The Spin by Rebecca Lisle

do well, determined not to let his nerves spoil this moment. The spitfyre rolled his eyes, arched his neck and snapped his jaws, spitting out tiny balls of fire at him. Stormy dodged, feeling a blast of hot air follow him round the cave. He could hear the students chuckling behind him, and that made him hotter and more determined to do things right. He went on, creeping behind the spitfyre towards the darkness and the chinking chain. The great bulk of the creature, hot and pulsating, seemed to fill the cave. He was much hotter and jumpier than he had been when Stormy first fed him.
    There was only a thin space between the spitfyre and the wall, and one careless side-step from him, or one
intentional
side-step from the bad-tempered spitfyre, would crush him against the rock. This animal oozed aggression. He did not want Stormy in there. Without turning his head towards him, only rolling his eye so he could keep track of him, the spitfyre was squeezing him against the rock.
    Stormy picked up the heavy chain carefully, letting his hands inch along it until he reached the metal cuff. He was so close to the spitfyre he could see the individual silvery hairs of his coat and the pulsating veins that ran below the pale skin of his belly. The smell of cordite and burnt matches filled the air.
    He fumbled through the keys, looking for the right one. Sweat was pouring off him and dripping into his eyes. His fingers slipped and fumbled. He found himself squashed against the hard uneven wall, furiously fitting one key after the other into the lock.
    â€˜How you doing?’ Hector yelled.
    â€˜Good, good!’
    At last he had the right key. Carefully he turned it. Carefully he unlocked the leg iron and lifted it off.
    Sensing he was free, the spitfyre puffed out short, excited breaths, and some tension that had been there evaporated, only to be replaced by another sensation – as it got ready to move outside – of thrilled
expectation
.
    The grubbin convict must have felt like this, Stormy suddenly thought, when
he’d
got his leg iron off. Poor grubbin. Nothing should ever be chained up.
    The spitfyre danced out, hooves noisy and sharp on the stone. On the terrace he appeared as a black featureless winged shape against the brighter, lighter sky. He unfurled his wings like new leaves opening for the first time and shook them energetically. The sun blazed through the membranes, showing the sinewy spokes like an umbrella.
    Bentley shouted something about his bridle, but Stormy could only stand and stare in awe. Fantastic, just utterly fantastic!
    The massive spitfyre began to circle and paw the ground, anxious to go.
    â€˜You forgot my gear!’ Hector yelled. ‘My gear!’
    Stormy looked round quickly. There was a large empty stone basin at the back of the cave, where in the olden days the dragon’s treasure trove would have been. No
gear
.
    â€˜Hurry up!’
    â€˜Coming!’
    He scanned the cave. Hanging on the wall near the entrance were goggles, a helmet and reins. Stormy seized them quickly and took them out. ‘Here you are.’
    Sparkit had swelled in size. He was prancing about, shifting and sidestepping, eager to go.
    â€˜Sparkit! Bridle!’ Hector said, and the spitfyre reluctantly lowered his head so Hector could fit the reins and bridle on. There was no bit to go in his mouth; Stormy knew that winged horses did not submit to anything being placed in their mouths. Ralf held the reins while Hector fitted his helmet and goggles on, and then he stepped up on the mounting block and swung himself onto the spitfyre’s back.
    The students shifted out of the way quickly, knocking into each other in their hurry to make space.
    â€˜Sparkit! Fly!’ Hector commanded, and leaning forward he whispered instructions into the spitfyre’s ear. ‘Fly!’
    With a loud swish, Sparkit flung out his wings to full extension and flapped them once slowly, experimentally, then again,