The Butterfly Circus Read online

  “It isn’t just money, Bug,” Mica says, patting my arm to make sure I understand. “You have no guardian … you know what that means.”

  “But I can work. And I’ve got money.” I think of the beer bottle half full of florins.

  “Belle is your legal guardian and without her we’ll be on the wrong side of the law by keeping you here. We could be fined. Or worse…” Mica looks at his brothers to help him. Together they take a collective breath.

  “Bug…”

  “There’s a place…”

  “For children…”

  “A special place…”

  “A safe place…”

  I know where they mean: St Mary’s on the other side of the island. It’s full of Mainlander children whose parents have sailed across from Scoria and abandoned them there, hoping they’ll have a better life on Gala.

  “You’re dumping me in an orphanage?”

  “Darrrling, you are an orphan,” Mrs Fratellini says gently.

  “You don’t know that!” I shout. No one knows for certain how Belle and I ended up alone in that forest. All I know for sure is I’d know for sure if my parents were dead. I’d feel it in my bones.

  Mrs Fratellini can’t meet my eye. “I’m so sorry, darrrling,” she whispers, but I don’t know if she’s talking to the photo of Alfredo or me.

  I turn back to the picture. Alfredo’s face begins to bulge and quiver, but I will not blink. If I blink I’ll knock my tears out and I won’t let them see me cry.

  “Marcio will take you in de morning,” Mrs Fratellini says quietly. “Go and pack your things, darrrling, I’ll be over in a minute to ’elp you.”

  4

  And Found

  It’s nearly midnight when I leave Mrs Fratellini’s caravan: the witching hour. Swirls of stars speckle the night sky and bats flit across a huge blue moon. The campfires have dwindled to embers and no one’s about; there’s only my shadow to see me creeping past the wagons. The circus ponies whinny as I hurry by, and the circus dogs stir in their sleep, their green eyes shining in the gloom. I call their names to hush them, but they won’t quit their grumbling. Even old Kizzy, the half-blind whippet, growls at me and, when I kneel to pet her, she shrinks back and whimpers. The animals must have a touch of moon-madness.

  I scramble up the steps and slide the key in the wagon door. It’s as black as a rook inside and I pat the darkness until I find the matchbox and light the candle. I hitch my rucksack off the nail, but I don’t know what to pack. Things I need, like clothes and books? Or things I want, like the family of pine-cone hedgehogs Belle made me last Found Day?

  “Just de essentials,” Mrs Fratellini had said as I left. I pack the hedgehogs.

  Our box bed is built at the end of the wagon, wall to wall, and decorated with brightly painted birds and gold-edged garlands. I climb up, crawl across the quilt to check the shelf where we keep the map and our secret bottle of florins. Instead, my hand falls on something cold and round that’s rolled into the corner.

  Something that changes everything.

  Belle’s precious Glowbell. She never wears it during a performance, but she’d never leave it behind. I cradle it in the palm of my hand. It’s not just any Glowbell; it’s attached to a gold chain rather than a coloured ribbon. It’s made of crystal, not glass, and the light from the beads blazes brighter than fireflies. And most importantly, although neither of us remember much before Alfredo found us, Belle was certain the Glowbell was given to her by our mum.

  “On my birthday,” she said one night as I fell asleep, spinning it until droplets of light flickered on her face. “We were in a boat … and you were crying.”

  “What boat? Why was I crying?”

  But Belle didn’t have all the answers.

  Now I know I was right. Belle didn’t choose to leave: she’s in trouble.

  My head’s in turmoil. I’m so happy that she didn’t abandon me, but also ashamed that I thought she could. Then both feelings are swept away by a surge of terror. If she wasn’t lured away, it means that she’s been kidnapped. Louis Fanque must have realised flattery was getting him nowhere and decided to steal her instead. I should tell someone, but who would believe me? Mrs Fratellini thinks the world of the Fanques; the two old circus families go back generations. No, it’s up to me to find his circus and rescue Belle.

  Any second now, Mrs Fratellini will be banging on the door. I loop the Glowbell around my neck and throw Belle’s cloak over my shoulders. Then, I stuff the box of matches, the map and the bottle of florins into my bag, and pack them down with my thickest jersey and spare glasses. Then I lock up, slip the key in the belly box under the wagon and slink away through the animal pens.

  Circo Fanque is in Sanctuary, which is miles away, but I know how to get there. I’m going to follow the path through the forest until I reach the old bridge over the ravine. There are some steps on the other side that lead down to the railway tracks below. If I follow the tracks, I can’t go wrong.

  I scramble over the high wooden fence and drop to the other side. In my hurry I slip and slice my knee open on a rock. It starts bleeding so I lick it clean; it’s not wise to have the smell of blood on you when walking through a forest full of wolves. I tear a strip off my shirt and bandage my leg, then stand up and take a deep gulp of outlawed air. I’m on the wrong side of the circus fence at night, on the edge of a dark forest – the forest where Alfredo Fratellini found us all those years ago, when he was out collecting pine sap to make rosin. I shiver with excitement and fear too; Mrs Fratellini doesn’t like me out after dark, especially after that night one of our tigers escaped. I shake the thought away; some memories are best left forgotten.

  I pull out the map. Under the light of the moon, I check which way to go then run off into the trees. Light sprinkles out from the Glowbell as it bounces on its chain and I’m glad I’m wearing it.

  Suddenly, the clouds cape the moon and only the chalky white path is visible ahead, curling like an elephant tusk through the forest. I hear a gentle rustling behind me, but it’s only moon-thistles; their fluffy white buds popping open in the moonshine. I stop running and listen harder, beyond the reach of my ear, then I turn slowly on the spot, trying to see something I sense doesn’t want to be seen. I wish the moon would come out again.

  “Hello?” I call. Only my echo replies, then a deep, dark silence.

  I peer through the gloom. Further up the track, I spot the narrow stone bridge that spans from one side of a gorge to the other, where I can see the steps cut into the cliff all the way down to the railway line far below. I hate that bridge, not just because its stones are as wobbly as old teeth, but because Belle once told me a story about it being haunted by a witch. But I’m going to have to cross it.

  Just then there’s a soft rumbling in the distance. I run up the path until I reach the bridge, where I stop to catch my breath. The bridge is arched with two low walls either side, not much higher than my knee. For a second, I think I spy a movement in the trees, but it must be shadows playing tricks on me. I hesitate, then the clouds shiver away and moonlight floods the stones; so white, like someone threw a glass of milk onto them. I take heart and sprint across the bridge, but I’m only halfway over when a howl rings out. Marcio told me wolves smell humans a mile off and in my mind’s eye I imagine one stepping out of the shadows with blood-specked saliva dripping off its fangs. My heart thumps so hard I’m sure I can hear it knocking on my ribs. Keeping a safe distance from the wall, I peer over it at the silvery rails below. They stretch far into the distance before disappearing into the foggy dark of the deep ravine. It’s nearly one hundred miles to Sanctuary and I realise it’s going to take me at least a week to walk there.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper to myself.

  The rumbling sound is getting louder. In the distance there’s a tiny bead of light; a train is coming. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I could be gobbled up by wolves or a train could smash me to smithereens down there on the tracks, and no one
would ever know. How will Belle be rescued if I’m the only one who knows she’s been kidnapped? I’m twelve, I’m scared and I don’t want to be on my own. I suddenly remember Belle telling me the witch only comes for naughty children who run away.

  I quickly turn back the way I came … or try to.

  I can’t move. Not an inch. My feet are glued to the spot. I feel a terrible fear, not the fear of being out alone at night, but something worse: the feeling that I’m not alone, that something is behind me, watching me. I can hardly bear to do it but, very slowly, I look over my shoulder. I breathe a sigh of relief; there’s just an empty bridge with nothing there. But if no one’s there…

  …Then why can I hear breathing?

  Soft, so soft, like someone tiptoed right up behind me. There’s a damp sensation on the back of my neck. I want to scream, but my throat’s frozen stiff.

  Pull yourself together.

  I force myself to turn around. There’s nothing; no wolves, no witch, just my shadow lying across the white stones. Then the strangest thing happens: I feel myself being pulled towards the wall. Without meaning to, I have already taken a step towards it. I try to pull back; there’s no way I’m going near the edge. The wall is too low and there’s a forty-foot drop to the tracks below.

  But the tugging continues and, even though this sounds crazy, it suddenly feels as though my shadow is pulling me. Maybe I hit my head when I fell? I’m sure I’m imagining things when there’s another sharp tug, so hard that I stumble into the wall. That’s when I hear the ripping sound, like the sound of a cotton sheet being torn. I look down at my feet.

  There’s a rip where my shadow joins my right foot and it grows, as if a seam is coming undone. I watch transfixed as my shadow tears away from my foot, as easily as I’d tear a piece of paper. I’m still gaping stupidly when I feel my other foot being pulled. I’m hopping on one leg as, for a second, my shadow and I are caught in a tug of war. There’s a final yank, another sound of ripping and the shadow is free. I’ve been pulling so hard I lose my balance and fall roughly onto the wall. A loose stone skitters off and I can’t stop myself looking down: the train is hurtling towards me, so close I can read its metal name plaque on the front:

  SANCTUARY EXPRESS

  Then everything happens all at once. Suddenly I’m leaning right over the edge of the wall and my shadow is dangling from my right hand. It’s unnaturally heavy. This is not what I expected; shouldn’t shadows weigh nothing? I feel it start to slip from my grasp.

  The bridge shakes as the train thunders underneath, its deafening clatter making the mortar jump from cracks between the stones. I feel my feet slide away from underneath me as a bank of steam engulfs us. I make one last desperate effort to pull my shadow back, wrapping both hands around the shadow’s. But then I realise my mistake. I don’t have a grip on my shadow – my shadow has a grip on me. Its hand is clenched around mine as soft and strong as silk. I’m being dragged over the wall. The train whistle screeches and I want to scream, but fear has locked up my throat. My world turns upside down and I’m falling again.

  5

  The Shadow

  I open my eyes. It’s pitch-black. The smell of sunshine and mice and grass, all rolled into one, prickles my nostrils. I’m buried in deep hay; it’s up my nose and my mouth is dusty dry. I try yelling for help, but my throat fills with it and I start gagging instead. I fight upwards through the spikey stems until I can feel cold air on my face.

  I wipe the dust off my glasses and look around. I’m in the middle of an open-topped train wagon, with high sides that can drop down to become ramps. Every few seconds a huge clot of sooty steam belches overhead as the train hurtles through the ravine. The wagon is heaped with dunes of hay and I guess I’ve landed in the bedding for animals. The express must be bringing one of the circuses to Sanctuary. Over the train’s whistle I hear the mournful trumpeting of elephants and the roaring of lions as the little wagon rocks from side to side. I grab an iron hook fixed to the wall and pull myself up to get my bearings. Looking above me, snow-capped mountains snag the sky and thousands of stars sparkle like diamonds in the velvet night. I gasp in wonder. The wind shrieks around me, whipping my hair across my face, and I’m so grateful to be alive I gulp mouthfuls of the sweet night air. My shadow – if that’s what the strange creature was – has disappeared. Was I really pulled off a bridge onto a speeding train by my own shadow? That’s impossible.

  “Shadows can’t do that,” I say to myself in a steadying, reasoning voice. A Matteo voice.

  “Do what?” A stiff, creaky voice comes from behind me, as if it hasn’t been used in years. I peer into the shadows, terrified.

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t be scared,” the voice says, from another corner now.

  “I’m not,” I answer defiantly.

  “You are,” it murmurs, soft as an ink-spill seeping into a rug. “Your eyes are leaking.”

  I quickly brush the tears away and squint hard at where the voice came from, trying to detect a shape in the dimness. Even though my eyesight’s bad, from years of checking the ropes when the big top lights go down, I’ve got a talent for seeing in poor light and spy a denser patch of black in the corner of the wagon.

  “What are you?” I whisper in amazement.

  “I’m a shadow.”

  “Shadows can’t talk!” I shout, trying to sound braver than I feel.

  Two eyes flicker open in the gloom. They are lavender-grey; the colour of mischief at dusk. “Then who are you talking to?” I hear the softest chuckle, quieter than the shuffle of dead leaves caught by a breeze.

  Just then, there’s a gap between the towering mountains. A slab of moonlight falls into the truck and the shadow steps out of the darkness. She’s precisely my height and shape; there’s the crumple of a trouser-leg stuffed into a boot and two bobbles on the top of her head, just like mine. She’s the sort of shadow I only ever have on the sunniest day or under the brightest moon. She could have been cut with the sharpest scissors from the blackest silk but, apart from her eyes, her features are vague; her mouth and nose are just crinkles.

  “How has this happened?” I’m too astonished by her to be scared any more.

  “Good question,” she replies, “I don’t know … maybe it’s the moonlight?”

  I look up; the moon’s so bright and close I could trace its seas with my finger.

  “All I know is that you didn’t want to be alone. So here I am! Ta-dah!” She flings her skinny arms outwards.

  I sink down on the hay. I can’t believe I’m talking to my shadow. Belle always teases me for talking to myself; she says it’s the first sign of insanity. Is talking to your shadow the second? I pinch myself, just in case this is all a nightmare. But then the shadow speaks again.

  “Aren’t you glad I’m here?” she asks, sounding slightly hurt. She sits down opposite me, resting her pointy chin on the twin peaks of her knees.

  “How come you’ve never spoken before?” I ask, feeling strangely light-headed. “Shadows are silent – as a rule.”

  “I don’t know about rules! I just try to do exactly what you do.”

  “Shadows don’t try!” I laugh. “You just are!”

  “I try very hard indeed,” my shadow sniffs. “Ever spot a mistake? Go on, test me. Move something, quick as you can,” she instructs.

  I start waving my arm wildly like I’m drawing scrapping cats with a sparkler. My shadow moves in perfect time with me and doesn’t make a single mistake. I have to admit, she’s very good. But seeing my shadow unfastened from me feels too odd; it’s like losing your footing in the dark. I’ll never get used to this.

  “Well, we need to get back together,” I demand, except I’ve no idea how we’re supposed to do it. Is it like sticking down the flapping sole of a shoe? Would she be better stitched? Or could that hurt her? As I’m thinking about this, my shadow drops to her hands and knees and scuttles over the hay towards me. There’s a sudden chill, as if a door to a cellar ful
l of unwanted and forgotten things has been opened.

  “Has this ever happened before?” I ask, as she settles down beside me. She’s so thin I can actually see stalks of hay pricking through her.

  “I don’t know,” she replies unhelpfully. Her eyes are brighter than before and dark sparks flicker teasingly in their depths. “Has this ever happened before?” she laughs.

  “Well, I think we’d both know if it had. All I know is that you tore away from me!” I huff indignantly, but she doesn’t seem to notice my tone and lifts the arm nearest to me, waving it around lazily.

  “Well, you’re the one not moving in time with me … in fact, you’re not moving at all,” she says primly, choosing a hay stalk and delicately nibbling the end.

  “That’s not how it works! Anyway, I was doing just fine until you pulled me off that bridge!” I snap, sitting up as straight as I can while she lolls beside me.

  “If we hadn’t jumped, we’d have missed the train.” She takes the stalk from her mouth and taps the damp end of it on my nose. “So, where are we going?”

  “To look for my sister,” I tell her, brushing the stalk away. “I need to find her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In Louis Fanque’s circus in Sanctuary,” I say. “I think she’s been stolen!”

  “Stolen?” My shadow props herself up on her elbows, suddenly alert. “Like your bracelet?”

  “How do you know about that?” I ask. Even I’d forgotten that.

  She’s talking about the bracelet Belle made me. It was plaited from scraps of wire with beads threaded on it. I never did find out who took it. It was just before my fall; I’d looped it over the bedpost, but in the morning it’d vanished. My heart flutters at the memory and immediately the shadow ripples from the centre outwards, like a stone thrown in a pond at midnight. If she’s real, and I’m still not sure she is, then she’s real magic; old magic – wild, dark and strange. Magic that knows secrets long lost and forgotten.