Prologue

  Zoya Boyko tried very hard to encourage her daughter, Cas, and to be proud of her when she did something well. But with an autistic child, expressions of both encouragement and pride could result in stress and collapse. She’d spent, therefore, a lot of her life as a single parent reining herself in, denied those moments of release and pleasure she’d seen in the faces of other parents bellowing on the sidelines at the school sports day.

  Right now it was taking every iota of her concentration to hold in her applause. Because Cas, obviously thinking she wasn’t being watched over there in the corner of the work room at the back of the Witches magic shop, was making her puzzle magazine levitate.

  Zoya had first become aware that her daughter was taking an interest in the old books Zoya’s mother had given her during what had locally become known as the Night of the Gnomes, when the youngster had successfully defended her babysitter’s house using nothing but avatars pulled from her own – largely pop music based – imagination. But that had been during a crisis. These days Cas was often to be found in corners doing impossible things. Zoya went quietly over to where Autumn, her employer and mentor in the ways of Wise Woman-ness, was using her tablet to stocktake on this sunny March evening. Since the Gnomes, the supplies of herbs and artefacts they had on hand had become less a matter of turning a profit and more a matter of life and death. Sitting with Autumn, making suggestions over a mug of decaf tea, and making displeased expressions with every sip, was the Reverend Lizzie, the third corner of the triumvirate who were meant to defend their little Cotswolds market town against the bad kind of weirdness. ‘Look,’ whispered Zoya, poking them both hard and inclining her head toward the corner.

  ‘Oh,’ said Autumn, carefully low key, ‘that is… good.’

  ‘I’d go so far as to say… really good,’ said Lizzie, equally calmly.

  ‘I’m not the autistic one,’ said Zoya, ‘I’m a proud mother. You can say that is really frigging great to see, hooray, how fantastic, etc. Just… don’t do it so she can hear.’

  Autumn put a hand on her arm. ‘All the above,’ she said. ‘If and when she wants, maybe I can sort out some kind of training.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Zoya. ‘But not too fast. She’s got enough to deal with.’

  There came a knock on the rear door of the shop. The three women all looked at each other. The back of the shop, which opened onto a little herb garden and a track that led alongside a field, was not a direction from which human beings tended to arrive. ‘I’ll go,’ said Autumn, flexing her hand in the air and making a tiny sound of exertion as she used up some of her energy to prepare a defence of some kind. Lizzie’s hand went to her crucifix. Zoya walked calmly over, pretending not to notice the levitation, and led Cas back to behind the big table.

  Autumn opened the door and looked around, then down, in case of gnomes, then took a step outside. ‘Oh,’ she said, then gestured to the others. ‘It’s okay. Come see.’

  They went over to find Autumn smiling at what she saw. In the low evening light of spring, tiny figures were flitting from flower to flower in the herb garden, moving faster than the eye could see.

  ‘Fairies!’ shouted Cas.

  In a moment, every single one of the figures stopped moving and turned. A moment later and they were all suddenly in front of the doorway, at eye level, the tiny faces of the beings displaying very cute expressions of annoyance. They were dressed in tiny versions of quite modern looking business suits, one of them having gone so far as to affect a briefcase made out of a leaf. ‘Excuse me, young lady,’ said the female who seemed to be their leader, ‘please don’t shout. Our ears are very small.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cas, sounding like it was the end of the world.

  ‘Oh, oh dear, I can see that you are. Please don’t fret. I have some cake in here somewhere…’ The fairy started looking in her handbag.

  ‘Cake?’ said Cas, immediately brightening up.

  ‘No cake,’ said Autumn. ‘Sorry, but that’s part of the cross-border agreement, we don’t accept gifts of food from the small folk.’

  The fairies went back to looking affronted. ‘I believe the text says you can’t be prevailed upon to,’ said the leader, closing her bag with a little click. ‘Which is rather a different thing. But no, no cake for you, young lady. Unless you want to come and see us in the meadow over there, because then -’

  ‘No!’ said Zoya. ‘Do you want my friend here to start throwing spells? Do you?’

  ‘Oh, this is too much. It was an offer of a tea party. We haven’t abducted a human child as a slave or changeling in, what…?’ She glanced at her helper, who whispered in her ear. ‘Ten… twenty… well, all right, it’s actually eight years. But that was under a previous regime, and before the protocols and all that. Not what was on the table here.’ She glanced over at Cas again. ‘We have such a pretty table cloth.’

  Autumn actually put a hand between the fairy and the child. ‘State your business. Or get back to the bottom of the garden.’

  The fairy cleared her throat. ‘Very well. We are here representing the collective will of the many nations that you live alongside: fairy; gnome; elf; witterling; even demon. Ever since the gnomes took it upon themselves to… take direct action… you, Wise Woman of Lychford, have been making some very good efforts at outreach to and diplomacy with races that are not your own. We see that. But still, after the unpleasantness with our gnome friends, none of our races feel safe walking in your town. There are harsh words at the market, jeers shouted across the street. This has to change.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Autumn, ‘you’re right, and I’m so sorry. We’re doing our best here to bring people back around to thinking of the other worlds as friendly, but it’s taking -’

  ‘Too long. Resentment is building once again. This is a very fragile peace. You’re now listening to our needs, and for that you deserve our thanks. But right now it feels like the borders are back in place, that nobody is talking to each other. That is what the group of beings we represent asked us – as the race that humans tend to find the most cute – to come and put to you. Let us have some sort of cross-cultural event that will bring together all the many different kinds of local people. Perhaps a tournament of some kind. We leave the details and organisation to you. You know of the message place in the white tree. Have a think and place your answer there, written on an oakleaf. You have a week.’

  ‘Or what?’ said Lizzie, sounding wary.

  ‘Or we’ll come up with a contest of our own, invite all the humans and have only one of you three and a couple of town councillors show up, exactly like happened with our cheese and wine party.’

  ‘I did my best to promote that,’ said Autumn. ‘It’s just that, you know, again you were offering food and you mentioned a children’s puppet show and -’

  ‘Let’s say no more about it. As I said. One week. Good evening.’

  And in a blur of motion they were gone.

  ‘I liked and didn’t like the fairies,’ said Cas.

  ‘Me too,’ said Zoya.

  They went back inside. ‘So,’ said Autumn, ‘what sort of tournament could we hold?’

  ‘No actual fighting,’ said Zoya. ‘That would be very bad.’

  ‘So… what people do instead of fighting,’ said Lizzie. ‘I think I have an idea.’

  Episode 1

  Oliver Compden was the Chair of Lychford Cricket Club, and in the last few weeks, Lizzie had got to know him pretty well. She had, for… reasons… mentally skipping over that bit, been spending a lot of her social time at the Clubhouse, which was handily located just over the road, the park, another road and a short trot down a lane from the Vicarage. She had started to associate that journey with the springtime, with her continuing recovery. And so she associated Oliver with these things too.

  It was an easy association to make. Oliver had something of the Mr. Pickwick about him. He was a doer, a contributor to the civic good, who was also personally jolly and enthusiastic on just about any subject. Rumor had it that, in his business life, he was something in British intelligence. He would hardly be unique in Lychford in that regard. There were a number of facilities nearby and throughout the Cotswolds you could find elderly people who would wink at the name of John Le Carre.

  Now they were having a pint in the Clubhouse, before anyone else arrived for that evening’s get-together of the Floggers and Sloggers. That was the social (and almost deliberately rubbish) cricket side that Lizzie had recently joined, again for, skipping over this… reasons. They were technically the Lychford Fourth Team, but considering that the Thirds included promising seven year-olds and veterans who couldn’t stand up for more than two minutes and frequently couldn’t muster eleven players… well, the Floggers didn’t really see themselves as being in the ranking structure as such. They had had a few notable wins, Lizzie had been told, notably as one of the few organisations that could claim to have beaten the USAF. The Americans had been left carefully uninformed as to the rules and drink had been taken before, after and during the match. ‘So what’s this idea of yours, Reverend Liz?’ Oliver said, rubbing his hands together in panto excitement. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘So, we’ve been given an ultimatum by the Fairies-’

  ‘Are you allowed to call them that these days?’

  ‘Right. I mean, the Lesser Fae, the Ringwalkers.’

  ‘That doesn’t actually sound a lot better.’ Lizzie had found Oliver, and indeed all th e Floggers, rather wonderfully accepting of not just the impossibilities that those in Lychford lived with, but also of her one-notch-more-liberal-than-the-average-Lychfordian politics. ‘But I get who you mean.’

  ‘We have to way to start involving the non-humans around us in the community, let people see they’re… people. And I thought the best way to do that would be-’

  Oliver leapt to his feet. ‘A cricket match!’ he boomed. ‘Well, obviously! That which brings together the former colonised and the former colonists, the classes of Britain, the races of Sri Lanka, and South Africa, if a bit too gradually! Yes! Bring them here! Build the match, my dear Reverend, and they shall come!’

  Lizzie gently also stood and actually hugged him.

  Which was of course when Emma Carlet entered. Lizzie made a little noise, the sort of noise one makes when one can’t help oneself, and let Oliver go like she was jumping backwards out of a plane. Oliver looked slightly affronted. He was a widower, and had been known, every now and then, to start having coffee with the odd age-appropriate crush, only to cease after a while, a downcast but still entirely civilised expression having momentarily crossed his face. Lizzie thus very much did not want Emma, who was looking all… muscled and straight-backed in a lovely evening dress that showed off her arms and actually no make up at all and a haircut that spoke of precision use of a razor… she didn’t want Women’s Captain Emma getting the wrong idea.

  Whatever that was.

  ‘Reasons,’ she said out loud, sitting down. ‘I mean, Emma, hi! Oliver has just agreed to something. I mean, something appropriate.’

  ‘Makes a change, eh?’ grinned Oliver.

  Lizzie quickly outlined what had been decided, aware every moment of Emma’s calm, appraising gaze. ‘Autumn, Zoya and myself would like to go and talk to all the different non-human communities, find representatives from each of them willing to play, bring them over for some practice and training sessions -’

  ‘Ah, so not like with the USAF then,’ said Emma.

  ‘-and then set a date for the match.’

  Emma sat down, a finger to her determined, characterful chin. ‘What about publicity? I mean, if this is meant to be the start of a healing process, we need to get a crowd in, humans and… the other folk. Oh God, what do we even call them? “Non-humans” is a bit… exclusionary, isn’t it? Sorry, you’re the expert.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lizzie, finding herself making eye-contact without her voice wavering, though there was almost certainly some blushing involved. ‘But every time we’ve asked them, each individual group insists they are what they and that they’re nothing like those others.’

  ‘Not a bad basis for a world,’ said Emma.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ replied Lizzie, and found that they were sharing a smile. ‘We can outreach to all those communities. From the sound of it they’ve been wanting something like this.’

  ‘Well,’ said Oliver, clapping his hands together. ‘Getting the locals from our side here is just a matter of putting up posters in all the usual places and notices in the parish magazines.’

  ‘Let’s not attract anyone from outside the town,’ said Lizzie, worrying that this could reverse the results of the Unworldly podcast’s spell that had brought the town back to a state of relative seclusion.

  ‘I don’t think we ever have,’ said Oliver. ‘Let’s allow word of mouth to do its work. The posters will just say it’s a special match between representative teams. Not our First Eleven, we don’t want to devastate them.’

  ‘They will have magic,’ pointed out Lizzie.

  ‘We will have the Laws of Cricket. Impenetrable to most things, magic included.’

  ‘That’s going to be a problem.’

  ‘Special Laws required, all grist to the mill!’

  ‘Men and women,’ said Emma. ‘And everyone in-between. Because they’ll send whoever they can send.’

  ‘Excellent!’ bellowed Oliver. ‘This will be the most diverse match we’ve ever had! Perhaps in the history of the game! Oh, I wish we could get someone from The Cricketer down here.’ He leapt up as the first of the other Floggers swanned in. ‘A wonderful plan is afoot!’ he called to them. ‘First round’s on me. Before too many of you get here.’

  Lizzie was left with Emma. And found the Captain was still looking at her. Lizzie cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what could possibly go wrong?’

  Episode 2

  Even after everything that had changed, all she’d been through, Autumn was still anxious when she entered the Kingdom of the Fae. It was a familiar walk through the wooded hillsides above the town, but it was a walk that had led in the past to such awful things. She’d been invited this time, which helped, because this way the path was more solid, the geography less a matter of opinion. But still, it took a deliberate bravery on her part to be here, and she was acutely aware of Jas walking beside her, aware every moment of how quickly things could escalate in an environment where will, or more often whim, was the law.

  Zoya had entrusted her daughter with Autumn with no more fuss than if she were a nanny taking her on a trip to the park. ‘She will begin to learn your way,’ she said, ‘as she has so quickly started to learn from my mother’s books. She will be a natural in two worlds of magic, and so she can help around the shop and stuff.’

  ‘Go Jetters go,’ the child had replied with a little salute.

  Autumn had attempted to make small talk on the way. Not…yet?…having a child of her own, she always felt as if she addressed children as if they were ambassadors from some distant country. ‘Lovely Spring weather were having,’ she’d said.

  ‘My favourite Lego is Lego City,’ Jas had replied.

  Now they were approaching the assigned meeting place, an enormous oak. It cast a deliciously pre-Raphaelite shadow across a shaft of exquisite sunlight, and at the edge of that shadow there he stood. Finn, the resurrected Prince of the Greater Fae. They were often known as Fairies, but the difference between the two races was extraordinary. The small, fluttery ones seemed to be creatures of instinct, not quite individuals, mimicking human culture and profoundly related and attached to the human world. The Elves were something else again, around before humans, scathing about them, occasionally fatal to them.

  And, in the case of Finn… oh God, still ridiculously hot.

  He’d affected to wear, on this sharp Spring morning, just an open waistcoat over his bare torso, which seemed to have more muscles than any human could aspire to, with tight green trousers and his hair warped into a Peter Pan whiff. He was also affecting not to have heard her approach, posing in a gothic mood, his expression poetic.

  Autumn had never felt more married.

  ‘Hiya, big fairy!’ Jas shouted.

  Finn turned on his heel, looking angry, and for a moment Autumn found she’d reflexively prepared defensive hand gestures, afraid. But then he grinned. ‘Hiya yourself, little one.’ He looked to Autumn, and she felt the weight of that gaze. ‘Is… is she your-?’

  ‘No,’ said Autumn quickly. ‘But I am married. Very married. Thank you.’

  Finn laughed, a mite awkwardly. ‘Is he a good man, a nice man, a kind man? How long will he live? Just asking.’

  Autumn found herself remembering a certain darkness and all joy had suddenly left her. ‘He’ll live forever if I have anything to do with it.’ She wanted to move the conversation on. ‘You look different.’

  ‘I died and grew back. We come back a little different. We have to, or we get rotten. Nothing stays still, not even us. Though we do live much, much longer than you. Unless you came here to live with us, then you’d last too.’

  ‘How old could I be?’ said Jas, clearly not understanding.

  ‘You talk to me,’ said Autumn as Finn was about to reply. ‘Did you take the message to the Court?’

  ‘I did, and we’re up for it. We agree there needs to be peace. A deputation of our brightest will come to play this “cricket”. We will even harvest the required grasshoppers if needs to. I’ve yet to look at the rules, but if it’s a human game how hard can it be? I mean, look at you, arms and legs and that’s it. I hope the trophy is pretty.’

  ‘Great. So, that’s our business concluded-’

 

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