Chapter 1
The Ice Cream Crown Skating Races drew something like half a million people to the little town of Linderch every year, and even though it was only ten a.m. on the first day of practices, George thought that at least half of those people must already be here.
That was what it felt like, anyway, pushing and elbowing his way through a crowd of mostly adults, mostly a head taller than him, trying not to drop his hotdog as he squished and squeezed his way back toward the sheep-panel fence that blocked the skating pond from the spectators.
Deep fried snacks scented the air, smells that seemed warm even in the middle of a snowy winter, with air that pinched at George’s nose and slapped at his cheeks.
He bit into the hotdog, trying to scoff it down before it either went cold or got knocked out of his hands in the press of people. Someone elbowed him in the back and he stumbled, juggling the rest of the hotdog awkwardly in his red gloves… But he caught it in time and the crowd opened up enough of a gap for him to dart a bit closer to the fence.
He shrugged his shoulders, nestling his mustard-coloured puffer jacket up around his ears.
Around him, the crowd muttered and chattered and murmured—and someone was shouting. George stood on tiptoes to see—the voice sounded familiar.
Ah, it was old Avi, arguing with a race official over by the competitor’s gate. George stared in fascination. This was the third argument George had seen Avi having today, and the grounds had only been open for two hours. Not that that was unusual for Avi, a dark skinned, white-haired, gnarled old fellow who seemed to have a bone to pick with every person whose shadow crossed his path.
The first argument George had witnessed today had been with one of the ice cream stalls about the size of the scoops they were handing out (too irregular, some big, some small). The second had been with a fluffed-up snow goose over Avi’s ice cream cone (the goose had won, stealing the cone right out of Avi’s hand). And now, he was ranting about something to do with potholes.
George rolled his eyes. He jostled his way to the railings that held the crowd back from the pond and leaned his elbows on it. Around him, the crowd shuffled and muttered and murmured, boots slushing in the half-melted snow, voices rising and falling like the wind.
George let it all wash over him, eyes on the pond, searching out Mabel.
It was hard to spot her pastel pink coat against the swirling, pastel rainbow of the surface on which the competitors skated; ribbons of mint green and banana yellow and bubblegum pink twined through the frozen pond, cut through with slashes of baby blue and lavender.
The pond looked good enough to eat—and that was almost entirely the point.
Sponsored by the Linderch Ice Cream Museum, the Ice Cream Crown Skating Races took place not on ice, but on magically deep-frozen ice cream—an entire pond full of it. No one quite knew how the Museum convinced the ice cream to set solid enough to skate on—let alone how they procured enough ice cream to keep the pond filled throughout the winter—but regardless, it was the event of the Linderch calendar, drawing tourists from far and wide and filling the whole town with delicious, sugary smells for a month every year.
And then, of course, there were the promotional stands set up at regular intervals the whole way around the pond. Also sponsored by the Ice Cream Museum, for one hour every day in the month-long lead up to the races, you could brave the crowds and the queues and take your shot at some free ice cream—assuming the line moved fast enough that you got to the front of it before the hour was up.
George had finished his triple-caramel twist in a choc-dipped waffle cone just minutes before, and the delicious, sugary taste still lingered.
A red streak caught George’s eye. Landon, Mabel’s primary competition. George frowned. Landon’s form was on point, his spins sharp, and his slaloms… George winced as Landon zipped precariously close by someone in a pink jacket.
But Mabel, in her pink jacket, continued unfazed by Landon’s theatrics, and George smiled. Sure, the competition was stiff and the family was in danger of losing the house, but anyone who thought Mabel wasn’t a shoe-in to win clearly hadn’t seen her practice. She kicked out right atop a mint-green spiral, leapt, spun… and spun… and slipped.
George’s gasp echoed through the crowd as the spectators watched Mabel fall. As the favourite in the Junior Division, her face had been plastered all over town for the last few weeks; everyone knew who she was, and George had to imagine that quite a few of them would be genuinely sad to see a favourite stumble like that.
The gasps swelled to muttering, and then to outright ripples of concern and worry as Mabel struggled to regain her footing. She managed to drag herself upright —but only just. George squinted; her right leg wasn’t working properly.
His stomach twisted, adrenalin bursting through him as he watched her struggle the thirty yards to the shore and realised that, in one, short fall, Mabel had just plummeted out of the favourites.
The muttering around him was definitely concern, but not all of it was for Mabel; a fair proportion was worry for the mutterers themselves, people who’d placed bets on Mabel to win, or at least to place highly in the races.
George let out a tight breath, the air misting in front of his face, and gripped the rail tightly. “Come on, Mabes,” he whispered. “You’ll be alright.” He shouldered his way to the right, closer to the gate where the contestants could exit the skating area, all the while keeping his eyes on that pastel pink coat.
“Nasty fall there.”
The acid tone of voice snagged George’s attention, paired with an uncomfortable shiver. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Max (first name? last name? nobody knew) from the bank, his light brown hair standing out amidst the colourful crowd of knitted beanies, hoods and headscarves.
George couldn’t help himself. “Why should you care?” he said scathingly. “I’d have thought you’d be glad.” If anyone was going to be glad that Mabel couldn’t compete—couldn’t win, which included the fairly large cash prize—it was Max, who’d been angling to have the bank take George and Mabel’s family house as long as they could remember.
Max smiled unpleasantly. “Why would I be glad that someone had gotten injured? That would be rather… childish.”
George opened his mouth.
“George!”
He glanced around; Josef, one of the security guards patrolling the entrance to the skaters-only area, waved at George over the heads of the crowd, motioning him toward the gate.
George turned back to cut Max one last glare, but he’d gone, shifting on with the natural eddies of the crowd.
A hurried scuffle later and George made it to the gate, and Josef was ushering him through. “Go help her,” he said, shooing George into the skaters-only area.
George took a brief moment to throw Josef a word of thanks—and to thank his lucky stars that it had been Josef on duty today, who not only knew that Mabel and George were siblings, but suspected more than anyone else what this contest meant to them.
Then he was slipping and skidding and sliding down the slight incline that led to the shore of the ice cream pond, and Mabel was collapsing against him, and he was clutching at her upper arms to hold her up.
“It’s my ankle,” she gasped out, eyes wide, brows tight with pain. “I think it’s broken.”
George shook his head. “You should have called a medic.” Trust Mabel to insist on skating all the way back to shore on a broken bone.
Of course, maybe it was only a sprain… but Mabel’s pain threshold was famously high, so really, all George could do was shake his head again and pull her tight against him.
“Come on,” he said, turning and hefting her onto his back so he could trudge through the slurry of the landing zone toward the medic’s tent, cardinal red and so bright against the snow it might as well have been blood.
The medic met them at the door of the tent, a frown twisting his face behind his fluoro-green glasses. A label on his navy shirtfront read ‘Lucas / Medic’, with the ice cream castle logo of the Ice Cream Museum on the left.
“Which leg?” he said, his tone brusque and no-nonsense.
“My right,” Mabel said.
Those who didn’t know her might have been surprised at the levelness of her voice—but George’s stomach twisted again unpleasantly. Usually, Mabel’s voice was full of emotion and drama—sometimes good, sometimes bad. She only sounded calm like this when something was seriously wrong.
As they entered the tent, the scent of eucalyptus disinfectant clouded around them. George let Lucas The Medic slide Mabel off his back, then helped as she hobbled to the portable hospital cot. Gingerly, Mabel perched on the white sheets while Lucas The Medic knelt on the thick grey marine carpeting that covered the ground and began removing her skates.
The light from the overhead lamps flooded the room, washing out colours and glinting off the sharp blades of the skates as Lucas set them aside.
George stared, numb, looking through the scene rather than at it as Lucas manipulated Mabel’s ankle back and forth.
Once, he glanced at Mabel’s face; even allowing for the way the fluorescent lighting leached away all colour, her face was pale, drawn.
He shivered.
“I’m sorry,” Mabel said in a tiny voice, and George realised she’d seen him shiver as he looked away. “I’m so sorry.”
Abruptly, as though the strings holding him up had been cut, George slumped onto the cot beside her. It creaked as he added his weight. “It’s not your fault. Hey, it’s not,” he added, bumping her gently with his shoulder as she inhaled sharply, the sound a precursor to a sob.
“I know,” she moaned. “But the house.”
George closed his eyes and let her lean against him. The house, the house. It all came back to the house, didn’t it.
Their family lived in a sandstone house that was old, and kind of falling down. Partly, that was because George and Mabel’s mum and dad had fallen on hard times recently and didn’t have the money for repairs. But partly, it was because the house was special.
In the sitting room at the front, the walls were mustard yellow and the carpet navy blue. It smelled of baked cabbage on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays odd-looking rainbows refracted over the ceiling despite the absence of anything to cause them.
The kitchen seemed normal enough, if somewhat small and pokey… But if you walked in sideways, with your left arm leading the way, the view out the window shimmered into something otherworldly, and once or twice George was positive he’d seen a unicorn saunter past.
The bathroom tasted like bubble gum constantly; the dining room floor creaked to the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’ if you hopped only on your right foot; and George’s own bedroom occasionally lit up with aquamarine ripples like light shining through water, accompanied by the smell and taste of the sea.
George’s sister Mabel had sworn the other day she’d even heard a seagull when she’d been passing by his door (and not at all sneaking into his room to borrow his set of expensive, brightly coloured markers).
It was a wonderful house, magical, and if the family couldn’t find the money to pay back the overdue part of the mortgage in the next five weeks, they would lose it.
How could you move back into a regular, normal house after living in one filled with magic? George and Mabel didn’t think they could bear it.
So they’d come up with a plan.
George and Mabel hadn’t told their parents that they were planning for Mabel’s winning from the Ice Cream Crown Skating Races to pay for the house…
…And now, it seemed like even that last, desperate option was gone.
George sighed, eucalyptus filling his nose again as he concentrated on his breaths. “You’re not going to be able to compete, are you?”
Mabel turned her big eyes on him. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and she looked like she was in more pain now than she had when Lucas was manipulating her ankle.
George shook his head firmly. “I’ll do it,” he said.
Mabel blinked. “What?”
“I’ll do it. I know I don’t have much time to get back up to speed, but we’ve got to try, we just have to. It’s our last hope.”
Mabel’s smile was midway between hope and despair, but regardless it was a smile and George was going to take that and be glad for it. “I’ll help you,” she said.
“I know.”
He probably wouldn’t win, but he had to try. He had to. Their wonderful, magical house was at stake.