Breakfast was a slice of almost stale bread and a lick of her favorite jam and butter. Then she went outside to collect the eggs from the hens, which was when she saw Granny Flossy sitting in the garden chair outside. And suddenly, just like that, it was the saddest Tuesday of Willow’s young life.
Granny Flossy’s long green hair had winked in the morning light, and on the chair next to her sat her purple hat with its jaunty green feather. Granny’s faded patchwork shawl had slipped from her shoulders onto the ground. Fallen out of her grasp too lay the old notebook, the one she recorded her latest potion experiments in, and on her face was a small smile, as if she were only just resting awhile.
Willow stood with sobs choking her while she clutched at the old woman’s hand, stroking her dear old cheek. She stayed that way for ages before she finally went inside to tell her family what had happened. . . .
Afterward there’d been more tears . . . and the feeling that she might never be happy ever again, and when Willow got into bed that night she cried so hard that Oswin brought her every last thing that she’d ever made the mistake of saying that she liked, and, despite the smell, she hugged him close, and because she was very sad, he let her. And while she sobbed, Willow had wished with all her heart that it had never happened, and somehow, though not because of that wish, but because of a spell cast very far away by a Brother of Wol, who was born with magic in his veins, what she had wanted most had come true.
Willow, like everyone else in Starfell, had woken up the next day without any memory of anything that had happened that fateful Tuesday. She was only left with a feeling of something sad tugging at the sleeve of her mind, trying to get her attention, something just out of her grasp.
The worst thing was that there was a tiny part of everyone’s mind that must have known . . . because no one wondered where Granny Flossy was. No one thought it was strange that they hadn’t seen her. . . . Everyone had just gone back to their normal lives as if nothing had happened.
Willow had wondered, though. She’d sensed that there was something wrong, something missing, and while it would have been easier to just pretend that it hadn’t happened, she realized that it had been so much worse to forget.
But now it seemed like life had just reset itself, the way it should have been before the spell was cast.
It was three days after her grandmother had died. And Willow was now standing where she should have stood the day Moreg had come to find her, only now Moreg wasn’t coming to find her. The trouble was that Willow remembered both versions. The week when Tuesday had gone missing and the week when it hadn’t.
And just when Willow was wondering if she was the only one who remembered, if it was possible that the friends she had made didn’t even remember her, an enormous blue dragon filled the sky, coming to land with a deafening thud and shaking the entire hillside.
Around them people began to scream.
Ethel Mustard fainted.
“Feathering,” breathed Willow.
Willow’s mother rushed forward, along with Juniper and Camille. “Don’t panic, don’t panic,” she called. She was clearly panicking.
Feathering rolled his giant golden eyes as Willow touched his silken, feathered face. “Honestly, I’m a cloud dragon. . . . Have they so little sense?” he asked Willow.
“Well, you are a dragon,” she said.
“This is true, young Willow.”
Camille gasped, her emerald-green eyes huge. “He knows your name!”
Feathering shrugged a wing. “Of course I do. It’s her I’ve come to see,” he chided.
Willow’s mother made a funny squeak.
Feathering ignored this. “It worked—you did it, look,” he said, nodding his head toward the sky, where two dragons were approaching, one enormous and red, the other small and a pearly sort of blue, so much like his father.
“Oh!” She sniffed, wiping away a tear. “He hatched.”
Feathering nodded. “Thanks to you, we thought, under the circumstances, we’d name him Floss—it seemed a good name—after your grandmother.”
Willow couldn’t speak for the tears in her eyes, and her chin started to wobble. “I . . . Thank you—she would be very honored.”
Feathering’s mate, Thundera, landed alongside the baby dragon, Floss, and she said, “Feathering told me what you did—thank you.”
“It wasn’t just me. I had a lot of help along the way.” She reached into her pocket and felt something hard and flat inside, along with something sharp and hard, and pulled them out. It was the StoryPass and the troll whistle. She grasped them tight, even though the edges of the whistle dug into her palm. She opened the StoryPass. Right then it was pointing to “There Be Dragons.” And, true enough, there were now three dragons in Willow’s garden.
Floss was about the size of a bloodhound, and he butted her playfully as she stroked his head.
“We passed Calamity on the flight over. . . . It seems that she is well and has been welcomed back into the clan.” Feathering cleared his throat. “Despite the fact that she lost the battle with Verushka.”
“Oh . . . ,” Willow said, eyes wide. Then she smiled. “That’s wonderful news. I am so glad that they accepted her, even though she wasn’t their usual sort of troll.” Which Willow privately thought was a great thing.
Camille made a scared sort of noise.
“Help? T-trolls?” asked her mother, who seemed to have finally found her voice. “What are they talking about? How did you help them?”
“Oh, it’s a long story . . . and perhaps one day I’ll tell it,” said Willow.
One time Willow might have wanted the glory, wanted her family to know what she’d done, for them to think, just once, that she was “special” or “important,” but now she realized it didn’t matter at all what they thought. What mattered was what she thought of herself.
When the dragons left, Camille gave her an odd look. “Who knew being a magical bloodhound could have a plus side? I mean, the worst magical ability in the whole family, an embarrassment really—and yet a dragon—”
“Camille!” reprimanded Willow’s mother sharply.
Willow shook her head. “No, she’s right. I can’t blow things up or move things with my mind. What I do will never be grand or impressive, but what I’ve learned about power is that we all have some. It’s not about how much you’ve got; it’s about what you do with the little bit you have that matters most.”
There was a stunned silence.
“Are you all right?” asked Juniper.
“Yes,” said Willow. “Or I will be. Actually, I’ve decided that you’re right. I have decided to raise my price to a flerkin and a Leighton apple from now on. Please spread the word.”
There was a collective gasp all around. Willow had never increased her price ever.
Juniper’s mouth opened and closed. “Really?” she said in surprise.
Willow nodded. Camille and her mother seemed nonplussed. She didn’t try explaining herself. A flerkin was hardly a profit. Besides, as Moreg had said once, a witch’s business was none but her own.
“Are you sure you are all right?” asked Juniper. “It’s just . . . you don’t seem yourself.”
“What?” Willow asked, looking past Juniper for a face that wasn’t there, hope furling inside her chest.
Juniper waved a hand in front of her. “It’s just that I’ve never really seen you place any value on your skills before—such as they are.”
“Well . . . today might be a good time to start,” said a voice.
Willow turned. And there she was.
A lone witch, tall and reed thin, in dusky robes and pointed purple boots, was just outside the garden gate. Her coal-black eyes twinkled with mild amusement.
“Is that Moreg Vaine?” cried Camille, her face white as a sheet.
Willow nodded. She could hear her sisters’ knees knocking from here.
Moreg greeted them all, then pulled Willow aside. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother
.”
“Thank you,” said Willow.
“I knew, when I was asking you, that it would be hard, as you’d have to face it. I’m sorry for that; you were the only one who really had something to lose by finding the lost day.”
Willow looked down and fought back a tear. “I know. It was easier not knowing, but at the same time it was so much worse. This way, no one forgets her, or what she did.”
Moreg nodded. “I knew you were different.”
“They all think I’m a bit odd,” admitted Willow.
Moreg shrugged. “The best people often are.”
Willow looked at her. “But I remember everything—and so does Feathering, and so do you—why doesn’t anyone else?”
“I think it’s because we were all there in the presence of the spell, and so we remember both versions of the past.”
“So Calamity, Nolin Sometimes, and Essential Jones will remember too?”
“They will,” agreed Moreg.
Willow was relieved. She liked the feeling that her new friends wouldn’t forget her.
“They’re not the only ones who remember,” said Moreg, her face suddenly grave.
Willow frowned, then gasped. “The Brothers of Wol and Silas—he will remember too.”
“Yes, we know his secret, which he won’t be pleased about, but we’ll be ready for him if he escapes the High Master again, which is why I’ve brought you this.”
Willow frowned as Moreg pulled out a broom from her new portal cloak and placed it along the wall. A sleek, beautiful broom that had white tail feathers mixed in with the twigs. Whisper.
Then the witch gave her a hug and raised a hand in farewell, or was it victory?
“I’ll see you soon,” she said. And, as Willow’s sisters gaped, their mouths wide, Moreg Vaine got on her own broom, with its twin engines that roared to life, adjusted her flying goggles, and shot up into the sky, leaving a trail of bright-orange flames and Willow’s wild laughter in her wake.
About the Author
Photo by Johnny Ring
DOMINIQUE VALENTE lives in the Sussex, England, countryside with her husband and their English bulldog, Fudge. She writes bestselling fiction under her pseudonym, Lily Graham, and is a former journalist.
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Books by Dominique Valente
Starfell #1: Willow Moss and the Lost Day
Starfell #2: Willow Moss and the Forgotten Tale
Copyright
STARFELL: WILLOW MOSS AND THE LOST DAY. Copyright © 2019 by Dominique Valente. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2020 by YAOYAO MA VAN AS
Cover design by JESSIE GANG
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Digital Edition JANUARY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-287943-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-287940-0
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers
FIRST U.S. EDITION, 2020
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