Page 8 of The Heart and the Hawthorn

Frida grinned, and together they headed for the distant treeline. Dappled shadows arched across the sodden grass and the moon silvered the path. It was beautiful, but behind them the Hawthorn spread gnarled, ominous branches towards the sky and, however much she tried to ignore it, Frida couldn’t shake the feeling that as they walked away, someone, somewhere, was watching them.

Chapter Seven

Frida did not sleep easily that night. Antony insisted on staying over, waking her every hour to check that her brain hadn’t jellified. Drifting in and out, her dreams were full of fire and keening cries. Anguished hands clawing at heavy walls and a green-haired punk superstar blowing raindrops in her face. There was the smell of growing things and rich, earthy petrichor, and the silver gleam of cobwebs under the moonlight. Someone screamed her name, over and over.

She woke finally to daylight in a spike of cortisol panic. Antony was nowhere to be seen, and her stomach was clenching so badly, she had to race for the toilet before she vomited up the last thing she’d eaten, a mediocre sandwich she’d wolfed down around midday yesterday. When she was done, she sank back on her heels. Her head was pounding. She couldn’t explain why, only she knew something terrible had happened. Wrenching herself back off the mat, she ran for the window. But when she pulled open the curtains, she stared speechless at the glimmer of the golden walls in the distance, hazy against the green spawl of Liberty Park, dotted with the typical dog walkers. So normal, so familiar, so fine.

The LEZ was fine.

She gave a moan, taking a moment for her body to settle back into calm. The sky was the summer blue of cornflowers, and the soft morning breeze smelled of the sea. She was still a unicorn butler. Nobody had been struck by lightning. With a sigh of relief, she pushed her tangled thatch of mousy brown hair off her forehead and made a promise to herself to start eating dinners again. Since her mum had become ill, she’d sort of been forgetting and her face was gaunter than she cared to admit. Her skin, previously olive with a soft freckled tan that came out in the sun, had become extra pale. And her eyes, which she’d always loved – a kind of dark brown with flecks of blue and copper – now looked sunken. Her mum used to joke that Frida had inherited some far-flung strain of extraordinary creature DNA, making her eyes almost luminescent in some lights. Purple, she’d joked. Like Frida had swallowed some amethyst by mistake.

A shudder ran through her. Last night, in her dreams, she’d been purple. She ran her hands reflexively over her arms. It had been bad. With a capital B. The shame of it made her put her head in her hands. Had she really worked all day, on bad coffee and barely any food, only to knock herself out on a tree root? Her gaze drifted to the photo that hung by the window of her and her mum, huddled in the rain in front of Fireheart’s signpost, water dripping down their noses. Her mum was mid-laugh, head thrown back, black fringe plastered to her face. It had been Frida’s ninth birthday. The rain had ruined their picnic, and Fireheart hadn’t come out of her cave once. Still, her mum had pitched off her raincoat and jumped through the puddles, declaring that it was great weather for krakens.

Frida touched the cracked picture frame. This was their apartment. She maxed out her monthly salary, just so she could afford to keep it. Her mum’s room was untouched. She couldn’t bear to change it, even when Antony and Hamish gently suggested that they move in to keep her company. The best she could do was drag herself out of bed to go to work, because some days, it was just the thought of Issy and the others that stopped her from curling up, turning off all the lights and never getting up again. She shuddered as fragments of her dream came back to her. Lightning cracking, glass shattering, the Hawthorn burning.

It was all so fragile.

She lingered for a moment longer, trying to relish the iridescent sunlight that streamed through the window. Next to the photo of her mum, she’d pinned an old, wrinkled postcard of Forge House, the original location of the LEZ and home to Sir Joshua Beaufort – her auburn-haired hero – and his seven sisters. When she’d been fourteen, Frida had visited the house on a school trip. Sir Joshua had rescued his first extraordinary creature in 1802 at Forge House. In 1822, the LEZ had been officially founded. It hadn’t been until 1837 that they’d had to move outside of London because a basilisk escaped, slithering all the way to Buckingham Palace and scaring the bejesus out of Queen Victoria during a court dinner. Frida had still loved the romance of the old manor house though, the sparkling serpentine lake, the perfectly manicured flower gardens. The founders of the LEZ – Sir Joshua, his sisters, and their board of scientists, poets and revolutionaries that Hamish called the LEZites – had changed the world. In a time where people coveted swords inlaid with dragon scales, wore hats made of griffin feathers, and ate grootneck eggs like they were sweets, they’d dared to think differently.

She was already starting to feel better. The LEZ was fine. The morning was warm, the mustard yellow carpet of her bedroom golden. Even her little jungle of monstera plants by the window, tended by Antony whenever he came over, seemed to be humming.

Her phone buzzed. It was Hamish, on their group chat, sending a meme of a poor, hapless person tripping over a tree. She groaned and went to have a shower.

When she emerged, ten minutes later, she heard hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Peeking her head out, she was not surprised to see the both of them, bickering in low voices about the best way to cook beans. They both had keys, which they rapaciously overused, but just the sight of her friends made her feel a thousand times better. She slipped back into the bedroom to dress in a clean uniform and force her hair into her typical, shoulder-length braid. By the time she came out for the second time, baked beans had been cooked, bread had been toasted, and there was the wonderful life-giving aroma of coffee wafting through the house.

Her heart too full for words, she slipped soundlessly into her seat at the old, beaten-up kitchen table and inhaled gratefully as Hamish put a gigantic mug of black coffee in front of her, sprinkled with just a little bit of cinnamon. Antony, smiling broadly, clearly happy to see her alive, folded his long limbs into his usual seat under the small, poky window. Seeing the lines of exhaustion around his dark brown eyes, she felt a stab of guilt. In a past life, she must have done something truly incredible to deserve friends like these.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, leaning over to clasp Antony’s warm, scarred hand.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for it.

She grinned. ‘For being the biggest pain in my arse.’

He chuckled and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. ‘It’s my pleasure.’

Hamish snorted and slid a plate of beans in front of her, à la Mish, cooked with enough fat and salt to give anyone a heart attack. She sighed with pleasure. She hadn’t realised quite how hungry she was. ‘Thank you, Mish.’

Hamish grinned as they plopped gracefully into the seat next to her. ‘Eat.’

Antony, taking a pointed sip of his protein shake, looked in sorrow at Frida’s plate. ‘You know that should come with a health warning.’

Frida didn’t care. She loved Hamish’s beans. For a while, there was only the sound of chewing as they all ate their respective breakfasts. She could hear it though, her friends’ trepidation, positively dripping amongst the coffee fumes as they exchanged unsubtle glances over her head.

‘Right,’ she said finally, not able to stand it anymore. She put down her fork and placed her hands flat on either side of her plate. ‘Go on. Tell me about how last night was the best night of both your lives. I can take it, I promise.’

Antony didn’t miss a beat. ‘Fri, seriously. I’ve seen more exciting button mushrooms.’

Hamish agreed, putting down their toast. ‘The best part was seeing Cliff and Gloria almost disembowel each other over the positioning of Lucky’s snout, but you can see that any day in the Watering Hole if you go down at coffee time.’

She let out a desperate laugh, covering her face with her hands. Antony reached over to pat her sleeve, just as her phone buzzed. She grabbed it.

Good morning, Swan2. It was a message from Cliff. How are you feeling? I was thinking that you might want to take a few personal days after what happened yesterday. I would completely understand. We can cover for you.

She gave a shriek, leaping to her feet.

‘What is it?’ Antony exclaimed, startled. ‘Did Fitzy die?’

‘No!’ Frida waved him off. Her favourite influencer was an ancient chocolate labrador who wore a rainbow onesie, had a snaggle tooth, played piano with his paws and visited retirement homes. Fitzy definitely wasn’t dead. ‘Cliff wants me to take the day off!’