Free The Spin by Rebecca Lisle Page B

forgot.’

12
The Director
    Stormy went back to the servery with just the empty buckets and rattling wagons to keep him company. He’d need to wash everything, and tidy, and he still had to throw out that leftover food. The servery was empty, but Stormy thought he heard a quick scuttling noise as he went in. He was sure someone had been there – and some of the leftover food had gone. He pictured an army of mice sneaking in and stealing it, but that couldn’t be.
    While he scrubbed the buckets clean he thought about the dirty caves, the cobwebs as big as bed sheets, filthy wet straw, bones and eggshell ground into the floor, overgrown hooves on the spitfyres and patches of sore skin. Tangled manes and tails.
Not if I was in charge
, he thought.
Not if I was spitfyre keeper
–
then it would be neat and clean and smart.
He’d loosen the shackles or do away with them entirely. He’d wash the spitfyres’ coats and brush their manes and tails and oil their wings to keep them supple . . . He’d be their friend. Even the Star Squad would like him –
specially
the Star Squad. He’d learn how to talk to them . . . He’d write a book about them . . . He’d become famous . . . He’d . . . Why didn’t
Al
care?
He
didn’t seem bothered about anything, not spitfyres or people or food or anything . . . If only . . .
    â€˜Oi! You don’t need to
wash
those!’ Ralf yelled, coming in. ‘That’s only spitfyre stuff. Stop! You’ll drive Al bonkers.’
    Stormy took the crumpled list of duties out of his pocket. ‘It says to wash the buckets,’ he said. ‘Send them down clean. Keep order. It’s my job. Anyway, I like cleaning.’
    â€˜I don’t,’ Ralf said. ‘Neither does Al. So just stop it.’
    That night Stormy lay awake in bed and listened to the silence. Ralf had turned his back on him and appeared to be asleep. He almost missed the snoring and whimpering, the shudder and wobble of the old bunk bed when Tex tossed around beneath him. He had to remind himself how lucky he was to be here in the Academy, working with spitfyres.
    He felt for the white ribbon which he’d slipped under his pillow, a silent reminder of Mrs C and the kitchen. He supposed it had been a kind thing for her to do.
    There wasn’t enough light to read his books, so he pulled out the old circus flyer and stared at the dim pictures of the Great Renaldo instead, trying to imagine life in a circus. And he thought about the spitfyres. Tomorrow he’d see them in daylight. Tomorrow he would start getting to know them. Tomorrow he’d start learning everything he could. He was so excited he thought he’d never sleep, but at last he did, with the circus programme clutched in his hands.
    He woke once. A noise like thunder rumbled through the air. He guessed it was a storm approaching and waited for lightning or rain, but when none came he realised it had been the roar of a spitfyre. Which one was it? he wondered sleepily. Ah, what did it matter? It was a spitfyre, a lovely, wonderful, beautiful winged horse . . . unless perhaps it was that bad one in the thirteenth cave? Was it that one, that no one went in to see and was best forgotten? Poor thing. And Stormy fell asleep feeling sad.
    The next day Stormy woke early as usual. Ralf was still sleeping.
    All night he had been plagued by dreams about the spitfyre in the thirteenth cave. Was it really so dangerous? Was it even a spitfyre? What if it was something entirely different, like a dragon? What if it was ill and needed help?
    Shaking only a little, he sneaked out of the bedroom and made his way to the caves. No one had told him he couldn’t go there on his own.
    The spitfyres were all dozing in the cool of the morning. One or two looked up at him briefly but without interest as he went past.
    He hated the thought of an animal being a prisoner in the dark cave and no one seeing it, of it