The Changeling by Helen Falconer Read Free Book Online

Shay’s voice was teasing. ‘Come on, Aoife. Look at me.’
    She looked, frowning. As soon as she met his green gaze, a wide grin spread across his face. ‘Race you!’ And without any further warning, he sprang down from the outcrop.
    Aoife scrambled down after him and out across the bog. He had almost twenty metres on her, leaping long-legged from patch to patch of the firmest ground, arms stretched out at his sides to retain his balance, everything about him taunting her. But she was gaining on him. His trainers were leaving deep prints in the soft ground while, unlike yesterday, her own feet barely bent the heather. She was gaining, gaining . . . She was fast, she was feather-light . . .
    Yet now Shay had reached the stony track, and was himself able to display the unnatural speed he showed on the GAA pitch. He had reached the foot of the hill before Aoife caught up with him, but just as he started up the slope, she managed to grab the back of his shirt, and that slowed him down enough for her to slip past him and take the lead.
    ‘Cheat!’ He made a grab for her, but she dodged and scrambled on up the green sheep-trodden mound. Nearing the summit, she felt safe enough to turn and do a little victory dance, but he surprised her by being right behind her, and she turned and fled again with a shriek – but not before he’d seized her by her hood. Aoife flailed her arms and stumbled and slipped, and twisted to free herself, and suddenly she was on the ground with Shay on top of her, and his face was so close to hers that she could see herself reflected in his dark green eyes. His expression became suddenly very serious, thoughtful, his mouth drawing closer to hers . . .
    He rolled away, laughing. ‘Jesus and Mary, but you can run. I never knew anyone could run faster than me. Let me get my breath here for a minute.’ He lay on his back, panting lightly, staring at the sky.
    Feeling confused and slightly disappointed by his sudden change in mood, Aoife lay with her arms by her sides and concentrated on breathing. Her heart stilled. The sun was beautiful on her face. Around them, the bog hummed softly under its gauzy net of flies and bees.
    ‘Hey, Aoife, look at this . . .’
    She rolled onto her side, to face him.
    Shay was leaning on his elbow, with his other hand palm up – a green caterpillar was crawling across it. As soon as he was sure she was watching, he closed his fingers over it, holding her gaze with a smile, the gold-brown depths of his green eyes lighting up.
    She said, ‘What?’
    ‘Wait . . .’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘Now.’ He opened his hand. A blue bog butterfly fluttered upwards.
    Aoife was delighted. ‘How did you do that?’
    ‘Something my mother taught me . . .’ Shay’s eyes darkened for a moment, and then he was smiling again. ‘A magic trick. Good, isn’t it?’
    ‘Show me how you did it! Did you have the butterfly up your sleeve? Where’s the caterpillar? Give it here to me!’
    She held out her hand, but he was laughing at her. ‘Gone! Turned to a butterfly!’ Then, glancing at her palm: ‘What happened to your hand?’
    For a moment Aoife thought he meant the scratches from the hawthorn circle, but they seemed to have healed already. ‘Oh, that . . . A scar from when I was a little kid – I fell off my first bike and grabbed a barbed-wire fence.’
    ‘Let me look . . .’ Shay was reaching out to take her hand, but then seemed to change his mind about touching her and turned onto his front, pulling up blades of grass.
    Aoife sprang to her feet and ran the rest of the way up to the circle.
    She couldn’t find her way in through the trees. She could see the way she and Carla had gone in and out – their footprints were still clear in the soft ground, running right into the wall of thorns. But where the gap had been, the flowering branches were locked together, as if they had grown again overnight. She pressed her palms against the thorns. Instead of