by Violet Grace
‘Drink it,’ he orders. ‘You need to keep up your fluids.’
I take a sip of the water. It’s all I can manage.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper.
‘Deep down you know who I am,’ he says seriously, almost desperately. ‘And what I am. Your memories have been hidden from you. But you might have found them again in your dreams.’ He sits down on the couch. ‘Have you, Chess? Have you found me in your dreams?’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream. A stupid, childish dream.’ I scamper to the far end of the couch. ‘Leave me alone.’ I cover my face with my hands. I want to shut him out. I want to shut everything out. My world is spinning too fast and I want to get off.
I feel him peel my hands back from my eyes.
‘I came to you every time you called me for almost a year. We’d fly through the night sky together.’ He looks at me, his ice blue eyes pleading.
Fresh tears well in my eyes as I recall the photo of the boy in Agent Eight’s folder. The boy who grew up and is now sitting next to me.
Tom reaches for me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I stiffen at first but then melt onto his shoulder. The way he strokes my hair, his musky smell, the familiar thud of his heart, returns me to the time when he was the light in my darkness.
It was real. All of it.
I stumble upon hidden memories, one after another. He would meet me at my window night after night. Sometimes he came as a boy and we’d hover on my ceiling and just talk. Other times he would change – trans – into a unicorn and I would clamber onto his back and we’d gallop into the night sky. He made me smile, something I did so rarely as a child. He was so confident and bold. I remember his beautiful face.
I pull him closer, my head nestling in. I clutch onto him, fearful of letting him go, of losing him all over again.
‘In my dream you were my best friend,’ I say softly. ‘If it was real then why did you stop coming?’
He sighs and tightens his embrace, but I push out of his arms.
‘Why did you abandon me?’
‘I had to disappear for a while. After Larry …’
As soon as he says Larry’s name, I feel like I’m going to be sick again.
A minute passes in silence. I look at Tom, searching his face. He stares down at his feet.
‘Did you kill Larry?’
‘No, no. At least, not in the way you think.’
‘You either killed him or you didn’t. Murder isn’t a matter of perspective.’
‘Larry killed Larry,’ Tom snaps.
‘Larry’s body was found floating in a drain,’ I say flatly. ‘The police said he had a steel pipe wedged in his gut.’
Tom runs his hand through his fringe and gets that look again, the one where he’s going to say something he knows I’m not going to want to hear.
‘One night … It was the night of your eleventh birthday. You begged me to help you. You couldn’t bear it any longer. I knew you weren’t just asking me to distract you from the horror, to go on another crazy adventure across London. You wanted me to stop Larry so he wouldn’t hurt you anymore. Ever again.’
‘But I didn’t ask you to kill him,’ I say, horrified.
‘Well, not outright —’
‘Not at all,’ I say emphatically. ‘I would never. Don’t you put this on me.’
Tom rubs his chin. ‘You needed my help so I helped you. End of story.’
I stare at him, speechless. Who is this person I used to know? Such cold brutality.
Taking advantage of my silence, he continues. ‘I conjured a spell to induce hallucinations and paranoia. My sister is an apothecary fairy; she helped me with it. My guess is that Larry thought he was a small animal like a frog or a rat, being hunted by a predator – a bird or a fox or something. People who fall under this particular spell inevitably do something stupid. In fact, the spell holds until they do.’
I raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
‘He must have jumped onto something sharp and impaled himself before he drowned.’ Tom shrugs dismissively. ‘What do you care, anyway? He deserved to die.’
I open my mouth to say something in defence of … well, not Larry, as such, but against killing in general. But nothing comes out. I look at Tom, trying to work him out. He looks back at me, as if I’m the weird one for having a problem with murder.
I had every reason in the world to want Larry dead, but I would never have actually gone through with it.
Tom chooses his words carefully. ‘It was decided that I should live in Iridesca for a bit, until things calmed down and the authorities lost interest in the case. I joined the Guild of Master Healers as soon as they’d have me. I came back home last year; by then I looked nothing like the kid the Agency was looking for. I didn’t want to leave you, Chess. Honest. But it was the only way.’
I sense the seriousness of his words and wonder if I can believe him. Did he really regret leaving me?
I walk over to the kitchen on unsteady legs to refill my glass. My mouth is as dry as a desert as I prepare to tell him that his plan didn’t work. Tom is obviously ‘the boyfriend’ Agent Eight is referring to. ‘The Agency has joined the dots between the two of us.’
‘The Agency’s the least of our problems,’ Tom says. He pauses in a way that tells me I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. ‘You can’t be here with me,’ he says. ‘I’m more dangerous to you than you could possibly imagine.’
Okay, now I’m completely lost.
‘The magic I used on Larry altered the natural balance of life and death. To perform magic that powerful requires a sacrifice of a similar magnitude.’
He looks at me, and I stare back blankly.
‘You must forsake that which you desire most,’ he says. ‘That’s why all your memories of me were hidden. Giving you up was the price I had to pay for saving you.’
It takes me another moment before I catch on. I’m what he desired most? I can’t look at him so I stare down at my hands, clasped around the glass. No one has ever felt like that about me.
‘I looked you up when I got back. All I wanted was to see you again. Just once. Well, perhaps a few more times than that,’ he adds sheepishly.
I sneak a peek at him. He’s grinning and I see both dimples for the first time.
‘I kept my distance,’ he continues. ‘But then, when you were hurt … I had to … to make sure you were okay. But now I have to get as far away from you as possible. We can’t be together. Ever.’
I’m shocked by what I see on his face. He doesn’t look embarrassed or vulnerable or even regretful for exposing so much of himself to me. He looks strong.
‘What happens if we’re together?’ I ask, my voice faltering.
Tom gazes out the window. A slow, deep breath escapes him.
‘I’ve never crossed the natural laws before, so I don’t know exactly how, or what, or when it happens. All I know is that nature will enact its revenge to restore the balance eventually.’
Goosebumps spring to life up my arms.
‘Death?’ I ask.
He nods slowly.
‘Whose death?’
A moment passes, then his eyes lock with mine. ‘Yours.’
chapter 12
I slam the glass down on the bench and a hairline crack snakes up the side.
‘You’re risking my life by bringing me here, just so you can play the hero again?’
‘What?’ Tom splutters.
‘First you use me as your excuse to act out your murderous fantasy, and then you steal my memories and risk my life with your stupid spell, without consulting me.’
‘I did it for you!’
‘You did it for you,’ I snap.
He swears under his breath. ‘Did your life get better after that bastard got what he deserved? Did it?’ he repeats, staring at me, challenging me.
‘Yes,’ I concede.
‘Well then, what’s your problem? Why are you roasting me
for helping you?’
‘Because you didn’t ask me!’ I grip my fingers on the edge of the bench. They’re tingling with an acute case of pins and needles. I must be angrier than I know. ‘You’re just another person trying to control me, thinking you know what’s best for me. Well, let me tell you, you don’t.’
‘Chess, your hands …’
‘Huh?’ I look at my hands, furious.
Light.
There’s shimmering light coming from my hands. This is no ordinary pins and needles. Sparkling wisps of fine dust are trailing from the tips of my fingers and the sides of my palms. I lift them in front of my face. More wisps of fine, sparkling dust trail off my skin, momentarily suspended in the air before winking out like dying stars.
I shake my hands, which only seems to make it worse.
‘What’s happening to me?’
Tom is by my side in an instant. ‘It’s the spell,’ he says, holding my fingers towards the light. ‘It’s beginning. You need to get away – far away – from here. From me. You shouldn’t be here now, but I couldn’t just leave you to those dogs in the middle of the night.’
He starts shoving things into a bag – a bottle of water, his medical kit – then there’s a knock at the front door.
We look at each other.
‘We must’ve been followed,’ I say.
‘Go upstairs to my bedroom and stay there until I come to get you.’ He reaches for his mobile phone, gripping it like it’s a weapon, and walks slowly towards the door.
The knocking continues, faster and louder, as I race up the stairs. My heart’s pounding and I feel like I’m going to be sick as I run into his room. The bed is unmade, his sheets tangled. I note that there’s only one pillow, which pleases me more than it should. I remind myself that there are way more important things to worry about right now and check my hands for sparkling dust. The weird effect seems to have slowed, but not stopped entirely, and the tingling sensation is still there, as strong as before. But for now, the terror of being locked in one of Agent Eight’s cages overrides the thought of my hands turning to dust.
I should hide, but where? The cupboard is stuffed so full the doors won’t close. I consider climbing out the window, but I worry that the noise of opening it will tip them off.
Is this it? Is this where I get locked away in a cage for life?
Muffled voices float up from below – Tom’s and a woman’s. They’re arguing. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but something tells me it wasn’t the Agency at the door. They’d have tasered him by now. Or he’d have done whatever it is unicorns do when they’re backed into a corner. I can’t make out sentences, but catch brief snatches of words. Words like ‘danger’ and ‘duty’.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Tom is being lectured.
He is still refusing to let the woman in. ‘It’s not a good time,’ he’s saying. ‘Come back later.’
‘I know she’s in there.’
Then it hits me. The woman’s voice. I know it – I know her – but it can’t be who I think it is. I plant an ear against the door and still my breathing so I can hear her more clearly. The voices grow louder. They must be in the kitchen.
‘Step aside right now, young man,’ she bellows, ‘or I’ll have words with your mother.’
I break into a smile. Tom seems a little old for that sort of threat.
Even though I could be in imminent danger, I’m not scared anymore. There’s something about that voice that puts me at ease. It always has.
As I creep out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs, I’m relieved to discover that my fingers have returned to normal and the tingling sensation has completely gone. One flight of stairs must be enough of a distance from Tom to keep the Spell Enforcer, or whatever it is, placated. For now at least.
I try to catch a glimpse of the visitor but Tom’s back is blocking my view. He’s like a bouncer trying to keep a punter out.
And then she calls my name.
‘Gladys?’ I reply, stepping back down the stairs.
Gladys sweeps her ancient frame across the floor, moving with an agility that belies her years.
‘Thank the Goddess you’re safe,’ she says, enfolding me in a hug and squishing my face against her soft, worn cheek. ‘When the Protectorate could not locate you, the Chancellor recklessly authorised an alert to all Fae in London. It could have ended very badly.’
She looks over to Tom. ‘Thank you, young man, for being the first responder.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I step out of the hug and take in her oversized kimono in red tartan flowing over black leather pants and military-style boots. Waves of white ruffles ripple out from between the black satin trim of the kimono, contained by a wide leather belt with a thick gold buckle. Compared with the faded pastel housecoat she gets about in at the laundromat, it looks like she’s going to a costume party. Although what the theme would be, I can’t even imagine.
‘If you want something done properly you have to do it yourself,’ she says simply. ‘I came straight from Iridesca. I didn’t have time to change.’ She pulls a hairpin from her grey bun and, with a slight grimace, she swishes it in the air. I stare at her, speechless, as the kimono melts away and is replaced with a homely peach twinset and pearls. ‘Are you really so surprised, dear?’
‘Surprised?’ I say. ‘I didn’t have a freaking clue who you were! In fact, I still don’t.’ I hope the shock in my voice is masking my feelings of betrayal. Why didn’t she tell me who she was? More to the point, why didn’t she tell me who I was?
‘You know the Luminaress?’ Tom asks me.
‘The what?’ I say, more confused than ever.
‘Teacher, dear,’ Gladys explains softly. ‘Keeper of Fae wisdom.’ And then, more sternly to Tom, ‘Of course. I’ve been charged with her training.’ She looks at me with a degree of pride that seems wildly misplaced.
‘Training?’ Tom says, frowning at me. ‘You’re training with the Order? Who are you?’
I’m as surprised as he is. The only thing Gladys has ever taught me is how to starch collars. It also dawns on me that Tom hasn’t a clue who I am. All these years, he must have assumed I was just an ordinary fairy girl. If a fairy could be ordinary, that is.
I’m about to tell him that I’m apparently Princess Francesca Raven, but the look on his face tells me that he just worked it out for himself.
‘You’re … her?’ He stares at me as if analysing every pore on my face. ‘How could I not have seen it? You’re the spitting image of your mother.’ He drops to one knee and bows his head. ‘Your Highness. Forgive me. I had no —’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, get up!’ I say. ‘Things are weird enough right now. The last thing I – we – need is you treating me like I’m a princess. Cut it out.’
Tom peers up at me cautiously, suddenly unsure of what to do. I’m half amused, but only half. If everyone’s going to go down on one knee when they see me, the novelty of being a princess is going to wear thin pretty quickly.
Gladys watches Tom’s revelation with detached amusement. ‘Now that we all know each other,’ she says, surveying the room, ‘practically every member of the Fae is out looking for you right now, dear. Half of them want to protect you, the other half want your blood. And there’s no telling who’s who. And then there’s those Agency people we must deal with.’
‘You know about the Agency?’ I ask Gladys.
‘Of course, dear,’ Gladys says, without the slightest sense that she needs to elaborate.
I stare at her, trying to reconcile the woman I’ve known for most of my life with the person standing in front of me. She fed me when I was starving. She helped me with my homework and hugged me on those few occasions I needed it, even though at the time I insisted that I didn’t. I knew she was eccentric; one moment she was as tough as nails and the next she’d go all Earth Mother. And the songs, the bizarre, rhyming ditties she’s always singing as if life were a musical. But to learn that she’s a fai
ry – and, to judge from Tom’s reaction, an important one – is just too much.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have believed me if I had?’
The answer is no, but that’s hardly the point.
‘I didn’t think so,’ Gladys says, walking over to Tom’s couch and sitting down as if she’s an invited guest. ‘You were not ready to hear the truth.’
She pats the seat next to her. ‘Events are fast overtaking us. The throne has been vacant too long and already the enemy forces have made their move. Your uncle is moving more quickly than we anticipated, and since your meeting with the Chancellor was a complete disast— misunderstanding, I’ve been asked to intervene. Nature abhors a vacuum. It’s time for you to come out of the dark into the light. Much is riding on it.’
I assume she’s talking about me becoming the Fae Queen. I take a deep breath and steady myself. It pains me to disappoint Gladys but she needs to know the truth.
‘I can’t be the person you want me to be.’
Gladys reaches over and squeezes my hand. She looks almost sad, but not for herself or the Fae who are relying on me. It’s like she can see straight through me, into my hopelessness.
‘You need to stop waiting for someone else to save you, dear.’ She tucks a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. ‘That person you’ve been hoping will come along and make things right, all these years? It’s you.’ She points her long, bony finger at me. ‘Once you find the courage to accept that you are the one you’ve been waiting for, you will find your power.’
Tom’s phone beeps. His expression hardens as he reads the message and then reaches for the TV remote. He switches on the TV and flicks through the channels to the twenty-four-hour news station. I’m greeted by an image of myself – my mugshot from when I was done for stealing Gladys’s pills, with the word ‘WANTED’ at the bottom of the screen. Agent Eight didn’t waste much time making good on her promise to open Larry’s sealed murder investigation.
The next image is one of Tom wearing medical scrubs. It’s a grainy shot that looks like it was captured from CCTV footage. The newsreader says we were last seen at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital; Tom was trespassing and I was a patient who fled without being discharged. And that we’re both wanted for questioning in relation to a suspicious death, and presumed dangerous.
