Allie’s phone rings – it’s been buzzing nonstop for ages. I see Calum’s name flash on to the screen. Allie pauses, chewing on her lip, then sighs and swipes the call away.
‘Let’s do it,’ she says. ‘I’ve got enough pills on me for a few days. We’ll have to stop for about a gallon of coffee en route, mind.’
I climb into the passenger seat as she types the address into her GPS, selecting a route off the A9 so we can avoid most of the CCTV and speed cameras. We set off, driving through villages and clusters of houses, past fields of sleepy animals, and through quiet woodlands dappled with moonlight. Allie puts the radio on, filling our sleepy silence with meandering chatter about the Great British Bake Off and a competition to win a holiday to Tenerife.
As the nerves fade, sleep slowly takes over. We did it, I think, as my eyes droop. We got her back.
Another miracle, after all.
Leah’s house looks lonely when we drop her off. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, the deepest point of the summer night; all the lights are off, and the gate to the drive is closed. For a second I think of Peter Pan returning home from Neverland to find his parents have forgotten about him. Only Leah’s the opposite of the Lost Boys – if anything, she’s done too much growing up.
She sits in the driver’s seat for a moment, clutching her seatbelt and staring at the unlit windows. ‘I don’t know what to tell my dad,’ she says. ‘What if he’s angry that I left Mum behind?’
‘Are you joking? After everything you’ve been through, there’s no way he’ll blame you for this.’ I give her a little nudge forward. ‘Go on. Just tell him the truth.’
Leah nods, her eyes red and watery. We might have got her away from the Standing Fallen, but a 150-mile car ride hasn’t magically returned her to the funny, mouthy, slightly cocky girl I knew a few months ago. Then again, maybe she was always full of these insecurities. Maybe the Standing Fallen just stripped away her means of hiding them.
‘OK. I’m ready.’
She takes a deep breath and looks down at Teacake, who’s tucked up asleep on the floor. Even after spending four hours in a cramped car together, Leah’s eyes still fill with amazement when she looks at her, at the huge, shimmering wings wrapped like blankets around her body.
‘Tell her good luck from me,’ she says, nodding at Allie. She turns to me last. ‘Thanks, Jaya. I really am sorry.’
We watch from the car as she opens the gate and walks up the front steps. An upstairs light comes on, and a minute later, the door opens. The Standing Fallen have changed Mr Maclennan too: he looks older than I remember, all sharp lines and streaks of grey. It takes him a beat to recognize the pale, gaunt girl standing in front of him, but then he lets out a sob and throws his arms around her. They’re still there, slowly swaying in the glow of the streetlight, when Allie climbs into the driver’s seat and drives off.
Ten minutes later, as we pull up to my own front door, a lump forms in my throat. The house looks smaller than I remember. The red door I’ve walked through so many times is unfamiliar; the garden wilder in the darkness. I wish I had someone to welcome me home like Leah did. Even if it was Dad. He’s called me thirty times in the past few hours, and Rani another twenty. I’ve texted them to say I’m fine, but can’t bring myself to phone them back. I’ve got no idea what I’ll say when I do.
Allie switches off the engine and slumps over the steering wheel. ‘Remind me to never, ever do that again.’
I get out of the passenger seat and open the back door. ‘We’re here, Tea.’ I give her shoulder a gentle shake. She wakes with a start, mumbling a few lines of a car insurance advert and rubbing her eyes, and follows me out of the car.
Her fatigue evaporates the moment her feet touch the ground.
The first thing she does is take a breath. I’d forgotten how different the air feels here, much softer and cleaner than in the city. She inhales and exhales, her shoulders rising with each slow breath, then tilts her head back to look at the stars. I wonder what she sees there: if the constellations spell out ancient stories, like the tales of gods and beasts told from China to Egypt, India to Greece, or if they’re simply a map home.
The tips of her wings begin to twitch. ‘We’re here, Tea,’ she mimics. ‘Call in now for your chance to enjoy ten days of sand, sea and sun.’
I nudge her forward. ‘Go. You’ve got this.’
Out here, with only the garden’s shadows and the sky’s inky blue as a backdrop, her wings look larger and grander than ever. The fibres of her feathers glitter in the starlight: countless shimmering pinks, now mixed with mallard blue and goldfinch yellow. She sprints over the gravel – if the stones hurt her feet, she doesn’t show it – leaps over the pond, and rises above the house, looping around the chimney like a curl of smoke.
Allie climbs out from the driver’s seat, her yawn freezing into a gape as she watches Teacake glide over the treetops. ‘What if somebody sees?’
I shake my head. There are a few houses over the hill, but our neighbours are either old or couples with little kids: it’s unlikely anyone will be awake to spot her at this time of night. Even if they did, I don’t think either of us could deny Teacake this.
We don’t rush her, either. We lie on the grass, slipping in and out of sleep, as Teacake rises and dips across the sky, sometimes staying airborne for almost twenty minutes at a time. By the time she’s tired herself out, it’s past four and there’s a hint of orange on the horizon. I find the spare set of keys hidden under the clay hedgehog in the flowerbed and unlock the door. Teacake’s face crumples when she realizes we’re asking her to go inside again, but she follows us up the front steps.
The house feels strange, the way it always does when you come home from a long holiday. I get Teacake settled into the living room, the most spacious room in the house. I turn the radio on for her and fish out a packet of KitKats from the kitchen cupboard in case she gets hungry in the night.
‘Sorry, I know it’s a bit small after the hall,’ I say. ‘You can go out again tomorrow. As long as you like.’
Teacake smiles. ‘As long as you like,’ she echoes.
Butterflies start to flit around my stomach as I take Allie up to my room. Everything between us has been put on hold since we began our rescue operation. Now, as I get out a sleeping bag from the bottom of my cupboard, it all comes flooding back: the tension, the almost-kiss. Her silent questions about Leah; the answers I couldn’t have given until a few hours ago.
Right now, though, we’re both too tired to think about much other than sleep; Allie, in particular, looks exhausted. She sinks on to my bed, too knackered to even kick her shoes off, her hands above her head. From this angle, the falling petals look as if they’re floating upwards.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.
When she answers, I get the feeling it’s the first time she’s being totally honest with me about it.
‘Pretty shit. Really shit, actually. This isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s probably in the top three.’ She opens one eye and gives me a watery smile. ‘Also . . . I kind of lied. I’ve only got enough meds to last me until tomorrow. After that, I’ll need someone to bring me more.’
It takes me a few seconds to catch what she means. ‘Calum.’
Her eyes flutter shut again. ‘I know what he did was unforgivable,’ she says. ‘I won’t call him unless you say it’s OK.’
There’s no way I can say no. Her treatment isn’t optional – and if Calum doesn’t bring it her parents will, and they probably hate me for dragging her up here without telling them.
‘What was that thing he wanted the money for?’ I ask, sitting on the bed beside her. ‘Stem-cell treatment?’