THE SPOOK’S SERIES
The Spook’s Apprentice
The Spook’s Curse
The Spook’s Secret
The Spook’s Battle
The Spook’s Mistake
The Spook’s Sacrifice
The Spook’s Nightmare
The Spook’s Destiny
I Am Grimalkin
The Spook’s Blood
Slither’s Tale
Alice
The Spook’s Revenge
The Spook’s Stories: Witches
The Spook’s Bestiary
The Seventh Apprentice
A New Darkness
The Dark Army
Dark Assassin
ARENA 13 SERIES
Arena 13
The Prey
The Warrior
ABERRATIONS SERIES
The Beast Awakens
For Marie
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Puffin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
www.penguin.co.uk
www.puffin.co.uk
www.ladybird.co.uk
First published 2018
Text copyright © Joseph Delaney, 2018
Map illustration by Matt Jones
Cover illustration by TwoDots
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-241-32103-4
All correspondence to:
Puffin Books
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
Crafty was listening to the whispering from his brothers’ graves.
He sat at the three-legged table, watching the shadows slither slowly towards him and staring at the far wall of the darkening cellar. Leaning against that far wall was a tall, decrepit, narrow cupboard, which without the wall’s support would long ago have collapsed. Once it had been well stocked with food. Now the cupboard was bare.
Crafty had checked it every hour or so, but whenever he’d carefully pulled back the wooden doors, groaning in agony upon their rusty hinges, it was empty. He’d left the cupboard doors open now to save himself the trouble of checking, but he was sure it would never fill itself again. The magic controlling it – a porter spell that instantly sent objects over long distances – had finally faded and died. Benign Fey magic never lasted long here within the Shole; here, it was malevolent magic that ruled.
Crafty shuddered just to think of what lay outside the cellar walls, and then hunger made his stomach rumble. At least there was a fire to keep him warm and fend off a little of the cold and damp. All that remained now were glowing embers, the last of the wood from the beds of his dead brothers.
Taking his eyes off the cupboard for a moment, he glanced round at the large wooden bookcase on the other wall. One of the shelves was sagging under the weight of the books that were so precious to him. He’d read them over and over again to keep at bay the tedium of life in the cellar. Although many were gone now, fed to the fire to keep it burning, there were some he couldn’t bear to sacrifice. These were the gardening books that had belonged to his mother.
A lump came to his throat as he thought of her. She’d been dead for almost a year now, but the pain of her loss was still there. He missed her badly, and the happy home she’d made for him and his brothers. But now he had to leave everything behind. He had to leave this refuge. He had to leave it or starve.
Crafty didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay here, with the memories of his mother and his two dead brothers.
Brock and Ben had been twins, two years older than him. They had been good to him; looked after him – so it didn’t scare him when they whispered to him. Sometimes he would kneel on the earthen floor and place his left ear close to their gravestones, listening carefully, trying to hear what they said. Sometimes he heard them calling his name.
‘Crafty! Crafty! Crafty!’ they whispered.
Other times they’d weep and, feeling full of pity, he was tempted to raise the stones and release them. But Father had told him never to go too near the graves – Crafty wasn’t sure why; he didn’t know about the whispering. He’d told Crafty that he was thirteen now, and must be brave, calm and dutiful – just like his brothers. They had lived their lives, and now they were resting in the cold earth. Crafty should leave them be.
And maybe, he thought, it might not be too bad down there. At least they weren’t hungry. They didn’t need to leave the safety of the cellar and face the dangers outside it alone.
Crafty’s thoughts turned back to his father.
I have to go away again, he had said, wrapping his black woollen scarf tightly about his thick neck, buttoning up his greatcoat and tugging on his big boots. Courier Benson had been summoned to the castle once more and had no choice but to obey; couriers, Crafty knew, were valued members of the Castle Corpus. Be brave, Crafty … let’s hope you’re still here when I return.
His father had said it with a smile, as if he was joking. Whenever there was danger, he usually joked about it.
Crafty was still here, and still waiting, but he feared that this time his father wouldn’t return in time to save him. His father should have returned long before now. Something must have gone wrong.
There was a tiny breeze in the cellar, and Crafty could smell warm candlewax. He’d always liked that smell, but now it worried him. Something worse than hunger would force him out of the cellar; something more insistent than his empty grumbling belly.
The cellar was only safe when it was lit by the magical candles his father had left. There were three of them positioned to form a triangle, each impaled on a spike on its own heavy metal stand. The huge candles had burned brightly with barely a flicker, but his father had been away too long and their benign magic was almost depleted. One by one they had been going out. Now there was only one still alight, and it had burned very low. If Crafty didn’t leave soon, he’d hardly be able to find his way to the door. And once the final candle guttered out, the cellar would no longer be safe.
In the fading light Crafty took a look around the cellar for the last time. It had been home to him, a mostly comfortable refuge, for almost a year. It was time to go.
He headed towards the silver-alloy stairs that led up from the cellar to the door; beyond that was another staircase that led to the kitchen. Those silver stairs were another protective ward his father had provided for the cellar.
Just as he reached the bottom step, there was a sudden noise behind Crafty that halted him in his tracks.
It was not the whispering of his dead brothers. It was not the clamour of their cries.
It was the sound of something thrusting upwards through the earthen floor.
I was so close … Crafty thought as his heart thumped against his ribs.
The final candle guttered out, plunging him into total darkness.
Crafty held his breath and kept perfectly still. Perhaps the thing that was emerging from the earth wouldn’t notice him.
Thud! Thud! Thud! went his heart. How fast could it beat without bursting out of his chest?
He knew exactly what was happening. During the past week the cellar had come under attack several times – the worst occurring just after the second candle had gone out. It had begun with thumping and banging in the rooms above. It had sounded like something big striding back and forth, bumping massive shoulders into doors and walls and trying to destroy the house.
That had distracted Crafty from the main attack. While he was gazing fearfully at the ceiling, something had risen into the cellar through the floor. Long, thin, bony fingers had twisted upwards through the soft earth in search of prey. Those fingers had been green, covered with brown warts and tipped with razor-sharp nails that were encrusted with dried blood.
Crafty had leaped back in alarm. As if sensing the movement, those threatening fingers had lurched further upwards, revealing the hand almost as far as the wrist. But in doing so the fingers had passed out of the shadow cast by the table, to be bathed in the yellow light of the final candle.
The warts had burst like boils lanced with a hot needle, the skin had sizzled and burned; and from deep under the earth had come a scream – followed by a groan of anguish. The hand had been withdrawn and the danger had passed, much to Crafty’s relief.
But now there was no magical candlelight to repulse the threat.
Swallowed by complete darkness, he now heard squishing, slithering, sucking sounds as something began to free itself from the soft, clinging earth. He could smell the loam. He turned, horrified, to see a brown glow emerging as a head came pushing up through the soil like a mushroom.
And then Crafty breathed out slowly, with some relief. There was no danger. He knew this creature, and she’d never hurt him before.
Her name was Bertha, and she was the only living friend Crafty had (if you didn’t count his father). Throughout the time he’d been confined in the cellar she’d come visiting. For some reason the three candles hadn’t been able to keep her away.
Now she sat cross-legged facing him, just behind the muddy hole she’d emerged from. The soft glow she gave off illuminated her whole body, revealing a slim, brown-skinned girl. Her eyes were large and green, and she appeared to be wearing no clothes, but that was because the garments that had once covered her had become fused with her skin, making it look like stretched brown leather, criss-crossed by lines, folds and creases. Her hair cascaded to her shoulders in gleaming black leathery coils, and atop her head was a slim golden crown with a single large green gem affixed to the front.
She was the Bog Queen.
She’d once been the warrior queen of the Segantii, a tribe who’d lived in Crafty’s area in ancient times. Led by Bertha, they’d won many battles, but then they had finally come up against the Romans, with their daunting shield-walls and long spears.
The Roman invaders had proved such a formidable enemy that Bertha’s priests thought they couldn’t be defeated without divine help. So they had offered up Bertha’s life to their gods. They’d sacrificed her, cutting her throat and then slicing off the forefinger of her right hand – though why they’d done that, Crafty couldn’t imagine. Once dead and buried, she’d slowly sunk further into the bog and had lain there, silent and still within the slime, for a very long time. Then the Shole had engulfed her burial place, and had returned her to life. Those who slew her were long dead, while she now lived again. Crafty often wondered if Bertha took any satisfaction from that.
Now she opened her mouth. The Bog Queen always spoke softly, and in a strange accent, and her meaning was sometimes hard to divine. So Crafty leaned forward and listened very carefully.
‘I tickled your brothers’ feet as I passed beneath them,’ she said, widening her eyes. ‘You should have heard them chuckle!’
‘All I can hear is their whispering,’ Crafty admitted sadly. ‘I wish I could hear them laugh.’
‘Don’t be sad, Crafty. They’re just resting. You know nothing that’s dead here stays dead forever. It’s the dying that’s hard. That can hurt. But all that’s behind them, and now they’re just waiting till it’s time to wake again.’
Crafty had once asked her when that would be, but Bertha had become stubbornly silent. Either she didn’t know or she wasn’t telling.
‘It’s been a long time since you last visited me,’ he told her now. ‘Have you brought bad news again?’
Earlier in the year, in the happier times when his brothers were still alive, Bertha used to visit them all in the cellar at least once a day; she would sit and talk for hours. Then, for the last seven months, ever since his father had taken Brock and Ben to the castle, returning only with their bodies to bury, Crafty had been alone. At first his loneliness had been terrible, and but for Bertha’s frequent visits he would have lost his mind. But now she rarely came to see him, and when she did she usually brought bad tidings.
Indeed, just now her face looked grim. ‘Yes, the news is bad, Crafty, but it’s always best to know when danger is approaching so that you can face it with your eyes wide open. I’ve come to warn you. Your father’s on his way back.’
How could that be bad news? Crafty wondered in surprise.
‘Good. I’m looking forward to his return,’ he told her with a smile. ‘I’ve been alone for far too long. He’s never stayed away as long as this before. I hope he’s bringing me another book to read.’
The Bog Queen did not reply immediately, and her face remained very serious. ‘He’s carrying a black hood, and a knife with a long sharp blade,’ she told him.
Crafty’s heart sank. Now he understood why this was bad news. Once before, his father had returned to the cellar with those items. On that occasion he’d taken Crafty’s brothers back with him to the castle – supposedly to be tested by someone called the Chief Mancer for a job there. It was the Chief Mancer who coordinated the teams of people, the Castle Corpus, who tried to learn more about the Shole and perhaps halt its relentless advance northwards; an advance that was now threatening the castle itself.
Each brother had been hooded and, as they left, Father had gripped the knife so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Neither brother had returned alive, and Crafty’s father had refused to discuss the matter. Crafty wondered if the ‘test’ they’d had to take was very dangerous. Was it his turn now? he wondered. Would he die too? At that thought his heart hammered in his chest again and his palms began to sweat.
There was a rumbling noise from somewhere on the upper floors which, although preferable to anywhere outside the house, weren’t as safe as the cellar. Could it be another aberration? Crafty heard a door slam, and then big booted feet began walking down towards the cellar. It was his father.
‘It’s time for me to go, Crafty,’ Bertha said. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Bye, Bertha,’ he whispered, his throat dry.
She gave him a little wave with her right hand, the one without a forefinger, and with a sad smile slid into the hole, feet first. The last thing he saw was the top of her brown head with its pointy crown, and then the earth closed over her and she was lost to sight.
Crafty’s father closed the door behind him. He was wearing his black lambswool greatcoat and carrying a candle which sent his gigantic shadow flickering up the wall behind him. He began to descend the steps, his big boots ringing on the silver-alloy stairs.
Crafty glanced up at him fearfully and saw that Bertha had been correct. His father was indeed carrying a black hood and a knife with a long sharp blade. He reached the bottom of the stairs, walked across the room and placed both items on the triangular table before him.
He turned to face Crafty with a frown. ‘Cheer up, Crafty,’ he said, his voice a deep growl. ‘Things could be worse.’
As usual, Crafty thought, his father seemed cool and detached. He made no mention of Crafty’s situation, alone here in the dark, or of the danger he’d faced. Father had changed since the death of Crafty’s mother, and although Crafty was pleased to see him, he couldn’t help feeling hurt.
‘Where have you been, Father? I’m hungry,’ he complained, ‘and I’d almost given up on you returning in time to save me. The third candle went out not long ago.’
‘Well, the one I’m holding will only last a few more minutes, so we’ve no time to waste. I’m taking you to the castle. You’ll be well-fed there, so that deals with the first of your concerns. Put on your jacket. It’s very cold out there.’
Crafty promptly did as he was told. It was always cold in the Shole, even in daylight.
‘Now turn and face me.’
He did as he was commanded – and saw that his father was holding out the black hood.
‘This is for your own good, Crafty. We’re not sure about the extent of your powers yet – whether they’ll protect you. But there are things out there in the Shole that would freeze the marrow in your bones and give you a lifetime of nightmares. You might even panic and run, and who knows if I’d be able to reach you in time to help. So it’s better if you don’t see them just now.’
Crafty stared at the hood dubiously. He’d never experienced the Shole directly – all he knew about it was the little that his father or Bertha would tell him, and none of that was good. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to see what was going on.
Noticing his reluctance, his father softened a little. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hand on your shoulder and make sure you don’t stumble. I won’t deny it – this is going to be difficult, because I’ve got to protect you as well as myself. But it can be done as long as you keep calm and follow my instructions immediately. Understand?’
Crafty nodded warily.
‘Good lad. Now, are you ready?’
He nodded again.
His father eased the hood over Crafty’s head. Now he could see nothing.
‘What do they want of me at the castle?’ he asked, his voice muffled by the hood. He could hear his father moving around the room as he answered, no doubt gathering up the last of their meagre belongings. He clearly hoped that they wouldn’t be coming back here again.
‘The Chief Mancer has sent for you. He needs to test you for something, Crafty. It’s nothing to worry about. If you pass, you won’t need to stay here in the cellar any longer. You’ll be able to work with him and help him to perform his duties.’
‘What’s the test?’ Crafty asked. ‘Is it the same one that was given to my brothers?’
‘It is indeed, Crafty, but it really is nothing to be concerned about. You’ll pass – I’m sure of it.’
‘Couldn’t I be a courier like you, Father? Couldn’t you train me?’ Crafty begged. He’d be far happier working with his father than with the Chief Mancer in a castle full of other strangers.
‘No, Crafty. You’re far too young to train as a courier. Anyway, you don’t have a choice. You can’t stay here – I see that the porter spell on the cupboard has failed, so I won’t be able to get food to you any more. Now come on, no more talking. Let’s be on our way.’
Crafty felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the steps. Soon their boots were clanging on silver as they began their slow ascent.
Bye, cellar, Crafty thought with some sadness. Goodbye, my brothers …
They came to a halt on the top step. Crafty heard his father turn the handle and open the door. Once through, they were climbing again, Crafty carefully feeling his way in the pitch-black of the hood. This time there were only seven steps; they were made of wood, and their boots no longer made a clanging sound. Then there was another door – and now they were on level ground.
Crafty’s father guided him forward, but Crafty could have managed this part without help. He’d grown up in this house. He knew they were passing through the kitchen where, as a child, he’d watched his mother making jam butties and baking scones. He gave a half-smile at the memory. Then they went out through the back door.
The cold took his breath away. It was summer out in what was now known as the Daylight World, but here in the Shole it was said that the temperature never rose much above freezing. It certainly felt like it to Crafty, who immediately began to shiver.
They began walking and, as they did, their feet made squelching noises in the soft ground.
‘We’re following the curve of the bog until we can go directly north towards Lancaster,’ his father said, keeping his voice low.
The bog was where Bertha had been buried – it was her home. Crafty suddenly wondered if he’d ever see her again.
After about ten minutes Crafty’s father spoke again, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
‘We’re on a track leading north now. There’s a wood to our left, but it seems safe enough. I can see a cottage in the distance to our right, so we’d better be extra careful. Buildings can be dangerous, Crafty. All sorts of terrible aberrations make them their homes. But most only come out at night. At the moment it’s not long after noon, which is the safest time. We should be fine for a while, and we’ve only a few miles to go.’
They walked on in silence for another half-hour. Everything was deathly quiet. There was no birdsong. All Crafty could hear was the sound of his own breath, and their boots, now crunching across firmer ground. It became even colder, making him wonder if there was frost or snow underfoot.
Suddenly his father gripped his shoulder and brought him to an abrupt halt. He leaned down so that Crafty could feel his warm breath against his right ear.
‘Don’t speak or move. There’s something big through the trees to our left. If we’re lucky, it won’t notice us.’
Crafty could hear it. Something was moving ponderously through the undergrowth, brushing through the grass and crushing twigs underfoot. He could also hear heavy distant breathing.
His father’s hand kept a tight grip on his shoulder. Was Crafty imagining it, or was he trembling?
Eventually the breathing and the rustling and cracking grew quieter. Within minutes it had faded away altogether, and they began to move forward again without saying anything, though Crafty couldn’t help letting out a small sigh of relief.
Another half-hour passed. Then: ‘Nearly there, Crafty! Just a few more steps!’
And suddenly he could feel warmth on his face. Crafty gasped. It had to be the sun! He hadn’t seen it in over a year. Even through the thick black hood, he could see light.
They’d emerged from the Shole and survived! Crafty almost laughed with relief.
‘Stand still,’ his father instructed.
He obeyed, and the hood was gently eased off his head. Then he stood there, blinking up at white clouds drifting across a blue sky and feeling the sun on his face.
His father returned his long knife to the sheath on his broad leather belt, stuffed the hood into his pocket and let out a huge sigh of relief too.
Crafty looked around, and saw that, just north of them, there was a glittering canal, and behind that a hill with Lancaster Castle atop it, multi-coloured flags flying from the battlements. There were people in the narrow, cobbled streets leading up to it, but nowhere near the crowds he’d fought his way through on his last visit, well over a year ago. Even so, after the time he’d spent in that dark cellar the sight was almost overwhelming.
Then he turned to look south, gazing back at the threatening darkness of the Shole. It was like a huge black curtain, stretching from the ground right up into the heavens, enveloping and hiding everything within it. It looked like the edge of a storm – a wall of dark cloud that might sweep over them at any moment and obliterate what was left of the Daylight World.
Crafty knew that the few people who managed to survive within the Shole itself were usually changed by its dark magic. Some were extremely dangerous, according to his father. Most didn’t attempt to leave, but the few who did were slain on sight by the castle’s border patrols.
Others became marooned on what were known as the Daylight Islands – patches of land surrounded by the Shole. These people depended upon couriers such as Crafty’s father to carry messages back and forth and keep them in touch with the outer world, and sometimes even bring them medicine or magical artefacts. Some islands didn’t have enough land to grow food, and so it had to be delivered to them by means of a porter spell, just like Crafty’s cupboard in the cellar. But it was a complicated process and often failed – as it had with Crafty.
And so all those who were trapped – good or bad – had to stay within the Shole and survive as best they could.
Crafty heard a noise behind him, and saw four guards from the border patrol rushing down the hill towards him and his father, swords drawn, chain mail gleaming in the sunlight. But as they drew nearer and recognized Crafty’s father as Courier Benson, they slowed to a walk, sheathing their swords.
As a castle courier, he was permitted to both enter and leave the Shole. Anyone or anything he brought out was considered to be under his protection and, subject to a subsequent examination by the castle authorities and ratification by the Duke, they were usually permitted to live. The judgement of couriers was generally trusted – after all, they knew the Shole better than most.
Crafty’s father hailed the guards, who nodded at him without smiling and, at a leisurely pace, continued their patrol of the boundary between the Shole and the Daylight World.
As they continued on their way, Crafty looked at the houses and saw broken windows and doors hanging from their hinges. They’d been abandoned, and he thought they’d probably been looted of any possessions their owners had left behind. People with any sense were moving on before the Shole got any closer.
Because it’s always moving, always advancing, thought Crafty.
Mainly it moved north, but he’d heard that there was also expansion to east and west, making the Shole wider. But it no longer expanded southwards. Nobody knew why.
And sometimes no amount of foresight could save you. Although the Shole usually crept forwards by no more than a few inches each week, sometimes it could surge by as much as several miles. Those sudden movements were unpredictable.
Crafty’s mother had been at the local market when the Shole suddenly engulfed the whole area – and killed her. Or changed her, Crafty thought, though he didn’t like to dwell on that. Although Crafty’s father had searched for weeks, he had never found her body. They’d had to assume the worst.
Afterwards his father had tried to make the cellar safe for Crafty and his brothers, using all the skills and knowledge he’d acquired as a courier. But that had only bought them time. He’d known that eventually the creatures of the Shole – the aberrations – would overwhelm them.
So Crafty’s father had offered his sons’ services to the Chief Mancer, who was a powerful man. Working for him would allow them to escape from the Shole. But escape to what – death? In order to work for the Chief Mancer you had to pass that dangerous test – whatever it was. Crafty’s brothers had not survived it. Crafty’s stomach turned over in nervous anticipation.
They crossed the nearest bridge over the canal and walked up Market Street towards the castle. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, displaying merchandise that few people were around to buy. All sorts of food were on sale: hot pies, steaming joints of meat waiting to be carved, parched peas and chips. But the strongest smell was that of sea creatures. Lobsters slowly writhed in big bowls of water, and there were shrimps and mussels from Morecambe Bay. Crafty’s stomach rumbled, and he wondered what he’d be given to eat at the castle.
As he looked around, it seemed that people were simply carrying on with their lives and ignoring the threat. But a closer study of their faces suggested otherwise. They were anxious and fearful, their minds never at rest.
If you looked north, ignoring those haunted faces, everything did indeed look normal – but to the south there were only the abandoned buildings beyond the canal and the dark wall of the Shole.
They walked up to the main gate of the castle and, at a nod from his father, the guards allowed them to pass under the portcullis and through the gate into the flagged courtyard beyond.
‘This is my son,’ Crafty’s father called to another guard, who had come over to intercept them. ‘The Chief Mancer is expecting him. He’s to be interviewed tomorrow.’
The guard glanced at Crafty – was that pity he could see in his face?
‘Go with him, Crafty,’ his father said, turning to face him. ‘Get an early night so that you’re at your best tomorrow. And good luck. I’ll be back soon to see how you’re getting on.’
Crafty hesitated, hoping that his father might give him a hug. But then he remembered that, since the death of Crafty’s mother, his father had become more distant, a little colder. All he got was a nod as his father turned and walked away. It brought a lump to his throat, but he knew he had to be strong.
Until his father said that he was to be interviewed the next day, Crafty had expected to be taken straight to the Chief Mancer. Instead he was led up a series of spiral stairs to a small room in one of the towers, with a bed, a chair and a small table, and a narrow window that offered a good view south over the city. On the table, he saw immediately, there was a plate of cheese, bread and ham. His mouth began to water.
When the guard left, he locked the door behind him – though Crafty was too hungry to let that bother him much. He raced over to the table and quickly cleared his plate. The minute he’d finished he suddenly felt exhausted. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, and it had been a very tiring day, so he undressed and crawled into bed, expecting to fall asleep immediately. But he was still wound up by the events of the day. He tossed and turned, and then started thinking about his mother. An early memory came to him from when he was no more than five or six, the Shole still far to the south of their home.
It had begun in darkness with the sound of weeping.
The noise had woken him up, and brought him stumbling downstairs. He had stepped into the kitchen to see his mother kneeling on the flagstones, gazing into the glowing embers of the fire. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and dripping from her chin.
‘Mama! Mama!’ he cried, his own tears falling as he ran towards her.
She gathered him to her and he pressed his face into her long hair as she consoled him.
‘What’s wrong, Mama? What’s wrong?’
She lifted him up, carried him over to a chair and sat him on her knee, her arms still wrapped around him. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Crafty. It’s just that I miss your father, and he’s been away so long this time. I wish he’d hurry back.’
They stayed like that, not saying anything. He was happy to be in her arms and glad that she was no longer crying. At last he looked up at her and spoke. ‘When I grow up, I want to be like my father. I want to be big like him and wear a uniform and be a courier and visit the castle.’
‘Maybe you’ll get your wish,’ his mother had said, smiling down at him. ‘You’re Fey – you’re different from other people. It’s a job you might well be able to do.’
‘How am I different, Mama?’
‘You just are, that’s all. We won’t know how different until you’re grown. You and your brothers and your father are Fey; when you’re older he’ll tell you all about it, no doubt.’
‘The boy next door said that I’d grow up to be a warlock and they’d lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key and give me maggots to eat and stick hot needles into me. His big brother laughed.’
His mother had frowned and held him a little tighter. ‘Take no notice, my love. People always make fun of those who are different. Children are the worst of all. Don’t bother your little head about it.’
Crafty pushed the memory away. Only now that he was older did he realize how scared his mother must have been after each departure, fearing that her husband would fail to return – that he’d be killed down south in the Shole and she’d never see him again.
It must have been hard for her as the only member of the family who wasn’t Fey. It wasn’t just children who were cruel – adults were wary of Fey folk. They kept their distance and talked behind your back. Neighbours shunned them – if his mother went out to hang up her washing, those in the next-door garden would immediately go inside. Their children were happy to talk though – happy to torment Crafty and his brothers.
Crafty realized that his mother must have been very lonely at times. It was unusual for a normal human to marry a Fey. People looked down on it. She must have been very brave to do so.
Now she was dead, slain by the Shole, and he would never see her again.