Keyflame

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Glossary

  Astral Owl Press

  Text copyright © 2020 by Tallulah Lucy van der Made

  All rights reserved

  First edition, March 2020

  978-0-620-85537-2

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in print or electronic form without prior written permission of the author. Piracy hurts small presses. If you received this copy illegally, please consider purchasing this book in another format to support the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and dialogues are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Edited by: Nerine Dorman, Yolandie Horak, Laurie Janey

  Cover design by: Covers by Tallulah

  Typeset: Elegant Book Formatting

  Produced in association with Skolion.

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  www.tallulahlucy.com/newsletter

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Keyflame is set in South Africa and is therefore written in UK English.

  A glossary of South African terms can be found at the back of the novel.

  The town of Grahamstown, where this story is set, is at time of publication undergoing a name change to Makanda.

  All applicable content warnings can be found at

  www.tallulahlucy.com/keyflame

  For the teachers

  1

  Two masts rise out of the mist like there’s a wrecked ship in this ocean of cloud. I blink.

  Dad and I have been driving for twelve hours to get to Grahamstown and I’m apparently already having visions like the scurvied sailors who first rounded the African continent. Only, my Flying Dutchman ghost ship is on solid land. Solid land three hours from the coast.

  I blink again, but the vision does not disappear.

  I need to get more sleep.

  Dad taps on the windscreen. “Look, Lilah, the 1820 Settlers Monument.”

  Oh.

  Beneath the masts, a squat face brick building emerges from the fog. The monument has featured in his stories about this place, but he never mentioned the masts.

  “That’s where they’ll hold your graduation ceremony,” he adds.

  We haven’t even reached my university residence yet, and he’s already talking about graduation. I rest my head against the cold window and watch as my breath steams it up.

  “You’re going to love it here.” He fills the silence, as he always does.

  Of course he expects me to love it here. He loved it here. But I’m not like him. My father is the fearless Prosecutor Durow. Every day he faces the worst of humanity and locks them away. He’s practically a superhero. Me? I’m nothing unless I have an exam paper in front of me. If my father’s footsteps leave echoes that will be heard for decades to come, mine ring out as loud as bluebells. Which is to say, not at all.

  "You’ll be okay.” Dad keeps his attention on the road. “It’s beautiful. You’ll see.” He rattles off the names of places I know only from his tales. He always makes Grahamstown sound magical, a land of ivy-covered walls and spiral staircases, with rolling green lawns and quaint townhouses.

  When I was younger, his stories enchanted me. I listened to descriptions of classes, canteen food, and midnight escapades to Grey Dam the way other kids would listen to the adventures of Robin Hood. Sometimes he’d even mention my mother. These were the only times he did. Like Guinevere or Rapunzel, my mother existed solely within his stories. Sometimes I wonder how much of his love for Grahamstown was truly for the town itself, and how much was for the fair maiden he met here.

  Like most of the old myths, their story ends with a tragedy, one he will never talk about. Not even today, when we drove right past the place where it happened.

  I wrench my morbid thoughts towards safer shores for both of us. “Why is the monument shaped like a ship?”

  The lines around Dad’s mouth pull into a frown as he realises I wasn’t listening to his story at all. I tense as I wait for him to scold me for interrupting, but he doesn’t. There’s a first.

  “Well, they arrived here by sea, the settlers. King George sent them off with the promise of ‘farms in Africa’. Poor bastards. Didn’t tell them the land was already occupied. Between famine, disease and war, it’s a wonder Grahamstown is still here at all.”

  So much for the glittering fairy tale.

  Grahamstown is now an island of a town, two hours away from the nearest city, which happens to be Port Elizabeth. That’s the city where I was born, but I haven’t been to this part of the country since I was a few weeks old. Home for me is Cape Town, a full day’s drive away. Home has malls and cinemas and libraries.

  Does Grahamstown even have a library?

  My chest tightens with sudden dread.

  Don’t be an idiot. Of course, it has a library.

  It’s a university town and a cultural hub known for its annual Festival of the Arts. It will have a library for certain. Maybe even two. And museums and theatres. And anyway, I’ll be home for vacation in just a couple of months.

  A giant sign beside the rain-slicked road welcomes us. Below, an advert for the local supermarket boasts, “With prices so low, even the students get fed!”

  I'm not ready for this.

  I thought I would be. When my cousin Tammy set off to backpack through Europe last week, I confessed how desperate I was to escape from Dad’s scrutiny.

  He wishes to shield me from the horrors he sees in court. I can’t blame him for that, but it’s suffocating. I’ve been counting down the days until I can have a little freedom, until I can be around people my own age without having to explain my every move.

  Only, now that it’s finally happening, I feel ill.

  We pull up outside my residence: a dull red brick building with arched windows and decorative cornices. The acceptance letter said I’d have my own room, and I’m grateful for that tiny piece of reassurance, because from the outside this looks like the sort of place where you’d find students packed in narrow bunk beds, rising at dawn to sing “It’s a Hard Knock Life”.

  Perhaps I’m only exchanging one prison for another. The dreary sky above is hardly the most promising of welcomes.

  Orientation for new students officially starts tomorrow, but the letter strongly recommended I attend a meet-and-greet tonight. Dad assured me it would be worth getting up at 4am and driving through for, but I suspect he was just excited to get to Grahamstown.

  The smell of potpourri-sc
ented wood polish hits us as we walk through a wide wooden door into the entrance hall. Rain patters against high windows, doing nothing to lift my unease. We’re ushered through to a room packed with people. There are so many of them it’s almost impossible to move without brushing someone’s shoulder, and the air is warm and thick, like there’s not enough of it.

  Dad takes my elbow and guides me through the crowd towards an older woman at the other end of the room. She has brown skin and bright, cheerful eyes. She’s talking to a small group of girls my age, but she stops when she sees Dad, and her hand flies to her mouth.

  “Sukwini.” He gives her a smile, but it’s kind of tight. Which is odd because he told me that Miss Sukwini, the warden, is an old friend. Maybe he’s just nervous to see her after such a long time.

  Her gaze moves immediately to me, and there’s an unexpected intensity there. “This must be Lilah! My-my, you’re the image of your mother, aren’t you?”

  I wish I knew. Dad only keeps one photograph of her, so I’m not exactly the expert.

  Sukwini grasps me by the shoulders and has a good, hard look. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take care of you here.”

  I feel my cheeks heating under her intense scrutiny. That doesn’t sound much like freedom. It sounds like I’m being passed off to another protective parent.

  “You should go mingle, Lah,” Dad says, but his gaze is focused on Sukwini and she nods almost imperceptibly.

  Great, time to brief the new guardian on just how much of my life she should control.

  I know when his suggestions are anything but, so I head into the crowd to mingle. As if it’s that easy. As if I can just approach some stranger and strike up a conversation. I skirt the edges of the crowd, trying to find anyone who’s standing alone, but all the other girls are either talking to their parents or to each other. And they’re all beautiful. They’re wearing trendy clothes and makeup, they’re laughing and smiling, and their hair is sleek and perfect.

  Here I am with wild black hair mussed by the long drive, in my baggy jersey and probably the only pair of jeans in the room that doesn’t have fashionable rips. While scanning the crowd, I spot an open door a little way away. It lets in a cool breeze and invites us to spill out into a garden.

  If I have to choose between rain and socialising with strangers, it’s a no-brainer.

  I make a strategic exit.

  Clumps of dripping lavender, soaked marigolds and soft pink flowers small as butterfly wings brighten the garden’s edges. Beyond that is a rolling lawn. The wet air smells like earth and floral perfume, and the rain is so light it barely tickles my skin. Through the haze of drizzle, a giant marquee dominates the green. Men on ladders are stringing up twinkling lights across the tent’s entrance.

  Perhaps Grahamstown is just a little bit magical after all.

  I settle on a rain-damp bench, pull out my phone and thumb to the Kindle app.

  ⊰∾⊱

  Dad is none too pleased when he finds me sitting alone in the garden on my phone when I was supposed to be forging friendships that would last a lifetime. He doesn’t say as much, but I’m the only child of a single parent. I can sense it in the clipped edge of his sentences, in the stiff way he moves as Miss Sukwini leads us to see my room.

  The fact that I won’t be sharing it is about all that can be said in its favour. It’s small, dim and smells of damp.

  Miss Sukwini hurries past me and opens the grey curtains above a desk on the far side. Weak light trickles in. A tree blocks most of the view of the street. I’m tensed for Dad’s bluster, given his mood, but it doesn’t come. He stands in the doorway nodding at each piece of furniture in turn, which doesn’t take him long considering there’s only a small sink, a closet, the desk, and a narrow bed. My suitcase takes up the remaining floor space.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to get settled, then,” Dad says. “I’m going to— I think I’ll go find myself a shower. See you tomorrow, Lah. You know I’m just a phone call away if you need anything.”

  And by anything he means if I freak out at the party and need Daddy to come rescue me. “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

  After he leaves with the warden, I sit down heavily on the bed.

  My room. It’s not quite what I pictured – there isn’t even space for a bookshelf – but a small thrill runs through me because it’s mine.

  I unpack carefully, deciding on a system of sorting and then rearranging to fit the tiny cupboard. When I come to the final item in my suitcase, twilight is tinting everything blue, and it’s almost time for our tour of the facilities. I might be a little late, but I want to do this first.

  I withdraw the map from my case as if it’s some smuggled artefact. It’s not. Although, I suppose, it was brought here illicitly. It holds no value to anyone but me. It’s not even a map of a real place. It’s a drawing.

  Dad could never understand why I enjoyed sketching, let alone sketching cartography of a non-existent kingdom. He encouraged me to give up this weird hobby and, as far as he knows, I did at around the same time that I gave up stuffed animals. Looking down at the map now in the strange light, it strikes me that this isn’t even a very well-drawn map and that maybe my little act of rebellion is kinda pitiful.

  Regardless, there’s a hook above the bed and I hang the map. It matches the sombre dark wood of the room and makes it feel a tiny bit more like home.

  ⊰∾⊱

  A crowd of girls is already milling about in the common room, and Miss Sukwini is in the midst of them, answering questions I can’t quite make out above the general chatter. I’m a blob of monochrome in a sea of bleach-blonde and sparkles. Tammy, who is a fan of pink and shiny, tried to convince me to bring some of her clothes so that I’d fit in. But Tammy is older than me, and different from me in almost every way. Her clothes would have been wasted sitting in that closet upstairs. Still, at this moment in time, I regret my refusal. Smile, Lilah, she’d coached. Don’t be so standoffish. Be approachable. I realise my arms are folded, and my jaw is clenched. I draw a deep breath and try to relax my posture, try to force a smile.

  It feels false, as if I’m a robot trying to figure out how to act human. It must be working, though, because one of the girls standing near me grins back and bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet.

  Miss Sukwini introduces herself, listing facts that I already know from Dad. She’s a nurse at the local hospital by day (another mark in her favour as my guardian, as far as Dad was concerned); she was born in Grahamstown, but her family now lives in the city; we mustn’t hesitate to come to her if we have any problems. She takes us through the res, shows us the bathroom and the laundry room and briefs us on emergency procedure. Then we walk through the drizzle to the dining hall. It’s made of brick too but adorned with large stained-glass windows and I overhear someone saying that it’s a remnant of the monastery that used to occupy these grounds.

  The excited girl falls into step beside me as we enter the hall. “Oh em gee, am I loving this architecture?”

  Is she trying to start a conversation? If so, I wish she’d given me a better opener. I know nothing about architecture. “Uh, yes. It’s nice.”

  She spins on the spot, her blonde hair flies about her, and her little black dress flares out. She giggles. “University!”

  Again, I’m at a loss for what more to say. Luckily, she sticks out her hand. “I’m Jess.”

  “Lilah.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are you from?”

  I hate small talk, but I’m relieved for it as we line up for our dinner trays. Jess directs the conversation effortlessly, and during our meal of warm lamb stew I learn every banal detail about her I could wish to. She’s from Johannesburg, her parents want her to study accounting, but she plans to register for “something that won’t bore me to death”. She has brothers, but they studied elsewhere. She’s attended the Arts Festival in Grahamstown before, but has never visited campus.
I smile through the whole thing. I want to be friendly. I want to be liked. And it would be nice to have a friend, even if we have little in common.

  On the way back to res, she wants to talk outfits for the meet-and-greet, and I am tongue-tied. I may be able to bluff my way through dinner table conversation, but when she starts talking fashion brands I am outed as a clueless nerd.

  My ears are hot as I shrug and say, “I like to wear what’s comfortable.”

  “I get it.” She nods, and for a moment I think she understands. “I got this cute black dress at a thrift shop once.”

  Oh. She thinks it’s about money. I’m not sure which is worse. I try to laugh, and make an odd grating sound instead.

  “What size are you?” Jess asks.

  “I, uh—” It’s doubtful anything she owns will fit me; she looks as though a strong gust of wind might carry her off.

  “A medium, I guess.”

  She startles me by reaching out and taking a clump of my hair. “Come with me. We’ll sort this out.”

  And just like that, I’m apparently signed up for a beauty makeover. I don’t know what to expect. Television show montages and movie transformations play through my mind as I follow her up to her room. It’s the same size as mine but pink from top to bottom. Jess has brought her own duvet set, her own curtains and even her own fluffy rug.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Lilah?” she asks as she sweeps hangers aside in the closet.

  Really? We can’t talk about something that’s actually interesting?

  I have never had a boyfriend. The closest I ever came was a blind date Tammy set up for me. He spoke about World of Warcraft the whole time, and I spilled hot chocolate down my front. Needless to say, there was no second date.

  I tell Jess “No”, but I try to sound confident about it, as if it’s a choice.

  “Well, you’ll have one before the end of the night.” She winks at me. “I’ll make it my personal mission.”

  2

  My eyes are itchy.

  The sun has set and we’re all gathered in the entrance hall, waiting to go to the party. I try to catch sight of myself in the door’s reflection. Has Jess pulled off a Hollywood-style miracle? I didn’t get a chance to see myself before we left her room, but I imagine I’m now a human-sized porcelain doll. She’s dressed me in a white summer dress with large, black polka dots and a ribbon at the waist. She went at my hair with a ghd, so it’s perfectly straight instead of its usual wavy mess. (That will last all of two seconds in the rain.)