by S J Howland
‘I’m not putting him under house arrest, Ben. He’ll be fine with Ollie and Len. We’ll just say he’s a friend of the family come to stay.’
Mrs Stanton’s voice was breezy, now she had got Flint to capitulate.
Ollie closed the vent. ‘We’d better scram before she realises we were listening. Come on, I’ll show you my room. You can share with me while you’re here.’
Xander followed Ollie in silence. He felt thoroughly perplexed, particularly by the assumption that he could just stay here. He almost bumped into Ollie’s back as the boy halted and then opened a door, standing back to allow Xander to go in first.
It was a big room and there appeared to be two beds, an armchair and a wide desk under the window, but it was hard to tell anything else because every available surface and most of the floor was covered in mess. Crumpled up clothes, balls, papers, odd-looking racquets and general debris was strewn everywhere, along with what looked like a short and colourful surfboard propped up against the wall. Ollie glanced around as if seeing it for the first time, and pulled a face.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit messy,’ he conceded. ‘It kind of gets away from me sometimes. I s’pose I ought to clear the other bed if you’re staying.’ He picked his way over the floor to one of the beds, swept all the clutter on it up into his arms and looked around for somewhere to put it; with a quick shrug, he threw it into a corner. ‘There you go.’
Xander stood rigid by the door. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he burst out. Somehow he had to get this concept across to someone. ‘Seriously, my mother will go mental if I just disappear. Even she will notice I’m gone eventually.’
Ollie eyed him in concern but a bellow from downstairs saved him from having to answer.
‘You’d better tell them that,’ he said. ‘But I warn you, Gran is pretty stubborn…immoveable really…rocklike. She cannot be reasoned with. You’re welcome to try though.’
Xander straightened his back as he followed Ollie back down to the kitchen, and began to speak as soon as they walked in through the door.
‘I appreciate the concern but I need to go home. My mother will freak out if I just go missing. She’ll call the police. It’ll be on the news.’
Mrs Stanton and Flint were standing rigidly at opposite ends of the table. They both turned to look at Xander as he made his dramatic entrance. Mrs Stanton looked concerned at his words but Flint just eyed Xander with a narrow smile.
‘No, she won’t,’ he said coolly, ‘because you’re not missing. Everything is quite normal, as far as she is concerned.’
Xander gaped at him.
‘How am I not missing, if I am in fact here?’ he demanded.
‘You’re right, you are here. But you’re also there,’ Flint replied, without expression.
Xander felt that surge of temper rise again; the man was being deliberately aggravating. He opened his mouth to snap at him, but Flint pre-empted him.
‘When you cross over the border using a Stone, particularly when you are inexperienced, you can leave a reflection behind. We call it a shadowself. It’s a facsimile, the idea of you that belongs in that reality. It will last some time before it fades, and it’s certainly enough to prevent people from noticing that you aren’t there. When you are more experienced it doesn’t happen by accident.’
He eyed Xander, as if expecting a comment or argument, but Xander just gaped at him.
‘It’s even possible to access your shadowself, so you can see through realities. There are limitations, of course, and you can only observe. To affect a reality directly, you have to Travel.’ He made an impatient movement, as if he had let slip more than he had meant. ‘However, that takes aptitude, plus a great deal of time and training. It’s not relevant here.’
There was a brief silence.
‘So, no-one knows I’m gone,’ said Xander, in a small voice. The idea that he wouldn’t be missed was strange, and unsettling.
‘Precisely,’ Flint said. ‘And now, I really need to head out.’
Xander felt like his head was spinning. He was aware of Ollie looking at him with concern, but he ignored him. This shadowself thing was just as crazy as the rest. Acting on an impulse he began to focus deliberately on the idea of a different part of himself, to reach out to it. As he expected, nothing happened and he was about to give up when suddenly he felt light-headed; pins and needles prickled all over his skin. For just an instant, before his vision went black, he was standing on the front steps of the British Museum, looking up as soft, drizzling rain fell onto his face. There was a dislocating lurch and he was back in the kitchen, crumpling sideways. He slumped onto the floor, feeling sick and dizzy.
Flint had spun around at Ollie’s sharp exclamation and he was by Xander’s side in two swift strides, lifting him up. He tightened his grip as he felt Xander stagger.
‘I was there,’ Xander choked out. ‘I was right outside of the museum. It was raining.’ He touched his face with a shaking hand. It was dry.
Flint gaped at him for a moment, speechless. ‘Obviously not so much time and training,’ he eventually muttered. He glanced over at Mrs Stanton and grimaced at her pointed look.
‘I feel sick,’ said Xander, thickly.
Flint lowered him into a chair and pushed his head down. ‘If you’re inexperienced it can cause disorientation. Take deep breaths, it’ll pass in a minute.’ He shook his head, looking perplexed before he noticed Ollie watching him; his unguarded expression changed to neutral. He looked back as Xander’s faint voice came from between his knees.
‘Well, there’s one good thing,’ he said. ‘I have a chemistry test on Monday – I hope my shadow-thing enjoys it.’ He laughed, and even he could hear the hysterical note.
A sudden hubbub of cheerful voices, brisk footsteps and general bustle broke into the awkward silence that had followed Xander’s last words, and then the kitchen door was flung open.
‘Hi, Gran. Are there any biscuits?’
Two little girls, perhaps six or seven years old, bounced into the room and the smaller of them, pony-tail swinging, flung her arms around Mrs Stanton’s waist.
‘Evvy’s come for tea and we’re both starving.’
Mrs Stanton laughed, even as another voice came from the doorway.
‘Katie! Give Gran a chance to draw breath before demanding food the moment you set foot in the house.’
A woman walked in, a wry smile on her face as she exchanged amused looks with Mrs Stanton. She was petite, with the same sandy-coloured hair as Ollie, and was carrying an armful of bright blue pots, full of little seedlings sprouting up vigorously. Ollie himself jumped up and hurried over.
‘Let me grab those for you, Mum,’ he said. ‘Where’d you want them?’
‘Just outside the –’
A high-pitched voice cut off her answer. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Katie, staring at Xander as he sat in his chair, bandaged hand on his lap.
‘Katie!’ exclaimed the blonde woman, even as Mrs Stanton said, ‘Is that how we greet visitors in this house?’
Xander shifted uncomfortably as every eye in the room fixed on him. Mrs Stanton came to his rescue. ‘He’s a friend of Ollie’s, come to stay for a while and his name is Xander,’ she said, in her calm voice. Her eyes flicked over to Ollie’s mother, telegraphing without words that she would explain later. Ollie’s mother rose to the occasion. Surrendering her armful of pots to her son, she beamed at Xander and came over to shake hands.
‘Hi, Xander,’ she said. ‘Do call me Jenna.’
‘Hello’, he replied, rising awkwardly.
He noticed Mrs Stanton glancing around with an exasperated look, and realised that Flint had taken advantage of the sudden influx of people to slip away. The door was opened yet again and a man walked in, his eyes skimming the room and settling on Xander.
‘Hello, Xander,’ he said and then, as Mrs Stanton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, explained, ‘I just saw Flint outside.’ His voice was cheerful and friendly but his expression was ca
utious, and his gaze flicked down to the bandage on Xander’s hand. ‘I’m James Stanton.’
Xander smiled shakily and took the proffered hand. ‘Hello,’ he replied, not knowing what else to say. He felt out of place and wished he could just retreat into a corner, unobserved, until this whole mad mess resolved itself. Mr Stanton eyed him perceptively.
‘All a bit much?’ he asked, and the quiet sympathy in his voice brought an unwelcome lump back to Xander’s throat. ‘Don’t worry. Things generally have a way of working themselves out. You’re safe here and you never know, sometimes it’s the unexpected that turns out for the best.’
James glanced over at his wife, who smiled back at him, her eyes twinkling. Xander could clearly see the resemblance to her son.
‘Sit down and relax,’ she said kindly. ‘It’s a bit chaotic when we all get home but I promise it does calm down. I’m just going to make some tea – would you like some?’
Xander nodded and subsided back into the chair. James patted his shoulder, and then went over to kiss his mother’s cheek.
‘Busy day?’ he asked, as he helped to pull mugs and plates out of various cupboards.
‘Reasonably,’ Mrs Stanton replied, swiftly slicing up a large loaf of bread. ‘A few patients this morning and then home visits. Old Mr Herbert is bed-ridden again but he still refuses to listen. That man has never met a sweet pudding he won’t eat but can’t see the connection with his sore stomach.’ She rolled her eyes in exasperation, but her son just laughed.
‘Good luck with that,’ he chuckled. ‘See, that’s why I work with animals – less arguing.’
‘Indeed,’ she said, and then her gaze fell on the two little girls, who were surreptitiously reaching for a plate full of biscuits. ‘Katherine Stanton – I see that! No biscuits before tea. You two can wash your hands, and then help lay the table.’
Xander sat in his place, watching as the family fell into what was obviously a well-accustomed routine of preparing the meal. He was handed a large mug of tea and the table gradually became loaded up with plates and platters of fresh bread, hams and cheeses. Jars of pickles and relishes appeared and a large, steaming tureen of soup; Xander’s stomach reminded him he had eaten very little that day and he hoped no-one else had heard the insistent growling.
In a remarkably short time, everyone was sitting at the long table, and food was being pressed upon Xander from every side. Ollie had shot into the chair next to him and was eating at a pace which drew his mother’s attention.
‘Hungry?’ she inquired, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips and she passed another tray of cheese to his end of the table. Ollie grinned back, his mouth too full to respond.
Xander ate more slowly, listening to the buzz of chatter and savouring the home-cooked food. It tasted wonderful and he reflected that it was a huge improvement on burnt offerings and take-away menus. Katie and her friend had begun their meal with many sidelong glances at him, followed with whispers and giggling, but after Jenna had sent a firm look at them they had subsided. No-one asked him difficult questions or treated him like an outsider and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt the tight knot of tension in his stomach ease. As he glanced up from his plate and stole a few quick looks at the people around the table, he noticed that the adults wore those narrow bands on their wrist, although with crystalline stones of different colours, while the little girls did not. As he ate, he thought of Flint’s insistence that these were not the same as his orb and wondered about their purpose.
The meal was almost over when the kitchen door opened again. Mrs Stanton looked up.
‘And where exactly have you been?’ she enquired.
Xander twisted, looking over his shoulder, and saw a girl wander in, an expression of cool unconcern on her face. Her chin-length hair, the palest shade of blonde that Xander had ever seen, hung untidily over her face, and a pale purple streak was clearly visible at the front.
‘Out,’ she replied evasively, sliding into a chair at the table and reaching for the bread. She looked over at Ollie and pulled a face; he just grinned back in obvious amusement.
‘I realise that, Len,’ replied Mrs Stanton tartly. ‘The question is why you weren’t at the academy, where you should have been. I got yet another complaint from Primilla Pennicot about you.’
The girl glanced up at the screen where the image of the sharp-faced woman was still frozen mid-word. ‘So I see,’ she said unrepentantly. ‘Great pose – it really captures her sweetness and charm.’
Mrs Stanton swung around, flipping her hand at the screen. It went blank for a moment, silvery-smooth, and then Xander noticed smudges of colour gradually blooming across it like ink drops in water. The colours twisted and merged, forming vague flower shapes that grew and blossomed, before fading away to make room for new ones. It was oddly engrossing.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ snapped Mrs Stanton, refusing to be diverted. ‘Why weren’t you there?’
The girl bit hard into her sandwich and glowered right back. ‘Seriously, Thea, what’s the point?’ she demanded. ‘In what way could I possibly participate?’ She brandished her arm at Mrs Stanton in what Xander thought was a rude gesture before he realised that her wrist was bare; she did not wear a band.
Mrs Stanton looked rather discomfited.
‘You were supposed to be there, Len,’ she reiterated, but without her earlier conviction. ‘And don’t call me ‘Thea’.’
Len shrugged, clearly feeling that this argument was already won. She reached for some cheese. ‘Did you have to put that on?’ she asked, jerking her head at the slowly blooming panel on the wall. ‘It’s gross.’ She still hadn’t acknowledged Xander’s presence at the table in any way – a fact that Mrs Stanton did not fail to notice.
‘It’s a famous piece of art, whether you appreciate it or not,’ she said firmly. ‘More to the point, do we not greet guests in this house anymore? Honestly, Len!’
Len rolled her eyes but twisted to look at Xander, pushing her silvery pale hair off her face impatiently. He noticed that her eyes were also a light colour, not blue or green but a shade in-between. She was saved from looking completely washed out by her skin, which had a faint golden tinge. She paused, considering him, and then abruptly stuck out her hand.
‘I’m Len,’ she said.
‘Xander.’
As his fingers closed around hers, he felt her hand jerk and she snatched it back after the briefest of contacts, her eyes wary. She said nothing else for the rest of the meal, although Xander felt her gaze resting on him from time to time, considering. After everyone had finished, she helped to clean up and then disappeared without another word.
Xander might have wondered why she was behaving so oddly but he was distracted by another effect of his recent experiences. Now that his stomach was full and his initial panic had receded, the night of terrified sleep deprivation followed in rapid succession by one shocking event after another had caught up with him. The dark heaviness of exhaustion seeped insistently into every part of his body. Sounds, movement and the hum of voices in the kitchen faded as Xander felt his head nod forward; he caught himself with a jerk.
Mrs Stanton did not miss a thing. A moment later, she was leaning over him, her cool fingers brushing across his forehead.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You’re very pale.’
Xander looked up, trying to focus his eyes on her face. ‘Just didn’t get much sleep last night,’ he said blearily. ‘All the shadows outside my room and weird noises. Then today –’
His voice faded away again as he lost track of what he was trying to say.
Mrs Stanton exchanged a look with her son, who crossed the room and slid his arm around Xander, lifting him to his feet. ‘Up you come,’ he said, his voice a kindly rumble from above Xander’s head. ‘You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Let’s get you upstairs.’
He was as good as his word and with no further discussion, Xander found himself tucked up in th
e spare bed in Ollie’s room, while Mrs Stanton drew the curtains to block out the early evening light. Within seconds, sleep had rolled relentlessly over him.
*
Xander woke abruptly, blinking in confusion and wondering what had roused him in the middle of the night. The sound of soft breathing from across the room made him freeze in confusion before, once again, recollection swept over him and he let out a long breath. Darkness pressed in on him but it felt quite different to the terror of shifting shadows the night before and, after a few moments, his eyes began to adjust. There was a small gap in the curtains and faint light from the moon glanced in, allowing Xander to make out the shape of the other bed, and of Ollie sprawled out across it. An owl hooted outside and was quickly answered by another from further away. Xander felt a smile tug at his lips. Owls were not something he had ever heard from his home on a busy London street.
As this thought flittered across his mind, it brought with it the image of his own bedroom and a sudden urge to reach out again, to find that elusive reflection that Flint had called a shadowself. He hesitated for a moment, remembering the sick dizziness of his previous attempt, but, impulsively, decided to go ahead. Flint hadn’t said it was dangerous, just difficult, and Xander reasoned that at least if he was already lying down he couldn’t fall again. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes.
It was easier this time. Almost at once Xander’s body prickled with pins and needles, and he felt that surge of light-headedness. Cautiously, he opened his eyes again. All around him were the familiar sights of his bedroom, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights just outside his window; he could even hear the faint sound of a television from downstairs. Everything was normal, and for a moment Xander wondered whether he had dreamt the entire thing. As if in answer to this question, the room lurched and he was once more lying in soft moonlight in a different bedroom, with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He lay breathing slowly in and out, and heard the owl hoot again like a welcome back.
Xander had wondered whether seeing his home would make things worse, reminding him how far away he was from everything that was familiar and safe. Strangely though, being able to see it when he chose brought the two sides of his reality close enough he felt he might be able to bridge the gap. As he thought back to his arrival in Haven, he remembered the hostile boy with the blurred face and realised that he had not passed on his message to Flint. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and rolled over. He would tell Flint when he saw him next, Xander decided drowsily and grinned as he imagined Flint’s likely reaction to the rude message; within a few moments, he was asleep again.
