The Wind Singer. William Nicholson

      Still the stairs rose above her, so breathing hard now, her legs aching, she climbed on and on, and the light from the little window dwindled away below her. Strange distorted sounds came floating up from below, the clatter of running feet, the boom of voices. Up and up she climbed, slower now, wondering where the staircase led, and whether, when at last she reached the top, there would be another locked door.

      A second window appeared. Exhausted, trembling, she allowed herself to rest a moment here, and looked out over the city. She could make out people passing in the streets, and the elegant shops and houses of Scarlet District. Then she heard a sound which was very like boots climbing the winding stairs below her, and fear gave her strength to get up and go on. Up and up, forcing her legs to push, half giddy with exhaustion, she followed the tightly winding staircase that seemed to have no end. Clop, clop, clop, went the noise of the boots below, carried up to her by the stone walls. Not far now, she said to herself, in time with her steps. Not far now, not far now. Though in truth she had no way of knowing how much farther she must climb.

      And then, just when she knew she could go no further, she came out on to a tiny landing, and there before her was a door. Her hand shook as she reached out to try the handle. Please, she said inside her head. Please don’t be locked. She turned the handle, and felt the latch open. She pushed: but the door didn’t move. At once her fear, held at bay by this last hope, broke through and overwhelmed her. Bursting into bitter tears, she crumpled up in a ball at the foot of the door. There she hugged her knees and sobbed her heart out.

      Clop, clop, clop. The boots were coming up the stairs, getting nearer all the time. Kestrel rocked and sobbed, and wished she was dead.

      Then she heard a new sound. Shuffling footsteps, close by. The slither of a bolt.

      The door opened.

      ‘Come in,’ said an impatient voice. ‘Come in quickly.’

      Kestrel looked up and saw a blotchy red face staring down at her: watery, protruding eyes, and a grizzly grey beard.

      ‘You’ve certainly taken your time,’ he said. ‘Come in, now you’re here.’