The Spin (19 page)

‘I came into some luck,' he said. ‘I'm a student now.'

‘Hmm. I hear you're paid up for years and years. Daddy's thrilled. Did someone die?' she asked.

‘I don't think so.' He searched her profile for some hint of her knowing more.

‘Don't stare at me so,' she said and he instantly reddened and looked away.

‘You've grown a lot,' she added. ‘Much taller than the servery boy I used to know. Why don't you look at me when I talk to you?'

She was at it again, saying one thing and then the opposite, and he felt confused and anxious – just how she always made him feel.

‘I'm not a servery boy now,' he said, making eye contact for a split second.

‘He'll be in your classes, Hector,' Araminta said loudly, leaning forward to speak to Hector. ‘He's a sky-rider.'

Hector didn't recognise Stormy. He looked blank. ‘Say that again?'

‘He's a sky-rider, the new boy. Stormy.'

‘
Stormy?
' He looked puzzled. ‘Weren't you the boy mucking out the stables?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘And now you're a rider?' He raised his eyebrows. ‘How?'

‘Don't you ever listen to the gossip, Hect? He's just got loads and loads of money.'

Stormy clenched his hands under the table. ‘Yes, I got some luck, I –'

‘Now I remember. I heard the Director talking about it to Mr Jacobs. You're an orphan?' Hector's nose crinkled up as if ‘
orphan'
wasn't a word he really liked to say. ‘A
skivvy
?' he said, with even more contempt. ‘And now you're in the Academy? What is the Director thinking of?'

‘Money, I expect,' Araminta said.

It was true. Stormy knew in his heart of hearts that what she said was true.

‘He might join you in the Star Squad,' Araminta said.

Hector smiled. ‘That would be interesting. The Star Squad is for the elite of the elite, new boy, and I'm not just talking about family here. You need to be able to fly like a bird and shoot fire like a cannon . . . Can you?'

‘Yes,' Stormy lied. Quickly he reached for some butter for his bread – anything to occupy his hands.

‘Oh dear, table manners! This is what I was worried about,' Hector said, tapping Stormy's outstretched arm with his forefinger. ‘No training in the niceties of life. We don't use
that
knife for the butter; there's a special one there. And that's my napkin you're rubbing over your grubby mouth.'

‘Sorry.' Stormy handed him the napkin back.

‘No thank you, you keep it . . .' Hector threw it back. ‘Let me give you a bit of advice, Stormy. One thing you require for the Star Squad is straight As and we've tests in aerodynamics and warfare tomorrow, so if I were you, I'd do some revision tonight.'

‘Oh, thanks,' Stormy said. He would prepare all night long if he had to. ‘Those are my favourite subjects.'

‘And on the top table, we do not drink water, we drink wine,' Hector said. ‘I know you want to mix in and not look out of place.' He poured Stormy's water back into the jug and replaced it with red wine. ‘Drink.'

‘I really don't –'

But Hector was smiling and pushing the glass into his hands and up to his mouth and he had to take it. ‘There!'

It took a moment for Stormy to get his breath back and wipe the dribbled wine from his chin.

‘I just want to make my benefactor proud,' he said quietly, hoping Araminta would understand his meaning. But even at that she didn't move a muscle and he thought she must be the best, strangest actress in the world.

By the end of the evening Stormy had drunk so much wine he could barely make it up to his room. He had almost told Araminta that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever met and that he thought of the Director as his new father and Hector his greatest friend. Thankfully he was incapable of saying anything. He fell into his room with the help of a mighty push from some kind boy, and crashed onto his bed.

He woke early. He always woke early, ready for work in the kitchen, but there was no such work today. He had a bad headache, but after drinking three glasses of water he felt better. He remembered the previous night with a groan. Why had he said those things to Hector that weren't true? Who was he trying to fool?

He peered at his new timetable; several of the sessions were taken by the Director and marked ‘Star Squad Only'. He looked at the plan for that day; there were tests in ancient spitfyre myth and legend at ten thirty, but no mention of aerodynamics or warfare. He must have misheard Hector. He'd had so much wine to drink he'd probably got the subjects mixed up. Thank goodness he'd looked at the timetable because now he would revise the correct subjects. He settled down to work, but somehow he was hungry again and sneaked out to the hall larder – it was stocked with goodies – and brought back croissants, sausages, fruit and yogurt to his room.
Brain food
. He set about learning as much as he could from his new books, determined to impress.

It took him a while to find his classroom because none of the students he asked knew where it was; one directed him outside into the courtyard and two sent him back down to the servery. When he did reach it, the teacher, Mrs Lister, welcomed him kindly.

‘Good morning, Stormy,' she said. ‘I teach ancient winged horse ceremony, history, myth and legend. I'm pleased to have you in our group.' She was thin with pale grey hair and small spectacles that she peered through as if she was very short-sighted. ‘It's nice to have a new face in the class.'

‘Yeah, specially when it's a rich face!' a girl called out.

‘Now, now, Petra,' Mrs Lister said, laughing, ‘let him alone, the poor boy. Be kind to him.'

‘Come and sit by me,' Petra said. ‘I'll be kind and there's lots I want to ask you.'

‘You don't know the meaning of the word. Kind, huh. No, come sit next to me!' Bella said.

‘He's quite handsome, isn't he?' Petra added in a low voice. She pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘For a skivvy.'

Stormy glared at the floor. The other girls were looking him over too. Was he good-looking? He knew Mrs Cathcart thought so, but she didn't count, she was just squinty-eyed, fat Mrs Cathcart . . .

Hector was the last to arrive and he was in such a hurry he tripped over Stormy's foot as he walked past, landing him a mighty kick on the ankle.

‘Sorry, I do apologise,' Hector said. ‘Oh, it's
you
, Stormy. Fancy me kicking a new boy. I am
so
clumsy . . . Ready for the tests? Aerodynamics, isn't it?'

‘Isn't it myths today?' Bella shrieked. ‘Please tell me it is! Myths and legend, surely!'

‘It is, Bella,' Mrs Lister said. ‘Don't worry. As if I'd test you on aerodynamics! I know nothing about them at all.'

‘Oh, is it? My mistake,' Hector said with a laugh. ‘I hope you didn't waste time revising the wrong things, did you, Stormy?'

‘No. I didn't,' said Stormy.

‘Is that what he told you?' Bella said, raising her eyebrows. ‘The
toad
!'

Hector winked at Stormy. ‘My mistake.'

Stormy guessed he'd been tricked. That's what happened to new boys. That was OK. He'd just ignore it.

He looked at the papers: some of the answers seemed to just erupt out of him from a memory bank that he didn't know he even had. It was as if anything about flying horses concerned him. He sailed through the questions.

‘Only a few weeks now before the Silver Sword Race,' Mrs Lister reminded them as she gathered up their answer sheets. ‘Is anyone in this group – apart from Hector – entering?'

Petra and Tom put up their hands.

Mrs Lister smiled. ‘It's a tough one; I'm not surprised only you Star Squad riders are taking part. You see, Stormy,' she explained, ‘it's only every ten years. The race is fast and hard. No one knows where the Sword will be until the last minute, so they can't prepare, and sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes they never come back and one wonders whether the race is really worth it, just for the title and the honour . . .'

‘And the Director has made it even tougher,' Petra said, ‘because the last one back loses their mount – they have to give their spitfyre to the winner. It keeps the race small and very competitive.'

‘And the winner –' Tom said.

‘Which will be me!' Hector said, banging his fist on his chest.

‘– Goes down in history.'

Stormy had been trying not to think too much about meeting his own spitfyre and having his first ride, but by the end of the lesson, he could think of nothing else and was desperate to get to the stables. He'd flown so many times in his dreams and now it was going to be the real thing. Finally he asked Bella when they might go.

‘Usually no one goes down to the stables before lunch – at least not if you have a West-side spitfyre,' Bella told him. ‘The light, you know.'

Stormy knew this was true. ‘But I
could
go now?' he asked.

‘You're a bit of a keener, aren't you?' Petra said.

‘I suppose you fancy beating Hector? Everyone feels like that when they start here,' Bella said. ‘Forget it, new boy, Hector is always the best.'

‘I don't want to beat him,' Stormy said, glancing over at the other boy, knowing it wouldn't pay to be on the wrong side of someone like Hector. ‘I just want to do well, that's all.'

Hector smiled. ‘How charming.'

‘Come and have break with us first,' Bella said.

They took him to the Snook, a small room where coffee, hot chocolate and cake was served. Petra and Lizzie squashed alongside him on the bench and Bella sat on the opposite side of the table.

‘So exactly how rich are you?' Lizzie asked him, snuggling up.

‘And did your benefactor give you loads to spend?' Petra asked. ‘There's a good shop here where you can buy extras. I'll take you there later.'

‘My father's got three spitfyres, you know. All very rare breeds,' Lizzie said. ‘You must come stay in the holidays.'

They wanted to know if he thought his parents were really alive, if he thought his parents were noble or flying horse masters, or perhaps royal? The boys weren't much interested in him, but he didn't care, although he wished Hector found him interesting enough to talk to. He didn't mind what questions the girls asked; he liked being the centre of attention.

‘Well, I think I'll go and –' Stormy stopped as suddenly a dull bell sounded.

The girls groaned.

The bell rang in a slow and heavy, thudding way, like the one in Stollen did when someone had died.

‘You won't want to go out now,' Tom said.

‘Why? What does that bell mean?'

‘It means convicts are being moved.'

‘Oh, let Stormy go see!' Hector's friend Bentley said. ‘He might recognise one! His father, perhaps?' He laughed.

‘
Bentley!
' Bella looked embarrassed. ‘Ignore him, Stormy, he's such a poser.'

‘No, I'm only telling the truth, Bella,' Bentley said, smoothing his hair off of his forehead. ‘He's an orphan. He may be rich, but no one knows anything about his family or his breeding.'

‘I'm not a prize cow, Bentley,' Stormy said.

‘I didn't think orphans were allowed at the Academy,' Petra said.

‘I do think one should know who one's parents are,' Tom said. ‘Imagine, they could be anyone!'

Stormy straightened his shoulders and marched out through the nearest door.

‘Not that way!' Petra called, but Stormy couldn't turn back. He was so angry he thought he might hit someone. He went down a short corridor and opened the door at the end; it gave straight onto the courtyard.

He stopped, dazzled by the bright sun in the clear blue sky. It was cold and the breeze was as sharp as needles. The bell had stopped ringing, and the air seemed to hang emptily around him, waiting.

The littles were swinging like children on the large handles of the open gate; the iron hinges squeaked as if they hurt. They were giggling and all the while darting sidelong glances up at the tall house where the Director stood like a rock, staring at the tower in the far corner of the yard. The usual guards were not there.

Somewhere out of sight, a door creaked open and four guards appeared, slowly rising up from the sunken stone staircase beside the tower, like spirits from the grave, their heads and necks emerging first, then their shoulders and bodies. Behind them came a group of convicts –
grubbin
convicts – and behind them, more guards. At the sight of the convicts, Stormy felt his stomach contract and a coldness came over him; it was an old fear mixed with pity. There were six of them, linked together by chains that were bound to their heavy metal cuffs at legs and wrists. They lifted their heads up briefly, blinking against the blinding sun. Their clothes were nothing but rags; their feet were dirty and bare.

Why were they all grubbins? What terrible crimes could they all have committed?

As they shuffled past Stormy found himself studying each of their grimy faces, looking for
his
grubbin and hoping he wouldn't see him.

Petra appeared beside him. ‘They told you not to come this way. See,' she said, linking her arm through his, ‘it's prisoners. They're being moved somewhere. The dungeons must be full or something.'

‘But they're
all
grubbins,' Stormy said.

‘Crime enough,' Petra said.

‘Do you think that?' Stormy said, shifting away from her. ‘I hate that talk. There's a chef I know, called Brittel, who thinks like that about grubbins, but it isn't true. I can't believe it.'

Petra shrugged. ‘They're so dirty,' she said. ‘They smell wormy. They're short and stupid and greedy. Why should they have all that gold?'