The Silver Moth: Sequel to The Little White Horse

By Carol Lefevre

Maria Merryweather returns to Moonacre Manor with her granddaughter Rose to escape the horrors of the first world war bombings in London.

The magical qualities of Moonacre Valley are rediscovered as Rose meets Wrolf, who is more lion than dog, and sees the little white horse, an entrancing unicorn. Rose soon discovers that the Merryweathers’ old foes, the de Noir clan, are once more spreading darkness and fear through the Valley under the influence of Hugo de Noir. With the help of her new friend, Devin, and a variety of animal companions can Rose uncover the mystery of the Silver Moth aeroplane, rescue a young woman and her baby, and help an unexpected kindred spirit, William de Noir?

Beautiful, thrilling, and magical, The Silver Moth, returns to the fantasy world of the bestselling timeless classic The Little White Horse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lion Fiction
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781782643654

Carol Lefevre

Award-winning Australian writer, Carol Lefevre, holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Adelaide, where she is a Visiting Research Fellow. Carol has published novels, non-fiction, and short stories , and her novella Murmurations (2020) was shortlisted for the Cristina Stead Fiction Prize in the 2021 NSW Premier's Literary Awards. She is a member of the J. M. Coetzee Centre for Creative Practice, and a recipient of the Barbara Hanrahan Fellowship at the Adelaide Festival Awards for Literature. Carol lives in Adelaide, South Australia.

Book preview

Chapter One

1

The war was more than two years old on the night Rose saw the Zeppelin. She had gone to bed early with a sore throat and woken in the dark, fumbling for her handkerchief. It was close to midnight, yet there were voices in the square below. Later she would wish that she had never pulled aside the curtain and peered out, for beyond the dark rooftops, pinned in the grip of three separate searchlights, was the giant cigar-shaped German airship.

Zeppelins prowled the London sky after dark, loaded with bombs and poisoned food. Nothing could touch them, for they flew beyond the reach of guns. Rose tried not to think about them, but now, kneeling on her bed, she could see one from her window. It was turning this way and that, fighting to slip away into the sheltering darkness. But the searchlights held it, and Rose sensed in the craft’s small nudging movements the terror of its occupants.

Next came the whine of a fighter plane, and then three blue flares went up, a signal to the gunners on the ground to cease firing. The plane flew in underneath the airship.

Someone shouted from the square below, Oh! She’s hit!

The Zeppelin’s nose tilted upwards, and then its body twisted. There were cheers as a ruddy glow began at the airship’s middle, and from further away came the roar of an unseen crowd. The wounded Zeppelin hung in the sky like a giant lantern, but within seconds the glow had spread and it was filled with flames. The searchlights went out, and Rose watched as it tipped vertically and drifted – a floating inferno. Unable to look away, she followed the Zeppelin’s fiery progress until it plummeted behind a distant building. Wild cheers erupted from the square, and again that swelling roar. Rose knew she should be cheering along with them, but she felt as if she might vomit.

She leaned her forehead against the cold window glass. The sky was dark once more, but Rose still saw the path of the airship’s passage. When she turned from the window, sparks spiralled in the corner of her room above the dolls’ house.

Clammy with fright, she stumbled from her bedroom into the passageway. Fifteen steps along the old Turkish runner and she had reached her parents’ door. As her fingers found the doorknob, a torrent of weeping erupted from inside. Her mother was in there crying, such harsh sounds of grief as Rose had never imagined could come from her soft pink mouth. Her father’s voice rose and fell, a consoling murmur. Rose’s first thought was that they too had seen the burning Zeppelin. But no – her mother was crying about Papa going away to France, and Rose knew that she was not meant to hear.

Unable to enter, or to return to her own room, she sank down onto the runner and wrapped her arms around her knees. Despite the war, it had seemed to Rose that their house was, and always would be, safe, but now she was not so sure. She sat for a long time in the cold passageway, and when at last her mother’s weeping subsided Rose crept away to her own bed. There, under the covers, she shed hot silent tears. Flames and sparks. Sparks and flames. It was hours before she fell back to sleep.

In the morning Rose’s first thought was that she’d had a terrible dream. Her head ached, but as she pulled back her curtains she knew that she really had seen a Zeppelin fall from the sky in flames. Its crew must have jumped or been burned alive. Rose had overheard her father and Uncle Clement discussing this gruesome choice one evening over glasses of brandy.

Jump or burn, burn or jump. What would you do?

Jumping would be the least painful, her father had said.

Her uncle agreed. At least it would be over quickly.

Today they were going to Uncle Clement and Aunt Hattie’s house for lunch. It would be the last family gathering before Rose’s father left to work in a field hospital in France, and her aunts Agnes and Lily went with their children to Scotland. They were leaving London because of the hateful war, and who knew when she and her cousins would all be together again.

Rose was dabbing at her eyelids with a cloth soaked in witch hazel, when from downstairs came the tinkle of the breakfast bell. On such a morning, this ordinary sound was almost as comforting as a cup of cocoa and a plate of hot buttered toast, until Rose remembered that the telephone had rung before daylight. It meant her father had been summoned to some medical emergency, and she badly wanted to tell him about the Zeppelin.

The dining room was dark and chilly. Rose peered at her puffy eyelids in the sideboard mirror: the witch hazel had not helped. She released the blind to let more light into the room, then sat in her usual chair and studied the pattern of birds on the deep-blue wallpaper. To her amazement they were the same as they had been yesterday morning, and all the mornings of her life that she could remember – tiny heads tilted, clawed feet still clinging to twigs of the blue-branched trees. With a shiver she wondered whether the Zeppelin had dropped its bombs before it fell, shredding some unknown family’s dining room wallpaper, shattering chairs and tables, and flinging debris into the street. As she unrolled her napkin, sparks snapped and swirled above the sideboard.

When Kitty Marlowe appeared, Rose took in at a glance her mother’s pale cheeks and reddened eyelids. Kitty moved without her usual briskness, as if all the bones in her body ached. She frowned at the cold fireplace.

We will have to leave early for Aunt Hattie’s, she said. I suppose Polly didn’t think it worth lighting a fire.

Two creases across her mother’s forehead made her look older, thought Rose, though she was still the prettiest mother in the world, with her smooth skin dusted with golden freckles, her sky-blue eyes, and the loose bun of strawberry-blonde hair.

Polly came in with a tray, and Rose and her mother helped themselves to stiff, cooling slices of toast, and scrambled eggs that had leaked a watery fluid into the serving dish. When Rose picked up her fork, she saw with dismay that her hand was shaking; sparks snapped as she gripped the silver handle, and she closed her eyes for a moment. The only good thing about the day was that her mother would not rush away to her work at Charing Cross Hospital because they were going to Aunt Hattie’s. Rose wondered whether it would be in poor taste to tell about the Zeppelin while they were eating. She opened her eyes and leaned towards her mother, but at that moment Kitty Marlowe threw down her napkin and stood up.

I must speak to Sal about these eggs, she said. They’re almost inedible.

Rose pressed her hands together in her lap to still them. She would have to be brave.

Later, on the tramcar, they passed a row of bombed buildings. There was smoke and dust and broken glass, but to her relief Rose didn’t spot anything recognizable as human. Once, after a raid, she had seen a woman standing outside a collapsed shop with blood on her face, while a fireman shouted to someone trapped in the wreckage. It had only lasted a moment, until the bus she and her mother were on had pulled away. But for days afterwards Rose had wondered whether the woman had been badly injured, and whether the fireman had been able to free the person trapped under the rubble.

Further on they passed a park where a bandstand stood among weedy paths and overgrown shrubs.

Look! That’s where the brass bands played in the summer, Rose said. Her mother used to bring a tartan rug and spread it on the grass, and her father would carry the wicker basket with their picnic supper in it. It seems such a long time ago that we came to hear them.

Yes. They were German bands. Her mother frowned.

Will they come back one day? Rose asked. Will there ever be music in the park again?

Kitty’s frown deepened as she turned to stare at the little bandstand. It’s difficult to say, she said. I’m sure there will be music again, but it might be different.

2

Rose loved visiting her Aunt Hattie’s house. For one thing, there was a pair of golden spaniels with wet black noses and soft golden ears, and for another, a tabby cat with no tail often visited the garden. It was a Manx cat, Aunt Hattie said. Uncle Clement and Aunt Hattie were Rose’s godparents, and her aunt had doted on Rose ever since she was born. There were always treats when she visited, but it was not the cakes and sweets that mattered to Rose. She loved Aunt Hattie because she was one of those rare grown-ups who never make children feel that they are too busy for them, or that they would really rather be doing something else.

Aunt Hattie was waiting at the door to hurry them in out of the cold. She smelled of rosewater, and spoke like a fountain, conversation bubbling out of her in a cheerful tinkling stream.

Kitty, darling, you look exhausted! But why wouldn’t you be, with all the hours you put in at the hospital! There was a warm hug for Rose, and then, slipping an arm around her younger sister’s waist and never mentioning her reddened eyelids, Hattie said, Don’t tell me Richard’s working?

He’ll be along soon. Kitty Marlowe summoned a smile.

Good! Because I want you both to see how splendid our Toby looks in his uniform.

Oh! Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth. Has Toby enlisted?

On his eighteenth birthday. Aunt Hattie smiled. His father and I are both immensely proud.

Rose looked up into her aunt’s kind face, and to her distress saw that despite her beaming smile the soft lines around Aunt Hattie’s eyes showed signs of suffering. Beneath a layer of face powder, her skin had an unhealthy pallor. Even her cornflower eyes were clouded. Alarmed, Rose squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and when she opened them again Aunt Hattie was smiling down at her, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Rose sensed this awful premonition was the result of having seen the Zeppelin. In some dark corner of her mind it was still falling, might always be falling, its hideous light illuminating more than she, or anyone, should ever see.

Aunt Hattie led them inside, still chattering. Well, the children are rehearsing a Christmas play, and Laura is counting on Rose to sing.

In the hall, Laura, the cousin closest to Rose in age, was wearing a blue dress with a taffeta bow, and a pair of matching kid slippers.

I’m not going to sing, Rose said. Anyway, it’s only October, too early for a Christmas play.

Laura tugged at her arm. Please, Rose, be a sport. We won’t be here at Christmas because we’re going to North Berwick.

Rose shook her head. I have a sore throat.

Laura shrugged and ran off to greet their Aunt Lily, who was just arriving. Rose felt the sting of tears; Laura and Florrie and the others could be annoying at times, but she would miss them when they went to Scotland.

While the other children gathered in the conservatory for sandwiches and lemonade, Rose drifted away into the main part of the house. She wanted to find the dogs and stroke their ears. Eventually she reached the library, and here at last was something interesting. Her Uncle Clement was speaking in a hushed, shocked voice, and Rose realized he was talking to her father. Papa must have come straight from his work. She was about to rush in and greet him, when he said something that stopped her on the threshold.

Death would have been instantaneous. He was quite a young man, clean shaven, he said. In uniform, of course. His name was Heinrich Mathy.

As she listened, Rose guessed that her father had been called to attend to the bodies from the fallen Zeppelin.

There were nineteen crewmen, her father said, and described how Mathy, their commander, had wrapped a thick scarf around his head before he jumped from the gondola suspended below the doomed airship. Left an imprint on the stubble field, he continued. But he was quite unmarked. To look at him you’d think he was asleep. A note of disapproval crept into his voice when he went on. The owner of the field was charging a shilling to sightseers.

I should think he’d have plenty of takers, said Uncle Clement.

Rose’s face grew hot. With her back pressed to the wall, she squatted in a most unladylike position. She must have made some sound of distress, though she was not aware of it, because her father found her there and carried her to Aunt Hattie’s sewing room. The spaniels were curled on a daybed among pink cushions, and they lifted their heads as Rose was deposited beside them.

Her father laid one hand across her forehead, and with the other felt for her pulse. Looking up into his face, Rose saw that he was exhausted, and she decided not to burden him with her troubles. After all, the Zeppelin falling, though frightful, was only something she had seen from a distance. It had done her no actual harm.

I felt faint for a moment, she explained. It’s just… I didn’t sleep well.

Stay here for a bit. I’ll send someone along to sit with you.

Rose shook her head. Please, don’t worry Mother.

Her father’s face softened at the mention of his wife. He sat down beside Rose on the daybed and ran a hand over the flank of the nearest spaniel.

I know you will do everything you can to make your mother’s life easier while I am away, he said. But look after your own dear self too, Rosy-Posy.

His private nickname for her, rarely used now that she was growing up, brought a lump to Rose’s throat. She snuggled closer, breathing in her father’s familiar scent. Light falling through the pink curtains spun a warm cocoon around them, and Rose closed her eyes and felt herself drifting. When she opened them again her father had gone. She stroked the sleeping dogs and buried her face against their sleek sides.

Still, the burning Zeppelin was scorched into Rose’s mind, and anytime she closed her eyes it might be there – its questing movements like those of a cornered animal. Mathy: the name would ring in her head for days. She imagined his mother in the kitchen of some small house in Germany and wondered whether she knew yet what had happened to her son.

After lunch the grown-ups assembled in the