There was another tang of iron, and a black circle formed in mid-air beside Mirabelle. The circle swirled and grew larger, and Odd stepped through it. Now he was dressed like a Victorian public schoolboy in the customary black jacket with its white collar, along with trousers that stopped at his knees. He twirled his little finger in the air, and the portal suddenly shrank and blinked out of sight.
Mirabelle sighed and shook her head.
He shrugged. ‘What?’
‘Can’t you use the door like normal people?’
Odd winked at her. ‘I can – I just choose not to.’
All attention turned back to the orb. Mirabelle could almost taste the expectation in the room, and she was surprised to find she was on the brink of tears. She was moved, but above all she felt an overwhelming sense of pride. This was her first time welcoming a new member of the Family. She wanted to be dignified and calm for everyone. She wiped her eyes quickly, hoping no one would notice.
‘This is like your arrival all those years ago.’
‘I’m sure you were delighted,’ said Mirabelle.
Odd considered this for a moment. ‘I’ve had worse days, I suppose.’
‘Hush now,’ said Enoch, ‘the moment is here.’
The orb started to shimmer. Its light was almost blinding, but everyone kept their eyes on it. The grey shape started to solidify, and Mirabelle heard Eliza’s voice in her mind now, awe-filled and gently hushed.
. . . the youngest of us all . . .
‘The youngest must step forward,’ said Enoch.
Mirabelle didn’t even notice who put the blanket in her arms. She stepped towards the orb and held the blanket out between her hands. The small figure emerged from the light, and as it did the light faded, and Mirabelle found herself holding a baby in her arms.
The baby had one eye and was covered in grey scales, and when he mewled Mirabelle could see his sharp teeth. She loved him immediately.
‘Welcome,’ said Enoch. ‘Welcome to the Family.’
Everyone else applauded, apart from Bertram, who was blubbering about how much Rula would have loved to share the moment. Aunt Eliza rolled her eyes, then patted him on the arm.
‘And now the once-youngest must show our new arrival his home,’ said Enoch.
They parted for Mirabelle.
‘Gideon,’ she said. ‘His name is Gideon.’
‘A good strong name,’ said Enoch.
‘Lovely . . . just . . . lovely,’ Bertram snivelled, wiping tears from his eyes.
Mirabelle left the Room of Lights and the first place she went with Gideon was the deepest part of the house. The gloom of the cavernous corridor that led down to where Piglet was kept was no impediment to her. She stood before the huge metal door that kept him contained. The child murmured in his blanket and sucked his thumb as she whispered, ‘Piglet, this is Gideon. He’s part of the Family now.’
The child’s eye turned in wonder towards the heavy iron door as it heard the great deep moan that emanated from within.
Mirabelle smiled, and she chatted to Piglet for a few more moments, while he purred and rumbled contentedly behind the door.
Mirabelle then carried Gideon up to the top floor of the house. She took him to the large window that overlooked the front garden. It was lit by moonlight, and she could see as far as the Path of Flowers. She looked down at Gideon, his single eye now closed, his chest rising and falling as he slept.
‘This is your home now,’ she whispered. ‘This is the House of Rookhaven. Outside these walls is the Glamour, which keeps our kind safe from the outside world. No one can come in here without our permission. You came from the Ether, and now you’re here with us, and we welcome you.’
Mirabelle looked out of the window and smiled. She felt whole and strong and proud and protected.
But Mirabelle wasn’t to know that the humans were coming.
And humans, as is their wont, have a terrible habit of making a mess of things.
One week later Jem
Jem looked at herself furtively in the wing mirror. By the light of the moon she could see a nose she considered too flat and too broad with too many freckles. Her hair seemed to her to be more rust-coloured than red. She felt awful, small, beaten down. Her brother Tom was beside her in the driving seat. He’d been trying to get the car started for the past five minutes. Now he sat back with one hand still on the wheel and ballooned his cheeks in exasperation.
‘All right, Jemima?’ he said. Jem nodded briskly. He only called her by her full name when he wanted to lighten the mood. Tom tapped the steering wheel and tried to smile encouragingly. ‘It’s just petrol. We need more petrol.’
Tom was a year older than her, and tall for his age. He looked quite a bit older than his thirteen years, and he carried himself with the swagger of an adult. Even the way he now beat a solid rhythm on the steering wheel reminded her of their father.
His reddish-brown hair was flopping down in front of his eyes, giving him a look that served him well. It was a look that fooled strangers, a beguiling charming look, but it didn’t fool Jem. She could see the truth in his eyes. The pain, like hers, that he always carried with him.
Jem rummaged in the satchel at her feet and took out a battered petrol rationing book. There was one coupon left in it, but it was no use to them here in the middle of nowhere. She showed it to Tom and he gave a resigned shrug.
He squinted out through
