Starfell Willow Moss and the Lost Day (Starfell #1) - Dominique Valente Page 0,28

back?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to try to find it.’

The dragon looked at her, taking in her small size, the state of her old, worn, rather uneven dress, the fisher’s net in her rope belt and the green hairy carpetbag at her heels. ‘You?’ he asked. There couldn’t have been a less likely candidate for saving the day than Willow Moss.

She shrugged. ‘Yes. I have to try – I’m the only one who knows about it, and can do something about it, you see.’

The dragon looked at her for some time. Finally he said, ‘You’re not the only one who knows.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not the only one who knows it’s missing – not any more. You’ve told me and I’d like to help, if you’ll have me.’

Willow blinked. ‘You would help me?’

Feathering’s claw tapped the egg very gently. ‘If you’re right – then maybe things will turn out differently.’

Willow nodded. ‘They might.’

The dragon slowly started to sit up and the mountain around them started to rumble and shake from the movement. Willow found herself staggering backwards, the ground beneath her feet unsteady.

‘What do we need to do?’ asked the dragon.

‘Do you know how to get to Wisperia?’ she asked.

‘I do.’

‘Can you take me?’

‘I can – if you carry this, please,’ he said, handing over the egg. It was about as large as Oswin, who wasn’t impressed when she opened the carpetbag and put it inside. One eye poked out of the top, turning from green to pumpkin, then back to green again as it took in the enormous size of Feathering. He gave a sheepish smile, then held out his arms and took the egg, giving it a gentle pat and a slight polish, then rather quickly he zipped the bag shut from the inside.

When Feathering looked from the bag to Willow in surprise she said, ‘Don’t ask.’

He nodded and bent down so that she could climb up on to his back, putting her legs behind his wing joints. She put the carpetbag between her knees and her arms round the dragon’s neck, though they didn’t reach very far.

‘Hold on tight,’ said the dragon.

From within the bag she heard a familiar ‘Oh no! Oh, me horrid aunt!’ as Feathering took a few running steps that shook the mountain, causing an avalanche below, and launched himself into the air.

10

The Forgotten Teller

As they whooshed up, up and up into the sky Oswin’s panicked cries of ‘Oh noooo! Oh, me greedy aunt! Where’s me stove? Oh, Osbertrude!’ filled the air.

A part of Willow’s mind was going Oh nooooo herself. It was one thing being on Whisper, and quite another being on a very large dragon, who flew over vast mountain ranges and wide sweeping rivers faster than she could blink. In fact, it was some time before she was able to open her eyes. When she did she gasped, though this time it had nothing to do with fear. The wind was icy and cold, but the view was spectacular; she could see the floating Cloud Mountains and, in the distance, a large colourful forest.

Wisperia.

It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. In the woods near her home in Grinfog the trees were all roughly the same – green leaves, brown bark and the occasional pretty flower. But this was something else entirely. The leaves were in shades of electric blue, sunset pink, violent orange and bright magenta. It looked like someone had upended a paint box over the horizon. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was like the pictures in the forgotten teller’s room brought to life.

‘You okay there?’ came Feathering’s voice.

‘Y-e-s-s,’ said Willow, feeling vaguely frostbitten as they flew through cloud. She was realising that flying on the back of a dragon was just as good as flying on a broomstick!

She lifted her arm to the sky, and a few seconds later her grandmother’s old, rather hideously lumpy green-and-brown quilt came hurtling through the sky. Willow wrapped it round herself gratefully. Though she knew later she’d have to ‘lose’ it again, she was glad of its warmth.

‘If you was back home, you’d be doing the washing now,’ observed Oswin, his one eye peeking out of the top zipper and staring out into the distance with a scowl, his fur the colour of pea soup. He swallowed, looking rather sickly.

She grinned widely. ‘I know.’

‘I likes washday,’ he grumbled. ‘You leaves me to sleep usually – and don’ put me in a smelly bag made o’ hair and go flyings with blooming