Foxglove Road - Chapter 3.1

3

Valerian

I crouch down, touching each scrap of paper gently with my forefinger. Mum’s handwriting, faded with age, each word isolated so precisely. I wonder if the faers chose this method for dramatic effect, or because none of them have the strength to hold pens. I wonder, I wonder. I don’t know why it matters.

My nail presses into the fourth word, denting the paper. Me. Who’s me? A faer? Violet? Someone else? Mum—?

I slap that last thought away, thinking hard about the grave hidden behind the willow fronds. The foxgloves grew all over it in the first year, as if they were claiming it, and Gran wouldn’t let Violet clear them away.

“It’s our garden,” Violet snapped, her eyes bright. “We’ve got dominion here.”

“Maybe,” Gran said. “But with faers, you should always err on the side of not pissing them off.”

That was Gran’s policy on everything. Don’t annoy them. Don’t upset them. Keep your head down. Prevention is better than protection.

Another of her phrases comes back to me now. The only thing more dangerous than accepting a faer’s invitation is turning it down.

I ease my hearing aids back in, but the house is just as silent with them in as without. The bells hang motionless from the curtain rail. I gather the scraps of paper up into my hand and slip them into my pocket, just in case the interlopers are watching somehow, to see if I treat the invitation with the proper courtesy. 

I jump when my phone buzzes against my leg. A stupid part of me thinks ‘Violet!’, even though her phone lies silent my other pocket, and I swipe ‘accept’ on the call without even looking at the name. Lewis’s voice leaps out.

“So you do have phone signal up in the savage northlands,” he says – slowly and clearly, because he knows I struggle without lips to read. “What’ve you been doing? I called three times.”

“I was asleep,” I say, because it isn’t a lie. Or perhaps it is. I’m still not sure what happened after I ripped up the book. “Haven’t checked my phone since I got up. It's all a bit nuts here.”

“How d’you mean?”

Fuck. “I mean, it’s not much– it's just family stuff, y’know.”

“Mmmm,” he says, because he doesn’t know. I never talk about it. “But you’re still coming back tonight, right? Kira wants to do the cinema. I can get your ticket for you, because I’m such a gent.”

I picture it. I could be back in London in a few hours, in an overpriced taxi, in a dingy old cinema that smells of weed and stale popcorn. Some thick conversation and a bad action plot to shroud myself in. Lewis might even get handsy with me once the lights go down, and I could let him.

I open my mouth. I almost say yes.

But there’s ink on my fingers from Mum’s handwriting, and Violet’s phone is heavy in my pocket, and Gran’s words are heavier in my mind. The foxgloves are all vivid reds and purples, lit by the midday sun streaming through the window, jutting through the mattress like bared teeth. Come and find me.

“Actually,” I say, and every word tastes of dread, “I’m going to stick around a few days longer, just ‘til Friday or something. So I can help out.”

“So you can get more free meals, more like.” He laughs, but there’s a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “A’ight, then. Don’t freeze up there.”

I say sorry, I won’t, and ha ha, yes, it’s not Antarctica, you know, bye, bye, bye. Then I click the phone off. Immediately after comes the crashing wave of why-the-fuck, and I almost ring back to beg a ticket off him after all. But I lay my phone flat, screen-down, and take a few breaths. I have to try. At least until Friday. Even I can survive in the Faerlands until Friday. Mum used to go in for weeks at a time.

And look what happened to her, says a small voice.

I squash it flat and get to my feet.

-

I go back to the B&B to pack up and check out. I didn’t bring many clothes with me, but there are plenty to be found in my old bedroom. I grab whatever jeans are within reach, then a few enchanted shirts from the back of my wardrobe. I slot a battery pack down the side, though I don’t suppose a phone’s much good out there, and squash in a Tupperware box of fruit bread and biscuits and wrapped sweets. They’ll do as offerings, in a pinch.

My hearing aids should last the week, but I’m not going to take chances. I pack the two spare batteries I have, then ransack the drawers in the kitchen – sure enough, I find another packet tucked amongst the triple As and the scattered screwdrivers. Violet stocks up for my visits. Just in case I stick around longer than planned.

I stuff them into a zip pocket. Sling my coat on. Make a last cup of tea, fix myself a square of toast under the scabby grill. There’s a film over my eyes; part of me doesn’t accept what I’m doing. Violet and I used to play at Faerlands expeditions. Mum had marbled notebook of tips and notes – places to stay, things to bring, descriptions of faers that were, if not trustworthy, a little easier to predict than others. Violet would read out the entries and we’d pack our school satchels for a long, long trip, then Mum would come and rate our wares. I generally got pulled up for something small, like not folding my clothes tightly enough, or forgetting my knife.

Violet probably still has that notebook.

I push back against the thought, but it’s too late. First, I hope it’s lost, but I find it on the piano in the lounge, as if Violet left it there just for me. Next, I hope there’s no room for it in my bag, but I’ve got a spare compartment at the front. I pick it up gingerly, not trusting my hands, not wanting to touch anything else of Mum’s. But my pulse remains even. There are no pictures, so it’s easier to pretend that it’s nothing to do with her.

One note leaps out, though:

Walk the Road at dusk, sunset, that general ballpark. Faerlands pretty yielding at that time of day, but not as dangerous as at night-time.

I glance out of the window. The grass is the colour of marmalade.

Time to go, then.