The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Read online

‘So Carabella-the-Great strengthened the Spellbinding!’ Mrs Pollock exclaimed, and Hetty proudly demonstrated this, marching around the Whisperers, weaving at the air. ‘So they could never escape again! And that is the end of our tale!’

  We all bowed.

  Only, that was not the end of our lesson. Because once we’d completed acting it out, we had to act it out again. And again. And again. Each time, we did it faster than the time before. Faster and faster we got. By the time we reached the ninth retelling, we could hardly make out anybody’s words we were babbling so fast, and we were gasping for air, dizzy, and laughing hysterically. Autumn accidentally ran into a table at one point, fleeing a Whisperer, and bruised her shin quite badly.

  It was fun.

  Eventually, when we’d collapsed back into our chairs, too worn out to do it again, Katya raised her hand.

  ‘We didn’t do the last bit, Mrs Pollock,’ she said.

  ‘The last bit?’

  ‘The Whisperers were set free two years ago,’ she reminded us all. ‘It turned out that their King had forced them to wear the shadow bands. They tore off their shadow bands, the Spellbinding was broken, and now they’re free. And back to being regular Whisperers with gentle whispers.’

  ‘My cousin, Bronte Mettlestone, helped to set them free,’ I called, ‘by defeating the Whispering King. My sisters and I saw it. We’d been chained up by pirates at the time, so we weren’t much use, but Bronte was a proper adventurer.’

  Mrs Pollock winked at me—I wasn’t sure why—then nodded at Katya. ‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘However, that wasn’t a part of the history of the Whispering Wars, so we didn’t include it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Katya. ‘If we define—’

  But Mrs Pollock was pointing at Zoe Fawnwell, whose hand was raised. ‘What should we do if we see a Whisperer?’ Zoe asked.

  Hetty and Tatty both gasped. ‘We wouldn’t,’ they said. ‘The Whispering Kingdom is far away!’

  ‘Nothing.’ Mrs Pollock shrugged. ‘They’re safe now.’ Then she touched her own wrist softly. ‘Although … you might keep your eye out for shadow bands. Just in case they decide to wear them again. You never know …’

  A chill ran through the room.

  Then Mrs Pollock ran around the classroom doing our personalised high fives as fast as she could, and crying, ‘Congratulations! Great performances! Super history lesson!’ and we all laughed again.

  Sometimes, Mrs Pollock would call a girl to the front of the room while the rest of us were working. They would sit at her desk and have conversations in low, serious voices. I could never make out what they were saying, but these conversations always ended with Mrs Pollock grinning and doing the high five. The girl would return to her desk with a grave expression on her face.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I asked Dot Pecorino after she had one such conversation.

  Dot shook her head. ‘She’s very nice,’ she murmured, blushing. She always blushes when she speaks. The shyness does that.

  One day, Mrs Pollock arrived wearing a bright pink wig of wild curly hair.

  ‘What?’ she said, when we giggled. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Then she pointed to Katya’s hair and cried: ‘Hey, same wild curls! We match! Only, you’re going to have to dye yours pink!’

  Everyone laughed, and Katya smiled. But the following day, Katya came to class with her hair knotted up tightly into buns. As if she’d locked her hair away. It looked wrong like that, I thought, and seemed to miss the joke.

  Another day, Mrs Pollock brought in a shoebox filled with caterpillars she’d collected from the gardens. She handed around the box and told everyone to take one out and eat it.

  ‘Eat it?’ I gasped.

  Mrs Pollock frowned. ‘Go on then. Pass the box along. Everyone take one.’

  A lot of girls squealed or squeaked, some refused to take one, but most sat with a caterpillar on their palm, looking at it.

  ‘Now imagine how gooey and delicious it’s going to be,’ Mrs Pollock said. ‘What do you think it’s going to taste like?’

  Most of us were laughing but Dot Pecorino began to cry.

  ‘What’s to cry about?’ Mrs Pollock demanded. ‘Yummy caterpillar! Eat up! Go on! Yum!’

  Dot Pecorino buried her head in her arms.

  ‘Oh, come now!’ Mrs Pollock said. ‘Have you lost your sense of humour, Dot? Is it with my lost bobbled woollen gloves?’

  Dot looked up from her arms and smiled. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes red. ‘We don’t have to eat them?’

  ‘Of course not! Here. Put them back in the box. These are insects, girls, and that’s our topic for today.’

  ‘A caterpillar isn’t technically an insect,’ Katya pointed out. ‘It will become an insect when it’s a butterfly or moth. At the moment, it’s at the larval phase and is in the order Lepidoptera.’ She’s very smart, Katya.

  ‘Oh, all right. Bugs,’ Mrs Pollock complained. ‘If you want to get persnickety on me!’

  Everyone giggled again.

  So, as I said, it was always fun in Mrs Pollock’s class.

  At last, on the Monday of the fourth week of term, Mrs Pollock handed back our letters.

  She hadn’t replied to them. She’d graded them.

  I could see little comments and grades on other people’s letters as she passed them around. That shocked me because I hadn’t imagined it as schoolwork. I’d thought it was a getting-to-know-you exercise.

  Also, so far, we’d not done any tests, or even had work corrected. I’d almost forgotten that this was what happened at school.

  Now, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I’m showing off, but I think it’s important to know this: I usually get A+ for writing work.

  Which is why, once I’d got over the surprise, I was secretly happy that Mrs Pollock had graded the letters. I like getting A+. It makes me happy.

  Mrs Pollock put my letter down on my desk. There was my handwriting (a bit messy):

  Dear Mrs Pollock,

  I had written (you might remember)

  I’m delighted to meet you.

  I turned over the pages until I got to the end.

  Here is what Mrs Pollock had written.

  Esther, most of your description of your hometown is obviously taken from a book or encyclopaedia. Please only use your own words in future assignments.

  By Grade 6 you should know that the word ‘crappy’ is unacceptable. Shocking. DEMERIT. This is your first demerit. THREE demerits mean a Friday night detention.

  You seem surprised that your father is good at word games. However, if he is an author, it makes sense that he’d be good at word games. Please try to use logic and reason.

  You say that you sometimes ‘run outside’, wade in the pond, collect cups of water, and put watering cans on your head? This sort of behaviour will NOT be tolerated in my class.

  Finally, you say that a member of your family is a Spellbinder. By Grade 6, you should know that it is DANGEROUS and FOOLISH to reveal the identity of Spellbinders. These people MUST remain anonymous if they are to do their work against Shadow Mages effectively. Please use common sense.

  C-

  Funny!

  That’s what I thought at first. I mean, a strange sort of funny, but still.

  When Mrs Pollock said that I’d stolen the description of my village, she must mean it was so well-written that it must be from a book!

  The part about the word ‘crappy’ was definitely a joke, because the only reason I’d used the word was that she’d said it to us that day. ‘Or do you think it’s a crappy name?’ she’d asked.

  The ‘demerit’ must be a joke too. I’d got lots of demerits before. Georgia, Hsiang and I used to get them all the time. ‘We have demerits coming out of our ears!’ Georgia used to say, proudly. But demerits had never had anything to do with ‘detention’—I wasn’t even sure what a detention was. They used to just build up, the demerits, and then, at the end of the year, my report card would say �
�107 demerits’.

  ‘107 demerits!’ Mother would exclaim, frowning at my report.

  And I would say, ‘Oh, that’s a tally for the whole school.’

  Father would snort and Mother would ask, ‘What’s funny?’ Father would say, ‘Nothing, nothing. Well done on your writing grade, Esther!’

  Speaking of Father, my letter to Mrs Pollock had not said that he was good at word games. It had said the opposite—that he always drifted off and forgot to have his turn.

  And I didn’t plan to wear a watering can on my head again! I’d done that when I was nine! I’d only included it in the letter to make her laugh!

  And the Spellbinder part.

  I know you aren’t supposed to reveal a Spellbinder’s identity—I’d said that. But I hadn’t given away a name. I have a huge family! My mother has ten sisters, which means I have ten aunts! And my father has three brothers. Cousins? Thousands! (Practically.) And what about second cousins? It could have been anyone!

  Also, Mrs Pollock had asked for a secret. You can’t ask for a secret and then, when a person obeys and tells you one, scold them for it. She must be being humorous.

  Hilarious! I chuckled to myself.

  However, then I looked around and saw that most people had A or B on their papers. I caught glimpses of comments that Mrs Pollock had written. ‘Excellent!’ or ‘Most entertaining!

  Why was she only being ‘funny’ with me?

  Hetty Rattlestone, who sits behind me, leaned forward to look over my shoulder. I heard a little gasp. She sat back and whispered to Tatty, beside her: ‘Esther got a C minus.’

  Next thing, it was whispering and gasping its way all around the class. ‘Esther got a C minus!’ ‘No way!’ ‘Esther got a C minus!’

  The whispers were very loud. Mrs Pollock must have heard.

  I watched her closely, waiting for a little grin, a dimple, a wink.

  But her face remained perfectly blank.

  At poker training with my sisters that night, I took the letter along, ready to show them.

  ‘Mrs Pollock is wonderful,’ I would say, ‘so I don’t understand this comment?’

  My sisters would have an explanation.

  However, they were both talking when I arrived, their words layering and bumping like messily-shuffled cards. It turned out that Mr Dar-Healey had asked Imogen to compete in a swimming tournament. Events would be held in various kingdoms and empires. Mrs Pollock had apparently told Mr Dar-Healey about the tournament, knowing he was interested in swimming.

  ‘Which was thoughtful of her,’ Imogen added. ‘Do you still like her, Esther?’

  ‘I like her a lot,’ I said, ‘only—’ I hesitated, suddenly embarrassed that my complaint was about a bad mark. They might tease me. I changed the subject instead. ‘When’s the swimming tournament?’

  ‘In three weeks. And we’ll be away for two. We have to bring schoolwork. Oh, and that new girl in your class? Pelagia? Mr Dar-Healey asked her to compete too. He wants us to train every afternoon at Nicholas Valley—since the local pool is still being rebuilt. So I’m going to be really busy.’

  ‘Me too!’ Astrid said. And she told us that she’d been asked by the local mayor to work as his assistant.

  We both laughed, but she seemed to be serious.

  ‘Assistant to the mayor!’ I blinked. ‘You’re ten years old.’

  ‘I know!’ She giggled. ‘The mayor read that article about me. Remember the one that said I was a mind-reader? He wants me to start coming to top-secret meetings with him and tell him which people are lying.’

  ‘Top–secret?’ I started. ‘But you’ll—’

  Astrid giggled again.

  ‘He says I’ll sit behind a glass wall and look at their faces while they speak, without hearing them. Then I have to speak into his ear-piece, and let him know if they’re lying.’

  ‘Will you be able to tell?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She shrugged modestly. She’s very matter-of-fact about her talent.

  ‘Deal, Astrid,’ Imogen said. ‘I’ve got homework.’

  And we took out our coin purses and began to play.

  That night, I had the dream again.

  Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you every time I had it. As I mentioned, it’s been at least 250 times, so this story would become dull and repetitive if I did. You’d fall asleep yourself.

  But this time, the second time, was important.

  First of all, I saw more details. Remember how the dream starts with me lying on a rug? This time I noticed that the rug was blue. With a smear of strawberry jam.

  And you know how I look up at a cloudy sky? This time, I turned my head slightly and saw big bushy trees, and the outline of a huge rock. The rock was shaped like a turtle standing on its side and poking its head out of its shell.

  As usual in the dream, it began to rain—and I woke up.

  Also as usual, I felt a crushing weight on my chest. I seemed to be breaking into thousands of pieces, like a glass vase crashing to the floor in slow motion.

  I slipped out of bed, tiptoed out of the dormitory, slunk down the corridor, opened the window, climbed out onto the ledge, clambered up the drainpipe, and squeezed through a slightly-ajar window into the school attic.

  I’ve done this before, by the way.

  Also, I’ve checked the School Rule Handbook and there’s not a single rule that says: Girls must not climb out of the window and up the drainpipe to the attic.

  Not one.

  I suppose teachers would say, ‘Come on, Esther, you know perfectly well that you shouldn’t be climbing out of windows.’

  Or maybe: ‘For goodness sake, use your common sense!’

  Still. It’s honestly not one of the rules.

  Nobody knows I do it.

  Well, Hsiang and Georgia know, of course. I told them about it the first time I did it—I think we were in Grade 4—and they were hugely proud of me. They thought I should get an Award for Very Courageous Exploring at the end-of-year assembly. But that would mean confessing I’d done it. Not worth it.

  Georgia and Hsiang were keen to sneak into the attic with me, and we used to make plans to have secret feasts up there—we even gathered provisions while on trips into town, and packed baskets full of crackers and cheese, jam doughnuts and chocolate cake. But each time, when it came to it, when we crept down the corridor in the night and opened the window—Hsiang and Georgia couldn’t do it.

  It was the height.

  ‘I mean, I’m not afraid of heights, of course,’ Hsiang explained. ‘It’s just—this window ledge is very narrow, and that drainpipe looks kind of slippery, and if you slipped and fell, well—’

  ‘You’d die,’ Georgia confirmed.

  Which was true, I suppose, as the attic was four storeys up.

  So we used to sneak to a recreation room instead, and have the midnight feast there, by candlelight.

  I never think about falling when I climb up to the attic, I just—well, I just climb up.

  It’s not a dusty, cobwebbed attic, by the way. It’s a huge, neat space, running the length of the building. School records are lined up in filing cases.

  At the far end, there’s a trapdoor with a ladder. That’s the usual way to get in and out of the attic. But it goes down into the utility room, which is locked at night, so that’s no use.

  You might be wondering why I like to climb into this attic.

  Here’s a clue: evenly spaced along the skirting boards, are vents.

  These vents run into rooms below: recreation rooms, teachers’ offices, and the teachers’ lounge.

  Lights out for students is 8.30 pm, but teachers stay up chatting as late as they like.

  Imagine the things that you can hear.

  There’s no school rule against eavesdropping either.

  Ha, imagine my father’s face if he ever reads this.

  ‘Esther,’ he would sigh. My name would blend with his sigh.

  My parents are always telling me
I need to stop listening into adults’ conversations. It’s very rude, and an invasion of privacy and one day, I’ll find my ears burning!

  (Unlikely. Unless I’m eavesdropping on flames in a fireplace.) (They just mean I’ll overhear someone saying something nasty about me.)

  I’m trying to stop.

  Father says, ‘You can quit this habit! Perhaps replace it with another? Tried smoking a pipe?’ (He’s only joking—pipes are not good for your health.)

  Mother says, ‘Oh for goodness sake, are you behind the couch again, Esther? Get out at once.’

  So I’ve promised I’ll stop. And I’m proud to say, on this particular night, I only listened into one short conversation.

  The conversation happened in the teachers’ lounge. You can always tell when Principal Hortense has retired to her cottage for the night, because the teachers sound completely different. When she’s there, their voices are polite, friendly, and evenly-pitched. Every now and then all the teachers laugh in a gentle ho ho! way, as if being conducted.

  But when the principal’s gone, the teachers become quick and high-pitched. Splutters of laughter rise up and crash against shouts. It’s as if the conductor has walked out, leaving the orchestra to smash instruments about.

  As the night goes on, the teachers’ voices stretch out, becoming low and slow, with relaxed pauses in between. You can’t actually see anything through the vent, but you can imagine the teachers lazing about on the couches. Thinking their teacherly thoughts.

  There’s also more swearing when Principal Hortense isn’t there.

  Anyhow, this night, the teachers were at the relaxed-slow-voices stage, and I knew Principal Hortense wasn’t there.

  ‘She seems like a lot of fun,’ someone said. It was an older man’s voice—I thought maybe Doctor Lanwish, the Grade 8 teacher. His next words were buried behind crunching, so then I knew it was Doctor Lanwish. He always walks around with an open packet of crisps, reaching for handfuls, even as he’s speaking. Bits of mashed-up crisps visible in his mouth.

  Who seems like a lot of fun? I wondered.