Why did I not know how bad things were?

‘And so. To legends!’ Miss Capaldi turns the mood with the bright silver of her voice. ‘Remind us, Yanny.’

‘The Lost Prince.’

Yanny says it quietly, but it sends a rush of energy through the room, and his voice is echoed by all the others. It isn’t just a name, or an idea; it’s a bolt of iron, welded to them with absolute certainty. Miss Capaldi nods, her eyes glinting.

‘His arrival will herald the change we need. Some doubt he exists – and who knows the truth of it? Legends were ever vague and quite often completely wrong. Some say he is the one who will find the palace and challenge the Shadow King. In the meantime, it is our job to live. To fight and to keep our homes and our children – you – safe. To prepare for our futures, no matter where they might lie. And so, children, we will today be looking at the history of tree preservation, our most important role.’

She stares about the room. I slide low in my chair as the map on the wall redraws itself so that we are now looking at the swaying forms of bright oaks and willow trees.

Who is the Lost Prince?

I have a horrible, terrible feeling that it might refer to me.

Is that why Nan was so keen to keep me away from everybody? Because she knows they’re waiting for some fictional child who definitely isn’t me? I breathe through a wave of panic, relieved when Miss Capaldi turns to the illustrations on the wall and begins a fierce lecture on the patterns and preservation of the oldest trees in the woods.

There’s a strange silence between her words, and the light filters through old windows almost like mist. There is no sniggering, no shuffling or whispering – just her warrior voice blooming through us all, speaking of the greatest bonds between trees and ancient heroes. I watch as the scenes come to life on the wall by her side, as she twists from the images to us, her hands spread, her eyes flashing.

I need to know about that legend.

‘Nan!’ I clatter into the kitchen, and she blooms through the fireplace, bright eyed. Teacake is perched on the hearth by the embers of this morning’s fire, and Peg is swinging from the copper chandelier, eating tiny fish from a little porcelain dish.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘What is this about a Lost Prince?’

Peg chokes on his fish, and the dish crashes down towards the table. Nan catches it, and then settles herself at the table, gesturing for me to join her.

‘Haven’t you worked that out?’ she asks.

‘But you’ve never told me anything about it!’

‘I needed to hide you,’ she says. ‘From your father, and from the shadows. From all of the fae, for goodness knows none of them can keep a secret. So I hid us here, and I glamoured us all . . . and I left behind me the legend of the Lost Prince. So that they would know we had not forgotten them, and so that if they should ever catch a glimpse of a small brown-haired girl playing near the forest, should my glamour fail for even a moment, they would not suspect. You are the Lost Prince they speak of. But –’ her eyes narrow – ‘how do you know about this, Estelle?’