The Spin (14 page)

‘I need to see Araminta.'

Maud's smile crumpled into a worried frown. She pushed the door against him. ‘She's busy. Honestly, Stormy, I don't think –'

But Stormy hardly even heard her. He had truth and honesty on his side. He was a spitfyre lover and had given himself the role of spitfyre rescuer, and nothing was going to stop him. He would speak to Araminta. He would.

‘Who is that? Maud, who's there?' Araminta yanked open the door. ‘Oh, it's the dear little kitchen boy with the blue eyes! I suppose you couldn't keep away? Let him in, Maud; let him in. He can't help being charmed by his superiors.'

‘I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute,' Stormy said, still standing on the step.

‘You wondered if you could talk to me? Come in my house and talk to
me
?' She looked pained.

Stormy's brain began to jumble up. Araminta was so confusing. ‘Please. Yes.'

‘Make sure you don't put any dirty marks on anything.' Araminta opened the door and stood back. ‘Come on.'

‘Don't trust her, Stormy, don't!' Maud whispered to him as she shut the door behind him. ‘Be careful.'

But Stormy's head was buzzing with pride and importance. He could only think of the spitfyres. He was going to help them and Araminta would think he was clever and . . . He squared his shoulders and tucked his hands in his pockets so he couldn't leave grubby fingerprints on anything and followed Araminta into the house.

She led him into her father's study. Maud lingered. ‘Go away, Maud, dearest girl. Go and get on with your mopping.'

‘Yes, miss.' Maud left, closing the door behind her.

‘Now.' Araminta turned her brilliant eyes on Stormy. ‘Tell me what it is.'

Stormy felt his feet and his heart sinking into the thick soft carpet. The room smelled of beeswax and lavender and a wave of nausea slipped over him like oil.

Araminta was making his courage evaporate. ‘Well, er, the thing is, I don't think the spitfyres are being looked after properly,' he said. ‘I don't think Al is doing his job.'

‘What's this?' Araminta smoothed her ribboned plait across her shoulder. ‘You are a servery boy, just barely learnt the ropes, and you come here to tell tales on your betters?'

‘It's not like that –'

‘Isn't it?' Araminta said. ‘Come on then, let's hear what you have to say. Give me the gory details.' She sat down in a chair by the table and folded her arms. ‘Speak.'

‘I like Al. I don't want to get him into trouble, he's a good man, but he hardly even visits the spitfyres. He –'

‘Oh, you can't fool me. You hate Al; you want his job. You don't have to pretend you like him!'

‘I do though, I do!' protested Stormy. ‘But I love the spitfyres more and they can't speak, they can't say what they need. He isn't feeding them their proper meals. They've got sore legs . . .
And
I think Ralf is poisoning them.'

‘
Poisoning
them? That's a good one! You're wasted in the servery, boy. You should be writing stories.'

Stormy blushed, but went on, ‘I think he's giving them some sort of poison, or it might be a drug –' He held his breath. ‘At least I
think
so,' he added lamely. Suddenly it sounded so feeble. The yellow powder was probably a vitamin.

‘Poison? Drugs?' Araminta laughed. ‘You are so inventive, Stormy. Where can an orphan like you get such a wild imagination?'

Stormy opened his mouth but no words came out. Did she believe him or not? It was so hard to tell. He had felt as if he'd made a logical leap, thinking, when he heard about Ollie, that Ralf might pay Hector and others back by poisoning the spitfyres. But now he wasn't so sure.

‘Well, how do they do it?' Araminta went on. ‘Where do the drugs come from? What are they like?'

‘Yellow –'

‘Yellow! My favourite colour!'

‘And Ralf adds it to their food. Just the spitfyres' food. I'm not sure because –'

‘
You think? You're not sure?
' she said in a singsong voice. She suddenly smiled at him. ‘Al doesn't know you've come here?'

Stormy shook his head.

‘Good. I've heard enough. I'm bored. Go on, go now.'

‘But you will tell the Director?'

Araminta wound her plait round her fingers. ‘We'll see. Off you go. This is just between us for now. Don't mention it to anyone else.'

Stormy was so frightened at what he'd done that he didn't dare go straight back to the servery. He couldn't face Al and Ralf now he'd betrayed them. He slipped along the edge of the courtyard and pressed himself into a corner and stayed there just trying to calm his pounding heart. I did the right thing, he kept on telling himself. I did. It's for the spitfyres, so they'll be better treated. That's all. But he wasn't sure. Maybe he'd gone to Araminta because he
did
want to get Al into trouble, like she'd said. He
did
want Al to leave. He wanted Al to disappear and leave the spitfyres for him to look after; he wanted to be the Academy spitfyre keeper – wasn't that the truth?

He made it back to his part of the castle, but crept around, afraid of meeting anyone. He had shopped his friends. He was a snitch.

He felt sick.

There was no sign of Ralf or Al. He would go to cave thirteen. He knew it was risky, but he had to do it.

He set off.

Feeling something in his pocket, he reached in and pulled out another length of white ribbon. It was the third piece. What did it mean? Could it really be Araminta putting them there? Was it her way of showing him she liked him – secretly – the way in olden days maids had given knights their hankies before dragon tournaments?

Stormy lit a lantern and took it into the cave.

‘Hello! I'm here!' The spitfyre – he knew it was a female now – was lying down with her legs tucked beneath her. She turned towards him, blinking in the light. Plumes of smoke, like grey clouds, puffed from her nostrils. She must have been alone, in silence and darkness for so long – for how long? He guessed it was years. This was why he'd betrayed Al, to try and save
this
spitfyre.

‘I've done nothing. I said I'd help you and I haven't. I'm so useless, but I
am
going to help you,' he told her, kneeling down to look into her eyes. ‘I'm your friend. I'm an orphan, a lonely thing, just like you. We'll work together. We'll be friends.'

She didn't spit at him. She didn't bellow and neigh.

She was watching him intently, puffing, blinking, head tilted to one side.

‘Let me come closer. Let me be your friend.' He shuffled nearer, holding out his hand in front of him, whispering softly. ‘I won't hurt you. I promise. I want to be your friend. There, there.'

He ran his palm over her neck, smoothing the thin coat of purplish hair, feeling the bumpy roughness of scabs and scars beneath his fingers. All the time he stared into her eyes, watching for a change in them, a warning she might suddenly turn on him, but all he saw there was great sadness and fear. After a few minutes he felt the spitfyre relax a little and a tension went from her. She stopped puffing and exhaled more slowly, the smoke lessening.

‘I'm going to help you get better,' Stormy said, never stopping his caressing. ‘I think I can. Good food and fresh water, love and care, these will make you better. That's what I'm going to give you. That's what I'm going to do. I promise.'

A sudden clinking sound of a bottle rolling over the stones outside made the spitfyre tense sharply; sparks flew from her nostrils, she snatched up her head and a rumbling growl sounded in her belly.

Stormy ran outside.

It was Al. He waved an empty rum bottle at Stormy. ‘What are you doing? Get out of there! Get out!'

Al teetered across the terrace in a figure of eight, almost tripping over his own wooden leg.

‘S'my spitfyre!' Al roared drunkenly. ‘She's my flying horse! G'away from her! I told you not to!'

‘I wasn't doing any harm, Al. She's lonely.' Stormy's voice wavered. ‘She needs help. She'll die if –'

‘Shurrup!' Al yelled. ‘Shurrup! G'away or I'll kill you! I'll kill you dead. Deader than deader than dead . . .'

Now Stormy realised just how much Al hated his spitfyre. He wanted to destroy her; he might destroy other spitfyres too.

Al had to be stopped.

Telling Araminta about him had been the right thing to do.

Stormy woke suddenly that night, catching the tail end of a scream hurtling through the air like a solid object. It was followed by a quiet with such an edge to it, he thought it must have been a dream. He sat up and looked over at Ralf. He was very still, too still to be asleep.

‘Did you hear that, Ralf?'

‘Go back to sleep,' Ralf muttered. ‘It's nothing.'

It was a freezing night and much easier not to go and investigate. Stormy turned over and tried to sleep but now he was awake his brain was busy . . . Had Araminta spoken to the Director yet? How was the spitfyre in thirteen? What was its name? Why was Al so pig-headed? Why . . .

He slept at last.

Next morning it was cold and overcast and snow began to fall; great thick blobs of white that soon covered everything.

‘See anything last night?' Ralf asked him, looking out of the window and pulling on an extra jumper.

‘No,' Stormy said and immediately wished he'd had the courage to get up and investigate that noise. If he had, he was sure there would have been something to see.

‘Good,' Ralf answered.

Stormy thought Al looked odd the following morning. He always looked odd, he reminded himself, but now he seemed especially sad. There were inky shadows beneath his eyes and a purple tinge to his unshaven chin.

‘Just getting the hang of things, aren't you, Stormy?' Al said, not as if he was pleased, more as if he was sorry.

‘Yes, I think so,' Stormy said, puzzled.

The bell went and they began to unload the lift. These days Stormy helped himself to the food while it was still warm: hot croissants with melting butter, steaming fruit buns. It was delicious and he hardly felt guilty at all, but he still didn't fancy Otto finding out.

At lunchtime, Al lent a hand getting the dishes onto the trolley, which was unusual.

‘Give that gravy a stir, won't you?' he suggested, passing a large jug to Stormy. Stormy placed the jug carefully on the sideboard and stirred it with a long spoon. Suddenly there was a terrible crash behind him and he jumped.

‘Sorry!' Ralf cried. Splinters of white plate were scattered all over the stone floor.

‘I'll get a dustpan and brush,' Stormy said, immediately going to the cupboard.

‘He's a good lad, see. He volunteers,' Al said gloomily. ‘See that, Ralf? See him volunteer to help?'

Stormy heard Ralf say, ‘Sure, he's just
perfect
!' There was a heavy pause and then Ralf said, ‘Oh, Al, what?' He giggled and Al laughed and for some reason that Stormy could not fathom, he felt his blood run icy cold. They were laughing at him, he was sure.

When he came back there was a strange atmosphere in the room. Something had passed between the other two, something that excluded Stormy. He felt it strongly and hated that it made him feel so lonely. They both turned round and stared at him.

While Stormy cleared up the mess Al and Ralf watched him and when he glanced up at them, their expressions were stony. His hands were suddenly slick with sweat and he swallowed loudly. He guessed what it might be; their furtiveness, their laughter. They'd been talking about him. Had they found out he'd told on them? Then they knew he was a sneak. Now they would hate him.

But it was much worse than that.

In the middle of the afternoon while the snow fell thick and fast and Stormy was alone in the servery polishing the few bits of old silver, Al limped in noisily.

‘You're to come with me,' he said. His face was set in a frown; the deep creases on either side of his mouth were sharper and blacker than ever, like cracks in rock.

‘What is it?'

‘Can't say. Just come with me.'

Stormy washed his hands and followed Al out across the yard to the Director's house, watching Al's wooden leg drag a clear path through the snow like a tiny plough. It creaked like a boat on the sea. By the time they'd reached the front door Stormy's knees were weak and his heart was thudding fast and hard.

Maud did not look at him as she let them in. She didn't even give him a secretive twinkling smile. The Director was waiting for them in his room.

‘But surely this is the boy who was doing so well!' the Director said, patting Stormy on the shoulder, dusting off the snow. ‘The boy you told me was using his intuition and working hard.'

Al shrugged and shook his head. ‘It is. It was.'

Stormy looked anxiously from Al to the the Director; this wasn't how things were supposed to go.

‘However,' the Director glared at Stormy, ‘if what you say is correct, Al . . .' He was gently working at his white hair so it stood up from his bald head, contemplating what to say. ‘We had an incident at lunch time,' the Director said. ‘It was most unpleasant and unsavoury. There was a mouse in the jug of gravy. A mouse! Fortunately it was my dear Araminta who found it as she poured gravy over her potatoes, and not a fee-paying student.'

‘But –' Stormy cried.

‘Don't interrupt!' The Director's face was as hard to read as a slab of marble. ‘I spoke to Al, didn't I, Al? And he confirmed that there was no mouse in the gravy when it arrived in the lift. He had stirred it himself and told me it was lump free and mouse free. It was only after
you
had touched it, Stormy, that the mouse could have entered the vessel.'