Swift by R. J. Anderson

were too big for him, and his eyes were dull as pebbles.
    ‘Come and have some porridge, Dad,’ Ivy said, offering him her bowl. But he shook his head, and reached for his thunder-axe.
    Ivy wanted to grab her father and shake him, but she knew it would do no good. She heard him coughing in the night sometimes, but he’d never let her give him any of Yarrow’s herbal remedies to make it better. His hands shook whenever he gripped anything lighter than a pick or shovel, and his teeth had turned yellow with neglect – yet he didn’t seem to care about those things, either. So why should he bother eating a proper breakfast?
    ‘Take this, then,’ she said, pushing the packed lunch against his chest. He curled his arm around it, swung the magical pickaxe onto his shoulder and walked out without another glance.
    Oh, Mother , Ivy thought, leaning wearily on the edge of the table. Even if you stopped loving him, surely you never wanted him to end up like this?
    Going up to the surface today could be the biggest risk Ivy had taken yet, especially with the hunters already on the alert. But she couldn’t let that stop her, especially now. Because if Marigold was alive, she needed to know how much her family missed her, and how desperately they needed her to come back.

    Ivy waited until Cicely went off for her lessons, then crept out of the Delve with all her usual caution. All seemed well at first, though as she turned into the Earthenbore she had an uncomfortable suspicion that she was being watched. But no one stepped out to challenge her, so after a brief hesitation she ignored the feeling and kept on.
    Once outside she found a good spot on the hillside from which to launch herself, and went through the steps Richard had taught her. Picture the swift. Focus on the swift. Become the swift. Yet after several minutes of jaw-clenching effort, Ivy knew it was no use. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much magic she put into the effort, she was still the same wingless piskey-girl as before.
    Ivy hugged her knees to her chest, doubt snaking into her mind. When she’d seen her first swift and felt that powerful sense of connection, she’d felt certain that she was meant to fly. But what if Richard had been right all along, and she couldn’t change shape? What if her piskey blood, or some quirk of her female nature, made it impossible?
    Well, she’d know tonight, one way or the other. Maybe Richard was right, and moonlight was the key. But after so many failed attempts, it was hard to believe that such a small thing would make any difference.

    Ivy was back in the cavern, making a fish pie for supper, when Cicely came in. ‘Did you have a good lesson?’ she asked, but Cicely didn’t reply. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into her bed-alcove, pulling the curtain shut.
    That wasn’t like Cicely at all. Ivy wiped her hands on her apron and followed. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ She opened the curtain and found her little sister lying on her side, her eyes squeezed shut. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead warm to the touch.
    No wonder she’d been so quiet earlier. ‘Does your stomach hurt?’ Ivy asked. ‘Or is it your chest? Shall I get Yarrow to make you a potion?’
    ‘No,’ mumbled Cicely. ‘I just want to rest. Please go away.’
    With some reluctance Ivy stepped back and let the curtain drop. Perhaps her sister had become overheated running around with the other children, and would be better in an hour or two.
    ‘I’ll get you some water,’ she said. ‘Drink as much as you can. If you’re not well by suppertime, I’ll call for Yarrow.’

    To Ivy’s relief, Cicely seemed to have recovered by the time supper was on the table. She still wasn’t her usual talkative self, but she ate a generous helping of fish pie, and helped Ivy clean up afterwards. She spent the rest of the evening working on the jumper she was knitting for Mica, then climbed into her bed-alcove without