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have. After Marigold disappeared Flint had spent days blindly wandering about the countryside, until the Joan took away his hunting privileges and confined him to the Delve for his own safety. Since then he had done little but work in the mine, hammering away night and day with his thunder-axe. He seldom spoke, and never laughed; he ate the food Ivy cooked for him without seeming to taste it, and slept poorly when he slept at all. He still came to every Lighting, but only long enough to replenish his glow. And he never played his fiddle any more.
    ‘Curse them,’ Ivy whispered, but Cicely remained silent, her eyes on her lap. Guilt pricked Ivy again, and she gave her sister an apologetic squeeze before reaching for the copper bowl now making its way around the circle. The draught inside was clear as spring water, sparkling lights dancing across its surface; Ivy tipped the bowl and drank a mouthful before helping Cicely to do the same.
    ‘Oh, it’s wonderful ,’ breathed her little sister, surfacing with flushed cheeks and wide brown eyes. ‘I had no idea piskey-wine was so nice. Can I—’
    ‘Not until you’re older,’ said Ivy, and handed the bowl on. Cicely’s lower lip jutted, but she seemed a little less gloomy as the drink passed from one piskey to another and finally made its way back to Betony, who poured the dregs hissing into the fire.
    ‘And now,’ the Joan proclaimed, ‘let us eat!’
    At once Ivy and Cicely jumped up, following the other piskeys towards the long tables. All Ivy’s favourite dishes were here tonight – from pasties stuffed with rabbit and chopped roots, to roasted woodlice with wild garlic, right down to the thick slabs of saffron cake waiting on a platter at the far end. And to drink there was spring water and chilled mint tea, as well as several bottles of the sparkling piskey-wine – though it would be another year before Ivy was old enough to drink more than a small cup of it, and Cicely was too young to have any more at all. But that scarcely mattered with so many other good things to enjoy.
    As they ate, Ivy glanced at Cicely and was relieved to see her sister’s mood improving with every bite. Soon she was chattering to Jenny and giggling at the faces Keeve made at her across the table, and Ivy’s own spirits began to rise as she realised she hadn’t entirely spoiled her sister’s first Lighting after all.
    But then she glimpsed Mica strolling by with plate in hand, and her smile faded. There he was, relaxed and dressed in his Lighting best – and here Ivy sat with her breeches and her bare grimy feet. The old aunties gave her pitying looks over their shoulders, and she could practically hear what they were thinking: What a shame young Ivy can’t take proper care of herself, especially when her brother and sister look so fine. But she’s always been sickly, and with no mother…
    ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cicely around a mouthful of saffron cake. ‘You look like you’ve eaten gravel.’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Ivy. ‘It’s nothing you need to worry about.’

    ‘One-two-three-four!’ called the crowder, and the musicians struck up a lively tune that twanged Ivy’s muscles and tugged at her bones. As a child, she’d been too shy and short of breath to dance in public. Even when all the other children were skipping about, she’d hung back and pretended she didn’t care. But Marigold had seen through her diffidence, and as soon as they got home she’d held Ivy’s hands and skipped around the cavern with her until the two of them collapsed in a giggling heap on the floor.
    Marigold hadn’t worried so much about Ivy’s health in those days; she’d told Ivy that her lungs were just a little slower to grow than the rest of her, and they’d soon come right. And she’d promised Ivy that one day she’d be able to dance just as well as any piskey in the Delve, if not better.
    Well, now Ivy could. But not to this tune. This was a flying dance, where the