I nod, with a sidelong look at Zara, and then we make our way through Winterspell, Peg on my shoulder.

The stars are clear now, sparkling brightly between the branches, and as we go, I can hear the trees whispering. I trail my fingers along their trunks, and they speak to me of long summer days to come, and bright, moonlit nights, and the play of fae children in their arms. The air is singing with it, and even Rory seems somewhat mollified by the time we come out the other side with Zara and Mrs Mandrake.

‘We’ll let you chat to your nan,’ Mrs Mandrake says as we near the house. ‘I’ll see Zara home.’

‘Is that OK?’ I ask Zara, as Mrs Mandrake skirts the house to her truck. ‘You can come in . . .’

‘I think I’ll leave that pleasure to you,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘I want to talk to Mrs Mandrake anyway.’

‘I’m so glad you were there,’ I say, drawing her in for a hug.

Zara smiles. ‘We did a pretty good job in there, didn’t we? And Mrs Mandrake says that now I’ve seen so much, I’ll have to sign the secret contract thing and have lessons with you upstairs!’

I grin back, revelling at the prospect – but the elation is short-lived.

‘When you’ve finished congratulating yourselves, girls,’ says Rory, shifting her hooves. ‘Perhaps we could proceed?’

Zara shoots me a look of sympathy and darts around the house to the waiting truck . . . It’s very tempting to go with her.

‘Come, Stella,’ says Rory. ‘Undo these cursed charms – they’re hurting my eyes.’

I turn to the charms along the silver wire and run my fingers along them, whispering the words of undoing. Wondering if we’ll need them again. Then Nan is at the door, and Rory is lowering her head to get through.

‘Perhaps I should go back into Winterspell,’ says Peg. ‘Just to check things are still OK . . .’

‘Ha, no!’ I say. ‘If I’ve got to go in the house, so have you. Besides, Nan will have been worrying.’

We head in, Teacake dashing in before us and making for the hearth.

‘Well, what a fine nest you made for yourself,’ says Rory to Nan as she ushers us in.

Having a centauride in your kitchen is no laughing matter. But after a frosty start, she and Nan start to talk in earnest, and the tension slowly ebbs away. They speak of the palace, now clear for all to see, and the thaw of my father’s winter. There is talk of him facing trial, of banishment. I sit with Peg and Teacake, trying not to think too hard about any of it. My head is thrumming with everything that’s happened, and my wings shift restlessly at my back. They feel weird.

I stand to look in the mirror over the fireplace.

My father’s copper-flashing strands of hair are woven through the brown, now. My mother’s silver, mirror eyes. The horns, that do look a little like spiralling conkers, set high on my brow. And the wings. I turn to study them. They gleam with bright curling lines of silver and copper.