Aunt Carrie’s face was grey and stony. ‘How have you been feeling lately, Esther?’
I considered. ‘Strange. Angry. And I keep imagining I see people—like Bronte, and my old friends, Georgia and Hsiang, even though I know they’re far away.’
In the quiet that followed my words, there was a steady drip … drip … drip.
Rainwater was dripping from my clothes and hair to the floor. A puddle had formed around my feet.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
Aunt Carrie blinked. She gazed at the puddle and then at me.
‘Esther,’ she said softly. ‘You’re drenched. Have you been out in the rain?’
I nodded.
‘For how long?’
‘All day,’ I replied. ‘Since I ran out of class.’
‘And tell me Esther,’ she said, looking back to me. ‘Do you often run out into the rain? Do you like the rain?’
Dot, surprisingly, answered for me. ‘She loves it.’ Her voice was so soft that Aunt Carrie crouched to hear. ‘She gets in trouble for running out in the rain all the time. She collects rainwater. When everyone else painted a picture of the sun, Esther painted rain.’
Something peculiar was happening to Aunt Carrie. Ripples crossed her stony face as if a statue was coming to life.
‘What colour was the web pattern?’ she demanded suddenly.
‘Different colours,’ Stefan said. ‘Silvers, blues? I think also greens and golds?’
Dot and Arlo nodded.
‘Right.’ Aunt Carrie clapped once. ‘You lot go back to school and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I’ll see to Esther.’
At the door, Stefan hesitated. ‘Good luck, Esther,’ he said solemnly, and Arlo added: ‘Yeah, try not to turn into a hideous, evil, wicked, monstrous—’
Dot coughed.
‘All right, Arlo,’ Stefan said. ‘Let’s go.’
Once the door had closed on them, Aunt Carrie held up a finger, meaning I should wait, and she telephoned Principal Hortense. She told the principal that she was my aunt, a filing clerk in the Old Schoolhouse, that I was ill, and that she was keeping me here for a while.
Principal Hortense’s high voice chittered in the background, wanting a fully-fledged conversation, but Aunt Carrie cut her off.
‘Now,’ she said eventually, hanging up the phone. ‘First thing is to get you warm.’
Surprising. I would have thought the first thing would be to cure me of Fiendishness.
I dripped all the way up the stairs behind her. At the top she glanced back down at the trail of water and said, ‘Slipping hazard. I’ll see to that. Bathroom is third door on the left. Everything you need is in there. Pyjamas in your size in the closet.’
She was right.
In the bathroom was a stack of towels, a claw-foot tub, bubble bath, and a cupboard piled with folded pyjamas.
Why did a convention of filing—Spellbinders, I mean—why did they have pyjamas in children’s sizes?
When I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, I felt embarrassed to be wearing pyjamas. Daylight still shone through the window.
‘You’ll be very tired,’ Aunt Carrie said, as if reading my mind. ‘Hungry and tired. Supper and bed. But first, follow me.’ Like Aunt Franny, she can be a forceful person, my Aunt Carrie.
Obediently, I followed her along a corridor of closed doors until she paused at one. A square window was set high in it.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Have a squiz,’ and, surprisingly, she whooshed me into the air and held me close enough to the glass to bump my nose.
An ordinary classroom, lined with desks at which were seated: boys and girls around my age. At the front, a woman in a grey skirt appeared to be teaching. The children were writing.
‘What are—’ I began, confused, but then my eyes landed on one of the girls.
In the far corner. Black hair curled below the ears.
Hsiang. I was sure of it.
Automatically, my eyes swung to the left—and yes, that was Georgia. Dark skin, bright eyes.
‘Keep looking,’ Aunt Carrie instructed me. She seemed to be having no trouble holding my weight.
My eyes ran along the rows, and—
Middle desk. Raising her hand to ask a question.
My cousin.
Bronte Mettlestone.
‘So,’ Aunt Carrie said, setting me down and bustling along the corridor again. I followed. ‘You aren’t losing your mind. You did see Hsiang, Georgia and Bronte. Nobody’s supposed to know they’re here. Top–secret. That’s why the girls ran when you spotted them.’
‘What are they doing here?’ I called, but Aunt Carrie was already racing up another flight of stairs, and along another corridor of doors. She threw one open.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Hop into bed, Esther. Supper soon, a chat first.’
It was a small room, curtained windows, a single bed with a blue spread, and a wooden desk with chair.
Obediently, I slid under the covers and sat up leaning against the headboard. Aunt Carrie dragged out the desk chair, and sat down.
‘Right,’ she said, briskly. ‘If you have been chosen by an element of nature—rain, I assume—to become a Fiend, well, there’s not a thing that I or any Spellbinder, Faery, doctor or anybody alive today can do about it.’
I stared at her.
‘Nothing?’ I whispered.
‘That’s not meant to scare you. That’s meant to say, let’s not even think about it for now. I’ve telegrammed your father to come here urgently. Maybe he’ll know more—he’s the expert. Meantime, keep in mind that most people think Fiends were never even real. And the pattern on your skin has gone now, so that’s something.’
My head was spinning. ‘If I am going to turn into an evil monster, is it even safe for me to me to be here? Will you—and everyone else here—be all right?’
‘Of course it’s not safe,’ Aunt Carrie declared. ‘You’d no doubt want to kill us all.’
My voice trembled. ‘I promise not to do that.’
‘You can’t promise that. Won’t be able to keep it. If you became a Fiend, there’d be nothing good left of you at all.’
I knew this was the wrong question but I couldn’t help asking: ‘Will I be very ugly?’
Aunt Carrie considered, eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t remember seeing a picture of a Rain Fiend in any of the books, but I would think your appearance would change in some peculiar ways.’
I started to cry then. Embarrassing. I was about to turn into a monster and kill my best friends, my cousin, my aunt and all the other various strangers here, and I was bothered about becoming ugly.
Aunt Carrie patted my head. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she said. ‘Put it out of your mind. You’ll be wondering why Hsiang, Georgia and Bronte are here.’ That was true. ‘Right, I suspect you already know that I’m not a filing clerk.’
‘Well …’ I began.
‘You know a lot, Esther. You listen, don’t you?’ She smiled as if this was a compliment. Surprising. I’m usually being scolded for eavesdropping.
‘You know I’m actually a Spellbinder?’ she checked.
I nodded. ‘Carabella–the–Great,’ I whispered.
She chuckled. ‘Grand title. And you know this is a Convention of Spellbinders?’
‘Well, my friend Katya told me that,’ I said defensively.
‘And you know there’ve been issues with the oceans?’
‘Everybody knows that.’
Aunt Carrie laughed. ‘You’re not in trouble, Esther.’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with knowing things. For several years—decades actually—Spellbinders have been worried about the oceans. We sense an evil force there but it’s not regular Shadow Magic. Tides have changed directions. Berg trolls have let loose their quills. People have died. Your father’s theory is that it’s a Fiend from classical times. Nobody believes him—not Spellbinders, not anybody else. But I like and respect your father, so I’ve listened to him. I’ve
read the material he’s given me. And I think he might be right.’
I must have looked worried because she added quickly, and gently: ‘But maybe not. It’s more likely just environmental change and some twist on Shadow Magic in the ocean.’
A knock on the door.
Aunt Carrie opened it and a whiskery man in a cardigan entered carrying a tray.
Carrot soup, a bread roll, sausage pasta, and a bowl of ice cream.
The man set this before me and withdrew.
Gesturing for me to begin eating, Aunt Carrie resumed talking: ‘Ocean changes have displaced many populations. Shadow Mages have been moving to new, unprotected regions—such as these mountains—and wreaking havoc. You know Dahlia in the Orange Blossom Teashop? Wears an apple pendant? She and the local mayor, Carson Brody—’ she grimaced, ‘—they’ve been coordinating protection around these parts. We’ve needed more Spellbinders lately so we’ve started training children.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know if I agree. It’s too young. I said that your friend Katya wasn’t ready to maintain a Spellbinding ring around your school, but that Carson—’ (another scowl) ‘—disobeyed me. And then he didn’t get anybody to replace her! Not until your father put his foot down, and mentioned he knew me! However.’ She breathed deeply, calming herself. ‘If your father is right and there’s a Fiend in the ocean, we will need a team of the strongest Spellbinders to bind his evil. Young Spellbinders are capable of nimble, imaginative Spellbinding. I’m putting together a team of the new Spellbinders along with older, experienced ones. Which brings me to your cousin Bronte, and your friends, Hsiang and Georgia. As you’ve probably guessed by now, they’re all Spellbinders.’
I should have guessed. I mean I’d just seen them in the classroom. Still:
‘Hsiang and Georgia?’ I dropped my soup spoon with a clatter. ‘No! Hsiang got a cricket scholarship to a sports academy and Georgia got invited to a conservatorium to play her flute!’
Aunt Carrie shook her head. ‘That’s their cover stories. They were recruited to training centres early this year. I’ve invited them here with the most talented Spellbinders for specialised training. Of course, they are very talented at sport and music—Spellbinders often have some other specialised skill.’
‘Of course they do,’ I said flatly.
Aunt Carrie blinked.
‘I already knew Bronte was a Spellbinder,’ I admitted. ‘And she’s a great swimmer. That’s another skill of hers. My sister Imogen can also swim. Astrid can read people. Whereas I’m just Esther. And about to be a Fiend.’
There was a long quiet from Aunt Carrie. She squinted, studying my face.
I wished she would hurry and leave because I wanted to cry again.
She was silent a long time, and then spoke slowly. ‘Your friend Stefan, in his reading about classical history, he only read one book, yes?’
‘I think so.’
‘And it sounds like the book was all about Fiends?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Aunt Carrie continued. ‘Exciting. Esther, you know how the early mages used to mine for thread for their spells? Whereas now they just imagine the thread?’
That seemed an odd switch of subjects, but I nodded.
‘What colour thread did Shadow Mages use?’ she asked.
I knew this one. ‘Red and black.’
‘Spellbinders?’
‘Green and gold.’
‘Right. And what about True Mages?’
‘Silvery blue.’
Aunt Carrie smoothed a rumple in my covers. ‘There’s both evil and good in nature,’ she said. ‘If Stefan had read any more, he’d know that in classical myth, a colourful pattern appeared on the skin of people chosen by nature to be Weavers too. Not just Fiends.’
I stared. I’d forgotten about Weavers.
‘Fiends were evil, Weavers were good. There’s always balance.’
I nodded, interested.
Aunt Carrie placed her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. ‘Esther, I don’t know what colour the patterns were in the ancient stories. But if those stories were true, I think that Fiends and Weavers were the predecessors to today’s magic. And the web pattern on your skin. Think about what colour it was.’
Something fluttered in my chest. Green, gold, silver, blue.
The colours of Spellbinders and True Mages.
‘It’s possible,’ Aunt Carrie said, speaking very gently, ‘—I’m not at all certain, but it’s possible the rain did choose you. Not to be a Fiend, Esther. To be a Weaver. A Rain Weaver.’
One more thing happened as Aunt Carrie left the room.
She paused at the door.
Rain Weaver, I was thinking, Rain Weaver, Rain Weaver. The words like swinging lanterns in my heart.
‘I’m probably wrong,’ she said. ‘Likely you’ve not been chosen for anything.’
Oh. The lantern light snuffed out.
‘But I know I’m right about this,’ she continued. ‘You are brave, strong, and very bright. Your father told me how you protected your school after Katya left. I was so astonished I dropped my coffee! Stained my favourite trousers!’
‘Sorry,’ I said automatically.
Aunt Carrie rolled her eyes. ‘My point, Esther, is that I forbid you to say even one more time—’ She paused and echoed my words angrily: ‘I’m just Esther.’
‘Just Esther,’ she muttered, marching out of the room.
I stared at the closed door, my heart stumbling about like somebody lost in a dark forest—then, and this was almost at once, I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke to a tick – tick – tick.
The clock on the wall.
It said 5 am, but I was wide awake. Outside the window the rain fell steadily.
Rain Weaver, I thought, and my heart joined the tick – tick – tick.
It was a wild guess, I reminded myself. Aunt Carrie had said she was probably wrong. Also: wouldn’t I know if I was a Weaver? And wouldn’t I know how to … be a Weaver? I had no clue.
Still.
Tickticktick.
I opened the door, slid along the quiet corridor, down a flight of stairs, and stopped on the landing.
Below me, Aunt Carrie, in a dressing–gown, was opening the front door.
‘Carrie!’ cried a low voice, and into the lobby burst my father.
I was about to run down the stairs to him, but Father was already talking.
‘Is it true?’ he said in a quick, hoarse voice. He was closing an umbrella and pushing it into the stand. ‘You think you’ve found a Rain Weaver? Seriously?’
I crouched down, watching through the banisters. Father’s eyes were bright and excited.
‘Maybe,’ Aunt Carrie said cautiously. ‘I’m not at all sure—I just—’
‘But if it’s true!’ Father shrugged out of his coat. ‘This could save the Kingdoms and Empires, Carrie! You have the person here, you say? Is it a man or a woman?’
‘Neither.’ Aunt Carrie’s voice was low and hesitant. ‘It’s a child.’
Father, who had been reaching to hang his coat on the rack, paused. He turned slowly and looked at her.
‘Oh,’ he said gravely. ‘Well, now. I suppose—’
‘Nigel, there’s more.’ Aunt Carrie placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s Esther. It’s your Esther.’
Father’s face was as white as plasterboard. His coat fell slowly to the floor. ‘It’s not,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not.’
Now, I don’t know about you, but confusion annoys me.
And I was completely confused at this point.
Was classical history real? Had I been chosen? To be good or bad? Was I a Fiend or a Rain Weaver? And if I was a Rain Weaver, wasn’t that a good thing? Why did it make my father drop his coat?
I had other questions too but those were key.
Ordinarily I might have crept back to my room so that Father and Aunt Carrie wouldn’t know I’d eavesdropped, but I’d had enough.
; I ran downstairs, skidded to a stop before the pair of them and demanded: ‘What is going on?’
Aunt Carrie led us into a room just off the entryway. She called it ‘the drawing room’. It had once been a classroom and still had a blackboard on the wall, with a tin of chalk. For a moment, I thought we were all going to ‘draw’ in the ‘drawing room’. There was a ring of armchairs where the desks should have been though, and we sat in these. Tea, warm muffins and orange wedges (for vitamin C, Aunt Carrie said) were brought in for us by the whiskery man.
First, Aunt Carrie explained to Father why she thought I might be a Rain Weaver. ‘Of course,’ she finished, ‘the only thing I know about classical history is the material you’ve sent me, Nigel.’
Father leaned back in his armchair. He said the muffins were very good and remarked on the good luck of Stefan having read about the markings on the skin. He seemed much calmer now, and this relaxed me. I even ate a wedge of orange.
‘All right, Esther,’ Father said, steepling his fingers. ‘I’m going to be honest with you. You might have read about the oceanographer named Alfreda who travelled to the deepest, darkest ocean and was dead when she returned?’
I nodded.
‘As I told you in Vanquishing Cove, I’m almost certain there’s an Ocean Fiend down there—Jonathan J. Lanyard—and he killed her.’ Father studied me gravely. ‘Yet I still can’t convince the authorities that the classical stories were even real, let alone that one of the Fiends has somehow returned.’ He sipped from his tea. ‘Hand me another of those muffins, will you? What are they? Apple and cinnamon? So good!’ He was being very matter-of-fact considering how serious he sounded.
‘If I’m right,’ he continued, brushing away the muffin crumbs. ‘I believe that Jonathan is planning something big. Now, the Fiends and Weavers in the stories used to be drawn to the element or landscape that had chosen them. They would spend more and more time in that element. In one story, a Fiend did not leave his forest for fifty years and then, when he wanted to leave, it was impossible. So I would think that, if this is Jonathan, he is now fully entwined with the ocean, so to speak. That would explain why he hasn’t emerged from the deep. That’s something at least—he can only affect life in the ocean and along its coasts. If he could move about on land, nothing could stop him.’
The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Page 26
