Chapter Twenty-nine

I told Dad that painting a house on the rock where we hid the spare key was a ridiculous idea.

“Why don’t you just write a sign saying ‘Burglars: help yourselves!’?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Where’s your sense of magic, little light?” He had grinned at me. “This is a fairy house.” He lifted up the delicately decorated rock for me to see. “You’ll see; they’ll take care of our key.” I shook my head and told him he’d regret it, but the key always stayed in place and no one ever broke in. But now there are skin book stealers on the prowl, and no amount of fairy magic could protect us from Sana’s plans.

The rock is heavier than I remember and woodlice scuttle away when I move it. A spider stands guard and seems to step aside when I reach down and pick up the key between thumb and finger. The key is cold and muddy, scales of rust beginning to show at the bow, but it is there: I’m going back home.

I ease the door open as quietly as possible. There is someone on the sofa – or, at least, the shadow of someone. They are black and grey, like a memorial tattoo, and it’s only when she says my name that I realize it’s my mum. But she’s not the woman I left when I went to Featherstone; she’s not the mother who told me, “Just do what you have to do to stay safe.” She’s a bad sketch, a crumpled picture thrown away. And the starkest difference grips me tightly around the throat: across her face is a fierce slash of black ink – a diagonal cheekbone-to-jaw tear that cuts across her nose. She has been tattooed with a mark I’ve never seen before and I can’t help but read her, for this mark screams violence and disgrace. It is all pain and punishment. This mark has left her lonely, afraid and all but forgotten.

I had wondered what I was going to say. But there’s no space for words. I kneel at her feet and she cups my face in her hands. With the soft pad of her thumb she wipes my tears away and kisses my cheeks. I reach up and touch the mark on her face, and she closes her eyes in hurt and shame. I rise and plant three soft kisses across the ink. She takes my hand, and she leads me upstairs.

I am home.

My bedroom has been left untouched since I left, and Mum insists on tucking me in. But I can’t sleep, and after a while I creep into her bed and fall asleep with her holding on to my hand.

I dream I am cradling a baby. I stand at the riverside listening to the whisper of wind in the reeds, the rush of the water as it laps over rocks. The baby makes no sound when I lay it in the box. I do not nail the box shut – for this baby is no king. I don’t want it to return in three days and be made a god. No, this baby who smiles at me from their basket must not come back. Not until the time is right.