HartsLove by K.M. Grant

‘There’s plenty of other places. I don’t know why you ever wanted this one. It’s giving me the creeps.’
    The man resisted. His wife was adamant. They were still arguing as the carriage jolted off rather faster than the coachman intended.
    Daisy forgot about them instantly. In the unearthly light Garth was like a bouncing star, except he began to miss his handholds. Nothing could stop Mrs Snipper calling to him. ‘Come down, Master Garth,’ she implored. ‘Come down!’
    But Garth kept on flipping, over and over, round the crumbling battlements, behind the keep, down the south-east wing and back. He was in a world of his own; a world of spinning and arching, where death and life were all thesame because he was not just a de Granville, he was all the de Granvilles there had ever been, and he was standing with them against the enemy who these days might come in carriages with wives and daughters, but whose chequebooks were as dangerous as Saracens’ swords. And there were other enemies. Garth named them as he flipped: drink – the thief who had stolen his father away; false hope in the shape of that horse; anger and sadness, both of which were eating him up. He thrust his body over and over. He would never stop flipping. Flipping was the only thing he had left. His feet slipped. The drop yawned. He did not care.
    He heard his name shouted. Charles had made it on to the roof and was holding out his arms. ‘Garth! Garth!’
    Garth jerked, was almost lost. His father caught him and yanked him on to the flat of the roof, but Garth slipped through and flipped on, all the way down the south-east wing again. Only his concentration was broken. Now he was aware of the upgust of wind rattling through his shirt. His left hand missed the merlon completely. He was flipping on air – he was falling. For the first time, a tingle of fear. He did care. And here his father was again, again holding out his hands, those same sweet, kind, treacherous hands that held his children close even as they handed over money and opened bottles. Garth could not help himself. He clutched at them. Charles pulled him close and for a moment father and son were locked in a desperate embrace. Then Garth felt the smooth neck of the brandy bottle in hisfather’s pocket. His fear turned back to anger, his anger to despair. He thrust away, leaving Charles once again with empty arms. ‘Garth!’ Charles cried. ‘Garth.’ Garth shook his head and ran to the edge of the ruins. Here he stopped and stood tall, his shirt draped like an angel’s gown. He opened his arms and the sleeves were like wings. He was Hartslove; Hartslove was him. At the Resting Place, the gravestones shimmered. In the stables, The One stirred. In the wood, Snipe paused. Without a sound, Garth thrust upwards, arched, and plummeted into the dark.
    Everybody was screaming now, everybody except Daisy, who swung across the courtyard and lurched on to the drawbridge, gripping her crutches so tightly her knuckles cracked. ‘Don’t take him,’ she begged the castle. ‘Please don’t take him.’ She held her breath, willing herself to see Garth tumbling over and landing in the soft sludge of the moat, willing herself to see him clambering out. ‘Now,’ she willed. ‘Now, he’ll appear now. Help him, Hartslove. Help him.’
    A moment more, then she saw him. He was no longer an angel. He was a dirty, wet boy clambering up the banking and setting sail across the field towards the river. She watched him until she heard somebody running up behind her. She turned. Charles had rushed down from the roof. ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she heard him repeating. ‘OhsweetJesusno.’ When he reached Daisy, his legs buckled and he sagged against her. ‘It’s all right, Pa,’ Daisy said, holding him tight. ‘Garth’s allright.’ She held her father until his legs gathered