Emily Feather and the Enchanted Door by Holly Webb

Emily leaned over her mum’s shoulder, hugging her carefully so as not to dribble the open tin of golden syrup that Emily was about to put in her flapjack mixture. “I like that one,” she said thoughtfully, pointing at the fabric sample her mum was holding out, a soft strip of blue scattered with flowers and tiny birds.
    â€œNot the red?” Her mum wafted it at her enticingly, so that the fierce bright-orange butterflies fluttered over the fabric. The red silk glittered, only a shade brighter than her mum’s hair.
    Emily blinked. For a second it had looked like one of the butterflies had lifted out of the fabric and floated idly across the kitchen to the window. She wrinkled her nose and squeezed her eyelids shut for a second. It was the bright sunshine getting in her eyes. “No, I really like the blue one. It’s prettier. Is it for a dress? Is this a new collection for the shop?”
    â€œYes, we’re thinking about next summer’s clothes already. I think it’s going to be a skirt, this one,” her mum said thoughtfully. “A maxi-skirt, with jewels scattered through the flowers. They’ll have to be hand-sewn; it’ll be expensive.” She padded out of the kitchen, trailing wings of soft, sheer fabric behind her, so that she looked like a butterfly too.
    Emily giggled. When her mum was designing clothes, she sometimes forgot about everything else. Even meals. But then, she did make the most beautiful things, and not just for the shop; she made them for Emily and her sisters too. So it made up for having to make their own lunch, and dinner, a lot of the time.
    For Emily’s last birthday, her mum had made her a hat that looked like a cupcake, with pink icing and little sugar flowers on it. The kind of cake that Emily really loved making. The hat was one of her favourite things, and she wore it loads. It was much too hot for hats now, though. Emily leaned out of the window to breathe a bit. It was roasting in the kitchen, with the oven on. Still, it would be worth it. Flapjacks were one of her best recipes. She loved the way you just had to melt the buttery gooey mess together and stir a bit, and then it magically turned into cakey stuff when you cooked it.
    â€œEmily!” Lark was yelling at her from down the garden. “Ems! Are you coming out? You’ll melt if you stay inside all day!”
    â€œI’m coming in a minute,” Emily called back. “I just want to put these flapjacks in.”
    â€œIt’s too hot for cooking! You’re mad! Honestly, Ems, I worry about you sometimes!” Lory joined in. “Come and sunbathe.”
    â€œI’m nearly done,” Emily shouted out of the window. “And it won’t stop you eating them, anyway, will it?”
    She scooped the mixture into the tin, and then made a face at the washing up. She’d pile it into the sink and leave it till later. No one would mind. Her mum looked like she was going to be shut up in her studio for hours anyway, and her dad was in the tiny room under the stairs where he wrote his books. He wrote scary fantasy novels, and he was quite famous. He used his full name for the books, though – Ashcroft Feather, instead of just Ash, which was what most people called him. He hadn’t even bothered coming out for lunch. He was stuck, he’d told everybody grumpily at breakfast, and he’d made Emily suggest ideas for really scary monsters while she was trying to eat her toast. It had slightly put her off her jam.
    Emily peered out of the window at the blazing sun and decided to tie her hair back. It was too hot hanging round her neck. She wandered over to the wooden dresser that took up one wall of the kitchen. There was a mug full of hairbands and bits of ribbon on there somewhere, she was sure. It was while she was picking out a band that she found the photo, tucked under one of Lark and Lory’s magazines. Emily pulled it out and stood it up