Swift

  She expected an angry retort, but the prisoner only pinched the bridge of his nose, as though she had given him a headache. Then he said with infinite weariness, ‘I don’t even know what a spriggan is.’

  Ivy’s legs wobbled. ‘What? But then…what are you?’

  ‘A faery. What else?’

  What else, indeed. Between the dirt and blood that smeared his body, the ragged clothes and unkempt hair, she would never have taken him for one of the so-called Fair Folk. Yet now that he mentioned it, he did look more like a faery than he ever had a spriggan…

  ‘Oh,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Marigold warned me to be careful about showing myself to anyone. She said your people had been living underground for a long time, and that they didn’t take kindly to strangers. But even so—’ He touched his injured arm and grimaced. ‘I wasn’t expecting quite this level of hostility.’

  He sounded reasonable now, even sane. But Ivy wasn’t ready to let her guard down yet. ‘Is it broken?’ she asked.

  ‘Out of joint.’ He moved his hand, revealing the ugly swelling around the elbow. ‘Your brother seemed to think he could make me talk by trying to rip my arm off, but I can’t say it inspired me to much more than yelling.’

  Ivy almost asked how he’d known Mica was her brother, but then she remembered: he’d seen the two of them arguing outside the Engine House. ‘So why didn’t you tell him you knew my mother?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I was too busy yelling, perhaps?’ He spoke mildly, but the words were tinged with sarcasm. ‘Not to mention fighting for my life.’

  Even Ivy’s distrust couldn’t keep her from feeling a twinge of sympathy. Faeries might be deceitful and self-centred as the legends claimed, but the stranger was clearly in pain. Maybe that was why he’d been raving earlier.

  ‘Mica…doesn’t always think before he acts,’ she said, resisting a traitorous impulse to add, I’m sorry.

  ‘I got that impression, yes,’ said the faery dryly. ‘I don’t suppose you have some kind of magical healing elixir that would put my arm right?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Ivy. Yarrow’s herbs might ease the pain and bring down the swelling, but they wouldn’t solve the underlying problem. ‘And even if I did, don’t you think the Joan would notice that someone had healed you?’

  ‘I doubt it, unless she can see through rock.’ He jerked his head at the ceiling-high wall of rubble behind him. ‘She hasn’t bothered to look at me once since I woke up in here. And it seems she’s not planning to give me any food or water either, unless I start talking.’

  Ivy was silent, troubled by the revelation. Did Betony really mean to starve the spriggan – or faery – until he confessed to killing Keeve? But what if he hadn’t?

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about faeries,’ said the prisoner, ‘but if there’s one thing my people honour, it’s a bargain. Help me now, and I’ll do you a favour in return.’

  ‘Like you did for my mother?’ Ivy asked, moving a little closer. After all, he could hardly overpower her with only one working hand. ‘What exactly did you promise her, anyway?’

  ‘To tell you that she was alive, and wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘And if you were willing, to bring you back to Truro with me.’

  Ivy had no idea how far away the city of Truro was. But she’d never heard Mica or any of the other hunters mention it, so it must be out of their usual range – at least a day’s journey on foot, if not more. How could she possibly travel so far from the Delve without anyone noticing that she was gone?

  And yet, if her mother was truly alive…how could she not go?

  She was still wrestling with the question when she noticed the stranger extending his injured arm towards her, wincing all the while. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I told you. Help me, and I’ll help you. Just do as I say.’ He hesitated, then added with obvious reluctance, ‘Please.’

  Ivy sighed. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Take my hand, and slide your other hand under my elbow.’

  Suppressing her distaste, Ivy reached out and took his limp, white fingers in her own. She had half-expected to find his skin cold and slimy, as a spriggan’s ought to be – but his hand was warm, even feverish, in her grip. Gingerly she slipped her other hand beneath his swollen joint, feeling the dislocation. ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘Hold my elbow steady,’ said the prisoner between his teeth, ‘and pull my wrist towards you. Not too fast, but – aaaaah!’ There was a sickening pop beneath Ivy’s palm and he staggered against her, gasping. But when he lifted his head again, the relief on his face was close to ecstasy.

  ‘You have my profound gratitude,’ he breathed, flexing his arm. ‘So does this mean we have a bargain?’

  Ivy’s thoughts and feelings were in a tangle, and she had no idea how to reply. Had she really just helped one of her people’s oldest enemies? What would happen to her, if anyone found out? She sat down heavily on an outcropping. When she’d left the cavern looking for answers about her mother, she’d never imagined it would turn out like this. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ He dragged his chain across the floor and crouched beside her. ‘It’s perfectly simple. You get me out of here, and I take you to Marigold.’

  He made it sound so easy. ‘But how would we get there? And when would we leave?’

  ‘As soon as you like, or near enough. As for how…’ He tapped a finger against his teeth. ‘It would be easiest to travel by magic, but you’ve never been to Truro before, so that won’t work. And you haven’t got wings, so…’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to carry you on my back.’

  ‘Carry me?’ asked Ivy, in baffled outrage. ‘I can walk perfectly well, in case you hadn’t noticed! What kind of—’

  ‘Of course you can walk. But you can’t fly, which is more to the point.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe that you can?’ Faery or not, he had no more wings than she did. Was the stranger mad after all, or did he really think she was that stupid? Disgusted, Ivy pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Wait.’ His voice sharpened. ‘You can’t leave me here.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Ivy said. ‘You’ve had your fun, and got your arm fixed into the bargain. What else do you need me for? Wait a few days, and you should be thin enough to slip out of that manacle and fly out of here.’ She made a cynical flapping motion and turned away.

  ‘You really don’t know what I’m talking about.’ He sounded incredulous. ‘I knew piskeys were different, but I had no idea… Ivy, listen to me!’

  Annoyed as she was, his desperation brought her up short. She stopped, waiting.

  ‘I know I don’t have wings any more than you do,’ he said. ‘Not in this form. But I can change shape – all male faeries can. And if I turn myself into a bird, and you make yourself small enough, I can fly you to Truro and back again before anyone knows you’re gone.’

  ‘That’s ridic—’ Ivy started, but the word dissolved on her tongue as she remembered the little bird she’d seen flying away, right after the spriggan had disappeared. Was it possible? Could that have been him?

  She wanted to believe. Not only that magic could turn a wingless faery into a bird, but that everything else the stranger had told her was true as well. That Marigold was alive and longing to see her, and that one short flight over the countryside would bring them together again.

  And that was exactly why Ivy couldn’t listen to the spriggan any longer. Because if she did, she might end up making the worst mistake of her life.

  ‘I have to go,’ she blurted, and fled.

  ‘I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no soul shall pity me…’

  Wearily Ivy raised her head from the pillow, the stranger’s parting words still echoing in her mind. She’d had to listen to him all the way up the shaft last night, gabbling about villainy and
murder and vengeance, and guilt had stabbed her as she realised he was already tumbling back into madness. Even without the agony of a dislocated elbow, being locked up in the pitch dark with an iron band around his ankle must be unbearable for a creature used to fresh air and sunlight, and if that weren’t cruel enough, he was dying of hunger and thirst as well…

  Ivy kicked back the bedcovers and pulled open the curtains of her alcove, grimacing at the dirty smears her fingers left behind. She’d been so tired when she got back to the cavern, she’d fallen into bed without washing or changing her clothes. Had Mica and Cicely noticed? What would she tell them, if they asked where she had been?

  She hopped down onto the rug and glanced in both directions. All the beds were empty, and the door to their father’s bedchamber stood open; bowls and spoons littered the table, and Cicely had forgotten to put the cream back in the cold-hole. It was mid-morning, and they’d all left hours ago – what must they have thought when they woke up and found Ivy still asleep?

  She heated water for a bath and scrubbed herself clean, then tidied up the dining table and made the bed Mica had left in disarray. It irked her that he never did it himself, but if she didn’t look after it Cicely would, so there was no point leaving it. After that she’d sweep the floor and make some bread, and finish curing the skin from Keeve’s adder, and then…

  Ivy collapsed into a chair, fingers worrying at her black curls. It was no use trying to distract herself, or pretend that her conversation with the spriggan hadn’t happened. What if Marigold really had sent him? Could Ivy let him starve and miss what might well be her only chance to find her mother, simply because she was afraid of being taken in?

  Yet she had to find a way to protect herself, before she agreed to anything. Faeries might consider a bargain sacred, but if the old stories were true, they also had a knack for finding loopholes in nearly any bargain they made. And the last thing Ivy wanted was to risk her life for this stranger, only to end up betrayed…

  ‘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 exp
ect 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…

  ‘You’ll have to go up to the surface,’ the stranger went on, ‘in the middle of the day, and spend a few hours following birds around before you find the one that calls to you, the one you need to become. And that’s only the first step.’ He shifted his weight, wincing as the iron band tugged at his ankle. ‘Are you ready to do that?’

  To go above in broad daylight, under the merciless eye of a sun she’d never seen before? To defy the rules and traditions she’d been raised with, risk the Joan’s wrath and her fellow piskeys’ disapproval, and make herself a hypocrite for telling Cicely that it was dangerous to go above? To take the chance that Keeve’s murderer was still out there, waiting for another careless piskey to cross his path?