The Spin (24 page)

She tossed her mane and flicked her long tail. He couldn't be sure whether it was a yes or a no.

‘If only I had a name for you,' he added. ‘
Your
name.'

Stormy racked his brains to try and think of any other way of finding it now the paper record had been burned. Who else might know it? The littles didn't. Ralf didn't. What about Otto? They'd worked at the circus together, so he just might remember it.

Later, when he was back in the servery, Stormy composed a note:

Stormy put the sealed note into the food lift, tucking it behind the dirty dishes. He had no way of knowing if it would reach Otto; he just had to hope that it would.

A magnificent black and gold carriage, drawn by six ordinary white horses, was standing in the centre of the courtyard when later Stormy went that way to his lessons. The name GRANT was written in gold letters on the side. Hector's parents had come for a visit. There was a small crowd of students and staff beside the carriage, chatting.

Stormy sidled by, wanting to keep out of the way, but Araminta, who was talking to Hector, called him over.

‘Hey, Stormy, come here!'

Stormy did not think to disobey her.

‘Think you're grand enough for this sort of company, do you?' she whispered when he joined her.

He shook his head, ready to go; she was so confusing.

‘This is Stormy,' Araminta said to Hector's father.

Mr Grant looked just like his son, with the same crinkly hair pulled back from his forehead, only his hair was grey. He leaned back and looked down his nose at Stormy as if he was a very long distance away.

‘Sky-rider?' he asked.

‘Well, not quite, you see –' Stormy began, but was interrupted by the Director.

‘This is one of our most promising students, Mr Grant,' he said, patting Stormy on the shoulder. ‘He's new. He has a secret benefactor. Very wealthy,' the Director told Hector's father with a wink. ‘We are very delighted to have him join us.'

Stormy felt his face freeze into a stupid grin and tried to think of something to say.

‘I don't know how good a rider you can become,' Mr Grant said, ‘with the skills not being in the blood. Hector has the history, you see: generations of sky-riders.' He turned back to the Director. ‘It's not long to the race now, is it?' he said. ‘Is Hector still favourite to win it, eh? Want his name in the gallery, don't we?'

The Director nodded. ‘Of course he will win. Of course he will.'

‘Like father like son,' said Hector's father. ‘I've got money on him bringing back that sword, a lot of money. There is no such thing as failure in the Grant family.'

‘You won't be disappointed,' the Director said. ‘I'm coaching Hector. Got money on him myself too.'

‘And of course I hope to have a new spitfyre in our stables,' went on Mr Grant. ‘Hector will take the loser's spitfyre for himself, won't he?'

The Director nodded. ‘No doubt,' he said. ‘That's the rules.'

The gathering began to head towards the house and nervously Stormy began to move with them.
I have every right
, he told himself.
I'm a student, Araminta invited me.

‘Look, there's Tom! Come and join us, Tom!' Hector called, walking straight across Stormy's path. ‘And Bentley. Come over here, Bent!'

‘I think I'll go,' Stormy muttered. He didn't belong. No one wanted him.

As he walked away, he heard the Director introducing Tom to Hector's father, ‘This is one of our most promising students,' he said.

He might just as well have stabbed Stormy with a knife.

Stormy had ‘borrowed' a freshly made lavender wing-lotion from his care and hygiene class. Lizzie had concocted it and it had proved to be the most effective of all the lotions the class had made. He was eager to get the spitfyre's wings clean and try it on her.

Ralf and Purbeck were sitting in the sunshine outside the servery. Ralf was playing his harmonica and Purbeck was balancing a plate of chocolate éclairs on his knees and slowly munching his way through them.

‘Hey, what are you doing, Stormy?' Purbeck called as he went past them.

‘I'm going to my spitfyre.'

‘Ha! Joke!'

They watched him warily as he struggled with a big bucket of warm water.

‘Heavy, is it?' Ralf said.

‘You could help,' Stormy suggested.

‘We could, but we won't, thanks all the same. Not on our list of duties, getting hot water for spitfyres and namby pambying them.'

‘Hey, don't forget your thork!' Purbeck shouted as Stormy made his way down the terrace.

‘Don't need one,' Stormy called back.

The stable was spotless and even smelling sweet now, with the fresh straw on the stone floor. There was just the spitfyre to clean; she was still caked all over with grime.

‘I'll get all that dirt off you and then you'll feel so much better. And you must go on eating to get strong,' Stormy told her. ‘We're going to fly, you and I; we're going to fly together and be
so
good!

He went on talking to her all the time he cleaned, rubbing gently at her with a soapy cloth and warm water. She stood very still, letting him work the lather over her body as if he had done it a hundred times for her before. The dirt dissolved and underneath the grime her true colours gleamed.

‘Look at this! And look here!' Stormy whispered, as more and more of her coat was exposed. ‘Who'd have thought it, hey? Who'd have thought you'd be the most beautiful spitfyre ever in the whole world?'

He used a shorthaired brush to massage her neck and shoulders and each delicate leg. She was a rainbow of purple and blue and pink, and as she shifted her feet and the lantern light caught her coat, she glimmered and shone like the pearly scales of a trout. Her wings were softest silver but they were torn and lacking in strength. They should have felt tightly drawn between the ridges of sinew and tendon; instead they were flabby and soft from lack of use. He spread the lavender lotion over her clean wings and worked it in circles into the dry, broken skin.

He scrubbed each hoof, which she lifted docilely for him, letting him pick out pebbles and straw that had lodged there. Her hooves were ragged, cracked and overgrown and he filed them down neatly for her. He shampooed her tail and beneath the dirt her tail was purple and fuchsia coloured, interlaced with silver threads. ‘You're the best spitfyre in the world. The finest, most beautiful.'

Her mane had already begun to grow back and no longer stuck up in a tattered ridge. He brushed it and washed it and then combed out the silken violet-coloured strands against her neck.

The sunlight angled through the mouth of the cave and lit up two or three metres of black rock. ‘The sun would do you so much good!' he told her. ‘And you could stretch your tattered wings! Oh, Al, how could you let this happen? Poor thing . . . I do believe he's scared of you, Starlight, really, that's the truth.'

Around her back leg where the shackle held her tight the skin was sore. Stormy needed the key to take off the cuff so he could bathe and clean it properly and put on a healing ointment. He had seen a key around Al's neck when he first came and guessed it was for this leg iron, but how would he ever get it?

He stretched up to reach her ears and try and clean them. ‘You're too tall, thirteen. I can't, I need –' He was about to say he needed a ladder, when he felt a blast of hot air down his back as she bent her head down for him.

‘Thank you.'

He rubbed and brushed around her delicate chin and mouth; the small leathery scales here were pale pink like the inside of seashells. He whispered into her ears that he loved her and she was his own dear spitfyre and he would never leave her. She lowered her head onto his shoulder, resting her chin so he could clean her forehead, between her eyes where the hair grew short and whirled around in a beautiful pattern. Finally, he wiped her crusty eyes clean, clearing her long eyelashes and bathing them with clear water.

When he finally stopped, she blinked several times, then opened her eyes wide. He was startled to find himself so close to such large dark blue eyes staring intently back at him. Intelligent eyes. Then she nudged him with her nose and lifted her head up high, proud of herself again and wanting him to know it.

A great bubble of hope rose up inside him. Maybe he
was
a spitfyre whisperer, like they said. And maybe he'd surprise everyone with what he could do, even if he had been just a skivvy from the kitchen. And maybe he could train her and ride her. Maybe not having her name wouldn't matter. She trusted him; that counted for so much.

She unfurled her wings and shook them out. The holes in the delicate membranes would tear if she flew; she wasn't ready yet for that, but one day . . .

Suddenly she trembled violently, as if fearfully cold, and stamped her hooves sharply towards the entrance. Alarmed, Stormy jumped out of the way.

‘
Stormy!
'

The spitfyre quivered and shifted back against the wall, puffing loudly, blowing sparks around the cave.

It was Al. He didn't come into the stable; his long narrow shadow lay on the wall as he stood at the entrance.

‘What is it?' Stormy yelled.

‘What are you doing?' Al called back. ‘That's my spitfyre!'

‘You don't deserve her!' Stormy marched out and almost collided with Al, who was standing there as stiff as a dead tree. ‘You don't deserve her!' he yelled again.

He was horrified when Al sank down onto his knees and started to moan.

‘I'm sorry, I –'

He stopped. The chain around Al's neck swung free from his shirt and Stormy's eyes fastened on the key as it slipped along its length. He needed that key.

‘I know,' Al whimpered, ‘I don't deserve her.' He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘How is she?' he whispered. ‘How is she now?'

‘Come and see for yourself.'

‘I can't. I can't ever look at her again,' Al said with a groan.

‘She's recovering,' said Stormy, ‘eating well. She could fly again, Al, if only . . .'

Al shook his head. ‘If she sees me – if I see her – her eyes will show it. She will fix me with those eyes and I will never bear the guilt! I've done everything wrong. Everything!'

‘But Al –'

‘I shouldn't have done the Spin . . . I went after my own selfish desires . . . Then I blamed her and I've punished her all these years . . . But it was
my
fault.'

‘Oh, Al . . . Listen, you can help her now. Give me the key to her chain,' Stormy said. ‘I'm not afraid of her. She trusts me.'

‘How can she ever trust again?'

‘She does. I'm sure she does.'

Al wiped his eyes and looked up at Stormy doubtfully. ‘She would be a fool to trust anyone ever again.' He tore off the key and threw it at Stormy's feet. ‘Take it. I'm done with all this!' He staggered to his feet and limped away.

Stormy lay awake for hours thinking about Al and the spitfyre. He fingered the key to the leg iron that was now safe on a chain around
his
neck, longing to use it and to set the spitfyre free.

It was wet outside and the wind whistled in the chimney like a frightened animal.

What was that?

He sat up. The room was in total darkness, the curtains drawn tight over the windows. Once or twice he had thought he'd heard slates shifting overhead and put it down to the wind; now he wasn't so sure. There was a new, strange noise outside his window that made no sense, because he was miles from the ground. There it was again; something was scratching and scrabbling at his window!

Stormy slipped out of bed and flung back the curtains. The rain beat against the windowpane. He couldn't resist opening the window and checking . . . The wind rushed in, bringing with it a voice.

‘
Norphan!
' And a body threw itself through the window and dropped onto the floor with a damp thud.

Stormy recognised him immediately. The grubbin convict! The moleman rolled over and knelt up, grabbing Stormy round the knees.

‘My little norphan!' he said, a big smile showing all his broken and yellowing teeth. ‘At last!' He flung his arms round him.

Stormy was appalled. The grubbin was filthy, his long hair a tangle of mud and twigs and leaves. He smelled of the underground, of caves and dankness, and wet herbs . . . What was he doing in here, in his room, in the Academy?

He tried to move but the grubbin's arms were locked round him.

‘Oh, you're wonderin' what I'm doing here, aren't you?' the grubbin said, grinning up at him. ‘You're wonderin' how I found you out, eh?'

Stormy nodded. ‘Shh! Please, quiet. Could you, would you, let go?'

He was straining to hear if there were any creaks on the boards outside his door. How would he explain this? A grubbin here?

The grubbin released him and sat back on his heels. ‘It's a long story, lad, but I'll tell it. Got a drink or a bite of food? I'm hungry as a wolf.'

Stormy nodded. Motioning him to stay back, he quickly unlocked his bedroom door. The corridor outside was empty. He tiptoed to the night larder and came back with some food.

‘Cheese, grapes and a flask of hot tea,' Stormy told him, putting it out on the desk.

‘
Cheese, grapes and hot tea!
Remember me, eh, Stormy?' the grubbin said as he crammed the food into his mouth. ‘By the blazes, but I was hungry
then
! Years in prison's made me like that.'