‘You won’t leave for good?’ asks Peg in a tiny voice, fluttering over the wire and making it hum.

‘No, of course not. This is home.’

‘Good.’ He stares at me. ‘Don’t you forget that. I’ll keep it safe while you’re gone – but you must always come back, Stella.’

‘For the day I’m grown?’ I sigh.

‘For me!’

I hold out my hand, and he curls in my palm, a golden lizard once more, and we go back in together. Then he and Nan boss me about the kitchen until I’ve cooked a pretty good omelette and just-soft potatoes, and I light a candle on the table and crank up the radio, and Nan tells one of her old stories about the centaur who fell in love with his reflection and was only saved from drowning by the silver birch who threw her seeds into the water to break the spell. The scrape of cutlery is only mine, and it is only me who can clear up afterwards, but right now, it doesn’t feel so lonely. It feels like home.

That night I don’t stay up staring across the field towards Winterspell. I don’t sit on the windowsill while shadows dance between the trees, wondering about the fate of the fae in there, or what my bitter, broken-hearted father is doing. I close the curtains with a shiver and think about tomorrow.

But my dreams are tangled things of forests that grow thick along school corridors, and strange creatures chasing me down endless staircases, and in the morning, while I gather pears and cheese, and I butter the last of Mrs Mandrake’s soft, dark crusted bread, the anticipation of the day sends fizzles through my veins. And there’s something else. A little fear. What is Yanny hiding, with his special lessons and the way he makes the air change? Could he really be fae?

No matter, I tell myself. Whatever he is, I’m not about to miss out on school, after all this, and now that I’ve got Nan’s blessing. I dart through the door before she can take it back, and let myself be soothed by the reflection of the yellow sky in the slow-moving river, the mist still clinging to the moorland that bounds the forest, the weight of my bag on my back, the acorn around my neck that means family.

I’ve got everything I need.

Nothing I can’t handle.

Zara is waiting for me at the gate, the only still point amid the mass of kids’ bodies streaming through the vast wrought-iron gates. A little rush of joy squirrels through me as she raises one hand in a wave. As if I wouldn’t notice her. As if I wouldn’t stop.

‘OK?’ she asks, as I get close. ‘It’s nice that you’re punctual. Normally I wait for Yanny, but he’s always late, and I really hate being late.’

‘Should we wait for him, then?’

‘No – he doesn’t like it much. I can’t help telling him he’s late, and he already knows he is, so it’s not the best start to the day. Let’s go in, and he can sort himself out.’