R. Anderson - Swift

‘You’re up,’ said Cicely, peering in the doorway. ‘I thought you were ill. I was going to ask Yarrow to come and look at you.’

Ivy forced a smile. ‘I’m well enough. I just got to bed later than I should have.’ She climbed to her feet. ‘Why don’t we make some bread?’

‘Did you talk to him?’ asked Mica that night at supper, taking the last roll from the basket.

Ivy choked. ‘What — who?’

‘Dad. It was him you were looking for, wasn’t it?’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘To ask him about…you know.’

She hid her face in her cup and took a long drink, only partly relieved. Why was Mica always oblivious to her feelings except when she didn’t want him to notice? ‘Oh. No, I didn’t. I couldn’t find him, so I went for a walk instead.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Cicely.

But Mica didn’t answer, and the silence thickened until Ivy said, ‘Just something that Mica remembered and I didn’t. I thought he was mistaken, so I was going to ask Dad. But then I realised maybe he was right after all.’

‘Took you long enough,’ muttered Mica, but she could see that he was both surprised and pleased. It must have been frustrating for him these past five years, hearing Ivy claim that their mother had been taken by the spriggans when he was certain that deep down she knew better. Not that it excused his attitude towards her — he still deserved a good smack around the head for that, and Ivy wished she were tall enough to give it to him. But it explained a lot about the way he’d been behaving.

‘It’s about Mum, isn’t it?’ Cicely turned accusing eyes to Ivy. ‘You always get that look on your face when you’re thinking about her. What did he say? Was it the same as-’

‘Leave it,’ Mica cut in. ‘Ivy’s tired of talking about it and so am I. It’s not going to change anything.’ He stabbed another slice of rabbit and began cutting it up. ‘Matt and I are going into Redruth tomorrow. Is there anything you want?’

Ivy poked at her meal, torn between gratitude and guilt. Every now and then, along with the small animals they hunted, the fish they caught and the wild greens, mushrooms and berries they foraged, the hunters of the Delve took human-shape and journeyed to the nearby towns for more exotic fare: glittering white sugar and flour ground fine as dust, currants and saffron and citrus peel, slabs of chocolate or sweet marzipan. It was always a pleasant surprise when Mica remembered to ask Ivy what she needed, but if he knew where she’d been last night, he wouldn’t be offering to do her any favours.

‘I’m running out of cinnamon,’ she said at last. ‘And I wouldn’t mind a couple of oranges.’ Cicely loved oranges, so perhaps that would be enough to keep her from brooding over Mica’s reprimand — though judging by the mulish look on her face, it was already too late.

‘I told Yarrow I’d help her grind herbs tonight,’ Cicely said, pushing her plate away. ‘I should go.’

‘All right,’ said Ivy. She waited until her sister had left, then turned to Mica. ‘Have you heard anything more about the spriggan? Has he talked to the Joan yet?’

Mica shook his head in disgust. ‘I told Gossan they should hang him up by his ankles over a smelting-pot and see what he has to say then, but he said we piskeys ought to be better than that, whatever that’s supposed to mean. They’re going to leave him alone for a couple of days before they question him again.’

‘And if he still won’t talk?’

He shrugged. ‘Gossan said they’d mine that vein when they came to it.’ Though the contempt in his tone said how little he approved of the Jack’s forbearance. ‘But whether he tells us what he did with Keeve or not, there’s no way that spriggan’s going to see daylight again. If the Joan doesn’t make sure of that…’ His hand dropped to the hilt of his hunter’s knife. ‘Then I will.’

It was raining that night as Ivy descended the Great Shaft, slow droplets falling between the bars and pattering into the stagnant water below. But she’d brought a rope this time, fastening one end tight at the foot of the iron railing and the other around her waist, so even if she slipped she wouldn’t fall far.

She’d expected to hear the spriggan talking, as he had the night before. But the shaft was silent, and as she lowered herself into his cell the only sounds were the rasp of hemp on stone and the scuffing of her own bare feet. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered, brightening her glow so he could see her. ‘Are you awake?’

The prisoner sat against the wall, hands dangling between his knees. He looked like a corpse at first, eyes glazed and features slack, but as Ivy approached he stirred and gave a feeble smile. ‘ But soft! ’ he murmured. ‘ What light through yonder window breaks? ’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Ivy, sharp with the effort of hiding her relief. ‘There aren’t any windows here.’

‘It’s a line from a play by Shakespeare,’ he replied. He must have seen Ivy’s blank expression, because he went on patiently, ‘Shakespeare was a human writer who lived a few centuries ago. Plays are stories made up of speeches and acted out in front of an audience. You understand the concept of theatre?’

‘You mean a droll-show,’ said Ivy. ‘Like at midwinter, when the children dress up and pretend to be warriors, or… monsters.’ She had almost said spriggans.

The prisoner’s nostrils flared. ‘I suppose. In a crude fashion.’

Time to change the subject, before he made her feel any more ignorant. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said to me. And…I’m ready to make a bargain.’

At once his expression changed. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ll take the iron off your ankle and help you get out of here, so you can take me to my mother. But I won’t ride on your back.’

She spoke the words firmly, determined not to betray even a hint of weakness. After all, even if he could transform himself into a bird, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t fly off without her — or worse, take her somewhere she didn’t want to go.

‘Ivy,’ said the stranger in exasperation, ‘you can’t expect me to walk you there. Even at human size-’

‘No.’ Her heart was fluttering, but she kept her voice calm. ‘Teach me to change shape, like you do. I won’t go anywhere with you, until I can fly.’

He stared at her. ‘You? But you’re a piskey. A female piskey, at that. And you think I can teach you to become a bird?’

‘Why not? You learned to do it.’

‘Piskey magic and faery magic aren’t the same,’ he said with forced patience. ‘There are all kinds of things my people can do that yours can’t. And even among faeries, changing shape isn’t something females do.’

‘How do you know that? Just because you’ve never seen one do it? I wouldn’t bother turning myself into a bird either, if I had wings of my own. But I don’t, so I have to try.’ She folded her arms. ‘And if you ever want to get out of here, you’re going to have to try too.’

He made a faint, disbelieving sound. ‘You drive a hard bargain, lady.’

‘Harder where there’s none,’ she said.

‘Even if you’re right, it’s not going to be easy. Before you can take the shape of a bird or animal, you have to know every part of it. You have to be completely familiar with the way it looks and moves, and know its habits as well as you know your own.’ He spread his lean hands, inviting her to look around. ‘Do you see any birds in here?’

Ivy hesitated. She’d thought changing shape would only be a matter of technique — that all he had to do was explain the steps to her and she’d be able to try it right away. But if she had to actually look at a bird, in order to become one…