Shadows of Winterspell

by Amy Wilson

  ‘But Yanny’s right – there is something,’ he says, tilting his head to the other side. ‘How curious. Well, now you are here, so welcome. This is the Magical Department. I am Principal Ashworth. Come along – let’s have a talk. Onward!’

  He hustles down the corridor to a narrow, winding staircase that takes us up into a round study with crinkled glass windows on every side.

  ‘Now,’ he says, perching on the edge of a broad wooden desk. ‘Stella. You’ve seen our magical underbelly. You will have to sign the contract. Yanny generally has good instincts. Have you magic?’

  ‘A little,’ I say. ‘Spell-work, charms – nothing very exciting.’

  ‘And you are?’

  I stare at him. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What sort of a creature are you? There are humans with some magic. Are you one of those?’

  I stare between him and Yanny. There’s something searching and eager about both of them. If I told them the truth about my heritage – that the dreaded Shadow King is my father – what would they do to me? Nan always worried they might never accept me after all the misery he’s caused.

  ‘Ahh, yes. Human,’ I say. ‘We have lots of books. My nan says there is fae blood in our history . . .’

  ‘I see,’ says Principal Ashworth. ‘Well, they say that we all have a little fae in us, somewhere. In some, it is more pronounced.’ He fingers the tiny sharp horns that poke through his curling brown hair.

  How did I miss those?

  ‘And we may choose, sometimes, to hide the signs,’ he says. ‘So. Perhaps you are hiding; perhaps all that you possess is an instinct for our words. In any case, you must sign the contract.’

  He produces a scroll from a small drawer in the front of the desk. It unspools, inch after inch of brown paper rushing to the floor, and he holds out an old ink pen with a wide brass nib crusted in black ink.

  At least, I hope it’s black ink. Right now, in this sun-flashed room, with this strange small man, and Yanny staring beside me, it could be almost anything.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Security contract,’ says Principal Ashworth. ‘Provides that you will neither take nor insert any magic from this place; that you will keep our secrets; that you will take all precautions when entering and exiting; reset the charms; respect the boundaries of your fellow magical students; work hard on your lessons . . .’ He thrusts the pen at me. ‘So, sign!’

  ‘What if I accidentally let something slip?’

  He takes back the pen. ‘Are you prone to accidents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you have some familiarity with the fae world. With our words, and our spells. So, you already know how to keep such things safe.’

  ‘Uh, yes. But. Can I tell my nan?’

  ‘Is she human?’

  ‘She’s a ghost,’ I say, my tongue already too tied from the unfamiliar lies.

  They stare at me, and I shrug.

  ‘How interesting!’ Principal Ashworth nods. ‘Then you may tell her. Besides, there are life-and-death provisos, should the need arise. Now sign, or I’ll have to eject you, and there will be no coming back!’

  I look at Yanny. ‘You didn’t say . . .’

  ‘What are you worried about?’ he asks, no help whatsoever. ‘You already knew there was magic out there, and you knew to keep it a secret . . .’

  ‘But magical contracts?’ I hiss. ‘Everyone knows they’re a bad idea.’

  ‘You’re confusing your fae stories with your fairy stories,’ says Principal Ashworth. ‘We’re not the Grimm brothers, and you aren’t a little girl in a gingerbread house. Now, if you’d like to continue this little tour, you’ll have to sign!’

  He grins, and his teeth are a little pointed, but his eyes are warm, so I take a deep breath, pluck the pen from his outstretched hand, and sign the paper.

  ‘Excellent,’ he says, winding it back up again. ‘You will join our lessons. Whatever affinity you have for our magic, we must explore it and work out what to do with you. There are rules – and customs – that you should know, whether you’re human or fae, or something in between. Magic is not something to be taken lightly. Nor to be discussed downstairs in the regular lessons. Yanny will advise, if you need it. He is a fairly good student, and he has already asserted himself as your guide, so I will entrust you to his care.’ He casts a glance at Yanny before turning back to me.

  ‘Lessons start at 7.30 in the morning,’ he continues, ‘and finish by 8.45. And there’s the odd differential, such as history and science, when you’ll come to us. Welcome, Stella. I am sure you’ll find what you need here, and perhaps a little more besides . . .’

  He winks and flaps us out of the room, his cloak billowing.

  I turn to Yanny at the top of the narrow steps, and he blows his cheeks out.

  ‘You could have warned me,’ I say, as he hustles me down and whisks us along the corridor to a circular, cavernous hall, where the ceiling rises in a spire, bookshelves winding up its sides. Shining wood ladders stretch right up through all the shelves, getting narrower as they go. The whole place sings at me and makes my head spin.

  ‘The hall-slash-library,’ he says.

  ‘What have you got me into, Yanny?’

  ‘What have I got myself into,’ he retorts, not looking the slightest bit apologetic. He looks up at the rows of books, and his eyes flash with streaks of amber. ‘Stupid. I should’ve left it all alone.’ He looks back at me. ‘I thought I could show you around without Ashworth finding us. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He sighs, but there’s still a glint in his eye as he leads me out.

  ‘What kind of magic do you have?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You and Principal Ashworth – you both have the same kind of magic. Only, not the same . . .’

  He turns back to me. ‘How do you know we’re not the same?’

  ‘It just feels different.’

  He frowns.

  ‘You’re very perceptive for someone who claims to have so little magic of their own.’

  ‘We have books. Words. I know the old legends.’

  ‘Ah well, then you should know what I am,’ he says.

  And he marches off again.

  I watch him go, registering the lightness of his tread, the length of his limbs, the way his shadow on the wall is not quite a true reflection. It flickers at the edges, dancing and shifting as he moves.

  ‘Well, you’re not a centaur,’ I say, catching up with him. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’m a fairy,’ he says. ‘And you’re taking all the fun out of this.’ He scratches at the back of his neck. ‘We should have done this in the morning. . . I need to get home.’

  ‘I thought fairies were smaller.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve only seen pictures in books. Are we supposed to wear bluebells on our heads too, as hats?’

  I try to hide a smile; he looks very cross about it.

  ‘No . . . but I thought you had wings.’

  He winces and keeps on moving.

  ‘So –’ he indicates a darkened room on the right of the corridor, empty and lit only by a red-filtered lantern swinging from the ceiling – ‘this is history. Lessons are on Mondays, after last bell.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, drawing my timetable out of my bag and grabbing one of my new sparkly pens to make a note of it.

  He rolls his eyes and moves on again. ‘Next is earth science. Trees, water, elements, the natural world.’

  ‘Does that mean things like mer-fae . . . and dryads?’

  ‘Your books are getting old,’ he says, and there’s a shiver in his voice.

  ‘Yanny?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re angry. I’m sorry if I’m not saying the right things . . .’

  ‘Dryads are mostly in hiding these days, and nobody has seen a mer-fae for years. Your books clearly don’t cover recent history. Let’s just get this done.’

  He flits up the rest of the corridor. There’s a room for fae eth
ics and practical magic, glamouring and bewitching; and another, where the walls glow in soft amber shades, and low chairs are arranged in small huddles.

  ‘What’s this for? Why is it so dark up here?’

  ‘No electricity,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t work well around magic. This is time-out. Most of the fae kids are glamouring while they’re downstairs, and it gets hard.’ His voice sounds strained.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. He looks at me, gives a shadow of a bleak, sharp smile. ‘I just need to get home.’

  ‘What’s it like, in Winterspell?’ I ask carefully. ‘Are the stories about the shadows true?’

  His face tightens, and I immediately regret asking.

  ‘I don’t know about stories,’ he says. ‘The shadows are real.’ He winces, arching his back. ‘And I’m not talking about that now.’

  ‘Sorry – I just wondered . . .’ I frown, as his eyes flash amber again. ‘Does it hurt, to glamour? You don’t need to do it in front of me. I’m all signed up now, remember?’

  ‘It isn’t about you,’ he hisses. ‘I need to get through the school, and town, and home.’

  ‘Should we sit here for a moment, then? It’s safe here, isn’t it?’

  His shadow writhes behind him, and there’s a dark flash of tattered shadowy wings.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘Got to get back. I should’ve done this another day . . .’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  We rush through the corridors, down the shining steps, and he is a bright force beside me, static like a silver needle pricks through the air between us.

  ‘How many magical kids are here?’ I ask, as we get out of the front gate.

  ‘Thirteen.’ He grins. ‘Lucky to have you, makes fourteen.’

  ‘Thirteen is lucky in some cultures,’ I say, making my voice bright and chatty. ‘In China, and the—’

  ‘Not in ours,’ he cuts me off.

  ‘That’s why you wanted me to start lessons?’

  ‘Partly,’ he says. ‘Also, because you have magic. I can feel it, and so can you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I huff, as we dash through the streets, and the lights of the shops make the pavements shine beneath the pale mist of rain. Our footsteps are quick and light, and Yanny is panicking, I can feel it. We cross the road by the bakery, and he stumbles on the kerb.

  ‘I’ve got to run,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow – 7.30. Ashworth does assembly on Thursdays. The others will be there.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘Grumpy.’

  ‘It’s OK. See you tomorrow.’

  He nods, and the air around him vibrates. Then he’s gone, fleet-footed, darting between cars and away towards the forest.

  I stand there in the rain for a moment, my feet are numb, my hands prickle.

  There were wings. Flimsy things that curled over his shoulders, broader than his back, but hardly more than shadows. I saw them unfurl and snag at the air. Saw the way they fluttered as he fled, with nothing more than an echo of movement.

  What happened to his wings?

  The Fairy

  One of the boldest, most mischievous of the fae, the fairy is large in number and of earth, and air, and water, and fire. They tend to have large families, and some would say more courage than sense. It is they who defend the fae realm, and they who play tricks on passing humans. They are the ones most frequently spotted, but they are very good at glamouring, which means they may easily hide or change their appearance.

  There is tell of earth fairies who live in the human world as humans, using their magic to round their ears and veil their wings. Hiding magic, though, is no mean feat, and fairies are prone to sickness. Their bodies are fragile in the world of men.

  It’s getting dark as I reach home, the forest is more shadowed than ever. I skirt the house and linger on the moors by the river for a while, knowing Nan and Peg will be full of questions about my day, and not having a clue how I can answer them truthfully.

  As I watch, I spot movement between the trees. Something small and bright bursts out and races fast as lightning towards me. I squeal, staggering back as it bounds up to my chest, all sharp claws and static and . . . soft fur. A small, vaguely triangular face looks up at mine, claws latched firmly into my coat, green eyes flashing.

  It’s a cat!

  What kind of a cat bounces out of the forest like that?

  ‘Hi,’ I say, reaching out and untangling it from my coat, holding it at arm’s length. It’s a tiny little tabby, its fur striped in shades of white and silver-grey flecks glinting in the darkening light. ‘Who are you?’

  It doesn’t answer; it just stares at me. I put it down on the cold grass, and it walks around my ankles, before sitting on my left boot.

  ‘Oh!’

  Then another wild creature bursts out from the direction of the house and whizzes to my shoulder. Peg, being a bird.

  ‘Look, Peg,’ I say. ‘It’s a cat!’

  ‘Is it though?’ he demands, his golden beak snapping by my ear as he peers down.

  I pick up the cat. It nestles into my arms and starts to purr.

  ‘Seems like it to me,’ I say. ‘Maybe it strayed into the forest by mistake, and that’s why it bolted out so quickly.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Nan will know,’ I say.

  And so we head to the house: me and a small, trembling tabby cat, and one rather cross bird-imp.

  It’ll be a good distraction from school news, anyway.

  ‘I’m dreadfully allergic to cats,’ says Nan, perching on the edge of her blue chair, her lower legs and feet only vaguely visible.

  ‘Nan.’ I stare at her.

  The cat is sleeping in my lap, and Peg sits on the mantelpiece, his tail swinging over the flames.

  ‘What? I am!’

  ‘I really don’t think ghosts can be allergic to animals.’

  She frowns.

  ‘Well, I might be. I’m not your ordinary sort of ghost, you know.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Did you bring her back to distract us from news of school?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘Tell me about your day. Don’t leave anything out.’

  ‘It was pretty normal . . .’

  ‘No such thing. Come on – out with it.’

  ‘The lunch was good. And I like maths. Zara is really nice. She’s new too. Her mum moved them here a little while ago . . .’

  And there’s a whole floor full of magic, where the fae learn their history. And I lied. I lied, and I said I was human, and Yanny’s eyes knew that I was lying, but what could I say: ‘I am the child of the fae king who cursed your home’?

  ‘Zara?’ Nan leans forward. ‘Who is Zara?’

  ‘A girl at school!’

  ‘Human?’

  ‘Yes, Nan. Of course.’ I hold my breath, hoping she doesn’t ask any more about that. I’ve never lied outright to her face; I’m not sure I could. And I know she isn’t going to be happy about me being in a school with the fae she’s spent so long trying to keep me away from.

  ‘Bright, “Zara” means,’ she says. ‘Bright and shining, I think.’

  ‘It suits her.’ I smile, looking down at the cat. It’s very small; perhaps even just a kitten still. I always wanted a pet.

  ‘This little cat must go,’ says Peg, shaking his head, twin plumes of steam escaping his nostrils.

  The kitten opens one green eye and stares at him.

  ‘You said she came out of Winterspell.’ Peg’s brow furrows. ‘Who knows what she might be.’

  ‘She’s a cat, and I’m keeping her. She can be my familiar – like Peg is yours, Nan.’

  They huff together.

  ‘How do you know it’s a she?’ Peg demands. ‘Something magical? I mean, if it’s going to be a familiar, it needs to be a bit magical. Can’t just have any old cat being a familiar.’

  ‘You just said that she was probably a monster! Now she
’s any old cat?’

  ‘She is an unknown, to be treated with caution,’ says Nan.

  ‘Fine. I won’t tell her all our secrets. Yet. But she is staying.’

  ‘Well aren’t you growing up quickly with all your new attitudes?’ she says drily. ‘What are you going to call this pet of yours, then?’

  ‘Teacake!’ I blurt.

  Peg puts his horned head in his hands, and Nan opens her mouth and snaps it shut again. Teacake’s purr rumbles through me.

  ‘Really?’ Peg asks, raising his head and staring at me. ‘You do know that a familiar is an important creature? That if it’s true, your bond will be unassailable, that she will be by your side until the day you die – or even after.’ He gives Nan a look. ‘That she will be your champion when you need one, your adviser, your closest ally, your most magical weapon in times of need? That she will sacrifice everything to be with you, that your care for her must be foremost in your mind, no matter what comes your way?’

  ‘Yes, Peg.’ I meet his eye. ‘I know what a familiar is. It’s one of the only things I really do know for sure. Do you think you haven’t taught me that?’

  ‘She’s probably just a lost kitty, and she’ll be gone back home within a week,’ Nan says. ‘For all your melodrama, the pair of you, let’s not get carried away. She looks fairly ordinary to me.’

  I bury my fingers in Teacake’s thick fur and tickle her neck. She rolls over in my lap, showing us all her pale belly, and gives a little chirrup, staring at Peg and flexing her claws. The flames roar in the fireplace, and Peg’s tail makes sparks as it swishes, and Nan settles back into her chair, her eyes dancing as she watches.

  I think she likes Teacake, really.

  The Sprite

  Ahh, lucky is the soul blessed by the sprite. They are few and far between, and their power is vast, for it is the power of trees, and rivers, and mountains, and of the moon itself. Nimble, stalk-limbed, they might even pass for human, were it not for the verdant hues of their hair and the tiny horns that sometimes grow from their upper brow.