Sisters of moonlight, p.7
Sisters of Moonlight, page 7
When she was much younger and the world had seemed filled with things designed to upset Lily, or make her feel anxious, Uncle Alf had taught her a song to hum until the feelings drifted away with the gentle tune. She had never asked whether the song had lyrics; he had simply helped her to learn the sound of the notes dancing from her mouth like the wind through the trees, and sure enough, it always helped to muffle the wild and raging thoughts that often plagued her mind. Lily tried it now, as she walked away from the castle and towards where she knew she would be most likely to forage something delicious. She hummed with soft deliberateness, taking the time to hit each note of the tune, allowing herself to notice when the song travelled up and down in major and minor notes.
The tightness in her chest faded, the tiredness in her eyes lifted, and the heaviness in her heart dulled to a distant ache. The song had an otherworldly nature about it, and Lily felt sure it had been born from the very same energy that had created her beloved trees, mountains, lakes, rivers, and moorland. It was nature in the form of a song, rather than a song that tried to replicate the notes of nature. Even the magic she harboured within herself felt quieter, more controllable, like a long-lost friend. She didn’t feel scared of it anymore. Not really.
The remainder of the song took Lily to where she had wanted to be – a strange patch of moss, ferns, and stunted trees to the west of Moonlight Castle. The majority of the foraging on the island happened with the plants on the shoreline and in the little inlets, but this was a patch of forest floor that had sprouted up apparently from nowhere. It didn’t fit – it shouldn’t even exist – but Lily loved it anyway.
The early winter bounty was inevitable, and Lily hadn’t visited this tiny paradise in days. Since she had last visited, there had grown an abundance of oyster mushrooms and winter chanterelles, as well as bunches of chickweed and wood sorrel. She was even lucky enough to find a tiny, stunted hawthorn bush that was bursting with bright-red berries. Lily filled her basket to the brim with the fungi, berries, and leaves, and the treasure filled her heart with joy and a certain thrill that couldn’t be replicated with any other activity that she knew of.
With the last bunch of leaves thrown into her basket, Lily stood up and stretched. She exhaled and watched the tendrils of her breath dance on the wind that grew more bitter and icy by the minute. Whilst her eyes were unfocused and distracted by her breath, a pale-blue flickering light caught her attention. She rubbed her eyes and squinted again into the distance. It was late morning, but the sun had refused to shine properly through the thick barrier of clouds that hung low in the sky. Perhaps that was how she could see it so clearly, even though every part of her wanted to believe that what she could see wasn’t, and couldn’t be, real.
The ghostly flickering on the shore of the mainland was unmistakable. It glowed a bluish silver, and took the form of a small shining orb that floated several feet from the ground. Its movements were slow and graceful as it bobbed up and down, as if it were suspended in some kind of invisible lake.
It didn’t have a face, but Lily knew it was watching her.
Alice had often told her tales of will-o’-the-wisps, but Lily had always taken the stories with a little quiet disbelief. She knew that Alice thought she saw these ghostly sentinels, but she didn’t believe they were anything more than the intense wishing of a girl who wanted, more than anything, to be special.
But now Lily stood, agog, staring at the very real, very clear wisp on the other side of the water, and it made her shiver. Alice had told her that wisps had a poor reputation of leading travellers to their untimely deaths; in fact, the wisps were, apparently, always trying to help. They were a good omen, not a bad one, Alice had always assured her. But, standing there, out in the cold, Lily felt vulnerable and exposed. The castle was their sanctuary; no one was supposed to know they were there. Alice, with Grace’s help, had cast protection spells around the island so that, theoretically, they couldn’t be stumbled upon. So why could this wisp see her?
Thinking back on the memory later that evening, Lily wouldn’t be able to recall how she had known the wisp could see her. She’d just known it; she’d been able to sense its invisible eyes watching her and the goosebumps that rose on her arms hadn’t been there because of the chill in the air.
The wisp was graceful in its eerie movements, swaying back and forth, up and down, just above a tall layer of half-dead bracken and ferns. Its bluish light illuminated the burned orange of the underbrush, casting ethereal shadows across the landscape. In a moment of stunned silence, Lily wondered briefly, if Alice was right about wisps, what other mythical creatures existed in the world? Lily’s heart dropped through her stomach. Everything about the strange presence of the wisp made her question what she knew, what she believed to be true, what she had built her life on. She couldn’t apply her beloved logic to a floating azure ball of light in the distance, and that made her shiver.
No, she realised, there must be books around this old castle with hidden corners and mysterious secrets, books on the things she realised she needed to learn so much more about. If she were armed at least with the knowledge of how to understand this strange new world, she would be able to navigate it so much more easily.
Picking up her basket of foraged goods, Lily marched back to the base of the castle, refusing to look at the wisp anymore. The thought of it was still sending chills through her and she couldn’t account for why she was having such a strong reaction. The shivers. That’s what Uncle Alf would have called this uneasy feeling within her. She was keen to rid herself of it, especially if she was supposed to be the sensible, grown-up one looking out for everyone else. Lily knew she couldn’t let her fears and worries take over. Not now, not ever.
Lily pushed open the heavy wooden doors into the entrance hall, the creaking echoing through the still-silent castle. The quietness was starting to bother her. The wisp had crept under her skin and now Lily’s mind was crawling with terrifying concepts. Barely a moment had passed since Jem had left and she was already wishing he was around to share her worries with; he always had something sensible and kind to say that would assuage her concerns, even if only for a few moments. Now, she realised, she was in control of her own thoughts; she couldn’t rely on others to help her to shake off the uneasiness in her bones. She would simply have to get on with it.
The fire in the grate was enticing, and the thought of seeking out dusty tomes filled with folklore sparked magic in Lily’s fingertips. In amongst the fear she felt, there was excitement hidden, anticipation, an eagerness to learn and to know. But first she had to answer to her more immediate needs: the griping pains in her belly she realised were a combination of both hunger pangs and the throbbing pain of her monthly courses.
She rolled her eyes as she set down her basket and ventured up the winding stone staircase to her bedroom. She knew she was more courageous than she gave herself credit for; she just always felt the stings of life that much more keenly when the blood began.
Chapter Eleven
Jem Rafferty cracked his neck as he walked, wincing at the stiffness in his bones. He’d forgotten just how dreadful sleeping on the floor was after a few weeks back on a lovely mattress, cocooned by a feather duvet. The contrast of how he had spent the previous night – cowering behind a large boulder on an otherwise exposed and windy moorland landscape – was not lost on him. Instead of his beloved mattress, last night he’d had awkwardly shaped rocks sticking into awkward places, and the itchy, spikey heather that was long past looking lovely and purple to make up for its uncomfortable cushioning as a pillow.
And the wind. The wind was the worst part of all. Considering Grace had still been recovering from the most dreadful rum-sickness he had ever seen – he noted that her cockiness around Lily dissipated the moment they were a few steps away and she bent double to empty the contents of her stomach into a patch of ferns – he let her sleep in the optimum sheltered position behind the boulder. He had slept over to one side and spent the night cowering from the gusts that shot around the edge of the rock and nestled themselves beneath his cloak, through his jumper, and under his shirt. The shivering that wracked his body had been uncontrollable and in the light of the bright moon, he had watched with envy as Grace slept like an exhausted child, unstirring and peaceful.
‘Where have you disappeared to?’ Grace asked, falling into step by his side, bringing Jem back into his body. ‘Oh wait, let me guess, there’s a pretty, short, curly-haired girl and you’re lost in her arms…’ She feigned a swoon.
Jem elbowed his sister in the ribs, hard. ‘Oh, piss off.’ He smiled but he didn’t find her joke very funny. In fact, the irony was, he had tried to think of anything but being in the warm embrace of the curly-haired girl he was trying not to mention.
‘How long do you reckon it’ll be ’til we get there? Do you think we could wrangle a bed for the night before we disappear off into the unknown?’ Grace said in between mouthfuls of the apple she was devouring.
Jem, too, had been daydreaming about the possibility of securing a warm bed for the night, but his light pockets worried him; what if they had to pay to gain passage on one of the ships, and they had already spent their money on an inn? He didn’t suppose that would convince Grace to turn back around and head to the castle, tails in between their legs after so little time away.
‘We’ll be there soon, I think. The horizon is already softening, as though the sea is just out of sight.’
The two of them had been trudging across the endless moor for hours. Their pace was greatly hindered by the thick heather and bracken, and each step seemed to sap away ten times more energy than it should have.
Jem was glad that, at the very least, Grace had stopped vomiting. And she had even sworn never to touch rum again, which seemed like a victory in itself. He ignored the smarmy voice in his head that reminded him they were planning to board a ship that would be, no doubt, kept afloat by rum and whisky barrels. He’d take the victories whenever he could find them, no matter how small.
Sure enough, the twinkling sea in the early afternoon sunlight came into view just a few hundred strides later. The sense of renewed hope was almost tangible, and Jem felt the energy return to his body with the promise that they might actually get to rest properly soon. The emotions of the past day and a half, mixed with a dreadfully cold and uncomfortable night’s sleep and the endless, brutal trudging had taken more out of him than he could ever have expected.
Grace increased her pace and reached the cliff edge before Jem. She stood, arms outstretched, breathing the sea air deep into her lungs. ‘We’re home again, Jemmy!’ she called out over her shoulder so that the wind caught her voice and carried it back to him. He reached her a few moments later and looked down upon Oakencliff Bay.
The bay was dramatically different from their humble Kelseth. Where Kelseth was ramshackle, poverty-stricken, and tired, Oakencliff practically hummed with energy and spirit. Hope and promise rose from the cheerful chimneys of the houses and fishing huts that encircled the wide-mouthed bay, and from their aerial viewpoint, they could see the narrow, straight line of the high street that cut the two halves of the town straight down the middle.
The harbour itself looked large and bustling; as they watched, ships constantly shifted in and out, either bringing in their wares or taking them elsewhere. Ships of varying sizes manoeuvred themselves amongst each other, from simple fishermen’s rowing boats to huge, hulking ships designed to navigate the rough seas with ease. It was quite the sight to behold, and Jem and Grace stood there, mouths dropped open, watching the delicate dance of the sea-faring vessels.
The way down to Oakencliff mirrored the familiar precarious cliffside walk down to Kelseth harbour, except Oakencliff was clearly a more affluent town. Instead of a crumbling, eroding path, worn away by years of heavy boots and heavier storms, the path to Oakencliff was smooth and gently sloping, well covered in large slabs of textured rock. Although there was nothing to bar them from tumbling over the very steep edge to the right side of the path, there was a metal handrail protruding from the cliff wall on their left side for stability on the steep slope. It felt almost luxurious in comparison to their adopted home, and Grace cracked Jem the first proper smile she had managed since Alice had left, and in fact, Jem realised, probably days before that. The weight in his heart lessened just a little at the sight.
‘Come on then.’ He gestured to Grace to lead the way. ‘If we’re to secure lodgings for the evening, we’ll need to get a move on. It looks really crowded down in the town already.’
‘I wonder if it will feel familiar, like Kelseth did?’ Grace dawdled along, ignoring the metal railing and instead choosing to descend the pathway in a straight line down the centre, only shifting her weight left or right when a crack needed to be avoided, with her hands stuffed nonchalantly into her trouser pockets.
‘I doubt it.’ Jem shrugged, squinting into the light of the middle-distance with a hand at his brow, shadowing his face. ‘Kelseth was, or rather, is a quiet place. It’s inoffensive and the people are hard-working and hardy. I expect Oakencliff will feel like we’ve already travelled a thousand leagues from Kelseth.’
Grace hummed in approval but stayed quiet and pensive. They fell into an easy silence as they wandered down the cliff path, the seagulls circling high in the sky above them, singing to the clouds. The gales that had plagued them on the moors had died down to a delicate breeze that felt almost pleasant in comparison, and the closer they travelled to the town, the less the cold seemed to seep through their layers to bite at their skin. Jem loosened his collar but regretted it almost immediately as a gust of wind sent a flurry of snowflakes waltzing down from the sky. They weren’t destined for a blizzard, but Jem couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d tempted fate by daring to forget it was approaching wintertime.
Rather more quickly than they had anticipated, Jem and Grace found their feet on the flat ground of Oakencliff Bay. There was bunting hanging between the cosy cottages and shopfronts throughout the town, no matter which way they looked. Thick velveteen downward-pointing triangles in shades of red, gold, and black swayed in the breeze and gave the town a cheery, if haunting, atmosphere.
‘What strange colours to choose for bunting…’ Grace pondered, gazing up at the flags.
Jem followed her eyeline as they walked. ‘Maybe we’ve arrived on some kind of celebration day? I hope not, or we’ll never find anywhere to sleep.’
They followed the widest pathway through Oakencliff, and the sound of chattering people and music reached their ears. It grew closer and closer until the sounds of the seagulls were completely drowned out and they found themselves approaching a bustling crowd. Instead of marching straight into the mayhem, Jem and Grace naturally found themselves edging towards the outer limits of the noise and the bustle, instead seeking a viewpoint just off to the right of the high street.
There were several alleyways and narrow streets snaking off from the main high street and they chose one at random. The atmosphere was similarly cheery, with the same bunting bobbing above their heads, but there was room to think and feel. After so long living on a quiet island, first at the lighthouse and now in the castle, the crowds and the noise felt exciting and overwhelming; Jem didn’t know which way to look and could barely remember why they were there in the first place.
The narrow street they had stumbled down was roughly cobbled, with tall buildings encroaching not unpleasantly on either side of the winding lane. It was mainly made up of little shops and eateries, but lacked the intense frenzy of the main street. This seemed to be where the young people of the town came to; there were a pair of young men, around Jem’s age, dressed like they had money to burn, standing in the doorway of a smoke-filled coffee shop, both of them puffing on cigars. They walked past the gentlemen and passed by an artist’s studio, where a young family posed by the ginormous easel of the eccentric painter who was flitting about. He reminded Jem of an oyster-catcher: all legs, hopping across the room.
An intoxicating combination of smells assaulted their senses just a few paces further down the lane: cinnamon, nutmeg, burned sugar, freshly baked bread, and smoke from many wood-burning stoves. Both Jem and Grace instinctively lifted their faces into the delicious smells that filled the air and found themselves drawn to a glass-fronted bakery. The same bunting, deep-red, black, and golden, was hanging in the window, and the glowing light of lanterns from inside created an irresistible atmosphere as the glow leaked out of the window and sent tendrils of liquid honey light through the darkening air.
They reached the end of the horseshoe-shaped lane and were immediately spat back out onto the bustling main street. Jem’s height offered him respite from the busyness, and allowed him to see that they had, once again, found themselves in the centre of the celebration. Grace didn’t have the same luck; she was having to shoulder her way through a stifling crowd and Jem noticed her face had grown flushed and clammy. They hadn’t been around people in a long time, and possibly never to this scale, and it excited Jem. But he knew Grace would be feeling a little different down there facing off with the crowds, nose to nose.
‘Let’s find an inn!’ Jem cried above the music and the other shouting townsfolk. Grace looked up at him and nodded. He gripped her arm and manoeuvred them both through the crowd until he spotted a hanging sign depicting a red rose and a golden crown. He hadn’t frequented many inns in his time, but even Jem could recognise that kind of sign. Jem carried on shoving Grace through the crowd until they reached the threshold of the inn and she realised where she was.
With renewed vigour, Grace flung open the inn door and charged inside with Jem hot on her heels. The cosy wood-panelled interior was entirely devoid of patrons. Aside from a cheery-looking woman behind the bar and a bearded, older fellow smoking a pipe beside her, the inn was empty. Jem slowed, feeling instantly suspicious of an empty alehouse in the middle of whatever festival was happening in the town. Grace, however, clearly couldn’t have cared less.
