The child’s eye turned in wonder towards the heavy iron door as it heard the great deep moan that emanated from within.
Mirabelle smiled, and she chatted to Piglet for a few more moments, while he purred and rumbled contentedly behind the door.
Mirabelle then carried Gideon up to the top floor of the house. She took him to the large window that overlooked the front garden. It was lit by moonlight, and she could see as far as the Path of Flowers. She looked down at Gideon, his single eye now closed, his chest rising and falling as he slept.
‘This is your home now,’ she whispered. ‘This is the House of Rookhaven. Outside these walls is the Glamour, which keeps our kind safe from the outside world. No one can come in here without our permission. You came from the Ether, and now you’re here with us, and we welcome you.’
Mirabelle looked out of the window and smiled. She felt whole and strong and proud and protected.
But Mirabelle wasn’t to know that the humans were coming.
And humans, as is their wont, have a terrible habit of making a mess of things.
One week later Jem
Jem looked at herself furtively in the wing mirror. By the light of the moon she could see a nose she considered too flat and too broad with too many freckles. Her hair seemed to her to be more rust-coloured than red. She felt awful, small, beaten down. Her brother Tom was beside her in the driving seat. He’d been trying to get the car started for the past five minutes. Now he sat back with one hand still on the wheel and ballooned his cheeks in exasperation.
‘All right, Jemima?’ he said. Jem nodded briskly. He only called her by her full name when he wanted to lighten the mood. Tom tapped the steering wheel and tried to smile encouragingly. ‘It’s just petrol. We need more petrol.’
Tom was a year older than her, and tall for his age. He looked quite a bit older than his thirteen years, and he carried himself with the swagger of an adult. Even the way he now beat a solid rhythm on the steering wheel reminded her of their father.
His reddish-brown hair was flopping down in front of his eyes, giving him a look that served him well. It was a look that fooled strangers, a beguiling charming look, but it didn’t fool Jem. She could see the truth in his eyes. The pain, like hers, that he always carried with him.
Jem rummaged in the satchel at her feet and took out a battered petrol rationing book. There was one coupon left in it, but it was no use to them here in the middle of nowhere. She showed it to Tom and he gave a resigned shrug.
He squinted out through the windscreen into the night. ‘We probably should have got some in the last village—’ He suddenly gave a great hacking cough, a cough so violent he had to clench the steering wheel with both hands. Jem leaned across to him, but Tom waved her away. The cough subsided. He wiped his mouth with the top of his hand. Jem saw the light sheen of sweat on his pale face, and his eyes seemed to be burning with a feverish light. She remembered the rattling she’d heard in his chest when they’d slept in the car the night before, and just thinking about it made her wince.
‘You’ve had that cough too lo—’
‘Too long, I know, I know, so you keep saying, but I’m fine, Jem,’ he said, trying his best to hide his irritation.
‘What now, then?’ asked Jem.
‘You get out for a bit and stretch your legs. I’ll have a rummage in the boot. There might be some petrol in a can buried under all that rubbish. We only need a little bit. We’ll be up and running in no time.’
Jem nodded, but she knew one of Tom’s lies when she heard it. She stepped out of the car while he went round to the back.
They had stopped on a country road bounded on both sides by forest. The road felt too wide and dark. They were too exposed out here. Jem could feel the familiar nagging sense that someone might pounce on them at any moment. There was no cloud cover, and she had to pull her moth-eaten cardigan around her to ward off the slight chill. They’d been on the move nearly six months now since they’d run away from Uncle George. Uncle. That was hardly a title he deserved. An uncle was supposed to look after you, not treat you like a dog and thump you for the smallest infraction, and certainly not hit you with . . .
She stopped herself. She shook her head, trying to blot out the memory, but there it was again. Uncle George looming over Tom with a blackthorn stick in his hand, the one that he used to keep his dogs in line. Tom standing straight and defiant, between George and Jem.
‘Stop it, Jem,’ she whispered to herself. She thought about being on the road, about moving on, getting as much distance between them and their old life as possible.
They’d left their lodgings in Southampton three weeks ago under cover of darkness. Tom had woken her from sleep, and they’d crept out of the house while Mrs Braithwaite the landlady snored upstairs. They’d run out of money again, and Mrs Braithwaite’s suspicions about Tom being younger than he claimed to be were hardening. No amount of swinging his arms and talking gruffly was going to fool her for long.
They’d moved from town to town, cadging food where they could, with Tom pickpocketing. Jem always played a little mental trick with herself when it came to Tom’s pickpocketing. She pushed it away into a corner of her mind where she kept the things she didn’t want to think about. Things like her dad not coming back from the war, and her mum dying a year ago.
But she was thinking about them both now, and she could feel a hotness in her eyes as the tears began to sting.
That was when she saw it.
Something glittered at the edge of her vision to her right. She wiped her eyes and looked into the forest. There was darkness there, but within the darkness she caught sight of a brief shimmer.
Jem forgot all her woes, and started to walk towards the source of the light. She squinted and caught it again.
She called Tom. She felt frightened but curious. She had to make a concerted effort to stop her teeth chattering. Tom came towards her, muttering something about having to sleep in the car, but Jem ignored him. She pointed into the forest, her hand trembling slightly.
‘There’s something in there.’
Tom narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t see—’
‘There!’ Jem shouted.
They saw a brief flickering brightness, like a net curtain blowing in a breeze.
‘Do you think we should—’
Tom was already off into the trees, beckoning Jem onwards. Jem followed, grateful for the bit of moonlight that lit the way. She was so busy concentrating on where she was putting her feet that she collided with Tom, who’d stopped suddenly. He was too stunned by what he was looking at to notice.
‘What is that?’ he gasped.
Jem stared, but couldn’t get her head round what she was seeing.
They were surrounded by forest, but in the middle of the trees was a tall oval-shaped opening that hovered a few inches off the ground. When Jem walked to either side of it, she could clearly see that there was forest behind. Yet looking through the opening she could see a chalk path bordered by brambles and stunted-looking trees. The long path led towards a large five-storey house surrounded by a wall. The whole image was slightly hazy, as if covered in opaque cloth. Jem had only ever been to the cinema once in her life. She’d marvelled at the black-and-white images on the screen, even if the wartime story had been a little boring. This thing before her looked something like that cinema screen, but the images were in colour not black and white, and it all looked very real. There was no projector here, no dust motes swirling in smoky light.