The Spin by Rebecca Lisle Page A

harder and faster until dust blew up.
    â€˜Fly!’ The spitfyre lurched forward, neck outstretched.
    A great wave of air ripped round the onlookers so they fell back against the wall. Stormy was incapable of moving or speaking. Blood pounded inside his head. It was so beautiful!
    â€˜Fly!’
    Spitfyre and rider leapt into the void like an enormous bird. One moment Sparkit was hanging in the air, wings spread, next he was dropping like a stone, plummeting into the valley.
    â€˜No!’ Stormy yelled, rushing to the edge, totally sick with horror, his face frozen into a ghastly grimace. They had fallen thousands of feet . . . they’d be dead . . . or so hurt . . . why wasn’t anyone doing anything?
    â€˜No!’
    He ran, was almost at the edge, when with a sudden loud whoosh, the air heaved and the spitfyre soared back up into view. Stormy toppled. The spitfyre flew up and up and away.
    Bentley and the others clapped and cheered.
    â€˜He always does that,’ Ralf said, picking up his thork. ‘He’s one big show-off.’
    Stormy stared after the disappearing spitfyre. Slowly he got up. Total horror was slowly replaced with a dull admiration . . . And for the first time in his life, he felt completely and totally overcome with a terrible envy, and it hurt.
    He helped several other students with their spitfyres, asking the names of their animals as he did so. It wouldn’t take him long to learn them; it wouldn’t be hard.
    The red spitfyre in eight with the topaz eyes and the long yellow mane was Kopernicus. The emerald-green spitfyre was called Daygo, and of course the blue spitfyre was called Bluey. It belonged to Bentley.
    The last time he had been this close to Bluey was when he’d crashed into the garden of Otto’s kitchen, and then Araminta had been riding him. He wondered if Bentley knew that she had borrowed his spitfyre. Probably not, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell him.
    â€˜My, he’s frisky!’ Bentley said, trying to rein Bluey in. ‘What’s up with him?’ But he didn’t wait to hear if there was an answer and soon he was swirling up into the sky, blue merged into blue, and he was gone.
    The spitfyres are wasted on these students
, Stormy thought, watching as one by one the spitfyres left the terrace. He imagined what it would be like to sit astride one and feel the thrust and pulse of the powerful wings. To glide through the air, miles above the ground and go anywhere he wanted . . . He sighed. Life was so unfair.

15
Cosmo
    Later, Stormy thought over his feelings. Envy. He wanted everything that Hector had. And more. But it wasn’t the riding, the outfit, the power; it was because he loved these creatures and he thought he would be a good sky-rider, a nicer one than Hector, a more caring one than Bentley.
    He was sure that the Great Renaldo loved his spitfyres; you could tell he did from his pictures. He cut a brilliant figure in his red trousers, white boots and twirly moustache. Stormy put the flyer into his pocket. Perhaps some of the Great Renaldo’s skill would seep into him and help him. Stormy would get the food lifts cleaned up and do something about the spitfyres getting the right food. That would help.
    Al was in the servery, sitting at the table, staring out through the open door onto the terrace. Cherries, slices of pineapple and apple had been fashioned on the table top into a lopsided face.
    â€˜Hello!’ Stormy said. ‘Is the food good?’
    There was that sherry trifle smell oozing out of Al again, but no trifle.
    â€˜Otto’s food’s too good to eat,’ Al said, twiddling a cherry eye. ‘Would be wasted on me.’
    If Al hadn’t been
eating
trifle but he smelled of sherry, maybe he’d been drinking it? Maybe he drank a lot of it? Maybe that accounted for his weird behaviour . . .
    â€˜What’s that in your back pocket?’ Al tugged at the white ribbon in