sour, and through the laundry, where all the dried washing dripped and danced on its lines. The music was so loud now! She dived into the kitchens, praying that Denzil might still be up, but there was only Sam the cat, and he fled immediately in a flat white streak.

  The fire was low, the table laid with breakfast dishes; as Seren ran past they all clattered and shook. A third ball whizzed past her, smashed a cup and sent it flying across the stone floor.

  Pots and pans fell all around her with tremendous crashes.

  ‘Stop it!’ she yelled.

  She came to Mrs Villiers’ stillroom and dived inside, then she slammed the door, bolted it and stood with her back to it, breathless.

  Silence.

  The music had stopped.

  Had They gone?

  And, if so, where was Tomos?

  But she was sure They were still out there, because something gave a small giggle, so she put her face close to the door. ‘Leave us alone!’ she hissed fiercely. ‘I have a friend coming and he’ll help me defeat you. He knows more magic than you do!’

  Another giggle.

  She leapt back with a gasp of fear. Something was coming through the door. It was a fingernail at first, then long white fingers and then a spindly wrist, pushing through the solid wood as if it was not even there. The fingers held a dirty scrap of paper. They dropped it with a scornful flick, pulled back, and were gone.

  Seren bent and picked the paper up. It was torn and scratched and something had shredded it with angry nails so that it was hard to read any more, but she knew what it was.

  It was her letter to the Crow!

  As despair sank into her, the drumming began again. Now it was furious: an angry beat. Something smashed behind her.

  She jumped, and turned, eyes wide.

  Everywhere Mrs Villiers’ jams and honeys and chutneys were flying off their shelves. Glass was shattering; Seren had to duck and crouch as all the carefully made compotes, all the delicious spreads and pickles, lifted up and smashed themselves on the stone floor in a cacophony of chaos. Shards of glass flew; one nicked her cheek and a spot of blood fell. The smell of fruits and spices was amazing.

  Then just as suddenly, the music stopped.

  For a moment she stayed huddled in the corner, arms over her head, her dressing gown spattered with sauces, until she uncurled and stood up.

  Everything was such a mess! A jar rolled on its side, oozing a long drip of honey right to the floor.

  And then a voice said, ‘Open this door. Or I’ll shoot it open!’

  Seren rubbed jam off her face. There was nothing else to do, so she turned the key and opened the door. Mrs Villiers stood there in a blue wrapper, her hair up in pins. Next to her, fully dressed, was Denzil. He had the captain’s shotgun and it was pointing right at her.

  He stared, and lowered it quickly. ‘Seren? What in…’

  Mrs Villiers couldn’t even speak. She just gave a sort of moan and put both hands to her cheeks.

  Seren stood there among all the destruction. There was jam on the walls, c
hutney on the ceiling. Her hair and hands and face were covered with it.

  What could she say?

  Denzil shook his head. He brushed his black thatch of hair with one hand. Then he said, ‘I have no idea what you’re up to, girl, but this will finish you in Plas-y-Fran. You know that?’

  She nodded, silent. She whispered, ‘It was Them, Denzil.’

  But she knew no one would believe her.

  An hour later, in her room, she sat in front of the empty hearth wrapped in a blanket with her chin propped in her palm and tried not to cry.

  Lady Mair had come down and seen the mess. She had been white and silent. Seren had been brought back up the stairs like a prisoner, past Mrs Honeybourne in an immense purple nightie, and Tomos who had stared in disbelief and said, ‘Seren, you must have gone mad!’

  Now she wondered if he remembered anything about the figures on the carousel coming to life.

  She shivered.

  The bedroom was bitterly cold, and it was dark.

  A scatter of soot fell down the chimney, dirtying the swept grate.

  They would certainly send her back to the orphanage. Mrs Honeybourne would win and Tomos and all the Plas would be under the power of the Family forever. What could she do about it? There had to be something.

  More soot fell. Seren looked up.

  A scratchy scrape in the chimney.

  She stood quickly – something was coming down!

  She grabbed the poker, then crouched by the side of the grate and watched because she would be ready for Them this time!

  Soot was falling like rain. A scuttering and crashing. An angry squawk.

  And then with an almighty THUMP something totally black crashed down into the empty fireplace. An evil imp-like thing with bright, glittering eyes.

  Seren gave a scream and raised the poker, but the thing opened its twisted beak and snapped, ‘You hit me with that, Seren Rhys, and I’ll turn you into a worm and eat you, you stupid girl.’

  6

  A tale of travels

  No wizard in the world can help

  Get me back to my own shape.

  Seren stared. Then she flung the poker away with a screech of joy and hugged the sooty object with delight. ‘CROW!’

  ‘Get off me,’ the Crow said irritably. He flapped an awkward wing. ‘Look at me! Look at the state of me!’

  ‘How did you get here? How did you even know…?’

  The Clockwork Crow shrugged a shower of soot. ‘I flew, of course. It takes more than a few thousand of the Tylwyth Teg to stop me.’

  ‘A few thousand?’

  ‘Million, then. They’re all around the house. Tried to shoot me down with hail and lightning and the Lord knows what.’ The Crow gave a creaky kek kek of utter scorn. ‘What chance did they have against me? They’re amateurs.’

  Seren laughed out loud.

  The Crow was back! He was just as bossy and proud and his lies were still as huge as ever and, suddenly, she felt a lot better.

  ‘Pick me up and put me on that table. I’m in bits here.’

  Seren scooped up the Crow. He was filthy and wet, and his right wing was almost hanging off. One claw was twisted, and even more of his moth-eaten feathers were missing than before.

  She shook her head. ‘Did They do this? I thought you said…’

  The Crow karked a dark laugh. ‘Them? Only the last few scratches. Girl, I have flown miles to get to you. Over mountains and castles and valleys. Through towns and villages. I’ve been dive-bombed by magpies and hunted by eagles. Gulls have fought over me. I even fell into the back of a train and got carried through a tunnel. You have NO IDEA of the trouble I’ve had to take just to get here…’

  ‘Yes… Sorry. But I’m really grateful. Really.’ She sat on the bed. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you. It’s Tomos … well, it started with him…’

  The Crow held up one wing in haste.

  ‘Fascinating, but that can wait. First, you need some thread – black thread, no other colours, please, and only the best. You’ll have to sew my wing back on.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘It will be painful, extremely painful, but I can take it.’

  Seren sighed. At least she’d had some practice in sewing lately. She fetched her needle and thread, and the Crow hopped up on to the table. It looked down at the wing, then away, bravely, at the cold hearth. ‘Hurry up. And be delicate.’

  Seren chewed her lip, threaded the needle and started to sew. The wing was so tatty she could see the clockwork cogs through parts of it. As the needle went in the Crow gave a squeaky groan and squirmed.

  ‘You’ll have to keep still,’ Seren muttered.

  ‘If you were having an arm sewn on, I’d like to see you keep still.’

  She shuddered, and pulled the needle through.

  The Crow closed its bright eyes in heroic suffering, then opened them and looked round. ‘So, I turn my back for five minutes and all hell breaks loose. This place hasn’t changed much. Still freezing cold and dark. You don’t seem to have made much of your chances. And if you knew what I’ve left for this! Such comfort! Such elegance!’

  Seren sighed as she sewed. ‘Tell me,’ she said, because talking might keep it from complaining at least. ‘Where have you been all this time?’

  ‘Well, Enoch had that idea about the magician in York.’ It snorted. ‘That turned out a total disaster. The man couldn’t have magicked himself out of a paper bag. My brother has absolutely no idea about the intricacies of spell craft. Then we went north. Scotland. Rain absolutely non-stop and all the mountains … very beautiful, no doubt, for the traveller at leisure, but hell in a coach when you’re crammed inside a leather bag on the roof for five hours. I have NEVER felt so sick. Ouch!’

  ‘Sorry.’ She tugged the thread through quickly. ‘Did you find another magician?’

  ‘Doctors. Edinburgh is full of them.’

  ‘Did they help?’

  The Crow wrinkled its beak. ‘Obviously I couldn’t speak to them personally. I mean, I would have been an object of utter fascination … put in a cage maybe. A zoo certainly. Unthinkable. So Enoch had to go to them and say My brother has this problem…’

  ‘Tricky,’ Seren said, biting the thread.

  ‘Yes. Well, clearly they thought he was troubled in the brain because he came away with pills and medicines but all of them were for him! Absolute waste of time. Then…’ He flapped the wing. ‘That’s better. Well, then one of them – a Doctor Doyle – asked to see the brother, meaning me, of course. So I agreed to a private consultation.’

  Seren wound up the thread. ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘As it turned out, no.’ The Crow took off and flew an experimental zigzag, then landed awkwardly on the bedrail. ‘Wants a bit of stretching now, that’s all.’

  ‘So, the doctor…?’

  ‘Mmm.’ It seemed reluctant to go on. Then it tipped its head. ‘Would you say I was … ugly, girl?’

  ‘Er, well … not…’

  ‘Because the first thing that charlatan said was What an ugly specimen. I was so astonished! Enoch looked mortified. We were in our hotel room – a fine view of the castle from the window, I’d insisted on that. I looked at the man hard – a horrible, tall, skinny fellow in yellow tweed – and I lost it. I snapped, I must say, Doctor, you yourself are no oil painting.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sad. Very sad.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Heart attack, probably.’

  ‘He dropped dead?’

  ‘He dropped, certainly. A stretcher was fetched and they carted him off to hospital. What use is a man who can’t take a small shock like a talking bird? Three guineas he charged for that. Such a waste of money!’

  Seren pressed her lips tight to stop a huge laugh bursting out. She was so glad to have someone to talk to! ‘So no one could help you?’

  ‘We tried doctors, scientists, wizards, astrologers. We consulted alchemists, wise women, poets and priests. Enoch talked to old crones in cottages and gypsie
s in circuses and even, once, a fellow who trained hawks and reckoned he had transformed several people into birds, and could do that for us, if we wanted. ‘We don’t want INTO,’ Enoch said, we want OUT OF.’

  ‘Can’t help you,’ the fellow said. ‘One-way process. No way back.’

  Seren looked sidelong. The Crow’s head had drooped; its bent beak frowned.

  For a moment, it looked very gloomy.

  ‘That can’t be true,’ she said firmly. ‘In all the fairy tales, there’s always some way to break the spell.’

  ‘Fairy tales!’ The Crow snorted, and perked up at once. ‘Are you still reading that rubbish? Where’s the Euclid I recommended? Where are Plato and Shakespeare and the great John Keats? Surely they’ve done something about your schooling?’

  ‘It’s funny you should ask…’

  ‘And why are you in bed without any supper and no fire?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And why is the door locked?’

  ‘If you’ll just listen to me,’ Seren said, ‘I’ll tell you.’

  But the Crow was suddenly listening, intently, its head on one side. It flew down and hopped closer to the door, and she knew it had heard Them.

  ‘Faery music? Footsteps? Dancing? The stink of fox?’ It turned an astonished eye on her. ‘WHAT IS GOING ON IN PLAS-Y-FRAN, GIRL?’

  Seren sighed. She climbed into bed to keep warm and sat with her knees up, and the Crow perched under the quilt with its tail spread out to keep upright, and she told it everything – about Tomos’s foolish boast, about the red carriage and Mrs Honeybourne, and the carousel with its strange figures.