The Girl Who Fell

by Violet Grace

  ‘There was only one path for you to travel. You acted as you must; you are our hope, our future. You were barely alive when Wynstar found you on that train platform.’

  ‘Wynstar?’ Wasn’t he the one Jules told me to be wary of when I first arrived?

  ‘Second Officer Wynstar of the Protectorate,’ she says, before adding, ‘It was a surprise to us too, Your Highness – a welcome one, of course.’

  Brina returns and clears her throat. ‘The Luminaress has asked that you join her in the garden as soon as you’re ready.’

  Good, I think, springing out of bed. I’ve learned how to wield the Art just as Gladys asked, so now she can help me rescue Tom. Or I’ll do it without her.

  I walk over to the wardrobe and Brina and Callie follow me across the room expectantly. They want to dress me but I don’t have time for all their fussing right now. I’ve got rescue plans to make.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ I try to say it casually, but it comes out more sharply than I mean it to.

  Both look uncertain. Callie looks like she’s about to burst into tears. Jules stiffens and is suddenly intensely interested in nothing in particular on the floor. I’ve broken protocol. Again.

  I look at the two women standing there in their perfect white gowns – two girls, actually. They could even be younger than me. They’re just trying to do their jobs, just trying to help me. And I’m being a stuck-up princess. Literally.

  ‘You may go,’ Brina says to Callie with a hint of protectiveness, presumably giving her an opportunity to compose herself.

  ‘No,’ I say, feeling like the worst person in the world. I’ve made no attempt to get to know anything about these two girls who feed me, dress me and respond to pretty much any request. Yes, I’m eager to rescue Tom, but what sort of person am I if I can’t spare five minutes to show some respect and kindness?

  ‘Do you want to sit? I say, walking over to my window seat.

  ‘On there?’ Brina looks like I’ve just asked her to club a baby seal.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  She perches on the edge of the seat, back straight, lips pursed. Callie is more relaxed, shuffling back towards the window and then crossing her legs. I sit on the matching velvet footstool. Jules remains standing between my bed and the door.

  ‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say sheepishly. ‘And before that. And before that. I don’t have a good excuse for my behaviour and I’m not going to insult you by coming up with a bad one.’

  Neither maid speaks but I notice Brina’s posture relax ever so slightly.

  It occurs to be that I’m the only one who’s going to break the silence. I really wish I weren’t so socially awkward. I rack my brain, thinking of something, anything, to say.

  Eventually I come up with ‘Where do you live?’

  Callie’s eyes redden as if she’s about to cry again. I silently swear at myself. Clearly I’m making things worse.

  ‘The palace,’ she says hesitantly.

  ‘But your family? Do you have a home outside Windsor Castle?’ I push. ‘Where do you go on your days off?’

  A tear winds its way down Callie’s pretty cheek.

  It surprises me when Jules steps forward and answers. ‘Callie lives with the other maids – well, what is left of them – when she isn’t working. Her home was destroyed in a rebel attack. Her family, also. Retribution for their loyalty to the Crown.’ Jules tries to present it as a commander giving a battle situation report, but there’s sorrow in her voice.

  I don’t really do physical contact. Occasionally I let Gladys hug me, and I liked it when Tom hugged me on his couch. I liked it a lot. But in this moment, it’s the only thing I can think of to do. I reach out and hug Callie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. Words have never felt so inadequate.

  ‘May I suggest something in silk, Your Highness?’ Brina says tightly, rising from the window seat and walking towards the wardrobe.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, deciding not to protest about the clothes. It now seems like such a silly fight. And I don’t utter a word of complaint when Callie sits me down at my dressing table and braids my hair all around the top of my head so it looks like I’m wearing a feathery auburn crown. I’m surprised to discover that I even quite like the jewelled butterfly clasp she uses to secure my braid. I draw the line at make-up, opting to apply my own eyeliner and a swipe of mascara.

  Jules, Brina and Callie escort me as far as the front door of the palace, passing me to a pack of unicorns I don’t recognise with Protectorate emblems on their bridles. I guess they’ve amped up my security after my disappearing act with Abby. The unicorns trot alongside me until we reach Gladys, sitting by the fishpond. Actually, it’s more like a lake with fish in it. Hundreds of fish in rainbow hues swim through the water lilies. Dragonflies buzz and frogs the size of puppies croak and hop along the surface.

  ‘Ah, there you are, dear. You had us worried,’ Gladys says, patting the stone next to her for me to sit down. ‘Your body raged with fever. An intensity that I have not seen in all my years. I suspect you were only moments away from incinerating yourself the way you did those wretched pycts.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘There will be no more magic from you, my girl, not without the supervision of your Luminaress. Gladys must monitor every spell you conjure until we understand what happened to you, and how to ensure it does not happen again.’ She smiles softly, a picture of serenity, as if we have not a care in the world.

  It pisses me off.

  ‘There are children squatting in the train station!’ I blurt.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘I saw Trinovantum – or what’s become of it – from the top of the Shard. And in the streets. It’s a wasteland out there. Even the palace staff have lost their homes, their families … Why should I be living in this luxury when the rest of Albion is a bomb crater?’

  ‘Because you are nobility,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  I look at her, astounded again at her cold-heartedness.

  ‘Indulging in luxury while others suffer? That doesn’t seem very noble to me. Even if I do manage to make it to the throne without Damius knocking me off, I’m going to be Queen of a pile of rubble. What point is there in being a queen if it makes no difference to them out there, beyond these walls?’

  ‘You will be Queen in a week; the restoration of the royal line will be the first step in rectifying matters.’ Her eyes sparkle as if she’s having a private little joke with herself. ‘Your mother shared a similar interest in, shall we say, political matters.’

  I whip around to face Gladys so fast that I almost topple into the pond. ‘You knew my mother?’

  ‘Of course, dear. I was Luminaress to her, too.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’ I suspect she’s deliberately raising my mother to change the subject. But I don’t care. I need to know more.

  ‘Walk with me,’ she says, rising from her seat. ‘Gladys is too old to be sitting on cold, hard surfaces.’

  I follow her around the pond and past vegetable beds, where a gardener is tending a lush strawberry patch.

  ‘Cordelia was young, too, when she took the Crown,’ Gladys begins. ‘Your grandmother, Queen Gelda, bore a son when she was forty-seven – your uncle Damius. We all assumed, your uncle included, that for the first time in 2000 years, the throne would pass to a male heir. But on the eve of Gelda’s fifty-seventh birthday, she announced that she was expecting a daughter. We all rejoiced that there was to be another queen.’ She pauses. ‘Well, not everyone rejoiced.’

  ‘Damius must have been royally pissed to be passed over like that.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I believe your uncle has never fully accepted the situation,’ Gladys rephrases primly.

  ‘Where is he now? And why don’t you just go and arrest the guy?’

  ‘Believe me, my dear, we have tried. And we are trying. Damius fled after his failed rebellion – the one that claimed your parents – and we have not been able to locate him since.’


  Gladys extracts a hairpin from her bun and uses it to levitate a strawberry off the ground and into her palm. She pulls off the stalk and pops the strawberry into her mouth.

  ‘You try,’ she says, handing me her hairpin. ‘Gently, slowly.’

  ‘I don’t need a wand,’ I say, beginning to sing the summoning spell.

  Oh cometh to thee

  O’er land, o’er sea

  Deliver my desire

  With haste and safety

  The welcome warmth of the Art ignites inside me. It feels calm, natural even. A strawberry detaches from its bush and floats up to my palm, and a smile spreads across my face.

  ‘Good,’ is all Gladys says.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the gardener plant her hands on her hips and shake her head.

  ‘Some members of the Order thought they could exploit your mother’s youth,’ Gladys continues. ‘They assumed she would be a puppet, easily intimidated and manipulated.’ She gives a nostalgic chuckle. ‘My word, did she prove them wrong. Your very existence shows just how headstrong your mother could be. She was determined to marry your father despite the most vocal objections. And so she did.’

  ‘Perhaps it would have been better for everyone if she hadn’t,’ I say, thinking of Callie and all the other Fae who must have equally tragic stories. ‘This war would never have happened if I hadn’t been born.’

  ‘Your uncle would have had a harder job to recruit rebels without his nonsense propaganda about pure blood, but he was never going to give up his ambitions for the throne without a fight.’

  Gladys walks on, pointing out landmarks along the way: the stables, the Protectorate barracks, the thirteenth-century Curfew Tower that houses a dungeon.

  ‘Have you decided what you will do with the key to the Luck of Edenhall?’ she says, trying to be casual.

  ‘Gladys, I don’t even know where the key is.’

  ‘You do, dear. All that you seek is already within you.’

  I open my mouth to ask her to be a tad more specific, but then stop. If Gladys hasn’t given me a straight answer by now, I figure she never will. I almost wish we were back in the laundromat, where the mundane occupied our days. There were never any mysteries or riddles when it came to steaming and ironing.

  ‘First,’ I say firmly, ‘Tom. We need to talk about Tom.’

  The faintest flicker at the edge of her eyes is enough to betray her annoyance. ‘I promised we will honour him. And, when the appropriate time comes, we shall.’

  ‘That is not good enough.’

  ‘Nature has no regard for individuals,’ she says stiffly. ‘We’re all to play our part.’

  ‘Nature might have no need of individuals,’ I say. ‘But I do.’

  She stares at me for a moment. ‘Impossible child!’ she says, a mixture of exasperation and admiration in her voice. ‘Just like your mother. You must do what nature demands of you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, an idea – and a plan – forming in my head.

  chapter 20

  With the excuse that I need to rest, I make my way back to the castle, my Protectorate unicorn guard keeping a watchful eye on me. They take their leave and four women in Protectorate bodysuits escort me back to my room. I am certain that the Protectorate’s role is to monitor me as much as it is to protect me.

  Gladys said I need to be true to my nature. Well, every fibre of my being tells me I need to save Tom.

  I need to find out where he’s being held, and anything else about the Agency that might help me free him. And since hacking is in my nature, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. But first, I need my laptop.

  If I can summon teacups, then why not a computer? I visualise my laptop where I left it – on my unmade bed above Gladys’s laundromat – and chant the summoning spell. I keep my voice low so as not to alert the guards outside my bedroom door.

  With a slight ripple in the air and a shimmering of dust, my laptop materialises on my dresser. I instantly feel calmer, more in control. Picking it up, I give it a little hug, like it’s a long-lost friend. I remove the hair brush and hand mirror and gently place my laptop on the temporary workspace. If I ever make it to Queen I’m going to treat myself to a coronation present and get a proper desk.

  I check my email and text messages. There’s only one. It’s from Janine the Labeller, asking for my whereabouts. She seems genuinely concerned for my wellbeing after the ‘terrorist attack’ at the V&A. Nobody else seems to be. I can be wanted for murder and effectively disappear off the face of the earth and there is not a single person in my life who cares enough to contact me. Most days I don’t mind too much that I don’t have any friends or family. Today is not one of those days.

  Which is one more reason I have to rescue Tom. He’s the only person who understands me. The only one who’s ever understood me, cared for me, and hasn’t wanted anything in return.

  Time to test how these realms are connected. The Chancellor said they share the same atmosphere, so logically that means we’re on the same bandwidth.

  I launch a little app I devised for borrowing other people’s wi-fi. I don’t see it as stealing, so much as creating an opportunity for people to share their good fortune with others. Like me, for example.

  The networks in range in Volgaris begin popping up on my screen. I can see them, but can I connect to them from Iridesca? I try Harry’s private network. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to tolerate slow speeds.

  A few seconds later the wireless icon on my laptop blinks to life at full strength. I re-route through a virtual private network and log in to the Government Secure Intranet, the UK government’s official network. From there I jump onto GCSX – the Government Secure Extranet – and search for the Council for Inter-Realm Affairs. Nothing. I try all kinds of alternatives and variants but get nothing relevant.

  I search for ‘Agency’, Treaty’, ‘Signe’, ‘Cordelia’, ‘Chess’, ‘Raven’ and ‘Francesca’, and even try ‘unicorn’, ‘fairies’ and ‘pycts’. Nothing. This can’t be right. Even a department as secret as the Agency must have some sort of digital footprint. But everything I try brings up irrelevant content or ‘Your query found 0 matches’.

  I realise I’ve lost track of time when Brina and Callie appear at my door to dress me for dinner with Gladys and a few select members of the Order. We’re supposed to be discussing plans for my coronation. I tell my maids that I’m not feeling well and to please pass on my apologies. They seem to buy my excuse because Callie manifests a tray of food for me to eat in my room.

  Munching on a dinner roll, I decide to focus on Agency staff records. Since I don’t know Agent Eight’s name, I tap in ‘Westerfield’ and search the entire network and sub-nets, hoping the agents were dumb enough to use their real names.

  ‘Thank you, Agent Westerfield,’ I say under my breath as a dozen or so matches appear on the screen.

  I discount many of the search results immediately as they have women’s first names. Surely he must be here. Top-secret government agency or not, he has to get paid, after all.

  One Westerfield jumps out at me: Westerfield, Gordon, listed against the Aberdeen Coastguard operations centre. Aberdeen, Scotland? Either ‘Scotland’ is code for all things Fae-related, or it’s a coincidence.

  I try Westerfield’s full name, but it returns the same result. Then I try ‘Aberdeen Coastguard operations centre’. This looks more promising. I’m no marine expert, but there seems to be a lot of encryption for dealing with fishing boats in distress.

  I bypass the encryption and I’m in.

  A search on ‘Tom Williams’ turns up nothing. I try ‘Thomas Williams’ and then ‘Mr Williams’. I even try ‘Dr Williams’, smirking at my memory of teasing him about not being a real doctor. Again, I get nothing. They must be using a code name for him.

  I give up on Tom and instead look to see if there’s more in there about my past. At the very least, I’ll find out more about the Agency’s operations.

  I trawl
through folders, but most of it appears to be routine monitoring of the realms and the Fae, until I find some folders with a second level of encryption.

  I bypass it again. The files seem to be internal records on the Agents themselves: clearances, background notes, staff records.

  Interesting.

  I find a listing for ‘agent_08’. Very interesting. According to the file, Agent Eight’s name is Felicity Tunbridge. She was educated at Oxford before starting her career in the Home Office, then transferring to MI6 and then to the Agency.

  Most of it is written in a mass of acronyms and jargon. A lay reader wouldn’t guess that it has anything to do with fairies or unicorns. ‘Inter-realm affairs’ could be a reference to the United Kingdom. Then I find a file labelled ‘LoE Project’.

  The Luck of Edenhall. It must be.

  Agent Eight – Felicity – was assigned to the project two years before I was born. She was to produce a ‘half-blood daughter’ by ‘partnering’ with the Prince of Albion.

  So I’m not the only human-Fae child? Then it occurs to me who the Prince of Albion is. Agent Eight and Damius? Eww.

  The report includes a picture of a baby. I zoom in, but the image is too pixelated to see much. I read on: ‘… effort to sire a child possessing the powers and moral energy with potential to unlock the LoE … Progeny incapable … Discovered to be scaevus … Progeny discarded.’

  The shock and disgust takes a moment to sink in.

  Agent Eight had a child with Damius in an attempt to unlock the Luck of Edenhall. And when the child couldn’t do it, they killed her?

  And Agent Eight accuses me of being a monster?

  And what on earth is ‘scaevus’?

  The rest of the documents are a mass of acronyms and tables I can’t make head or tail of, except for the final document. It’s a brief, unsigned letter from a ‘Director of Operations’ on official letterhead, expressing ‘concerns about the observed development of emotional attachment to the child and father’ on the part of Agent Eight, and then, ‘Decision: LoE Project shuttered.’

  I run searches on ‘LoE’ and ‘Luck of Edenhall’. But there’s nothing more – or at least, nothing that means anything to me. I search again on Tom’s name but come up blank.