The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Page 11

  But it was more than that. One night, I’d been walking to my dormitory to fetch my slippers, and had seen her emerging from her dormitory, carrying a cardigan.

  I could easily have called out, ‘Oh, hi Pelagia. Were you cold too? I’ll walk back to the recreation room with you.’ (Or something like that.)

  Easily!

  And we could have chatted our way back down the stairs.

  But I didn’t do that. I ducked into my dorm and by the time I’d found my slippers, she was gone.

  It was the Spellbinding thing, you see.

  Even when there’d only been a chance she was the Spellbinder, it had meant something, and now that I knew Autumn was a Whisperer, so it was definitely Pelagia—

  Well, it just made her seem too important, and too—busy?—to want to speak to me. It made me shy.

  At Free Time that afternoon, I was wandering in the gardens behind the school. A few other girls sat in the shade of trees reading or chatting.

  I walked to the pond, sat down, pulled off my shoes and stockings, and splashed my bare feet in the water.

  This is not actually allowed. However, I do it all the time. Sometimes I even wade around the edges, or slip into the pond up to my waist. It’s at the back of the gardens, so you usually don’t get caught.

  It’s quite close to the Old Schoolhouse, though. I swirled my feet, making the water lilies shift and bump into each other, and gazed up at that building.

  The sun reflected off the windows, dazzling them, so I couldn’t tell if any accountants—or surgeons or electricians or vets—were watching me, making plans to report me to my school principal.

  That’s when a voice spoke.

  ‘Hello, Esther,’ said the voice.

  And there she was, standing behind me: Pelagia. Still had her cute little snail-shell nose. (Well, of course she did, what would she have done with it?)

  ‘Hello,’ I replied, but Pelagia was kicking off her own shoes, pulling off her stockings, and sitting beside me.

  Splash went her feet in the pond.

  ‘Aaaah,’ she said.

  I smiled.

  We sat quietly, listening to distant murmurs of girls’ voices, the snip-snip of Mustafa trimming a bush somewhere, birds singing their fragments. They get caught on one bit of a song, birds, and don’t move it along.

  Pelagia began kicking her legs back and forth in the water. It became quite splashy: sparkles of water flying everywhere.

  It reminded me of how she’d zipped from one end of the pool to the other like a skipping stone at the swimming pool that day.

  ‘Have you always been such a good swimmer?’ I asked.

  Pelagia kicked her legs a few more times then stopped.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just … swim.’

  Funny.

  It reminded me of people asking Autumn what it was like to be a Whisperer, and her saying, ‘I don’t know. I just am a Whisperer.’

  For the first time, it occurred to me how strange it was that our two new girls were opposites.

  In the Whispering Wars, the Whisperers had used Shadow Magic to attack, and Spellbinders had bound that Shadow Magic to defeat them.

  Autumn was a Whisperer, Pelagia was a Spellbinder.

  Whisperers and Spellbinders. Opposites.

  Enemies.

  Autumn and Pelagia should hate each other. As far as I could see, they did not. They didn’t pay much attention to each other, but when they did, they were polite. In fact, Pelagia’s questions to Autumn had helped people relax about Autumn.

  Maybe I was missing something.

  ‘I’m not that good a swimmer,’ Pelagia added. ‘Just average.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you think that was average, you must come from a land of swimming superstars. Where do you come from, Pelagia? Mrs Pollock never got you to introduce yourself.’

  Pelagia shrugged.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Another long quiet. She hadn’t answered my question and I wasn’t sure if she’d forgotten or didn’t want to—maybe she just couldn’t believe I didn’t know already, as she was always telling stories. It seemed a bit pester-y to ask again. I reached for a stick in the grass instead, and used it to stir the water. Lily pads floated serenely by.

  Pelagia was much quieter than I expected. Rather than sharing dramatic stories with me, she was humming a little tune.

  ‘Is everything all right with you?’ I asked.

  I thought she’d say, ‘What do you mean?’ but instead she sighed.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just that there’s too much …’

  She stopped.

  ‘Homework?’ I suggested.

  ‘Responsibility,’ she whispered.

  At least, I think that’s what she whispered. It was a whisper softer than feathers.

  ‘Responsibility?’ I checked, but she shook her head. In the water, the weeds swayed slowly.

  Of course, I thought.

  Imagine how much responsibility there is being the undercover Spellbinder. Keeping students and teachers safe from any wandering Shadow Mages. Training for a swimming tournament must be exhausting enough, without—

  That same strange rush of darkness from the library plunged again, like a black waterfall, before my vision.

  ‘Pelagia,’ I said, blinking, blinking. ‘The swimming tournament. You’ll be away for two weeks.’

  Who would protect the school then?

  Pelagia took a deep breath, and I turned to her—

  But all she said was, ‘Look,’ and pointed out an Elf that was riding on a frog, leaping through the reeds. We both watched until the Elf disappeared.

  In the water, a school of tiny fish darted by. Pelagia hummed again, the same tune.

  Speaking of fish, everyone seemed to be painting them.

  Every grade had to produce a ‘masterpiece’ for the art show, you see, and many grades were doing fish.

  Either fish paintings, or fish made from foil stuck to ocean-blue backgrounds.

  I worried that the paintings might hurt the feelings of the Bobsleigh fishing village. It was like we were showing off: ‘Look at all the fish we’ve got! And you don’t have any!’

  The others told me that was silly. For one thing, the Bobsleighans would never see our artwork, just the money we made from it. For another, our fish were not edible.

  ‘You’re overthinking it, Esther,’ Katya advised.

  For a few days, Mrs Pollock told us she ‘didn’t have a clue’ what our masterpiece would be. She was very funny like that, often shrugging and saying, ‘How should I know?’ when someone asked her a question, or replying with their personalised high five.

  People would make suggestions and she would pull her clown faces until everybody laughed, and change the subject.

  Until one day, when we were learning about Plants and How They Grow. Mrs Pollock had just explained sunlight and its job (don’t really remember what, sorry) when suddenly she stopped, flung a piece of chalk against the wall and shouted, ‘The weather!’

  We stared.

  ‘Our masterpiece will be the best!’ she crowed. ‘Because we will paint—’ and here, she hurried to a window, wrenched it open, stuck out her head and shouted: ‘—you! We will paint you, weather!’

  Basically, we had to choose our favourite kind of weather and paint it. Then we’d glue our pictures onto—Mrs Pollock waved a hand vaguely. ‘A tree or something.’

  We giggled.

  ‘Maybe a big piece of corkboard,’ Hetty Rattlestone suggested.

  ‘Yes. Genius. A piece of corkboard.’ Mrs Pollock nodded.

  Everyone in the class painted a blue sky and a big yellow sun.

  Except me. My favourite weather is rain. So I painted that.

  A pale grey background and lots of little black dots.

  It looked very boring, to be honest.

  But then Autumn suggested I crowd the bottom of the painting with colourful umbrellas
. Once I’d done that, I was almost dizzied by the beauty. The splashes of umbrella colour against the grey made it magical! I’m not very good at art, and this was definitely the best painting I’d ever done.

  ‘That was good advice about the umbrellas,’ I told Autumn.

  Autumn smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You did a good job.’ Then she ducked her head back down, hiding behind her hair.

  The first in the class to present a personal interest project was Katya.

  ‘I feel passionate about the cycle of life,’ she announced. Her voice made the words into a series of dull, grey thuds. She yawned.

  ‘All water was once gas,’ she continued. ‘When temperatures dropped, it condensed into rain. Rain fell into the great basins and troughs on the surface of the Kingdoms and Empires and formed oceans and lakes. The oceans and lakes …’

  I don’t know what she said next. Everyone settled down to think her own thoughts.

  Next was Hetty Rattlestone.

  ‘The thing that I feel most passionate about,’ she began, ‘is …’

  Long pause.

  Hetty looked around at us, her eyes dancing.

  ‘My family tree!’ she cried.

  Oh, worth the wait, then. (Ha ha.)

  She then spent fifteen minutes outlining her family tree.

  Here is a sample:

  ‘And then there’s Great-Aunt Pickled Possum, who happens to be Queen of Smileypop, and her daughter, of course, is Cousin Tilly Billy-Buttocks, who, by the way, is Vice-Regent of the Empire of Plum Jam.’

  (I’m making up the names as I forget the real ones. But this was basically how it went.)

  The only interesting thing about this speech was how much Mrs Pollock loved it. I stopped watching Hetty altogether and stared at Mrs Pollock instead. She was sitting on her chair, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, and her eyes glittered like the ocean on a sunny day. At each new name that Hetty mentioned, Mrs Pollock nodded vigorously.

  At last it was over.

  ‘Any questions?’ Hetty asked us.

  Not even Zoe Fawnwell could bring herself to ask one.

  Mrs Pollock applauded loudly.

  ‘Fascinating!’ she said. ‘Great job, Hetty. You made your project so much more interesting by bringing yourself into it. You shared your remarkable connections to such important people!’

  There was a pause.

  I waited for Mrs Pollock to make a joke—I think we were all waiting—but she only beamed, scribbled something down, and called for the next person to present.

  Tatty Rattlestone spoke next. At least she didn’t pause for ‘suspense’, but Tatty’s speech was on her favourite fashion magazines.

  I fell asleep halfway through.

  When I woke up, Mrs Pollock was saying: ‘It’s our resident giraffe’s turn! Or do you prefer to be called by your original name of Durba?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Durba said. ‘Whichever you like.’ She’s a good sport, Durba.

  ‘I suppose your passion will be something rather high,’ Mrs Pollock suggested next, ‘like a mountain, say, or the sky?’

  ‘No,’ Durba replied. ‘My topic is the Children of Spindrift.’

  Everyone straightened up, pleased. We’d all grown up playing games where we pretended to be the Children of Spindrift. Back in the time of the Whispering Wars, you see, a group of brave children from Spindrift had helped to win the war. Although we knew the story well, we were always happy to hear it again.

  But Mrs Pollock gasped.

  ‘Oh Durba,’ she said, ‘is that quite the thing?’

  Durba is not one of those tall people who hunches, embarrassed by her height. She generally stands straight and proud. However, at this point, she sank a little. Her face was both worried and confused.

  ‘Because we have a Whisperer in the class!’ Mrs Pollock stage-whispered. ‘You’ll remind everybody!’

  Of course, the story of the Children of Spindrift is connected to the Whispering Kingdom. Until Mrs Pollock spoke up though, I’d completely forgotten that Autumn herself was a Whisperer. Or, at least, I’d set it aside: she was just Autumn again, a girl with a beautiful name.

  I think most of the class had done the same, actually. We’d all smiled at Durba when she announced her topic, but the moment Mrs Pollock reminded us, we swivelled to look at Autumn instead.

  Autumn kept her face blank. (Her new poker-playing skills might have helped?)

  ‘Ask Autumn if your topic troubles her, Durba?’ Mrs Pollock urged, still in her loud whisper.

  Durba looked stricken. ‘Sorry Autumn,’ she said. ‘Is it okay with you if …?’

  ‘Of course,’ Autumn said quickly. ‘Talk about whatever you like.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Mrs Pollock exclaimed suddenly. ‘Autumn probably doesn’t even know what we’re talking about! Autumn? Do you know who the Children of Spindrift are?’

  Autumn’s blank expression collapsed slightly. She had hoped to hide this, I realised. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I mean, I suppose the Children of Spindrift are … children who … live in the town of Spindrift?’

  Giggles.

  But Mrs Pollock’s face was serious. ‘Makes sense that you wouldn’t know,’ she murmured. ‘Everywhere else, of course, the Spindrift children are heroes, whereas in the Whispering Kingdom, they’d be the opposite. And people might prefer to … forget them!’ She laughed suddenly, and turned to Durba.

  ‘Go ahead!’ she said. ‘It’s about time Autumn learned about the Children of Spindrift! Fill in the gaps in her education!’

  And she leaned back, ready to listen.

  It was very awkward then. Durba appeared wretched. Every word seemed like a poisoned dart, directed at Autumn. People kept glancing at Autumn, to see her reaction, and Autumn tried to nod along, interested.

  At last it was over. ‘Any questions?’ Durba asked.

  I raised my hand.

  ‘Did you know,’ I said, ‘that one of the Children of Spindrift grew up to be my favourite author? The orphan girl named Glim became bestselling author G.A. Thunderstrike.’

  Durba smiled. ‘Oh, really? I didn’t—’ but Mrs Pollock interrupted.

  ‘Oh, very nice, Esther!’ she cried. ‘Pointing out a gap in Durba’s speech! Want to show her up, do you?’

  She grinned, wide-eyed, and everyone laughed.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to point out a gap. I just—’

  ‘Just wanted her to know she’d missed important information? Like what happened to the Spindrift children when they grew up? Tell us about the others, Esther.’

  I stared at her, miserable. I didn’t want to show up Durba any more than I had.

  ‘Oh, you want Durba to answer?’ Mr Pollock said. ‘Good point. Durba?’

  Durba blushed. ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Esther?’ Mrs Pollock interrupted. ‘Can you help? Durba doesn’t know.’

  I spoke in a quick mumble: ‘As well as becoming an author, Glim was the first ambassador to the dragons; Honey Bee, Finlay and Hamish became acclaimed athletes; the twins became doctors; and Victor works in the back room of a bank.’

  Mrs Pollock turned to Durba. ‘There you go, Durba. Bits you missed in your speech. Bits you missed—what’s another word for that?’ Mrs Pollock snapped her fingers. ‘Gaps! Yes! You were pointing out gaps, Esther!’

  My head was tangled. Mentioning Glim hadn’t been a criticism—I’d just thought Durba might be interested! Also, I’d wanted to change the subject, to shift it away from the Whispering Wars, for Autumn’s sake.

  But maybe I had embarrassed Durba?

  How could I explain myself?

  Faces had turned to me, smirking. Durba was rocking on her feet, looking very worried now—probably thinking that she should have included what had happened to the Spindrift children when they grew up.

  ‘I don’t think—’ I began, and stopped. ‘I mean, I was only—see, Durba’s speech was not about what— It was great—And I really—’


  Again, I stopped.

  ‘Oh my stars, Esther, I hope you remember how to finish sentences when it’s your turn to speak! Actually, let’s find out now! Sit down, Durba! Your turn, Esther!’ And Mrs Pollock waved me out the front.

  So that was not a great start.

  Standing out the front, it took me a few moments to gather my thoughts. I opened my mouth to begin and then closed it again. Did that a second time.

  ‘Are you one of the fish that have swum away from Bobsleigh?’ Mrs Pollock enquired.

  Everyone giggled.

  I took a deep breath.

  Most people use palm cards to do presentations, but I like to memorise mine. I get too confused otherwise—you look around to make eye contact with the audience, then back down at your palm cards. How do you find your spot? So I practise my speeches every time I have a bath. I have a lot of baths, so I get a lot of practice.

  Come on, I told myself. Remember the tub!

  I pictured the curve of the tap over the bath, and heard the sound of water rushing, and my own voice rehearsing.

  At last it came back.

  ‘The thing that makes my heart sing,’ I began, ‘is magic.’ I paused. I try to include pauses in my speeches. Short ones.

  ‘In fact,’ I said, ‘magic makes my heart sing, dance and turn cartwheels. I myself am not very good at cartwheels.’

  I turned a cartwheel.

  See, I also try to do unexpected things in my speeches, to give the audience a surprise. That gave them a surprise. Mrs Pollock gasped. We don’t usually turn cartwheels in class.

  It also made the class laugh because my cartwheels really are very bad. Legs crooked and clattering back down.

  ‘But my heart,’ I said, standing up again, ‘is great at cartwheels. I think, anyway. Don’t know for sure, I’ve never actually seen my heart.’

  The class laughed again. Things were going well.

  ‘As you know,’ I said, ‘magic began when people discovered magical thread buried deep in the ground, and began to mine for it, weaving it into spells. Different-coloured thread was used by the three different kinds of mages. Eventually, of course, mages only needed to imagine thread to weave spells.’