Then Stefan said, ‘Isn’t Autumn Hillside the girl who saved you lot from Sterling Silver Foxes at the swimming pool?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
He bit his lip in a thoughtful way.
Everybody else seemed to have forgotten Autumn’s heroism.
Anyhow, the Sugar Gliders flitted about for a few minutes (that’s my metaphor for the chattering, remember), and then Mr Dar-Healey, who was standing on the stage, clapped his hands and did a backflip.
Now, here was an interesting difference between Katherine Valley girls and Nicholas Valley boys.
Whenever Mr Dar-Healey does a backflip at my school we all stop what we’re doing at once and look at him, smiling. But the boys whistled, whooped or clapped—then, instantly, turned around and began telling each other loud stories about people they knew who could do double backflips, or circuses they’d been to, or acrobatic shows. Also, many started trying to do backflips themselves. Two of them could do quite good ones.
Mr Dar-Healey looked a bit alarmed up on the stage.
The teacher from Nicholas Valley in the colourful dress, Ms Potty, screamed, ‘STOP THAT RIGHT NOW! LISTEN! RIGHT NOW!’ in a furious voice that must have hurt her throat, and the boys finally, reluctantly, slowed down, and looked in her direction, some of them rubbing their heads where they’d hit them on the floor.
Mr Dar-Healey raised his eyebrows and made a little speech about how excited he was to be teaching us to dance. Already he’d lost the attention of the Nicholas Valley boys again. They were making jokes, knocking into each other, and a few even wrestled. Laughing and grinning, as if it was great fun being smashed against the floor.
Ms Potty shrieked again, they settled down, and the dance class began.
I don’t really need to say any more about that dance class.
We were matched up with partners about the same height as us. Stefan was matched with Dot Pecorino and I noticed him chatting and asking her questions, to which she smiled in a terrified way, without speaking. Stefan did not seem to mind. I ended up with a boy named Arlo, who picked his nose absent-mindedly. When I stared, he took his finger from his nose, looked at it in surprise, and grinned at me as if something hilarious had just happened.
He then reached out to take my hands for the dance.
I held onto his wrists.
Ms Potty switched on the gramophone, Mr Dar-Healey explained the steps, and the class went exactly like I said:
One, two, three
One, two, three
One, two … three
One, two …
‘Hold up, hold up.’
One, two, three
One, two, three
One—
‘Hold up! Let’s try that again.’
And so on.
Autumn disappeared after the dance class, missed dinner altogether, and was already asleep when we came into the dormitory later.
Her black hair was a deep shadow across her pillow. Other nights I had admired that shadow and wished my hair could be glossy like that, but this night a shudder zig-zagged from my chest to my toes.
There was a Whisperer in the bed next to mine.
Even though Father was always telling us there was nothing to fear from Whisperers, I was afraid. (As a matter of fact, my cousin Bronte, the adventurer, who I’ve mentioned, happens to be half-Whisperer. But she’s also half-Spellbinder, so I always think the second cancels out the first.)
Autumn, on the other hand, was a full Whisperer, who grew up in the Whispering Kingdom. I wanted to be kind. I knew that Whisperers are actually good people who’d got caught up in a war because of their king. And I knew they were only powerful if they wore shadow bands. But I had grown up terrified of Whisperers, and my sisters and I had watched Bronte battle with the ferocious Whispering King. These things had got lodged into my chest. After all, it had only been two years since Whisperers were freed from their Spellbinding.
I kept trying to check Autumn’s wrists for a shadow band—the other girls were doing the same—but one of her arms was tucked under her pillow as she slept. I curled myself onto the far side of my bed from her.
In the morning, though, I was sprawled out as usual. Autumn’s bed was empty, neatly made. The rest of us got up, used the washrooms, and dressed, glancing often at the empty bed, and at the door. Nobody mentioned her: she could have reappeared any moment. We walked down to breakfast together.
There is always a stack of the Katherine Valley Times at the entry to the dining hall at breakfast. I think the idea is that we read the news while we eat our toast. Nobody does that, except for the senior girls, who occasionally take one to show they are ‘mature’ now. However, they get bored quickly and drop them. Mostly, we just glance at the headlines.
That da when we lanced we saw this headline:
WHISPERERS STEALING OUR JOBS
Then, a subheading:
Moves to ban Whisperers from taking any employment outside the Whispering Kingdom.
I read the first line.
‘These people have not earned the right to live amongst us,’ said Anti-Whisperer League President, Carmen Roadhouse, ‘let alone steal our jobs! My husband still cannot walk, since—’
I didn’t see the next bit as there were people behind me, shuffling me forward, hungry. Probably Carmen’s husband had been injured in the Whispering Wars and Carmen didn’t see why we should forgive Whisperers now.
Glances were exchanged between girls as we continued to the table. We’d seen plenty of headlines about Whisperers before and had never taken much notice.
Now everything was different.
There was a Whisperer at our school.
The article was talking about Autumn.
Of course, she was too young to be getting a job anyway, but one day she’d want one, wouldn’t she? What if she wanted to work at, I don’t know, the swimming pool in town? She could warn people of approaching Sterling Silver Foxes. That was a talent of hers. Would Carmen Roadhouse, President of the Anti-Whisperer League, shout at her to go get a job in the Whispering Kingdom? What if they didn’t have swimming pools there?
Autumn had mentioned her parents’ jobs in her introductory speech. Maybe they’d lose those jobs now?
Then how could they pay the school fees here?
Would Autumn have to leave?
I have to admit, even though I liked her, I was a bit relieved at that idea. It’s true I like an adventure but constant danger from the girl who sleeps in the bed next to mine seemed too much. On the other hand, maybe she and her family would starve! I didn’t want her to starve.
Autumn herself was already eating her breakfast of scrambled eggs—not starving for the moment anyway—when the rest of us reached the Grade 6 table. Tatty and Hetty made a show of taking the seats either side of Autumn and saying, ‘Good morning, Autumn! You’re up early!’
The rest of us were strangely polite, speaking softly so that the sounds of chairs scraping and cutlery clanging were extra noticeable. As if the chairs and cutlery were scolding us.
We could see girls at other tables craning their necks to stare at Autumn. It was not relaxing.
Then Pelagia spoke up. Usually she was busy telling long, riveting stories, and making me wish I could get a seat near her. I still hadn’t heard one of her stories. Mrs Pollock had forgotten to get her to introduce herself after Autumn’s talk.
Today, though, as I mentioned, Pelagia spoke up.
‘Autumn?’ she said. ‘Can I ask about your hair?’
Autumn blinked once, then said very cautiously: ‘Yes?’
‘It’s just that I thought Whisperers had hair all the way to their ankles?’ Pelagia said. Her voice was friendly and curious, as if she was asking about homework or a pet back home.
Autumn’s face relaxed a little. ‘Oh, that’s only adult Whisperers. We all grow our hair gradually, so most twelve year olds like me have only reached waist length.’
‘And is it true that the long hair is what makes y
ou Whisper?’ Pelagia enquired.
Somebody gasped softly. I don’t know who it was, but I knew what they meant. It was one thing to ask about Autumn’s hair, but now Pelagia was referring to Whispering!
Just mentioning this might give Autumn the idea to start Whispering us!
‘It’s complicated,’ Autumn replied. ‘Long hair isn’t essential to Whispering. Of course, only adults can Whisper anyway—you don’t get Whispering power until you’re around sixteen. But our hair is tangled up with our sensitivity, and—’
‘Tangled up,’ Zoe Fawnwell giggled.
Autumn gave Zoe a polite nod.
‘Wait,’ Zoe said, her giggles changing to a sly smile. ‘So the reason you knew those people were Sterling Silver Foxes was because of your hair. It makes you sensitive?’
‘Oh yeah,’ some others said. ‘She sensed their evil!’
Everyone was nudging each other.
I chimed in then. The others seemed to be missing the point. ‘You can’t Whisper?’ I checked. ‘Not for a few years?’
Autumn shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
We all gazed at her. All seventeen Grade 6 girls, gazing quietly at the eighteenth.
‘Also,’ Autumn continued, ‘the scary Whispers—the ones used during the Whispering Wars?—were from shadow bands. Wristbands made from shadow thread. Nobody wears them anymore.’ She held up her arms to show us her bare wrists. ‘All we can do is Whisper little ideas into your head that are very easy for you to shake away. The only other talent some Whisperers have is that they can hear Whispers from the future. So they know what’s going to happen. My parents can do that.’ She looked wistful for a moment, and then carried on. ‘But we consider it impolite to Whisper people, so I’d never do it even if I could.’
I looked down the table at Pelagia, whose eyes were bright.
If Autumn was a full Whisperer, she was almost certainly not the Spellbinder (I realised), and it was back to being Pelagia. A Spellbinder would not be afraid of Whisperers. That’s why she’d been brave enough to ask questions.
But everyone else was growing brave now too.
‘What was it like for you,’ Hetty enquired, ‘in the Whispering Wars?’
Autumn turned to her. ‘I was born after the wars had finished,’ she replied. ‘I’m the same age as you.’
Tatty flicked a dismissive hand at that. ‘Yes, but the Whispering Kingdom was trapped behind a Spellbinding after the war, right up until two years ago! So it’s like the war carried on for you!’
Autumn picked up her fork.
‘What was it like living behind a Spellbinding?’ Hetty tried.
Autumn shrugged. ‘It’s how I grew up. I didn’t know anything different.’
‘You were trapped!’ Hetty persisted. ‘You must feel so free now! Isn’t it wonderful that we’ve set you free?’
Autumn scratched the back of her neck and returned to eating her eggs.
After that, I had the dream four nights in a row, sometimes more than once a night.
You remember the dream? I’m lying on a blanket. The blanket is blue with a stain of strawberry jam. I can see bushy trees, and a rock shaped like a turtle.
It begins to rain. I wake up.
I got pretty sick of the dream that week.
I mean, it’s not exactly filled with plot twists, is it?
More to the point, every time I had it, I’d wake up gasping for air, absolutely terrified, with the sensation of a boulder on my chest.
A couple of times when it happened, I flung back my bedclothes and hurried down the corridor, planning to climb out of the window and up into the attic again. But when I looked out, lights always seemed to be darting around behind the windows of the Old Schoolhouse.
If it had been ghosts, as I’d once hoped, that would have been all right. I could have scrambled up the drainpipe to the attic and the ghosts would have ignored me, getting on with being ghostly.
But those were regular accountants—or town planners or dentists; it changed all the time—attending a regular convention over there, not ghosts at all, and at any moment, one of them might look through a window and catch a glimpse of me climbing. You can’t trust adults (especially accountants), not to go worrying about you falling to your death.
So I did not climb.
Eventually I stopped getting out of bed and running down the corridor at all. There was no point.
The fourth night, Sunday night, when I woke from the dream and was gasping for air, a small voice murmured, ‘Are you all right?’
That gave me a fright.
It turned out to be Katya, who is three beds along from me.
‘Bad dream,’ I said.
I waited for her to ask what the dream was about and prepared for how loudly she would scoff. But there was a long quiet in the dark room.
‘I can’t sleep,’ Katya whispered eventually. ‘My ankles and knees are hurting.’
I sat up in bed.
‘What did you do to them?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I think it’s growing pains. My brother gets them all the time.’
‘Do you want me to get the nurse for you?’
I heard a rustling. I think it was Katya shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The only thing that helps my brother is when our father massages his legs. I don’t want the nurse to do that for me.’
I knew what she meant. Nurse Sydelle sits in her little office, which is just before the bathroom, reading books. If you look in at her on your way to the bathroom, she purses her lips and raises her eyebrows as if she finds everything about you somehow unlikely, and not at all pleasing to the eye.
After a few more moments, Katya said, ‘I wish Matron was here.’
Again, I knew what she meant. Matron is kind, and chats about her husband in a way that makes you giggle. Her healing is always excellent.
‘I wish she’d come back,’ Katya whispered. ‘I’ll try sleeping now. Goodnight, Esther.’
‘Goodnight, Katya.’
The dream had faded. I turned over and closed my eyes.
Then I opened them again: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard Katya scoffing.
‘Katya?’ I whispered.
‘Yes?’
‘Is everything all right with you?’
More quiet and then, in a very small voice, Katya said: ‘Everything is fine.’
I thought of this incident the next day when we had a Mathematics test.
The test was quite tricky and I was only halfway down the first page (there were three pages altogether) when I noticed Katya placing her pencil onto her desk, and closing the paper.
This was not surprising. She’s the smartest girl in our class, as I think I’ve mentioned several times, and finishes tests long before anybody else.
I worked out the next sum.
I checked it. It was correct.
Katya raised her hand.
‘Yes, Katya?’ Mrs Pollock asked in a loud whisper. Some of us giggled. Mrs Pollock had stood up and was slinking towards Katya’s desk, her head darting around as if she was an undercover spy or an octopus. It was funny.
Katya spoke softly, trying not to disturb the class. ‘I only wondered if there might be a worksheet I could do? Or a supplemental test?’
Other teachers used to offer Katya extra work, or tests from higher grades. Katya would always say, ‘Yes, please!’ excitedly. This made the rest of us raise our eyebrows, although not seriously. We were used to Katya.
But Mrs Pollock had never offered her any extra work.
Now she was staring at Katya. Abruptly, she threw her arms into the air and gasped.
We all stopped working on our tests and looked over.
‘More work?’ Mrs Pollock cried. ‘Let me get this straight, you want extra mathematics! More difficult mathematics?’
Katya nodded slowly.
‘Are you a real child?’ Mrs Pollock breathed. ‘Girls? Is she a robot? Oh, I know! You’re an undercover Shadow Mage, disguise
d as a child! You’ve just given yourself away, Shadow Mage! No child would ever ask for extra work!’
Mrs Pollock scuttled to the front and crouched behind her own desk. ‘Come on, everybody! Over here! Take cover!’
Everybody laughed hilariously. A few girls hopped up and ran to join her, and Mrs Pollock beckoned them excitedly. ‘Get down! Get down!’ she shouted.
Eventually, she rose again. ‘Oh, my old knees. Go on, girls, scoot back and carry on with the tests. And Katya? Did you mean that? Tell me it was just a joke!’
Katya pressed her fingertips to her forehead.
‘Never mind, Mrs Pollock,’ she said. ‘It was just a joke.’ She put her chin in her hand, elbow on the desk and, while the rest of us finished our tests, she stared towards the window.
No wonder she’s become so quiet, I thought. She loves schoolwork: the more challenging, the better. Regular schoolwork for Katya is like doing 1 + 1 for us.
She’s bored.
And maybe she’s worried, I thought next, that too much easy work will flatten out her brain.
One other curious thing happened with that Mathematics test.
When we got it back that afternoon—she must have graded it at lunchtime—my grade was C–.
I sighed.
It’s true that Maths is not my best subject, but usually I get at least a B. I supposed I’d made more mistakes than usual.
As I looked sadly at the test, my eyes happened to land on a question. You might remember this one, as I included it in the previous chapter.
It was the sum I’d just finished and checked when the episode between Mrs Pollock and Katya took place. I’d accidentally checked it again after that episode, and had been annoyed with myself for wasting time double-checking.
Yet here it was, marked with a big red X.
It was wrong?
Well, does my answer look wrong to you?
Go ahead and check it if you like.
Or don’t worry about checking it if you prefer not to do extra mathematics. Just trust me. It was NOT wrong. I checked it again five or six times.
The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Page 9
