A girl – or a creature who looked, to the unwary, like a young girl in a plain linen dress – came walking through the grass between the Silent City and the town that lay in the shadow of its walls. Around her arm, a long narrow bracelet was wrapped in a complicated pattern, its clasp made of ancient bone. She raised her face to the sun, feeling the warmth on her skin, and closed her golden eyes for a moment or two, breathing deeply. Then, with a litheness more animal than human, Dawara moved on.
Every step brought her closer to the house. The memories of the human girl who had once lived there – all that was left of her now – filled Dawara’s head as she walked and the Slipskin let them come. The threads of the Relic had held these memories for years and now it was time to release them. Dawara saw the key, large and dark, that had hung above the stove. A slender hand reaching up to take it. The sleeping mother who did not stir when her daughter, swallowing tears, kissed her goodbye. The door closing gently against the night.
Dawara remembered the journey to distant lands, the days and nights of hunger and sorrow, the terror of being alone. The handsome, brown-eyed farmer’s son and the baby who’d looked so like him. The work, the struggle, the pain of broken bones and sore muscles. All of this she remembered, as though it had happened to her. Then the human’s memories of flight flooded Dawara’s mind and she smiled. How strange it felt to fly in a body without wings.
The house came into view. Its door was open, the scrubby olive bush beside it throwing it into shade. A man with silver-grey in his dark hair came out through the door and something lit up in Dawara’s borrowed mind as Ester remembered his name. Nikola. He had stayed to care for her mother, Ester realized, after Bastjan had been claimed by the sea and she by the air.
An old woman sat in a comfortable chair stuffed with bright cushions, in the sunniest corner of the small yard. Her hair was white and her clothes were black from head to toe, but she smiled at Nikola. Dawara watched the old woman as she drew near, and something slowed her steps until finally she stopped. It wasn’t fear; Dawara didn’t know what it was. Her hearts sped up and she blinked once, twice, wondering why her eyes were filled with tears. Somewhere deep inside her, Ester knew the reason.
Mrs Manduca looked up and her mouth fell open. She raised one hand. The other lay powerless upon her lap, and she tried to speak as she reached for Dawara. Her words wouldn’t come – not now, not since the stroke had stolen them – but even if she had been able to say them, Dawara would not have understood.
Somehow, the Slipskin felt her mother in the woman’s grief and she let her own tears roll.
For as long as she could Dawara stood there, looking exactly as Ester had looked on the day she fell from the wall. The man called Nikola stared at her, his cheeks wet, and he hurried to the old woman, who was trying to stand on feet that could not hold her, trying to call for her daughter. The last spark of Ester raised Dawara’s hand to her mouth. The Slipskin blew a kiss and Ester vanished with it.
Then, in a golden whirlwind that kicked up the dust, the Slipskin rose into the air. She became a blackbird, soaring above the walls of the Silent City, until she landed on the crumbling stone to watch the sun set over the island of Melita.
Dawara perched there for a time, watching and thinking, before swooping down into the Silent City, resuming her own shape as she landed at the edge of her pool. Its waters ebbed with the tide of the sea below and Dawara smiled at her reflection.
She slipped into the pool and changed once more, into a creature built for water. Her tail was wide, her body strong, her lungs as great as a whale’s. Down, down through the network of caves she swam, until finally she emerged from an underwater cavern into the sea. Her mother, Dawara remembered, had sung her songs of others just like them. Families of creatures who could slip their skin, lands where she would be among others of her kind, and she knew, one day, she would find them.
Now that she had her power back, a power she never intended to lose again, she would find her kin and they would welcome her. They would greet her like a long-lost sister and she would sing to them of her time among the humans. She would sing of her mother, and in her stories, she would live again.
On and on the Slipskin swam, and the ocean rang with her song.
This is a book which has had a long and twisting path, and thanks (as always) are due to the many who helped me to bring it this far.
Firstly, my family. To my husband Fergal and to our daughter, who grows more wonderful by the hour – thank you for your loving patience. Bucket, and Little Bucket. To my parents Tom and Doreen – thank you for every word you gave me, and the love with which each of them were given. I love you both endlessly. To my parents-in-law – thank you for the boundless, enthusiastic support and your pride in me. To my aunts and uncles and cousins – thank you for being there, particularly in a year which was so hard on us.
To my darling brother, Graham. Thank you for everything you are. This one is for you.
To my many dear friends – legends, all. Thanks, lads. To my fantastic neighbours, who became my second family in the very strange time during which this book was written, rewritten, and rewritten once more – thanks for getting me through.
To my agent, Polly Nolan, thank you for (mostly) stopping me from making an eejit of myself in public, and for always having my back.
To Katie Jennings, who was my editor at Stripes/Little Tiger Publishing for much of the writing of this book, and without whom it would never have existed – thank you, not only for your expert guidance, but also for your excited email asking me if I was serious about that idea I’d been discussing on Twitter… Your enthusiasm was infectious, and this book is the result.
To Ella Whiddett, who (brave lady) took over the job of editing me, and to the entire Stripes/Little Tiger team, for welcoming me into your midst – most grateful I am, chaps. Special hollers to Leilah Skelton, Charlie Morris and Lauren Ace for their PR/marketing/general wizardry and to Sarah Shaffi for her expertise and guidance.
To Sara Mulvanny (my super-talented cover artist), Sophie Bransby (my super-creative cover designer) and Susila Baybars (my super-patient copyeditor) – thanks for sending this story out into the world with its face washed and its hair neatly combed, and looking so irresistible (I hope!)
To Vashti Hardy, without whose wise counsel at a point of crisis this book might have foundered in its first draft – thank you, story-queen. I can’t wait to thrash out more bookish puzzles with you.
To Delia Campbell Hijar and and my fellow author Tarsila Krüse, for their guidance regarding my ‘Iberian’. Gracias. Obrigada.
To Dr Tine Defour, who helped (as she always does) with my French. Merci, mon amie.
To Francis Leneghan, for the soul-music.
And to Shannon Byrne Winter, who was the first person besides my editor and me to lay their eyes on this story. Thank you so much for your encouragement, and for almost two decades of treasured friendship.
To bloggers and Tweeters and booklovers innumerable, including Steph Elliott (@eenalol – and I double-checked this time, Steph, believe me!), Mr Ripley (@EnchantedBooks), Roachie’s Reviews (@ laurajroach), Kayleigh (@snailycanflyy), Faith and Laura (@272BookFaith), Scoobiesue (@scoobiesue2), Seawood (@seawoodwrites), Louise Nettleton (@Lou_Nettleton), Jo Clarke (@bookloverJo), Karen and O (@karen_wallee), Kerry Tonner (@KerryTonner), Laura Noakes (@ lauranoakes), Mrs Tami Wylie (@twylie68), Lily Fae (@ faeryartemis), Library Spider (@LibrarySpider), Sarah Loftus and her wonderful pair of readers (@SarahCLoftus), Gavin Hetherington (@TheGavGav7), Theresa Kelly (the Librarian for Children and Young People at County Wexford Library Services) and so many more – I appreciate you all more than I can say.
To Liam James (@NotSoTweets), who deserves a mention of his own for his wonderful Lockdown #StorytimeWithLiam initiative, and for his tireless support for me and so many other authors. We all owe you a debt, Liam. Thank you.
To the community of teachers on Twitter, particularly Scott Evans, The Reader Teacher (
@MrEPrimary), who have enriched my reading and writing world, thank you all. You’re marvellous.
To the real Mrs Mythen, who taught me in Senior Infants and First Class a very long time ago – I’m so glad I got to name a heroic, kind, brave character after you. I’ll never forget the time and effort you took over me when I was your pupil, and I’ll always remember you with gratitude and love. Thank you.
To every child I have ever met on this strange and brilliant journey, my eternal gratitude. Thank you for the sparkle in your eyes, the enthusiasm in your voices and the warmth of your smiles as we’ve discussed ideas, stories, books, universes and creativity. Imagine yourselves extraordinary every day.
To the army of heroes who kept us all going during the Covid-19 pandemic of 2020, and who continue (at time of writing) to be the powerhouse behind our survival – the doctors, nurses, care workers, factory workers, retail and supermarket staff, delivery drivers, childcare workers, teachers, TAs and SNAs, cleaners, and so many others – a simple ‘thanks’ doesn’t go far enough, but my gratitude is heartfelt.
And to you, the reader, whose love for Thing in The Eye of the North led me to giving him a book of his own, my sincerest thanks. I hope it has been a story worthy of him, and worthy of you.
For as long as she could remember, Emmeline Widget had been sure her parents were trying to kill her.
Why else, she reasoned, would they choose to live in a creaky old house where, if she wasn’t dodging random bits of collapsing masonry or avoiding the trick steps on the stairs, she had to be constantly on guard for booby-trapped floorboards or doors that liked to boom closed entirely by themselves? She’d lost count of the number of close calls she’d already clocked up, and so she never went anywhere inside her house – not even to the bathroom – without a torch, a ball of twine, and a short, stout stick, the latter to defend herself against whatever might come slithering up the drain. She’d started her fight for survival early. As a baby, she’d learned to walk mostly by avoiding the tentacles, tusks, and whiplike tongues of the various small, furry things in cages that would temporarily line the hallways after one of her parents’ research trips. And she’d long ago grown used to shaking out her boots before she put them on in the morning – for, as Emmeline had learned, lots of quiet, dangerous, and very patient creatures liked to hide out in abandoned footwear.
Outside the house wasn’t much better. The grounds were overgrown to the point that Widget Manor itself was invisible unless you managed to smack right into it, and that kind of lazy groundskeeping provided a haven for all sorts of things. The year Emmeline turned seven, for instance, her parents had come home from an expedition with a giant squirrel in tow, one with teeth as long as Emmeline’s leg. It had wasted no time in getting loose and had spent three weeks destroying half the garden before finally being brought under control. Sometimes, particularly on windy nights, Emmeline wasn’t entirely sure her parents were telling the truth when they said the squirrel had been sent back to its distant home. Even worse, a roaring river ran right at the end of their property, sweeping past with all the haughtiness of a diamond-encrusted duchess. Emmeline lived in fear of falling in, and so she never ventured outside without an inflatable life jacket (which, on its days off, doubled as a hot water bottle) and a catapult (to fight off any unexpected nasties she might find living amid the trees – or even, perhaps, the trees themselves).
As a result of all this, Emmeline spent more time in her room reading than did most young ladies of her age. However, she’d long ago dispensed with fiction, having digested everything that lived on the lower shelves of her parents’ library (for Emmeline most assuredly did not climb, no matter how sturdy the footholds seemed, and so the higher volumes had to lurk, unread, amid the dust). Along with these literary efforts, she’d also worked her way through several tomes about such things as biology and anatomy, subjects that entranced her mother and father. This was unsurprising, considering the elder Widgets were scientists of some sort who had, in their daughter’s opinion, a frankly unhygienic obsession with strange animals, but Emmeline herself had found them tiresome. Now she mostly read the sorts of books that would likely keep her alive in an emergency, either because of the survival tips they contained or because they were large enough to serve as a makeshift tent. She was never without at least one, if not two, sturdy books, hardback by preference.
All of these necessities, of course, meant that she was never without her large and rather bulky satchel, either, but she didn’t let that stand in her way.
And, as will probably have become clear by now, Emmeline didn’t have very many – or, indeed, any – friends. There was the household staff, comprising Watt (the butler) and Mrs Mitchell (who did everything else), but they didn’t really count because they were always telling her what to do and where to go and not to put her dirty feet on that clean floor, thank you very much. Her parents were forever at work, or away, or off at conferences, or entertaining (which Emmeline hated because sometimes she’d be called upon to wear actual ribbons and smile and pretend to be something her mother called “lighthearted”, which she could never see the point of). She spent a lot of time on her own, and this, if she were to be entirely truthful, suited her fine.
One day, then, when Emmeline came down to breakfast and found her parents absent, she didn’t even blink. She just hauled her satchel up on to the chair next to her and rummaged through it for her book, glad to have a few moments of quiet reading time before she had to start ignoring the grown-ups in her life once again.
She was so engrossed in her book – Knots and Their Uses, by S. G. Twitchell – that at first she ignored Watt when he slipped into the room bearing in his neatly gloved hands a small silver platter, upon which sat a white envelope. He set it down in front of Emmeline without a word. She made sure to finish right to the end of the chapter (about the fascinating complexities of constrictor knots) before looking up and noticing that she had received a piece of Very Important Correspondence.
She fished around for her bookmark and slid it carefully into place. Then, ever so gently, she closed the book and eased it back into the satchel, where it glared up at her reproachfully.
“I promise I’ll be back to finish you later,” she reassured it. “Once I figure out who could possibly want to write to me.” She frowned at the envelope, which was very clearly addressed to a Miss Emmeline Widget. Private and Confidential, it added.
Just because it happened to be addressed to her, though, didn’t mean she should be so silly as to actually open it. Not without taking the proper precautions, at least.
In the silence of the large, empty room, Emmeline flipped open her satchel again. From its depths she produced a tiny stoppered bottle, within which a viciously blue liquid was just about contained. She uncorked it as gently as possible, slowly tipping the bottle until one solitary drop hung on its lip, and then – very, very carefully – she let the drop fall on to the envelope.
“Hmm,” she said after a moment or two, raising an eyebrow. “That’s odd.”
The liquid didn’t smoke, or fizz, or explode in a cloud of sparkle, or indeed do anything at all. It just sat there, like a splodge of ink, partially obscuring her name.
“If you’re not poisoned,” murmured Emmeline, quickly putting away the bottle (for its fumes could cause dizziness in enclosed spaces, like breakfast rooms), “then what are you?”
In the side pocket of her satchel, Emmeline always carried a pair of thick gardening gloves. She put these on, and then she picked up – with some difficulty, it has to be pointed out – her butter knife. Suitably armed, she slowly slit the envelope open, keeping it at all times directed away from her face.
A thick sheet of creamy paper slid out on to the silver platter, followed by a stiff card. Emmeline, who’d been holding her breath in case the act of opening the envelope released some sort of brain-shredding gas, spluttered as the first line of the letter caught her eye. As quickly as she could, given that she was wearing gloves mo
re suited to cutting down brambles than dealing with paperwork, she put aside the card and grabbed up the letter.
She stared at the words for ages, but they stayed exactly the same.
Dearest Emmeline, the letter began.
If you are reading this, then in all likelihood you are now an orphan.
Sinéad O’Hart lives in County Meath, near Dublin with her husband and their daughter. She has done many jobs in her life, including working as a butcher and a bookseller. She has a degree in English and History, a PhD in Old and Middle English Language and Literature and can read Middle English with perfect fluency. Sinéad is the author of The Eye of the North, The Star-spun Web and Skyborn.
@SJOHart
sjohart.wordpress.com
STRIPES PUBLISHING LIMITED
An imprint of the Little Tiger Group
1 Coda Studios, 189 Munster Road, London SW6 6AW
Imported into the EEA by Penguin Random House Ireland,
Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68
First published in Great Britain in 2021
Text copyright © Sinéad O’Hart, 2021
Illustration copyright © Sara Mulvanny, 2021
ISBN: 978–1–78895–402–0
The right of Sinéad O’Hart and Sara Mulvanny to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.
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