The Flight and Flame Trilogy

In memory of my grandmother, Ivy-Mae Menadue

Whose legacy of love and saffron cake still endures

"You could always make it look as though you had wings, said Jenny, her voice echoing off the granite walls of the treasure cavern. A little glamor, just for tonight—"

Ivy let the delicate wing-chain slide through her fingers, spilling it back into the chest. I’m not that good with illusions. Cicely can cast better glamors than me, and she’s five. She shut the lid with a snap. Anyway, why bother? I’m not going to fool anyone.

Jenny looked pained, but did not argue. At thirteen she was already a beauty, with the sturdy bones and warm complexion that all piskeys admired. Her wings were no less striking, all gray-white ripples above and a blush of pink beneath. She didn’t need jewelry to make herself look fine.

Ivy, on the other hand, had inherited her mother’s pale skin and small, spindly frame. No matter what she wore, Jenny would always outshine her. But Ivy didn’t care about that. She wouldn’t mind if she were ugly as a spriggan, if only she’d been born with wings like Jenny’s.

Or indeed, any wings at all.

Swallowing her envy, Ivy blew the dust off another chest and heaved up the lid. What are these? Pipes? But no, they were too shiny for that. Unusually large armbands, perhaps.

That’s armor, said Jenny in hushed tones. It must be a hundred years old.

Ivy had heard of the ancient battles between the piskeys and their enemies, but she’d never seen armor before. Daring, she slid her arm into one of the guards and held it up to the light. But of course it looked silly on her; it had been meant for a warrior, not a skinny girl-child. She dropped it back into the chest.

Girls, it’s time. The soft voice came from Marigold, Ivy’s mother. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and the wan glow of her skin barely lit the archway in which she stood. She’d been working too hard again, no doubt, helping the other women prepare for the feast. You’ll have to hurry.

I’m done, said Jenny, touching the topaz pendant at her throat. I was just helping Ivy a bit. She nudged the younger girl affectionately. I’ll see you later.

Marigold stepped aside to let Jenny pass, then moved to Ivy. What’s the matter? she asked. I thought you’d like to pick out something special to wear to your first Lighting. Do you want me to help?

Her mother meant well, Ivy knew. But her tastes ran to the pink and glittery, and that wouldn’t suit Ivy at all. No, it’s all right, she said. I’ll find something next time.

She expected Marigold to lead the way out, but instead her mother lingered, fingering Ivy’s black curls. You’ve grown so much these past few months, she murmured. My little woman. Are you frightened, to go above?

Not really, said Ivy, truthfully. She had made Jenny tell her everything she could remember about her first two Lightings, so she would know what to expect and no one could trick or scare her. It was her only defense against her brother Mica and the other piskey-boys, who would be trying all night to catch her in their pranks.

Not afraid of anything? asked her mother. Not even the— Her voice caught. The spriggans?

No wonder people said Ivy’s mother was flighty. She was always worrying these days, even when there was nothing to fear. They won’t come, said Ivy. Not with Aunt Betony to protect us. Betony, her father’s sister, held the title of Joan the Wad—the most powerful, important piskey in the Delve. It was her responsibility to surround the Lighting with wards and glamors to keep out intruders, and Betony never did anything carelessly.

Ivy picked up the trailing end of Marigold’s shawl and draped it over her mother’s shoulder. We can go now, she said. I’m ready.

As Ivy followed her mother through the tunnels toward the surface, she was glad for the lights of her fellow piskeys heading in the same direction. Not that she was afraid of losing her way even in the dark, for Ivy knew most of the Delve’s twists and turnings by now. But the tunnels were magnificent, and it would have been a shame not to see them.

Every passage carved by the piskey miners—or knockers—was unique, from the polished granite of Long Way where Ivy’s family lived, to the delicate mosaics of plants and animals on the walls of Upper Rise, where she and the other children sat for lessons. But Ivy’s favorite tunnel was the one they were walking through now, lined with tiles of deep blue china clay. Her father had told her once that it was the color of the sky, and when no one was watching her, Ivy would run through it with her arms outstretched and pretend that she was flying.

Which was what Jenny and the other girls would soon be doing—spreading their wings and launching themselves up the crude but useful shaft that the humans had dug long ago, before the mine was abandoned and the piskeys moved in. The Great Shaft was the quickest route out of the mine, and if it weren’t for Ivy, Marigold would have flown to the Lighting that way herself. But now the two of them could only plod through the tunnels to the surface, like the men.

Humiliation curdled in Ivy’s stomach. What crime had she or her parents committed, that she’d been born wingless? Her magic might not be as strong as some piskeys’, but it was good enough: she could make herself tall as a human or tiny as a mole, even turn herself invisible if she didn’t mind a bit of a headache afterward. But something had gone wrong with Ivy’s making while she was still unborn, and she’d come out with nothing but a pair of bony nubs between her shoulders where her wings should be. And neither Yarrow’s healing potions nor the Joan’s most powerful spells could change that.

Though not long ago, Ivy’s mother had said something about her own wings not being right when she was young… or had that been a dream? Ivy had been struggling all day to remember, but every time she tried her head began to swim.

Perhaps she was just tired. After all, she’d been looking forward to the Lighting so much, she’d hardly slept.

We’re almost there, whispered Marigold, taking Ivy’s hand. After the twisting bends of the Narrows and a climb up the Hunter’s Stair, they had reached the Earthenbore, a tunnel of packed clay baked to hardness by the power of the Joan herself. Ivy had never been this close to the surface before, and her pulse quickened as she followed the other piskeys into the passage.

At the first junction they turned right and began to climb again, the tunnel narrowing and the floor rising steeply as they neared the exit. The air smelled earthy, sweet with heather and bracken and the scent of blossoming gorse—plants that until now Ivy had only ever seen cut and tied in bundles. What would it be like to walk among them, see them living and growing? It was hard to imagine, but in a moment she wouldn’t have to. She would know.

Look at her big eyes, snickered one of the younger piskey-boys, nudging his companion, and Ivy stiffened. Just like Keeve to tease her at a time like this. He’d be calling her Creeping Ivy next.

Ivy’s always got big eyes, said the taller boy, elbowing him back. Shut your mouth. He glanced at Ivy and gave her a shy half-smile before ducking out the archway into the night.

And that was just like Mattock, always looking out for the younger ones. She thought of her little sister Cicely, tucked into her bed with a sleeping-spell that would keep her there until morning. Last year Ivy had been just as oblivious to the celebrations taking place above her head, but it was her time now. She would not cling to her mother, like a baby; she would step out boldly, as the others were doing. Ivy pulled her hand free of Marigold’s, plunged forward…

And with a crackle of undergrowth and a last wild thump of her heart, Ivy was outside.

As she stepped out onto the surface of the world, the scrubby grass crunched beneath her feet, and a dry rustling filled her ears as the breeze—the first she had ever felt—stirred the gorse and bracken that surrounded the tunnel entrance. Underground the air was still, but here it danced around her, teasing and tugging her from every side. She turned a slow circle, trying to accustom herself to the strangeness of it. Then she looked up—and her mouth dropped open in awe.

Jenny had tried to describe the sky to her, and she’d heard the droll-teller mention it in his stories. But what words could capture the grandeur of a roof that stretched out forever, too high for even the mightiest giant of legend to touch? It should have terrified Ivy to stand beneath that vast purple darkness, with the innumerable stars burning white-hot above her and the moon like a crucible of molten silver. But it only made her feel quiet and very, very small.

Then there was the landscape, just visible beyond the patches of waving bracken and bristling tufts of gorse that walled her in. It had no walls to contain it, only a few scattered outcroppings of rock. And those square shapes in the distance… could they be human dwellings? Even at piskey size—about half the height of a grown man’s knee, or so the droll-teller claimed—Ivy could have walked to one of those houses.

Come, said Marigold, taking Ivy’s arm. We mustn’t keep the others waiting.

The old Engine House stood at the top of the slope, its broken chimney jutting into the sky. Even after a century of neglect its walls held strong, but the roof had crumbled long ago. Two of its windows still gaped like empty sockets, but the others were smothered in a mass of the same plant that had given Ivy her name. From a distance the ruined mine building looked desolate, even haunted.

But that was an illusion, meant to keep intruders away. In reality the place was anything but neglected, for the piskeys of the Delve had been using it as their feasting and dancing ground for decades. They’d piled rocks and soil beneath the doorway to make it easy for small people to enter, and smoothed out the precipitous drop in the floor. Now the Engine House was filled with light and festivity, as the piskeys of the Delve bustled about setting up chairs and laying the tables. On the far side of the dancing green her father Flint was tuning his fiddle, while Mica and the other piskey-boys played a game of chase-the-spriggan around the pile of wood that would soon become their wakefire.

I’m going to talk to Nettle, said Marigold, clutching her shawl tighter about her shoulders. Jenny’s over there; why don’t you go see her?

I will in a minute, said Ivy, surprised. Usually Marigold stayed close to Ivy when there was a crowd, in case she felt sick or needed anything. But perhaps her mother had finally understood what Ivy had been telling her for months—that she could manage perfectly well on her own, and there was no need to fuss over her.

She watched her mother make her way to the bench where most of the older piskeys were sitting, chatting comfortably to one another. What would Marigold want with Nettle? The old woman had attended the previous Joan and managed to outlive her, and now she waited on Betony. But other than that, Ivy knew little about her.

Boo! yelled a voice, and Ivy let out a shriek as Keeve leaped in front of her. Got you! he said, grinning.

Disgusted, Ivy pushed him away and headed toward Jenny. But Keeve affected a wounded expression and fell into step beside her.

I just wanted you to notice me, that’s all, he said. Pretty Ivy, won’t you dance with me tonight?

Ivy faltered. The wicked glint in Keeve’s eye had vanished, and his expression was earnest as she’d ever seen it. Do you… you don’t really mean that, do you? she asked.

Keeve chortled. Got you again! he said, and scampered off.

Ivy ground her teeth. Most piskeys loved pranking, especially the younger ones—and especially on nights like this, when the one who played the most successful pranks would win a prize. But she’d never liked trickery, and she wished her fellow piskeys would leave her out of it.

There you are, said Mica, jogging up to her. He was growing broad and strong like their father, his black hair thick over his forehead and his eyes dark as tin ore. Did you see the giant? He pulled Ivy to the doorway and pointed into the distance, where a pair of baleful lights swept the landscape. See his eyes glowing? He’s looking for piskeys to eat…

Oh, no! Ivy exclaimed in mock horror. And let me guess—those flashing lights overhead? They must be wicked faeries spying on us!

Mica scowled. Jenny told you.

Well, said Ivy, it’s not my fault you play the same trick every year.

Her older brother sighed. Fine. You know what those lights are, then?

Human things, she replied. Not that she’d ever seen a car or an airplane, or had any idea how they worked. But everyone knew that there was nothing to fear from the Big People; most of them didn’t even believe in piskeys any more.

Keeve and I have a bet on, said Mica. He says as soon as he becomes a hunter, he’s going to disguise himself as a human and get a ride in one of those cars. I told him they’ll never stop for him, but he thinks all he has to do is—

All gather for the Lighting! bellowed a voice, and the conversation ended as Ivy and Mica hurried to find a seat. Mica wriggled in between Keeve and Mattock, while Jenny patted the bench beside her and leaned close as Ivy sat down.

Wait until you see this, she whispered, nodding at the far side of the circle where the Joan stood with her consort Gossan by her side. "I still can’t believe she’s your aunt."

Betony was a strongly built woman with hair as black as Ivy’s, though longer and not so curly, and their kinship was evident in the angles of her cheekbones, her pointed chin. With grave dignity she extended her arms over the woodpile…

And flames exploded from her hands.

Ivy jerked back in shock, nearly upsetting the bench. She’d known that the Joan would light the wakefire, but she’d never expected her to do it like this. Jenny patted her shoulder in reassurance as Betony lowered her blazing palms to touch the kindling. The twigs glowed bright as molten copper, and instantly the whole heap of wood sprang alight.

All hail! shouted the piskeys. Hail Joan the Wad!

Wad was the old Cornish word for torch, and until now Ivy had thought it just a fancy title. But her aunt could literally conjure fire from the air. You never told me, she said, turning reproachful eyes on Jenny.

Of course not, replied the older girl, undaunted. "Surely you didn’t want me to ruin all the surprises for you?"

Around them, the other piskeys were moving closer to the fire—not for warmth, but for light. This was their chance to replenish their skin’s natural luminescence, which would serve them better than any lamp in the dark tunnels underground. As Ivy rose to join them a tingle ran over her body, and her lips curved in a proud smile. Now she too would glow when she returned to the Delve, and she could go anywhere she wanted.

Where was her mother? She should be here, sharing this special moment. On the other side of the wakefire, her father Flint nodded and returned Ivy’s smile—but Marigold was nowhere to be seen. Was she still talking to Nettle? No, Nettle was with the Joan, pouring piskey-wine into a bowl for the next part of the ceremony.

Maybe Ivy’s mother had forgotten something, and gone back underground to fetch it. Perhaps she just wanted to make sure Cicely was safely asleep. After all, she’d seen the Lighting many times before, and the fire would burn all night. Telling herself it was childish to feel hurt about it, Ivy returned to her seat.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, one magical moment dissolving into another. Ivy ate and drank and laughed with Jenny, watched the dancers whirl and leap to the music of her father’s fiddle, and basked in the light of the wakefire until her skin could hold no more. Finally she tumbled down by the old droll-teller’s feet with the other children, and lay half-drowsing while he told stories.

As usual, the tales revolved around a single theme: how clever piskeys of the past had outwitted their enemies. The first story was about a foolish human miner who tried to trick the knockers out of their treasure and ended up with nothing but a sore knee—all the children laughed at that. Then came the tale of a faery who met a wandering piskey-lad and tried to lure him into marrying her, a dark and sinister tale that made Ivy hold her breath. But fortunately, the boy saw past the faery’s pretty face to her cold heart and escaped.

Yet wickedest and most deadly of all, said the droll-teller, bending close as though telling a secret, are the spriggans.

The younger children squirmed and cast uneasy glances at the doorway as the droll-teller went on, Like us, spriggans can change their size at will, and they love to play magical tricks. But they’re the ugliest, skinniest, most maggoty-pale creatures you can imagine, and all their pranks are cruel.

It wasn’t the first time Ivy had heard of spriggans, but still the description made her shudder. She could picture them lurking in the darkness all around the Engine House, rag-wrapped monsters with glittering eyes and long bony fingers, waiting for the first careless piskey to pass by. And not only to frighten them, either. Her father had told her that spriggans were hungry all the time and would eat anything—or anyone—they could catch.

Spriggans love treasure, the droll-teller continued, but they’re too lazy to dig for it. So in the old days when we piskeys lived on the surface, the spriggans would wait until the knockers went off to work in the mine—and then they’d attack. His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. They’d kill the guards and the old uncles and even the youngest boy-children, and cast a spell over all the women that would make them think the spriggans were their own menfolk. Then they’d settle in to feast and gloat over their stolen treasures.

Ivy’s nose wrinkled in revulsion. It was horrible to think of being eaten, but to be tricked into living with a spriggan as your husband was even worse. She was wondering how such a dreadful tale could end happily when Mattock spoke up from the back of the crowd:

But then the knockers would come home and find the spriggans there. Wouldn’t they?

They would, indeed, said the droll-teller. Tired as they were, they’d pick up their hammers and their thunder-axes and fight. Most often they won, because a good knocker is braver than three spriggans put together. But even once all the spriggans had been killed, their evil spells were so strong that the knockers’ wives and daughters didn’t recognize their own menfolk any more. Instead they’d weep and wail over the ugly spriggans—and accuse the knockers of being wicked instead!

The girl beside Ivy whimpered and hid her face in her hands. Ivy didn’t feel like crying, but she did feel a little queasy. She was glad when Mattock raised his voice again: But the spell would wear off in a few days, isn’t that right?

By then the droll-teller seemed to realize he’d gone too far. He patted the weeping child and said, Yes, surely it would. No magic lasts forever, after all. But it wasn’t long before some of the piskeys decided they’d had enough of that nonsense, and that it was time to make a safe home deep in the rock and earth, where enemies were too cowardly to follow. And that’s how the Delve came to be.

He smiled and sat back, as though this was the happy ending. But Ivy wasn’t satisfied yet. What about the other piskeys? she asked. The ones who didn’t go to the Delve?

The spriggans went on attacking them, said the droll-teller, just as before. But now those other piskeys only won the battle sometimes, and before long they hardly won at all. They were too proud to ask the folk in the Delve for help, you see. So they fought alone, and many died. But whenever our people heard of a piskey village coming to grief, we sent our bravest fighters to rescue the women and children and offer them a place with us. So the Delve grew and the other clans became smaller, until we were the only piskeys left in all Kernow.

On the far side of the circle Mica sat up eagerly, as though he could hardly wait to become a hunter and fight spriggans. Mattock looked solemn and a little troubled. Keeve, on the other hand, appeared to have fallen asleep—but that was no great surprise, since the droll-teller was his grandfather and he must have heard these tales a hundred times.

The droll-teller launched into another tale, but by now Ivy was too tired to enjoy it. She scanned the crowd for her mother, but there was no sign of her. And now her father had gone missing as well, for his chair was empty and his fiddle propped idle against the wall.

Mica, she whispered to her brother. I’m going back to the cavern.

What for? It’s not nearly daybreak.

I want to make sure Cicely’s all right. And their mother too, though Ivy didn’t say it. Something serious must have happened to keep Marigold away so long.

Well, you can’t go now, said Mica. You’ll have to wait for the rest of us.

Much as it galled Ivy, he was right. The closest entrance to the Earthenbore was down the hillside, too far for a child to go alone. And it was no use asking Mica or Mattock to go with her; they hadn’t even got their hunter’s knives yet, let alone learned to use them. Sighing, Ivy leaned on a jutting stone and pillowed her head on her elbow. She had slipped into a doze when a cry from the other side of the Engine House startled her awake. Was that her father shouting?

Mica was on his feet and running, pushing through the crowd. The music had stopped and all the dancers stood frozen, staring at the doorway. There stood Flint, his hair disheveled and his face a mask of anguish, cradling a bundle of fabric against his chest. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees.

Ivy scrambled over the green and flung herself down beside him. Dad, what is it? What’s wrong? Then she saw the cloth that her father was holding. It was, unmistakably, her mother’s shawl—but now the pink roses were splotched with ugly gouts of red, and one corner was in tatters.

Stand back, commanded Betony, and the crowd parted to let the Joan through. She swept Ivy and Mica aside and stooped over her brother. Then she straightened, her expression grim.

The Lighting is over, she said. Everyone into the Delve. Now.

At once the piskeys scattered, abandoning half-finished plates and cups of wine, gaming boards, musical instruments, and even shoes and jackets in their haste. Shouts of Hurry! and Move! rang through the night, as the knockers seized their thunder-axes and the hunters drew their knives. Mica grabbed Ivy’s arm, but she struggled against his hold, crying, Dad!

Don’t be stupid, snapped Mica, dragging her to the doorway. The Joan will look after him. Come on!

Ivy stumbled out onto the hillside, eyes wet and burning. Mum, she sobbed, but there was no answer—and though it tore at her heart, she knew why.

Her mother had been taken by the spriggans.

SIX YEARS LATER

Ivy stood poised on her toes like a dancer, but there was no merriment in her face as she pulled the iron poker from its rack by the hearth and raised it high. A few paces away, a black adder twice her length squirmed across the cavern floor, blood oozing from the gash on the back of its head that should have killed it—but hadn’t.

Why hadn’t Mica cut the snake’s head off before he brought it down from the surface? He’d been hunting for five years now; he should have known better. But he’d been in such a hurry to get to tonight’s Lighting, he’d merely tossed his catch through the cavern door and left his sisters to deal with it. And worse, he hadn’t even tied the sack tight, so Ivy had to finish off the adder herself.

There was no use shouting for help. Not that her neighbors wouldn’t be willing—they’d always been glad to lend a hand, whenever Ivy could swallow her pride enough to ask for it. But by now even the last stragglers had left their caverns and were hurrying for the surface. In fact, if this wretched snake hadn’t poked its head out as Ivy was getting dressed, she and Cicely would be running right along with them.

Oh, Ivy, hurry! Her little sister crouched at the edge of her bed-alcove, only her head poking between the curtains. We’re going to be late!

Stay where you are, Cicely, warned Ivy, edging closer to the snake. I’ll be done in a minute.

Mind calm and hands steady, that was the way. She mustn’t think about what would happen if the snake bit her; she had to strike as quickly as she could. The wedge-shaped head turned toward her, tongue flickering out to taste the air—

And with one savage two-handed blow, Ivy smashed the poker down.

The adder’s body whipped into a frenzy, lashing so fast its tail nearly knocked Ivy off her feet. She leaped back, holding the poker ready for another strike. But the convulsions subsided, and Ivy let out her breath. The snake was dead.

You can come out now, she said to Cicely, dropping the poker with a clang. The floor was a mess and the adder meat would spoil if she left it sitting, but there was no time to fret about that now. Let me change, and we’ll go.

It’s no use, moaned Cicely, knuckling her eyes. We’ll never get through the tunnels in time.

We’re not going through the tunnels, Ivy said, pulling up her breeches. The dress she’d been sewing for months hung by her bed, but she could hardly climb in that. I know a faster way. Come on.

"Please hurry! Cicely hovered next to Ivy, her dappled wings fluttering with agitation. They’ll be lighting the wakefire any minute, and Jenny says that’s the best part!"

Ivy dug her fingers into the rock, hauling herself up the side of the Great Shaft with stubborn will. She didn’t pause to explain that she was climbing as fast as she could; excuses were for the lazy, or so Aunt Betony always said.

Though if it hadn’t been for Mica’s carelessness, she’d have got Cicely to her first Lighting in plenty of time and found her a good seat into the bargain. But if brooding over what should have been made any difference, Ivy would have sprouted wings long ago. She set her jaw and kept climbing.

It’s not fair, wailed Cicely, as sounds of music and laughter drifted down from above. Ivy, let me go ahead, I don’t need light, there’s plenty of room—

You can’t fly the shaft blind, said Ivy firmly. True, compared to the piskeys’ own tunnels the Great Shaft was enormous. But there was a cap of concrete and metal over the top, and if Cicely didn’t see it coming she’d knock herself senseless. When you’ve got your own glow, you can fly where you want. But right now, you stay with me.

Cicely whimpered, but made no further protest. Ivy reached for a grip and pulled herself up again, muscles trembling with the effort. By rights she shouldn’t be climbing the Great Shaft at all, and if anyone found out she’d be in serious trouble. But the tunnels would have taken twice as long, even if she and Cicely were running. And it gave Ivy a private thrill to know that she alone, of all the piskeys in the Delve, could climb like this.

Her groping fingers brushed wood, slimy and rough with age. She had reached the old ladder. Ivy hooked one arm over the bottom rung and gazed up at the half-rotted wood and rusted metal, chewing her lip in consideration. Once this ladder had carried human miners down the shaft to their day’s work. Then the tin mine had closed, and its shafts were caged off to keep careless humans from falling in. Now and then some idle passerby shoved a stick or a stone between the bars and let it drop, but no one had used this ladder in well over a century. If she made herself human size to climb it, would it hold her weight?

She’d soon find out. Ivy took a deep breath, and willed herself to grow.

It would have been easier if she’d practiced first. The shift in size threw her off balance, and she grabbed the next rung just in time. But she had no time to waste on panic. The moment her body stopped tingling she was on the move, scrambling for the top of the shaft. We’re nearly there, she gasped to Cicely. It’s not too—

All hail Joan the Wad! came a muffled shout from above them, and the top of the shaft flared with golden light. Cicely’s face crumpled. We missed it.

Guilt and frustration tumbled like rocks in Ivy’s stomach. There’d be another Lighting at midwinter, but what consolation was that to Cicely now? Mica was to blame but he’d never admit it, and Cicely would never dream of reproaching him. Not the older brother who brought her berries and bits of honeycomb, and gave her piskey-back rides around the cavern. In Cicely’s eyes, Mica could do no wrong.

Well, said Ivy, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She reached for the next rung, and kept climbing.

People of the Delve, be welcome, Betony declared, with a disapproving glance at Ivy as she and Cicely crept in at the back of the crowd. She took the copper bowl from Nettle’s hands and raised it high for everyone around the wakefire to see.

This is the draught of harmony, she declared. Let us drink and be one in heart, proud of our heritage and true to our ancient ways, so that enemies can never divide us. A blessing on the Delve, and a curse on faeries and spriggans!

A curse on faeries and spriggans! the others chorused—and Ivy loudest of all. The very mention of those filthy creatures made her burn inside, an ember of bitterness that would never go out. First they had taken her mother from her, and if that weren’t bad enough, they had stolen her father as well.

Or they might as well have. After Marigold disappeared Flint had spent days blindly searching the countryside, until the Joan took away his hunting privileges and confined him to the Delve for his own safety. Since then he had done little but work in the diggings, hammering away night and day with his thunder-axe. He seldom spoke, and never laughed; he ate the food Ivy cooked for him without seeming to taste it, and slept poorly if he slept at all. He still came to every Lighting, but only long enough to replenish his glow. And he never played his fiddle any more.

Curse them, Ivy whispered, but Cicely remained silent, eyes on her lap. Guilt pricked Ivy again, and she gave her sister an apologetic squeeze before reaching for the copper bowl making its way around the circle. The draught inside was clear as spring water, sparkling lights dancing across its surface; Ivy tipped the bowl and drank a mouthful before helping Cicely to do the same.

"Oh, it’s wonderful," breathed her little sister, surfacing with flushed cheeks and wide brown eyes. I had no idea piskey-wine was so nice. Can I—

Not until you’re older, said Ivy, and handed the bowl on. Cicely’s lower lip jutted, but she looked less gloomy as the drink passed from one piskey to another and finally back to Betony, who poured the dregs hissing into the fire.

And now, the Joan proclaimed, let us eat!

Ivy and Cicely jumped up, following the other piskeys toward the long tables. All Ivy’s favorite dishes were here tonight—from pasties stuffed with rabbit and chopped roots, to roasted woodlice with wild garlic, right down to the thick slabs of saffron cake waiting at the far end. To drink there was spring water and chilled mint tea, as well as several bottles of the sparkling piskey-wine—though it would be another season before Ivy was old enough to drink more than a small cup, and Cicely was too young to have any more at all. But that scarcely mattered with so many good things to enjoy.

As they ate, Ivy was relieved to see Cicely’s mood improving with every bite. Soon she was giggling at the faces Keeve made at her across the table, and Ivy’s own spirits began to rise as she realized she hadn’t entirely spoiled her sister’s first Lighting after all.

But then Mica strolled by, and her smile faded. There he was, relaxed and dressed in his Lighting best—and here Ivy sat with dirty breeches and bare feet. The old aunties gave her pitying looks, and she knew what they must be thinking: What a shame young Ivy can’t take proper care of herself, especially when her brother and sister look so fine. But she’s always been sickly, and with no mother…

What’s the matter? asked Cicely around a mouthful of saffron cake. You look like you’ve eaten gravel.

Never mind, said Ivy. It’s nothing you need to worry about.

One-two-three-four! called the crowder, and the musicians struck up a lively tune that twanged Ivy’s muscles and tugged at her bones. As a child, she’d been too shy and short of breath to dance in public. Even when all the other children were skipping about, she’d hung back and pretended she didn’t care. But Marigold had seen through her diffidence, and as soon as they got home she’d held Ivy’s hands and skipped around the cavern with her until the two of them collapsed in a giggling heap on the floor.

Marigold hadn’t worried so much about Ivy’s health in those days; she’d told Ivy that her lungs were just a little slower to grow than the rest of her, and they’d soon come right. And she’d promised Ivy that one day she’d be able to dance as well as any piskey in the Delve, if not better.

Well, now Ivy could. But not to this tune. This was a flying dance, where the males tossed the females high in the air and stepped aside as their partners glided down, and Ivy couldn’t have taken part even if someone asked her. She walked to Cicely, who was watching the dancers with the same wistful longing, and sat down by her side.

What is it? she asked. Don’t you want to dance?

I don’t have a partner, said Cicely glumly. And it’s already started.

Ivy jumped up and thrust out both her hands. Then dance with me, she said.

Me and you? But you’re—

Stronger than I look, said Ivy, grabbing her little sister under both arms and heaving her into the air. Cicely let out a giggle, her moth-wings fluttering as she drifted back to earth—only to have Ivy whirl her around and toss her up again. Lifting her sister wasn’t as easy as she pretended; Cicely was on the sturdy side, and Ivy’s muscles already ached from climbing up the shaft. But it was worth the effort to see those brown eyes sparkle, and hear Cicely’s squeal of delight.

When the Flying Dance ended another merry reel took its place, and Ivy and Cicely kept dancing. The two of them whirled arm in arm, Cicely tripping over her own feet with laughter, until Ivy was exhausted.

I’m done, she gasped, waving a hand. I’ve got to sit down.

Me too, said Cicely, collapsing beside her with a happy sigh. Then she sat up and said, Is that the moon? I thought it was supposed to be round.

Well, at least she wasn’t terrified. Ivy had seen more than a few piskey-girls shriek and hide their faces at their first glimpse of the night sky. It is, sometimes, said Ivy.

It’s beautiful anyway, Cicely said. She ran a hand over the moss-covered stones. Everything out here’s soft, and smells so good. I wish…

What? asked Ivy, with a distracted glance over her shoulder. The place where her wings should have been tingled, as though someone were watching her. But the only thing behind them was the fire, and the benches around it were empty.

I wish we could do this all the time.

Ivy gave a short laugh. Do you have any idea how much work goes into a Lighting? Collecting all that wood, and setting up the tables—

I don’t mean that. Cicely tugged a loose thread on her skirt. I mean… being here. Up above. The boys get to when they’re old enough, so why can’t we? But before Ivy could answer she made a face and said, "I know. Because of the spriggans."

Gooseflesh rippled over Ivy’s skin. Had someone pranked her little sister into thinking spriggans weren’t real? Cicely, she said, fighting for calm, you know what happened to our mother.

I know she disappeared, said Cicely. "And all Dad ever found was her shawl. But have you seen a spriggan? Has anybody? How do we know they took her, and not… something else?"

Like what? Giants? Ivy frowned. Those are just stories, Cicely.

No, not that. I mean maybe… Her eyes slid to the doorway and the darkness beyond. Maybe she didn’t want to be with us any more.

Ivy choked. No, she said fiercely, when she could speak. She would never have left us like that. And spriggans are real, whether anyone’s seen one lately or not. Who put these ridiculous ideas in your head?

He didn’t mean to, said Cicely, shrinking back. I overheard him and Mattock talking, when they thought I was asleep—

Fury scorched through Ivy, and she leaped to her feet. Stay here, she told her sister, and stalked off to look for Mica. Her eyes raked the crowd until she spotted him by the far wall, one arm braced not quite casually against the stone as he tried to coax one of the older girls to dance.

We need to talk right now, Ivy said as she stepped between Mica and his would-be partner, who gave a nervous titter. Shall we go somewhere private, or do you want me to shout at you in front of everyone?

Mica looked startled, but then his expression hardened. Fine, he said, grabbed Ivy’s arm and pulled her out into the night.

Are you mad? exclaimed Ivy, twisting against his grip. We’re not supposed to leave the Engine House!

You’re safe enough with me, said Mica. He marched her to the bottom of the slope, then let her go. All right, we’re private. What now?

You! Ivy shoved him as hard as she could, too angry to care that he barely moved. How dare you tell Cicely that our mother left us on purpose? How could you be so stupid?

I didn’t tell her that!

Maybe not, but you said it where she could hear you. Or are you going to deny that too?

Mica folded his arms and looked away.

You disgust me, said Ivy. You never think about other people at all, do you? You get some slurry-brained idea in your head and you have to blather it to Mattock, no matter who might be listening. And if spilling dross about our mother wasn’t bad enough—

I wasn’t spilling—

Now Cicely thinks there’s no reason to stay in the Delve, because spriggans don’t really exist!

That struck a vein, if nothing else did. Mica paled, and now he looked worried—even frightened. All right, he said. I’ll talk to her. First thing tomorrow.

Good, said Ivy grimly.

But I’m not going to lie to her.

Nobody asked you to lie! Which was a good thing, because most piskeys could only tell a direct untruth if they were joking, and this was no laughing matter. I’m asking you to stop being so careless, and take some responsibility for a change!

Responsibility? Mica snorted, color flooding back into his face. That’s a fine speech from someone who showed up late, dressed in dirt and patches—

I wouldn’t have been late if you hadn’t chucked a live adder through the door! What was I supposed to do, walk off and leave it there?

Adder? Mica’s shock was convincing, as was the look of dawning fury that followed it. But Ivy wasn’t about to be distracted. And I wasn’t the only one who ended up late. Cicely missed the start of the wakefire, because of you. So don’t— She broke off, startled, as her brother shoved past her. Where are you going? Mica!

But her brother was sprinting up the path, bellowing, Keeve, you little spriggan! I’ll wring your neck! And before Ivy could call him back, he vanished inside the Engine House.

Ivy stared after him, appalled. He’d left her alone on the darkened hillside, well outside the circle of the Joan’s protective spells. How could even Mica be so reckless?

Still, the night seemed peaceful. Surely there was no need to call for help—that would only give her fellow piskeys more excuse to pity her. All she had to do was walk up the slope. It wasn’t even that far.

Yet she’d only taken a step when her spine prickled with the same feeling she’d had in the Engine House, of being watched by unseen eyes. Her stomach knotted as she remembered how her mother had disappeared, how no one noticed until it was too late…

Ivy blew out an exasperated breath. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t weak or helpless; she’d faced down an adder and won. There probably weren’t any spriggans lurking, but even if there were a thousand, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her panic. She squared her shoulders and started up the path.

Ivy, said a voice behind her.

She started, then relaxed. So Mica hadn’t left her alone after all. There was another piskey out here, probably one of the wood-gatherers or water-carriers for the Lighting, and they could walk back to the Engine House together. She turned, ready to greet him—but the words died on her lips.

It was too big for a piskey and too small to be human, a spidery figure wrapped in dark clothing. It wore a hood, no doubt ashamed of its hideous features, but no shadow could hide the sickly pallor of its skin, or the hunger in those glittering eyes.

Spriggan.

If Ivy had wings, she might have been tempted to risk everything on a dash for the Engine House. But though she was quick on her feet, she wasn’t sure she could outrun a spriggan. Especially since he’d crept up behind her so stealthily that she’d never heard him coming—if he could do that, there was no knowing what else he could do.

Ivy took a step backward, feeling the dirt crumble beneath her bare feet. She was acutely aware of the hairs standing up on the nape of her neck, the boom-boom-boom of her heartbeat, the stench of her own cold sweat. How— Her voice wavered. How do you know my name?

The spriggan moved closer, teeth gleaming in the shadow beneath his hood. That’s good, he said. I didn’t even have to warn you not to scream. I think we’re going to get along very well.

The amusement in his tone made Ivy feel sick. She could smell him now, a sharp dry scent like fir needles, and all her instincts screamed at her to turn invisible. But what good would that do? He’d still be able to hear her, and probably smell her as well. She retreated another step, groping with her toes for a loose stone, or a clump of soil. Anything that might hurt him, distract him, buy her a few precious seconds to escape—

Ivy! came a shout from up the slope, and the spriggan hissed a curse and darted away. Sagging with relief, Ivy turned to find Mattock sprinting down to her, hair gleaming copper in the light of their shared glow.

Are you all right? he exclaimed. When Mica came back without you, I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t expect to find you all the way down here! He seized her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. What were you thinking?

She’d nearly been caught by a spriggan, and he was giving her a lecture? Indignant, Ivy smacked him. Then she jabbed a finger in the direction the spriggan had gone.

But the slope was empty, the heather and bracken undisturbed. The only sign of life was a tiny bird, fluttering off into the night.

I know what I saw, Ivy insisted as she and Mattock headed back to the Engine House. It was a spriggan, I’m sure of it.

Well, said Mattock, still rubbing his ear where she’d clipped him, if you’re that convinced, I suppose you’d better tell the Joan. But I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else.

But if there’s one spriggan out there, there could be more, she said. We have to warn the others—

They’re safe enough right now, said Mattock. I’ll stand guard if it makes you feel better, but no spriggan’s going to take on a hundred piskeys at once. He quickened his stride as they reached the doorway, where Mica was leaning with a sour expression on his face. Did you find Keeve?

No, said Mica. But when I do, I’m going to give him the thrashing of his life. His gaze shifted to Ivy. "What are you doing here?"

You left her down in the valley, said Mattock before Ivy could answer. You’re lucky I was the one who found her, or you’d be explaining yourself to the Joan.

"Left her? Mica said. She’s got legs, hasn’t she? If she didn’t have enough wits to follow me, it’s not my fault." He gave Ivy a contemptuous glance and stalked inside.

I hate him, said Ivy flatly.

Mattock put a hand on her shoulder. He’s half-drunk, and angry at Keeve for pranking him. In a few hours he’ll think better of it.

And I’ll still hate him then. She shook him off. I’m going to find Cicely.

She found her little sister sitting with the other children by the droll-teller, listening raptly as he spun a tale about a tribe of piskeys who could magically leap from one place to another at will. Ivy had heard such stories and dismissed them as wishful thinking, like the legends that claimed her piskey ancestors had power to heal every kind of sickness, or that they could change their bodies into any shape they pleased. Surely, if her people had been able to do such wonderful things in the past, they’d be able to do them now.

But the spriggan had appeared out of nowhere, and Ivy had to wonder if there might be some truth to the legends after all. Maybe piskeys couldn’t transport themselves from place to place with a thought, but what if spriggans could? It would explain how Ivy’s mother had vanished so quickly, and why they’d never found any trace of her but her shawl…

Shuddering at how close she’d come to sharing that fate, Ivy sat down next to Cicely. She couldn’t tell her sister what had happened: Cicely was in no danger at the moment, and it would be cruel to steal away her joy in her first Lighting. But if Mica couldn’t convince her to take the threat of spriggans seriously, then Ivy would have no choice but to tell her. A few nightmares were a small price to pay for Cicely’s safety.

She glanced across the Engine House to where the Joan sat with her consort Gossan—the Jack O’Lantern by title, though he wasn’t the sort to stand on ceremony. By rights Ivy ought to tell him her story, for he was the leader of the hunters, and it was his duty to help defend the Delve. But right now he was engrossed in a conversation with Keeve’s father Hew, and it would be hard to talk to him or Betony without drawing attention.

Maybe Mattock was right. Maybe Ivy should hold her peace until tomorrow, when she could talk to the Joan in private. After all, the spriggan had vanished, so what were the chances of anyone finding him now?

Now then, said the droll-teller, clapping his bony hands on his knees. What would you like to hear about next?

Giants! piped up one eager boy, and Dwarves! shouted another. Ivy, who was interested in neither, was about to get up when Cicely called out, Faeries!

Ah, I can’t refuse a pretty lass, the droll-teller said. Faeries it is. Some of the boys groaned, and he gave a chuckle. No worry, lads, there’s something for you in this tale as well. Let me tell you of the last great battle between the Small People and the Fair Folk, many years ago…

He went on to tell how the old piskey clans of Cornwall—or Kernow, in the old speech—had banded together to defend their territory against an invading army of faeries. The fight had been long and bitter, with terrible magic wielded on both sides, but in the end the piskeys had won and the faeries had retreated to their own lands.

And after that day, he finished, "they never dared march upon our borders again. Once or twice a troop of them came sneaking across the Tamar, claiming some patch of woodland as their wyld and pretending they’d always lived there. But they soon gave it up once a few of our boys paid them a visit, and now there’s scarcely a faery to be found from Launceston to Land’s End."

Probably for the best, Ivy thought. Faeries might not be as vicious as spriggans, but they were too cunning and ruthless to be trusted. Still, she couldn’t blame Cicely for being curious about them, because they were said to be eternally young and beautiful, with wings clear as crystal, and when she was little Ivy had often longed to see a faery herself.

Where’s Mica? asked Cicely, as the droll-teller strolled off for a drink. He said he’d play jump-stones with me—oh, there he is. She started to get up, but Ivy caught her arm.

He’s in a foul mood right now, she said. I’d leave him alone, if I were you. Why don’t we play a game instead?

As usual, the Lighting ended with the first rosy glimmer of dawn. The wakefire was quickly doused, and the tables and benches whisked back into storage. The Joan pronounced her blessing on the company, and with that all the revelers—yawning musicians and sore-footed dancers, pranksters and victims, knockers and hunters, aunties and maidens—headed back into the Delve for some well-earned sleep.

I’m telling you, it was a spriggan, Ivy said, as Mica laid the slumbering Cicely in her alcove. If Matt hadn’t shown up when he did…

And I’m telling you it was Keeve, hiding in the gorse-bushes with a tablecloth over his head, said Mica. He sat down on the edge of his bed and started pulling off his boots. He did the same thing last year, remember? Jumped up behind the droll-teller and made everyone scream. He flopped onto the mattress. I should have throttled him then.

It wasn’t Keeve, said Ivy. Keeve’s eyes were bright with boyish mischief, nothing like the slate-gray stare that had so chilled her. And I know what a tablecloth looks like. Why can’t you believe—

But Mica’s eyes had closed, and a snore was bubbling up between his lips. He wasn’t pretending, either. Her brother could drop off in an instant, and Ivy, who often struggled to sleep, found it one of the most infuriating things about him.

Meanwhile, the adder’s body still lay in the middle of the cavern, its blood clotted on the granite. And though Ivy understood now that Mica wasn’t to blame, she resented him for not even offering to clean up the mess.

Flint wouldn’t help either, even if Ivy had dared to ask him. He’d left the Lighting early and his thunder-axe was gone from its place by the door, which meant he’d already slept as long as he cared to before heading off to the diggings again.

Wearily Ivy crouched, pulled the sack over the snake’s mangled head and started shoving the rest of it back in. She’d stick it in the cold-hole for now, and give it to Keeve later—along with a piece of her mind. Maybe then he’d think better of switching sacks on his fellow hunters, especially without making sure the snake was properly dead first.

When Ivy woke hours later, the cavern was still quiet, the only light her own skin-glow reflecting off its copper-tiled walls. It had taken her father years to refine all that metal and hammer it into shape, but he’d worked every spare moment until it was done. He’d also polished the floor to bring out every fleck and ripple in the granite, and as if that weren’t enough, he’d begun inlaying the stone with silver around the edges.

He’d only half finished the work when Marigold disappeared. A few chiseled swirls continued where the silver left off, but they’d never been filled, and in the end Ivy had dragged an old trunk over those forlorn two paces of stone so she wouldn’t have to look at them.

She padded to the water-channel and splashed her face, then opened the wardrobe she shared with Cicely and took out a sleeveless blouse and skirt. Close to the surface the Delve could be cool, but not here, and where Ivy was going it would be warmer still. Once dressed, she studied herself critically in the mirror. Should she leave her shoulder-length curls down, as she usually did? Or would she look older and more serious with her hair up?

You look nice, said Cicely sleepily from her alcove. Where are you going?

Ivy put the mirror aside. To talk to the Joan.

What about?

She didn’t like to frighten Cicely, but she couldn’t lie to her, either. I saw a spriggan last night, outside the Engine House, she said in an offhand tone, hoping Cicely would assume she’d only glimpsed it from a distance. It ran away before I could show anyone, and Mica thinks it was only Keeve playing a prank. But I thought the Joan and Jack should know.

Oh, Cicely said in a small voice, and Ivy could tell she was troubled. Well, maybe that was for the best—it would make easier for Mica to talk to her when the time came. Ivy slid on a pair of copper arm-rings, then stooped to kiss her sister’s forehead.

I’ll be back soon, she said. Wish me luck.

You’ll need that and a hammer to get Aunt Betony to listen, said Mica from his alcove. He swept back the curtain and clambered out of bed, scratching his bare chest. What’s for dinner?

There’s plenty of adder in the cold-hole, said Ivy sweetly, and walked out.

As Ivy headed down the steps to the lower tunnels, she was struck by how quiet the Delve was. Usually at this time of day there’d be children chasing each other through the corridors, matrons carrying baskets of laundry up from the wash-cistern, knockers returning from the diggings with their thunder-axes over their shoulders. But most of the piskeys were still sleeping off last night’s revels, and Ivy walked the passages alone.

Soon another set of stairs took her down to Silverlode Passage, where threads of precious metal still glittered against the stone. It was one of the main thoroughfares of the Delve, a direct route to the cavern where the piskeys held their market. Yet even this passage was empty, which made Ivy feel lonely and strangely liberated at once. She appreciated the close-knit community of the Delve, where everyone looked out not only for their own interests but also for everyone else’s. But there were times when her fellow piskeys’ company became stifling, and it was a relief to be alone for a while.

The Joan’s stateroom stood at the far end of the Silverlode, its entrance marked by lit torches on either side—a sign that Betony was awake and ready to hear petitions. But the door was closed, and Ivy had to knock three times before anyone answered.

All right, all right, said Nettle’s gravelly tones from within, I’m a-coming. The door opened with a creak, and her thin, wizened face appeared. Right then, what’s your business?

I need to talk to the Joan. I think… No, she didn’t just think. She’d looked into those cold eyes, and she knew. Ivy drew herself taller. I saw a spriggan last night.

Nettle seemed taken aback, but then her expression softened. She leaned closer and murmured, Ah, Ivy-lass, your mother was a good woman, and what happened to her was a shame. But you can’t go about saying—

Let her in, Nettle. Betony’s voice carried across the cavern. I’ll deal with this.

Nettle shut her mouth so hard her teeth clicked, and opened the door. Ivy walked into a broad, fire-lit chamber, its daunting size made cozy by copper panels, a knotted rug, and draperies in rich, earthy hues. The far end of the room was dominated by a desk of carved granite, and Ivy’s aunt sat behind it.

You believe you saw a spriggan, said the Joan. Where?

Betony always made Ivy feel small. Her aunt’s strong bones and striking features, the smooth waves of hair falling about her shoulders, made Ivy keenly aware of her own unruly curls and slight, unpiskeylike figure. Not to mention those creamy, bronze-dappled wings, so much like Cicely’s that Ivy couldn’t help being reminded of what her own wings could have—should have—been.

In the valley below the Engine House, she said, subdued.

And what were you doing there?

This was the awkward part. Exasperating though Mica