The Spin (6 page)

He led Stormy out onto a wide stone-flagged terrace. A low wall was all that separated them from the sheer drop to the valley below. Black hills, covered in pine trees, ringed them in; chains of rugged, pointed summits reaching far away into the distance. The highest peaks were capped with blue-white snow.

‘It's great being up so high,' Stormy said. ‘In the kitchen we always looked up – well, you could look down, but there was only the forest and Stollen to look at.'

‘Long way down,' Al said slowly. ‘Long and winding path.'

‘It goes right by our kitchen window,' Stormy told him.

‘I knew that. Yes, I knew that. I've never been down, not since I came here,' he said.

It seemed strange to Stormy that someone who obviously didn't like it here never took the chance to get out.

They had come to a narrow flight of stone steps cut into the wall of the castle. Slowly Al eased himself up the steps and, stooping down, he hammered on the small door. ‘Ralf! Visitor for you.'

He nudged Stormy inside and shut the door behind him. ‘See you later.'

A very pale boy was sitting on the edge of one of the two beds in the low-ceilinged room. He stared up at Stormy from below a long fringe of dull brown hair.

Stormy nodded towards the other bed in the room. ‘For me?'

‘Can't see who else it would be for,' Ralf said. ‘It
was
Ollie's.'

Stormy dropped his bag onto the bed. ‘I've never had my own bed before!' He sat on it and bounced up and down. ‘Brilliant!'

‘Sleep on the floorboards down there, then?'

‘No, a bunk bed, and every time my mate Tex turned over, the whole thing wobbled. What happened to Ollie?'

‘Mind your own business.'

Stormy waved the paper with his list of duties on it cheerfully. ‘What's the worst job?'

‘Anything involving Academy students,' Ralf said at last. ‘Then spitfyres, then everything else. It's all worst.'

‘Al seems OK,' Stormy said, ‘a bit glum. Least he doesn't whack with spoons – does he? . . . I love spitfyres.'

‘You know a lot about them, do you?' said Ralf.

Stormy stared at the floor. He didn't know a lot about spitfyres, of course he didn't, he only knew what he'd read. He wanted to tell Ralf how wonderful coming up to the Academy was, how lucky he felt. ‘I've always wanted to be with spitfyres,' he said. ‘I might come from a sky-rider family, you never know. It could be in my blood, couldn't it? I know it's not likely, because spitfyre masters are always rich and powerful and I am just an orphan – but I was found wrapped in a red wool blanket, not just the usual bit of sacking. Mrs Cathcart told me.'

Ralf stared blankly at the wall. ‘
Red wool?
Really? And do you have a peculiar birthmark too? Something that looks like a spitfyre or a dragon's wing?'

A spark of hope flared up inside Stormy's chest. ‘Well, not that I –'

Then he saw Ralf was sniggering; he was mocking him.

‘No? That's what happens in books,' Ralf said. ‘Isn't it?'

‘All right,' Stormy said, his voice cracking, ‘but I . . .' How could he explain his feeling for a creature he'd never actually touched? He couldn't understand it himself, this
need,
this physical
want
to be with a spitfyre. ‘Well, I'll see, won't I?' he added lamely.

‘Huh,' Ralf said. ‘My dad worked here when I was a kid. But he died,' he said gloomily. ‘Then I got stuck doing his job and I don't like it. Don't like any animals really, they're not natural. But I'm sure it was different before – or maybe that was just because I had my dad. Dad liked them. Was good with them.'

‘What about the Director?'

‘Oh, the Director!' Ralf said. ‘You can't fault him, but . . .' His voice faded. ‘You'll see.'

Stormy looked at the timetable. ‘What do we do first?' he said brightly.

Ralf sighed. ‘Do you have to be so enthusiastic? You'll see soon enough.' He swung himself off the bed. ‘Let's go.'

Stormy paused at the top of the narrow stone steps to look round at the mountains. There was so much air up here. He felt the place was full of possibilities. Nothing Ralf said would change that.

He listened hopefully; except for the distant cries of some large birds circling above it was quiet.

‘Where
are
the spitfyres?' he asked, as they made their way back to the servery.

‘Round the bend! Hah, joke!' Ralf didn't laugh. ‘Some
are
round the bend. You'll see them soon enough.'

Al was sitting with his bad leg propped up on a chair. He was eyeing a tomato that he'd speared on the end of his knife. ‘How does Otto grow these tomatoes?' he said. ‘They're so tiny; sweet as cherries.' He rolled another gently up and down the table. ‘Ralf, oblige with the starters, please?'

Ralf scowled. ‘You might have taken them along, Al,' he said, rushing out with the trolleys.

Al went on staring at his tomato. ‘Main course coming any minute . . . Now.'

The bell rang and rumbling noises started up. As the lift came closer and closer, the scent of the warm food filled the air. Stormy's mouth watered. When he opened the dumb waiter and saw the hot crusty pies, sausages and mashed potatoes and honey-coated roast carrots, he almost keeled over with hunger.

Ralf came back and helped Stormy to unload the food onto the trolleys.

‘There we go,' Al said, without moving from his seat. He leaned over and spiked a sausage and broke off a bit of piecrust. ‘That looks good, doesn't it?' He laid the bits on the table and began to shift them around with the tip of his finger, making a pattern. ‘Otto knows how to cook, I must say he does, the rogue.'

‘Right, Stormy,' Ralf said when the trolleys were loaded up. ‘Follow me. Do what I do.'

They went down a long corridor and stopped at a blue door. A bald man wearing a black uniform opened it immediately. Without a word or look, he took the trolleys and thrust them through swing doors into the dining room beyond.

When the doors opened a burst of noise erupted – shouting, laughing and the clink of cutlery. Stormy caught a magical glimpse of brightness; lights shone, silverware glittered. He saw, in that instant, covered tables, the red and green of the Academy uniform, smiling faces, paintings on the walls, vases of flowers, mirrors . . . and then the door swung shut and it was gone.

He wondered if Araminta was there. Or the sky-rider who'd messed up his compost heap, but there was no second look; Ralf was already heading back.

‘That's it, then,' Ralf said, clapping his hands together. ‘Lunch duty done and dusted.'

‘And
our
lunch?' Stormy's breakfast porridge was a long time ago.

Ralf laughed. ‘You should've grabbed some when it came up. Now you'll have to wait for the leftovers.'

‘Leftovers?'

‘That's right. That's what we eat.' He saw Stormy's startled expression and laughed. ‘It's not so bad, just a bit cold. Hey, leave the trolley and let me show you this.'

Ralf nipped off down a side corridor and pushed open a big door.

‘No one's around, they're all stuffing their faces. This is the Gallery.' He pulled Stormy inside. ‘The Silver Swords. Look! I don't care for spitfyres, but aren't
they
something?'

‘The Silver Swords?' Stormy repeated. ‘Oh, my . . .'

The room was long and narrow and down one side were seven large swords. Each sword was wobbly and misshapen, strangely undefined, as if it hadn't been quite finished. Above each sword was a name on a placard.

‘I've read about the race,' Stormy said.

‘Yeah? It's next year. They're talking about it already. It's the highest trophy of all. I wish I had a sword . . . Come on, let's go get a breather.'

They went out and sat on the low stone wall. It was icy cold and Stormy shivered. Ralf took out a mouth organ and began playing it softly. The sad notes seemed to be caught by the breeze and dragged away towards the mountains.

Stormy peered down at the barred dungeon windows and below that the roofs of the kitchen, and beyond that the village and down into the distant valley and the town of Stollenback, a smudge in the distance. ‘Miles and miles to the bottom,' he said.

Ralf shuddered. His mouth suddenly trembled and the notes wavered and died.

‘Ollie.' He held his mouth organ against his chest and stared down into the valley. ‘Ollie had an accident,' he said quietly.

Stormy stared at Ralf, then at the emptiness below.

‘Here?'

Ralf nodded, turned away and walked slowly back to his room.

Al was still sitting at the table when Stormy went back in. He'd pushed the scraps of food around and around until they'd formed a flying thing – a bird or a spitfyre; it was hard to tell which. Stormy wondered if Al ever ate anything.

‘Lift,' Al said, nodding towards it.

Stormy went to the lift.

‘Cake,' Al said.

Stormy collected an enormous iced cake studded with nuts and cherries and placed it gently on the table.

‘Cake,' Stormy agreed.

‘For the Director's house,' Al said. ‘You take it.'

‘Me?' said Stormy in horror, looking at the vast cake beneath its pristine dome.

‘You. It's an Otto special, for the Director. He and his darling daughter, they like cake. I think they'd like to eat cake for the rest of their lives. Just cake. Soft and creamy and no chewing. Funny, I don't like cake. I like something to gnaw on. Bones and crusty bread.'

‘Can Ralf show me?' Stormy was thinking of those sneering boys and girls at the window.

‘No need. It's the tall building. Lots of windows. You'll have seen it when you came in. Buck up, lad.'

Stormy felt panic rise up and lodge heavily like a brick in his chest. But he couldn't not do it, the first job he was given.
Buck up
.

He walked carefully across the empty courtyard without glancing at the students' windows. The courtyard seemed to have expanded and the Director's house looked tiny and distant. The walk took years. He was sure he was being watched. It made him walk like somebody else, like someone who hadn't done much walking and had to think about how to do it. He glared at the cake, willing it not to touch the sides of its glass dome.

Maud opened the door.

‘Hello,' Stormy said. ‘It's me again.'

For an instant her face lit up and a dimple appeared in her left cheek. ‘Hello, you again. How are you getting on?' She looked away shyly and dug her hands into the pockets of her apron. ‘How's it going?'

‘It's fine. Great. I love it.'

‘Good.' She smiled and the dimple appeared again. ‘You're brave. I'd hate it – not the spitfyres, but everything else . . . How about Al? He's a good man, don't be put off by his gloominess.'

‘Cool. He's cool. He sent me to bring this,' Stormy said, lifting the cake up a little.

‘Really? I thought you must just like carrying it about,' Maud said with a giggle.

Stormy reddened. ‘No, I –'

‘Did you cook it?'

‘Oh no, I couldn't . . . well, I probably could because I do know how, but we're not allowed to, down in Otto's kitchen.'

‘I see,' Maud said sternly. ‘But do you know how to
eat
cake?'

‘Of course I do. Oh . . .'

She was teasing him and he couldn't look at her. He let his gaze wander instead down the brightly lit corridor beyond. There were paintings on the red walls and glass chandeliers, mirrors and ornate gold tables. He'd never seen anything like it, or even dreamed such things could exist.

‘Hey! Mind the cake!' Maud held out her hands. ‘You'd better give that to me before you drop it.'

But before Stormy could pass it to her, a girl strode down the corridor towards them. She moved with the force of a hot wind. Her eyes were cold. She was beautifully dressed in a yellow satin skirt and a white blouse. He felt his knees give a little; Araminta. The girl who'd crashed her spitfyre.

She shoved Maud aside carelessly. ‘Who's this? Who are you talking to, Maud?'

‘He's the new boy to help Al. He's –' Maud began.

‘I think he can speak, can't he?' Araminta stared down at Stormy scornfully. She obviously did not recognise him at all. ‘You can speak, can't you? Well, can't you?'

He was disappointed that she didn't remember him, but it was also dawning on him that she wasn't just a sky-rider, she was important. She lived in the Director's house.

‘I help in the servery, but really I'm to help the spitfyre keeper with the flying horses,' he exaggerated. Why had he done that? She wasn't interested in him anyway.

‘What are you doing here, then?'

‘Delivering Otto's cake,' he said, showing her the cake. ‘I've brought a cake. It's a cake for the Director. It's from Otto.' Now he was talking rubbish.

Araminta tossed her head so her long black plait flicked over her shoulder. She was staring at him with the same oddly disturbing look that Mrs Cathcart had given him when she had dressed him in his new work clothes – as if he was something tasty to eat. Or maybe she
did
remember him?

‘Follow me. Bring the cake,' she said.

Stormy glanced nervously at Maud, sure he shouldn't be going inside, but she had taken a duster from her apron pocket and was rubbing furiously at the brass fingerplate. He stepped into the hall.

‘Don't bring the cake! Give it to the maid!'

He wished she'd make her mind up who was to bring what. Quickly he passed the cake to Maud and followed Araminta, entranced by the glossy rope of dark hair swinging from side to side across her back. The tiny fraction of her face he could see showed her skin was as smooth and pale as a porcelain doll.