Lily

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  Orchard Books Australia

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  First published in the UK in 2011 by Orchard Books

  This ebook edition published in 2011

  ISBN 978 1 408 31640 5

  Text © Holly Webb 2011

  The right of Holly Webb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Orchard Books is a division of Hachette Children’s Books,

  an Hachette UK company.

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Lily stared out across the water. It was very early – she wasn’t sure of the time exactly, but the maids had only just been lighting the stove when she scurried out of the back door of Merrythought House. It was full summer, and the sun was hot already, glittering on the ripples. The hard, silvery light seemed to cut a path across the grey-blue sea, so clear a path that it looked almost solid, and Lily longed to step out onto it, and walk across. She stretched out a foot, even, without realising it, and might have stepped into the water, if Peter hadn’t snorted in disgust at her silliness, and grabbed her elbow.

  Lily blinked and turned to look him. His arms were folded now, and he was eyeing her, his nose wrinkled up as though he were trying not to laugh. She glared back at him. ‘What? I wasn’t actually going to!’

  She sighed, and sat down on the warm stones, opening her book again. She didn’t really understand it – it was a great fat thing about the practice of glamours that she’d found in the china cupboard – but she was trying to. She ought to be able to understand. Both her parents were magicians, after all. And her sister was a genius at this sort of thing. So why couldn’t Lily even grow her fingernails a little longer? She stretched out her fingers, but the nails stayed stubby and short, and rather dirty. Lily sighed again, crossly, and gazed out over the water, the view pulling her from the book once more.

  From this angle, the path was only sunshine on the sea, and the mainland was the merest smudge of a shadow on the horizon.

  ‘It did look real, though, didn’t it?’ she said quietly to Peter. ‘I wonder what it’s like, over there.’

  Peter stomped away across the stones, and Lily flinched at the angry clatter of the pebbles under his feet. She sometimes forgot that he hadn’t been born on the island, as she had. He knew what the mainland was like, and she shouldn’t have made him remember.

  She sprang up, and followed him back to the cliff path, toiling up towards the house. He would have been missed by now, probably. He was stronger than she was, and he reached the top of the path before her, turning to wave once before he raced off over the lawn. Lily didn’t hurry to catch up with him. It was better that they didn’t go back together – Peter wasn’t supposed to be spending his time running after that dratted girl. Lily had heard Mrs Porter, the cook, say so the day before. She wandered through the long grass, kicking at dandelion clocks, and watching the seeds puff away on the wind. How far could they fly? They were too hard to follow against the white light of the sky, but perhaps some would float for miles, and grow Merrythought dandelions across the sea.

  She was approaching the house, her hands full of dandelions now, blowing the seeds up into the sky, when she stopped dead, her breath catching in her throat. The warmth of the sun seemed to seep away.

  A figure had appeared round the corner of the house, too quickly somehow, as though she hadn’t walked, just was suddenly there.

  Lily forced herself to smile a little, and nod, even though she was trembling, and the woman in the dark dress bowed politely, and stood back for her to pass. It was only proper, as she was a lady’s maid, and Lily was a daughter of the house, but it felt wrong. Lily scurried away, hurrying round the corner. She could feel Marten staring after her, and her gaze clung.

  Lily had never been sure what it was about Marten that frightened her so much. Perhaps the black clothes – Marten never wore anything else. A black wool dress, winter and summer, and a veil and gloves, even in the house. The other servants muttered about odd foreign habits, but they were used to her. Marten had been Lily’s mother’s maid for years.

  Once she had turned the corner, onto the path that led to the back of the house, and the kitchens, Lily flattened herself into the shadows along the wall, gasping. She wasn’t usually so cowardly, but Marten had crept up on her – or it felt like it. She gulped air, feeling dizzy, and then bolted for the kitchens, wanting warmth, and light, and company, however bad-tempered it might be.

  Even though Mrs Porter was in the middle of one of her tirades, the kitchen still felt welcoming after the sudden shadow outside. Peter had been missed then, Lily noted guiltily, as she realised who Mrs Porter was shouting at.

  ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing boy! Off gallivanting, when we’re near out of firewood! I need to cook madam’s breakfast – French toast, we want, if you please! – and I’ve no fire! Where have you been?’

  Peter only shrugged, and looked gormless. It was a very useful look, and he was expert at it.

  ‘And what’s the matter with you, lurking there in the corner, miss?’ Mrs Porter suddenly wheeled round and snapped. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  The two young maids, who were drinking tea at the big wooden table, drew in an identical horrified breath, and stared up at Lily.

  ‘Miss Lily, you didn’t, did you?’ Violet asked, her pale eyes wide.

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ Martha murmured, but she was glancing around the darker corners of the kitchen, even so.

  ‘Not a ghost.’ Lily shook her head. ‘Only Marten. She – she surprised me…’ she added, knowing that she sounded foolish.

  Mrs Porter made a dismissive noise. ‘What would surprise me, Miss Lily, would be if you would keep yourself out of my kitchen for a morning, and stop leading this boy off on some wild goose chase just when I need him.’

  ‘Sorry…’ Lily whispered, backing towards the door. Mrs Porter had been scowling down at a spikily written little note lying on the scrubbed wooden table. It was Mama’s writing. Lily had been avoiding going anywhere near her mother for weeks, and it seemed that Mama’s bad temper was now making itself felt to the servants as well. She was sure that even the air was shimmering slightly, filled with a furious magic that rubbed everyone’s nerves raw.

  ‘Oh, stay still, girl!’ Mrs Porter shoved an old napkin into her hands, and then snapped at Martha to fill it with some bread and cheese. ‘Now, get upstairs, where you belong!’

  Lily whisked out of the kitchen without begging for anything else – when Mama was demanding fancy dishes, Mrs Porter had been known to hurl china at Martha, and her aim wasn’t good.

  ‘Miss! Miss Lily!’ Martha was hissing after her as she hurried through the dark passages away from the servants’ quarters. Lily turned back anxiously. ‘What is it, Martha? Don’t let Mrs Porter catch you. She’s in enough of a mood as it is.’

  ‘Here. A mouse wouldn’t last on that morsel of bread and cheese.’ Martha stuffed a handful of biscuits and an apple into the napkin as well, and kissed Lily’s cheek. ‘Stay out of the kitchen, you hear? The old dragon’s fit to burst. Madam keeps complaining, and Mr Francis disapproved of the rabbit from supper last night.’ Martha sniggered. ‘He’s not even set foot in the kitchen today, he’s hiding in the butler’s pantry, says he’s counting the silver cutlery.’

  Lily hugged Martha. ‘I won’t come near, I promise. Make sure you duck if she picks up the copper preserving pan, won’t you?’ She waved to Martha, and hurried away, biting into the apple gratefully. She was making for th
e orangery, one of the rooms that everyone else at Merrythought House had forgotten about. It had been a beautiful glasshouse once, with a fountain, and a pretty enamel stove to keep the trees warm, but they had all died long ago, and the fountain was blocked up with leaves. It was the perfect place to hide away.

  Lily rubbed at a patch of charcoal with her hand, smudging the drawing out. It wasn’t good enough. It didn’t look real. She sighed, and tucked her knees up under her dirty old dress, hugging them, trying to work out where the drawing had gone wrong. Her dress was filthy, she noticed, and she brushed uselessly at some of the stains on the faded blue and white cotton. But the dirt wasn’t just charcoal, it was weeks of wear, and the frock was too short as well. It hardly covered her knees, and the buttons were pulling. She needed a new one, but that would mean asking.

  It wasn’t the time.

  The house was simmering with anger, even more than it had been early in the morning. Lily wasn’t sure what was happening, but when she had stolen out of the orangery earlier, she had seen Mama stalking through the passageways, the gold silk of her dress rustling with fury. Mama always walked when she was angry, swishing along like a battleship in full sail. Lily had ducked back down the tiled corridor just in time. It was safer to stay out of Mama’s way, and leave her the house to rampage around. Her face had been white, and she was muttering under her breath, words that were so strong Lily could almost see them. She thought of warning Georgiana, but she hadn’t seen her sister for weeks. Probably she was in the library. Mama had been coming from that direction, anyway, and Georgiana was almost always shut up in there studying.

  Lily allowed herself a moment’s resentment of her sister, for being the clever, special one. But it did only last a moment. Over the past few months she had stopped envying Georgiana quite so much. Lily wasn’t sure that she wanted all her mother’s attention, or even half of it. There were advantages to being the youngest and least interesting; advantages that outweighed too-small dresses and eating in the kitchens.

  No lessons, for a start.

  Georgiana had lessons all the time, and Lily suspected that Mama’s current fury was due to Georgie not doing well enough at them. Georgie was supposed to be a very powerful magician. When she was born, the seer that their parents had brought over to the island had sworn that she was the one, the child all the old magic families were waiting for. The one who would restore the world to the way it should be – with magic no longer outlawed, and the Powers family out of their miserable exile.

  Mama hadn’t summoned a seer for the inconvenient baby that followed Georgiana. Why would she, when they already had dear little Georgie? Lily was only an afterthought, and no one bothered with her. A slightly smug smile pulled up one corner of Lily’s mouth. Being the younger sister of a miracle was easier to bear when the miracle wasn’t quite performing as she should.

  But then her smile faded. If it was Georgie that had made Mama look like that…

  She was hungry, she realised, staring out of the cracked window panes at the high sun. It had to be lunchtime.

  She had left the napkin folded up by the draughty French windows which looked out onto the garden, and now she glanced over at it hopefully. She was so hungry that she couldn’t possibly have eaten all the bread and cheese… But it was dismally empty, and a small, greyish mouse was just seizing the only crumbs left. It froze for a second as it realised Lily was watching, and then dived for a hole in the crumbling wall.

  Lily shuddered. The old orangery was infested with mice, like the rest of Merrythought House. Mama’s cats were far too proud and pampered to chase them, and they scurried everywhere, except the library. Lily was sure that not a single mouse would dare even to poke its whiskers in there.

  Another flurry of movement made her catch her breath and swing round in panic. But it wasn’t a mouse about to run over her feet. Instead, a tiny brown frog was now sitting in the middle of her charcoal mess, looking doubtful.

  Lily smiled to herself. Oddly, although she couldn’t stand the mice – she thought it was because of their naked pinkish tails – she found the frogs funny and charming. They had invaded the orangery earlier in the week, a sudden plague of them, and she was rather hoping they would stay.

  The confused-looking frog in front of her was actually sitting on a failed drawing of himself – or one of his hundred brothers and sisters. Lily couldn’t get the legs right, and it was deeply infuriating. If only she could make them work, the magic would happen again, she was sure.

  She had thought she was imagining it at first. Perhaps it had been only a trick of the light, something to do with the fingerish stems of the old vine that was growing out of one of the broken window panes, and colonising the roof. They tapped and wriggled and twisted the sunlight. Lily’s charcoal self-portrait – a smudgy picture of a young girl with knotted curly brown hair, and very little nose – had seemed to smile, and half turn her head, as if she were about to say something.

  Lily had stared, her heart suddenly squeezing and fluttering inside her. Had that just happened? For a few seconds, the soft charcoal lines had blurred, and thickened, and moved, drawing pinkish colour from the cracked terracotta tiles that Lily had been drawing on, and suddenly living.

  She had watched it for hours, sitting curled up on the cold floor next to the drawing, until it grew so dark the charcoal lines stole away into the shadows. It hadn’t happened again, so perhaps it had only been her imagination. It had seemed so real, though. For a moment, something else had been in the cold, broken room with her. Someone.

  Ever since, Lily had been waiting for it to happen again, half-hopeful, half-terrified. Did it mean that she was growing magic of her own at last? She was ten, after all, it was the time when it should be happening. Despite her family, her knowledge of magic was only sketchy. She knew fragments of spells, and odd bits of magical theory, but she had only a few old textbooks, and even in those she had skipped the boring bits.

  Her favourite was an ancient copy of Prendergast’s Perfect Primer for the Apprentice Magician, with her father’s name, Peyton Powers, written in childish handwriting across the flyleaf. It had been jammed upside down in a shelf of books in one of the dustier guest bedrooms in Merrythought, and now Lily treasured it, often tracing her finger over the name and wondering where he was.

  She had no memory of him at all. He had been arrested when Lily was only months old for protesting against the Queen’s Decree, which outlawed all magic and all magicians. Lily had wondered how one kept a magician in jail, when presumably they could explode chains, and melt walls, and turn guards to stone, but obviously the Queen’s Men (it was always said in capitals, like the Decree) had managed it somehow, for her father was in one somewhere on the mainland. She hoped that whatever they used to stop his magic didn’t hurt.

  One day she might find him. She wasn’t entirely sure how, as her mother never left Merrythought, but did that mean she had to stay there for ever, too? And then she might meet other magicians, like the Fells, or the Wetherbys, or the Endicotts, and perhaps someone would teach her, and she would be able to create amazing spells of her own, and learn to fly, and speak to birds, and straighten her stupid curling hair…

  But no. There was no magic now. Only hidden away at places like Merrythought, where the ancient magical families pretended they had given it all up, but taught their children the old ways. Or didn’t, as the case might be. If Lily left Merrythought and the island, she would never see any magic. She would certainly never be allowed to do any, or she’d be thrown into jail.

  In any case, according to Mr Prendergast, a ten-year-old magician of any skill should be well up to conversing with magical beasts, and conducting ‘simple magical exercises’. Such as making one’s name appear written in the air in golden letters of light. And Lily couldn’t.

  Of course, Georgiana had probably been doing that sort of thing before she was out of her cradle. Now that she was twelve, she had graduated to far more difficult things, which was why Lil
y never saw her any more. As if it wasn’t bad enough just having a sister like Georgie, Lily couldn’t help loving her as well. Even when she was little, Georgie was always being summoned away by Mama to learn spells, or magical history – which was mostly about how wonderful the Powers family had been before the Decree made any and all magic a crime. But she had always come back eventually. Lily would usually wander down to the kitchen and pester Martha and the other maids while she waited for her sister. It had been in the kitchens that she learned to read, puzzling away at Mrs Porter’s stained, precious, handwritten recipe books. If the old cook was in a good mood – which was only when the range was drawing properly; she was always cross when there was an east wind, as it blew back down the chimney and put the fire out – she would let Martha make the fragments of pastry into letters for Lily.

  Writing she learned later, when Peter first came. He was only a little older than she was, and the only other child on the island. Naturally Lily wanted to talk to him. But he didn’t talk. He didn’t listen, either.

  He had turned up on the beach, sitting against a rock looking cold and miserable. Martha had found him when she’d gone down to the jetty to pick up the delivery from the grocer on the mainland. The boat with the provisions always came early, before anyone in the house was likely to be up. The money from Merrythought was too good to turn down, but the family were considered strange. Everyone knew what they were, but no one would ever dare say so. Who knew what they might do? Especially her. That ghost-white girl the family were breeding up. She’d been seen, standing on the top of the cliffs, staring out to sea. Looking at the mainland, the fishermen said. What if she were to swim across, like one of those mermaid things that got washed up dead on the shoreline every few years?

  Martha still liked to tell the story every so often. How she was walking along, minding her own business – which Lily immediately interpreted as walking along looking for Sam the second footman. Martha was aiming to go up in the world, and she had Sam on a string.