The Flying Glass (Fanglewick School of Magic Book 1) Read online

  ‘Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.’

  Henry David Thoreau

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 — The cloud room

  Chapter 2 — Tearing the fabric of time

  Chapter 3 — A meeting of strange fellows

  Chapter 4 — Downtown Downfell

  Chapter 5 — Charlie’s dark secret

  Chapter 6 — Alignment of the moon and stars

  Chapter 7 — Slipping between worlds

  Chapter 8 — Fanglewick

  Chapter 9 — On the brink

  Chapter 10 — Andromeda House

  Chapter 11 — Beginnings

  Chapter 12 — Sunshine and bare feet

  Chapter 13 — Winds of change

  Chapter 14 — Gemini House

  Chapter 15 — The spying glass

  Chapter 16 — A lesson in magic

  Chapter 17 — Fangleball

  Chapter 18 — A witching notion

  Chapter 19 — The art of glass

  Chapter 20 — A fresh chance

  Chapter 21 — Witchy beginnings

  Chapter 22 — Shining Lake

  Chapter 23 — Waking

  Chapter 24 — End of term

  Chapter 25 — Journey to Downfell

  Author’s Note

  More Books

  CHAPTER 1

  The cloud room

  Marnie Speck looked towards the heavens for a sign but saw instead through a flurry of snowflakes, the eagle beak and whiskery chin of her social worker, Miss Irma Baxter. She urged Marnie to hurry as they strode along the greasy city streets of Downfell against the tide of weary workers rushing home in the wintry gloom. Traffic fumes and city grime left the air thick and heavy, filling Marnie’s lungs. She studied the passing faces, checking compulsively as she always did, but a flicker of light, luminescent and purple, over the buildings to her right distracted her. The strange light fingered over rooftops. Pulsating clouds parted for a few moments while the full moon bulged from the night sky.

  ‘What was that? Did you see the flash?’

  ‘Stop your chattering.’ Miss Baxter hugged her coat to her chest. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘But the purple light ... didn’t you see it?’

  Miss Baxter’s lips drew taut over her dull teeth. ‘In my day, we never contradicted our elders.’

  Marnie knew Miss Baxter was thinking of supper and her warm bed and nothing would dissuade her from her mission. She could barely keep up with her stout guardian as she marched with determination, her heels clicking like frenzied chisels on the pavement, grinding the snow to slush.

  Monitoring the oncoming walkers, Marnie was astounded to see how strange some of them seemed. Most were ordinary Downfellians, weary and bent, vacant eyes glued to their feet, urged on by the promise of families, dinner and sleep. Amongst the tide, Marnie spotted the odd: a smiling woman with silver eyes, the weird boy with sharp teeth and dreadlocks and the old man in a grey cloak who chuckled at the evening sky. Marnie didn’t miss the scurry of white cats fleeing over the rooftops or the shimmer of iridescent blue butterflies skimming over the snow. Downfell was magnificent and thrilled her to the tips of her frozen fingers and toes.

  When they reached the door of number three Hirst Street, Marnie’s anticipation grew at the sight of warmly lit windows and sound of human laughter inside the mansion. Miss Baxter climbed to the top step and adjusted her sensible tweed coat before knocking impatiently. Marnie shivered as the snow swirled around her skinny ankles and up her flimsy dress. Slipping on the step, she fell forwards. To avoid smashing her nose, she clutched at the prickly legs of Miss Baxter, who recoiled, unaccustomed to human contact let alone the simple touch of a young girl.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ Miss Baxter said. ‘No one likes a needy child.’

  Marnie ducked her head and withdrew her hands. When the door finally opened, she smiled at the rush of warmth and waft of cinnamon.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Arnold. I have another girl,’ said Miss Baxter using her nice voice.

  A thin, spidery woman with black hair restrained in a tight bun greeted her visitors and ushered them inside. ‘Come in, please. This weather—the cold and snow—I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Yes, the last time we had snow like this in Downfell was over a century ago, the 1950s, I believe,’ Miss Baxter said.

  Mrs Arnold glanced at Marnie. ‘So who do we have here?’

  ‘You’ll find she’s slow and a reluctant talker, but I’m certain she can be trained.’ Miss Baxter spoke loudly as she planted her broad behind on Mrs Arnolds’ sofa chair in front of the crackling fire while the chair springs creaked and groaned and almost touched the floor. ‘A few years ago, I placed a girl just like her in a foster home ... learned to cook and made herself quite useful. Her foster parents were very pleased with the arrangement.’

  Marnie stood awkwardly beside Miss Baxter while her comments washed over her, and as always, she understood but didn’t allow her words in.

  ‘Parents?’ Mrs Arnold queried.

  ‘None.’

  Marnie blinked. Surely she must have had them once? She tried to remember.

  Miss Baxter turned and prodded Marnie in the side with a sturdy finger. ‘Sit girl.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Mrs Arnold asked.

  ‘Marnie Speck.’ She sat while drawing her battered suitcase close. Surveying the rich surrounds, her hope grew like a hungry green shoot. She noticed eyes, pairs of twitchy children’s eyes in the periphery and those of an older man seated at a table with a boy in the next room. The shadowy children were inquisitive, straining to hear and see, yet the man was oblivious.

  ‘There’s not much of her and she’s rather pale. Is she healthy?’ Mrs Arnold began shrewdly while examining Marnie like she was a specimen behind a magnifying glass.

  ‘Absolutely; I have certificates and papers. I can show you now if you’d like.’ She reached into her bag for a large orange envelope sealed with black wax before handing it to Mrs Arnold.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Arnold gave the social worker a wily, sideways glance. ‘As you said, she’s dim, so she’ll require a lot of work.’

  Miss Baxter nodded as though accepting her assessment. ‘I’ve brought the paperwork. You’ll receive the first payment Monday week.’ She fossicked through her briefcase again. ‘There’s an extra loading given this is your fifth foster child.’

  Mrs Arnold leaned forwards almost spilling onto the floor in eagerness. ‘How much?’

  ‘Double.’

  A sharp inhalation later, she nodded and threaded her lean fingers over her honed waistline. ‘Welcome to your new home, Marnie.’ Her voice was automatic and clinical like the metallic ring of a cash register.

  Marnie felt no warmth in her welcome. She looked more closely at the huddled, wide-eyed children with their long, thin insect arms and legs so similar to her own, whispering to each other under the gloomy stairs. In the adjoining room, she also saw the man at the desk poring over papers under a golden lamp and the strained-faced boy beside him frowning at her. Their elongated shadows and novelty intrigued and excited her. She inhaled her surrounds, making a mental inventory: plush velvet curtains, long exotic rug and polished timber furniture. Strange paintings of old people lined the walls and vases of flowers dripping with rich petals and heavy fragrances adorned tables and shelves.

  After the two women had drunk tea and devoured pastries, Miss Baxter rose and gathered her handbag and laptop. ‘I’ll be back in a week or two to see if everything’s working out.’

  Mrs Arnold nodded before accompanying her to the door.
‘Don’t worry, Irma; I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘Downfell owes you a debt of gratitude for your fine and selfless work. I’ll be recommending an award.’

  With a watery smile, Mrs Arnold feigned embarrassment. ‘We do our best. If the Arnolds cannot help the less fortunate, who can? We see it as our civic duty.’

  While the two women were distracted, one of the insect children, a girl crept forwards and confronted Marnie. Bristling with animosity, she glared with wide eyes and spoke rapidly as though ready to burst, ‘Why are you here? There’s no room for you.’

  Marnie shrugged. She was used to the push and shove of life in an orphanage. How different could this place be?

  ‘What’s wrong with your hair? It’s red and ugly and your face is the colour of bread dough.’

  Marnie jutted her chin out and faced her squarely.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not sick? We don’t want to catch your germs.’ The girl was at least fourteen with olive skin and a shock of black hair that hypnotised Marnie. ‘Stop staring at me, you weird thing.’

  ‘I could ask the same of you, except your hair’s inky and a tangled hedge.’

  ‘Stop staring, idiot. Do you hear me?’

  Marnie grinned before speaking in a clear and level tone while not giving an inch. ‘I hear you.’

  The girl shoved her sharply between the ribs.

  Marnie gasped but pushed her back as hard, knowing you should never show fear.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mrs Arnold bustled back into the room and caught the two girls eyeing each other off. ‘I don’t want any trouble, Marnie. You’re to behave, or it will be straight back to that orphanage for you and I hear it isn’t the nicest place. Do you understand me?’

  Marnie stared at her with a stony expression, but Mrs Arnold ignored her.

  ‘Molly, it’s time for bed.’ Mrs Arnold turned and frowned at the huddle of children and they cringed like a herd of frightened deer. ‘To bed, all of you—except Sebastian.’

  A lanky boy about Marnie’s age, or a little older, with blond hair, knobbly knees and elbows and bright blue eyes, peeled from the mob and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  ‘Could I have some supper, please?’ asked Marnie as she rubbed her ribs. After living at St Augustine’s Children’s Home all her short life, she knew it was worth a try.

  ‘Breakfast’s at eight after chores at six sharp.’

  Despite Mrs Arnold ignoring her, Marnie didn’t panic. It was only a setback and she could endure a hungry night because she had so many times before.

  ‘Sebastian, take Marnie to the attic. The bed’s made up and you’ll find a towel, soap and face washer laid out on the end of it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not going to repeat myself.’

  ‘Yes, Ms,’ he said loudly as Mrs Arnold turned to hurry the other children to bed.

  Counting on her fingers, Marnie mentally added up her good fortune since arriving at the Arnolds’ home. One for a roof over her head, two for warmth, three for a bed (almost) and four for tomorrow’s breakfast. Life wasn’t so bad.

  ‘Follow me,’ Sebastian said.

  Marnie collected her old case covered with a faded fabric of intertwined roses, the one her parents had left her. She fell into line behind Sebastian while Mrs Arnold disappeared into the room with the man and boy studying papers at the table.

  ‘Who are they—the man and boy?’ Marnie asked tipping her head in the direction of the now closed door.

  ‘Zachary Arnold and Charlie, his son.’ Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Marnie Speck from St Augustine’s.’

  He smiled. ‘Call me Seb.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Three years. I came here when I was nearly eleven.’ He sighed. ‘Don’t fight her.’

  Marnie laughed and set her jaw. ‘Only if I have to.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘She’s crazy like her family.’

  Intrigued, Marnie raised her eyebrows. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I’ll show you your room and then you’ll get it.’

  As Seb guided her along a long corridor, they passed many closed doors of glossy white timber with ornate doorknobs. She wanted to open each and every one of them to discover what lay behind but decided they could wait.

  ‘The foster kids live in two rooms downstairs—Jackson and I live in the boys’ room and Molly and Ping in the other. Cause they’re full, you’ll need to stay in the attic.’ Seb faltered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Curious, Marnie peered at the end of the corridor where a narrow ladder led into darkness. ‘This is it?’

  Seb nodded. ‘Perhaps you could ask your social worker to take you back to the orphanage.’

  ‘Show me the room, please.’

  He pulled a dangling string, which lit a feeble light bulb at the top of the ladder. ‘Follow me.’

  Marnie struggled to hold her case while clambering after him. When she reached the top of the ladder through dusty cobwebs, she came to a bare wooden floor. In the darkness, she heard mice scuttling into gaps in the walls and could smell their faint scent. Seb took Marnie’s case as she climbed to reach him. He pulled another string in the middle of the room, lighting the attic. A small bed with a white blanket faced a large semicircular window that overlooked Downfell, an industrial city of smoke stacks, electric lights, grey buildings and constant motion.

  ‘You’ll need to keep the window shut when the wind blows this way from the factory. The smell ... it’s biting, acidic. You’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘What do they make in the factory?’

  ‘They refine a special metal found in the north after the ice melted. British scientists discovered it and it’s the only factory in the world that processes it.’ He moved and spoke quickly as though he was nervous.

  Marnie turned in a circle to appreciate the large expanse and gazed at the skylight, which revealed magnificent night clouds drifting overhead. ‘It’s glorious.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Seb seemed surprised.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being alone up here, the dingy light, the mouldy smell, the cobwebs and mice ... the bareness?’ His Irish voice was low and gentle and he had a quirk of looking away every now and then.

  Marnie warmed to him.

  She grinned. ‘No, not at all. It’s my own space. I’ll clean it up and I’m not afraid of the dark. From here, I can see the world. Thanks, I’ll be fine.’ Marnie eyed him as he stood awkwardly with his arms folded. ‘So, where did you come from before here?’

  Seb walked to the window and fiddled with a clasp. ‘After a few weeks in a London orphanage, which I didn’t like, I was sent here. Before that I lived with my family. Dad’s fighting overseas ... he’s a war hero. Mum found it too difficult to look after us.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four, including me. I’m the oldest. The others are girls.’

  ‘Where does your family live?’

  ‘Galway in Ireland. I haven’t been able to visit them yet and they haven’t come here.’

  ‘For three years?’ Marnie said in surprise.

  ‘Aye.’

  She nodded as though everything he told her was perfectly normal. ‘You must miss them?’

  Seb didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you know much about the Arnolds?’

  ‘A little.’

  She waited to hear more, but he seemed reluctant, so she didn’t press him.

  Seb looked at Marnie curiously. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. My family—my parents and me—were together last when I was a baby.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t know about my story or my parents, but I’m planning to find out.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  Tearing the fabric of time

  Mrs Arnold smoothed the pleats in her silk dress of cold sea blue, which followed her sharp angles and bony contours. S
he thrust a sheet of paper so close to Marnie’s nose it almost left her cross-eyed. ‘Here are your chores. Complete them before breakfast every morning if you wish to eat with the others.’

  Ignoring the smell of baking bread and sizzling bacon from the kitchen, Marnie grabbed the paper and toed the line with the other children as Mrs Arnold interrogated them. Marnie knew the children’s hunger and felt their tension. They were like a line of crazy horses straining to bolt before a race.

  A door opened to the dining room where the children stood in an anxious line. Mr Arnold drifted by as though in another world. He was heavyset with silvery hair sprouting prematurely from and about his ears in an older man’s style. With a furrowed brow and vacant grey eyes, he muttered as though he were miles away. When he spotted his wife, he became aware of his surrounds and shook his head discreetly.

  Mrs Arnold raised her eyebrows, obviously disappointed but regathered her composure quickly. ‘Zachary, dear, we have a newcomer.’ Like a scheming raven, she tilted her head at Marnie.

  Startled as though popped from a dream, Mr Arnold surveyed the line of children before he fixated on her and asked in a dry voice, ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Marnie Speck.’

  He gestured impatiently with manicured fingernails suggesting he expected more.

  ‘I’m from St Augustine’s, an orphanage in Gateshead. I’m thirteen.’ Marnie scratched her brain to think of anything else that might interest him. ‘I don’t have parents, um, I like numbers and I’m strong for my size.’

  The Arnolds’ son ran from the hall into the dining room and skidded to a halt on the polished oak floor at Mr Arnolds’ feet. He stood half a head taller than Marnie with straight dark hair and a round, plump face.

  ‘Steady, Charles,’ his father said.

  But Charles was eyeing Marnie curiously. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a penetrating voice with his nose screwed up and his mouth open in an unappealing way.

  ‘Marnie.’

  ‘Didn’t your parents feed you?’

  Marnie deliberately stared through him.

  ‘She’s to report back to you between her chores and breakfast.’ Mrs Arnold looked meaningfully at her husband. ‘It’s last on her list this morning.’