Swift by R. J. Anderson Page B

caught. ‘So what kind of bird is it?’ she asked. ‘Does it have a name?’
    ‘It’s a swift. They’re not resident birds. They winter in Africa and stay here only four or five months of the year. You’re certain that’s the one?’
    ‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ asked Ivy. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. If I fly then so do you, remember?’
    ‘Believe me,’ said the prisoner, ‘I haven’t forgotten for an instant.’ He chewed another mouthful before going on, ‘It’s just a bit unusual. I’ve never met anyone who shaped a swift before. So are you ready for the next step?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Ivy.
    ‘Then tell me. What do swifts eat?’
    ‘I’m…not sure. Insects?’
    ‘Well, you’d better find out, because you’re going to be eating it yourself.’ His gaze held hers, relentless. ‘How does a swift drink? Where does it sleep? How long can it fly, how high, how far? What predators does it fear, and how does it avoid them? How does it behave around other swifts?’
    She had no answers for any of those. ‘Why does any of that matter?’ she asked. ‘All I want to do is fly.’
    ‘Because,’ he said, ‘swifts are communal birds. If you don’t behave like a proper swift the other swifts will sense it, and instead of welcoming you into their midst, they’ll attack. Predators will notice too, and come after you because you’re easy prey. At best you could be driven miles off course, or end up injured and never reach your destination. Do you want to take that chance?’
    Ivy blew out a frustrated breath. ‘But I don’t know how to find out all of that,’ she said. ‘I can’t spend all day chasing swifts around the countryside—’
    ‘Then find out as much as you can. But there’s no way you’re going to be able to turn yourself into a swift until you know a lot more about them than you do right now.’
    It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. But he had no reason to lie about it, especially with his own freedom at stake. So she nodded, and held out her hand for the water bottle.
    ‘You’re going already?’
    ‘Why not? What else do we have to talk about?’
    His mouth flattened. ‘What indeed.’ He handed her the bottle and turned away.
    ‘Richard…’ began Ivy, then faltered as he shot her an incredulous look. ‘You mean that isn’t your name?’
    The prisoner started to laugh, a dry and horrible laughter like bones clattering down a mineshaft. ‘ I am justly served with mine own treachery ,’ he gasped.
    Disturbed, Ivy started to back away, but he held up a hand. ‘No, don’t run. I’m not angry with you. Richard… ’ He rolled the two syllables around in his mouth. ‘Why not? It’s as good a name as any.’
    But not his usual name, obviously. ‘So what do the other faeries call you, then?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. Richard will do.’ He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sleep.’
    Ivy’s gaze travelled across the back of the cavern, taking in the rough-hewn floor without so much as a heap of straw to soften it, the chain that restricted the prisoner’s movements to no more than two small steps in any direction, the iron band clamped around his ankle. Not to mention the acrid stench from the corner – if it was unpleasant now, in another day or two it would be unbearable.
    Yet she didn’t dare do anything more to help him, not yet. Bringing him food and water was risky enough.
    ‘Good night, Richard,’ Ivy said quietly, and left.

    ‘You’re awfully brown,’ said Cicely in a tone that was half puzzlement, half admiration. ‘Have you been rubbing something into your skin?’
    Ivy looked up from the water-channel, the wash-cloth still in her hand. ‘I…no, I haven’t,’ she said, too flustered to think of a better answer. She’d returned from her second trip to the surface in plenty of time, and taken care to brush off her clothes and comb her wind-blown curls. But she’d never