Calling all YA fans! We have a special early Christmas present for you! Award-winning author Claire McFall has written a brand new chapter in the Ferryman saga! Read on to find out what exactly happened at Dylan’s Christmas Dance.
Look out for the series finale, Outcasts, in March 2019!
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It was snowing. Not the beautiful, pristine blanket of white that glistened in Christmas movies; this was more wet, slushy, gross snow, churned up and muddied by cars on the road and then spat onto the pavement. Which was why Dylan was wearing a glittering, purple party dress… and wellingtons.
She had her shoes in a plastic bag, though, her fingers clinging to the handles and slowly going numb thanks to the cold night air. Her other hand was toasty warm, tucked into Tristan’s. Dylan peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d tried to talk him into hiring a kilt for the dance, but he’d balked at the idea of donning “a skirt” and instead was dressed in his black school trousers and a dark blue shirt that made his eyes seem to glow in an unearthly way. He’d hacked at his long hair the week before, instructing a barber to cut it tight to the sides of his head, leaving a deliberate disarray of spikes on top. Dylan had been horrified as she’d sat in the waiting area of the hairdressers – she loved running her fingers through his hair – but Tristan said he was sick of it getting in the way. It had been a shock at first, but now that Dylan had grown accustomed to his new shorn look, she had to admit it suited him. It emphasised the angles of his face, gave him a leaner, fiercer look.
She grinned, shaking her head at him when he eyed her quizzically. She wanted to pinch herself. She, Dylan McKenzie, was heading to a Christmas dance, hand in hand with the best-looking boy at school; the best-looking boy in Glasgow (or anywhere, really). Loving that fact was shallow, and she’d never admit it out loud – she pressed her lips together tightly and just smiled when Tristan followed up his look with a questioning squeeze of her hand – but she did love it. A year ago she’d never have dreamt she could experience this kind of happiness.
The only thing marring her evening was she couldn’t tell anyone the boy beside her was all hers. To everyone else at Kaithshall Academy, she and Tristan were cousins.
As they got close to the school, she gently disengaged their fingers. And felt the loss immediately – not just because it was cold. Tristan tried to regain her hand, but she dodged his searching fingers.
“People will see,” she murmured.
“So?” Tristan replied, though she knew he wasn’t serious. They’d had this discussion several times before.
There was a queue to get into the school, tickets once again being carefully checked – and rechecked – by the industrious McManus. He glowered indiscriminately, Scrooge standing in the way of all the Christmas fun.
“What’s in the bag?” he demanded when it was Dylan and Tristan’s turn to present their tickets. “Are you trying to sneak alcohol into a school event, young lady?”
“It’s my shoes,” Dylan answered, holding the bag open for him to inspect.
He peered in, like the contents might jump out and attack him, pursing his lips disapprovingly at the pair of spike-heeled sandals that Dylan had bought in a moment of madness and was now dreading having to dance in.
“Hmmm. And you?” He scowled at Tristan, who was wearing a thin jacket over his shirt. Tristan just stared back at him, refusing to be cowed – or searched – and to Dylan’s delight McManus backed down first, raising a disgruntled arm towards the entrance. Dylan suppressed her smile as they hurried inside. She had the feeling the bad-tempered history teacher considered every pupil he was forced to admit a personal affront.
A giant Christmas tree dominated the school’s reception area. It stood at a slightly drunken angle, and the baubles and tinsel had been thrown on in a haphazard, uneven fashion, but the lights twinkled merrily. Along with the jaunty Christmas music filtering in from the assembly hall, it gave Dylan a sparkly, festive feeling.
Or maybe that was the glass of very spiked eggnog that her dad had slipped into both their hands while her mum tried to organise pictures in front of the fireplace.
“Come on,” Dylan said, grabbing Tristan’s arm and tugging him along towards the cloakroom. They both ditched their jackets and Dylan yanked off her wellingtons with relief. Hanging on to Tristan for balance, she slipped her shoes on and stood up in them experimentally. They’d been fine in the confines of her bedroom and she thought she’d be okay – so long as she stayed in this exact spot and didn’t try to make any sudden movements.
“These may have been a mistake,” she admitted to Tristan.
“It’s all right,” he grinned back at her. “I’ll stay close by, so that if you fall, it’ll be straight into my arms.”
Dylan snorted. “That’s an awful line,” she grimaced.
“Sorry.” Tristan’s eyes twinkled, completely unrepentant. “I blame your dad’s eggnog. What the hell was in that?”
“Brandy,” Dylan told him. “Eggs and cream… but mostly brandy. Come on, let’s go check out the hall.”
The music got louder as they entered, belted-out Slade lyrics competing with the din of several-hundred teenagers crammed into the space.
“I thought you said this would be country dancing?” Tristan shouted.
Though most of the young people in the hall were crowded around the chairs that lined the room, a fair few – mostly girls – were in the middle, moving, well, more accurately, gyrating to the music. The headteacher, standing by the refreshments table like a bouncer, was looking distinctly pale, probably at the thought of wading into the middle of the scantily clad group and trying to enforce school-appropriate dance moves. Good luck with that, Dylan thought.
“It is,” Dylan shouted back, taking wicked delight in crushing the relief on Tristan’s face. “See?” she pointed, “The ceilidh band’s setting up. It’ll start in a minute.”
“Great,” Tristan monotoned, and Dylan laughed.
“Say it like you mean it!” she told him, amused.
They’d had several country dancing lessons in PE over the last few weeks. For Dylan, who’d been forced to practise the set pieces since primary school, it was nothing new, or special. She was just delighted to have someone to dance with – the people who couldn’t find a partner had to pair up with a teacher. Tristan, on the other hand, hated it.
It was strange. Normally, he moved confidently, gracefully; he was at ease with his body. At the Halloween dance, he’d burled Dylan around like he’d spent every day doing it. But apparently, doing a pas de basque was completely beyond him, and the progressive dances – where you had to keep changing partners – utterly baffled him. Dylan found it endearing – and hilarious. For once, she was the leader and not the klutz.
“Promise me I’ll only have to dance with you,” Tristan pleaded.
“I promise,” Dylan replied, “I don’t think it would be right to inflict you on anyone else anyway!”
She certainly didn’t want him dancing with Cheryl, or Steph, or any of their moronic friends. The whole bunch of them were, of course, in the thick of the writhing, dancing bodies.
The song ended and, instead of the thumping bass of another pop song, the screech of fiddles and an accordion pierced the sudden quiet.
“All right!” Mrs Peters, the Head of PE, clambered up onto the stage, microphone in hand. “Pairs on the dance floor for a Gay Gordon!”
“You know this one!” Dylan exclaimed.
“Yippee!” Tristan deadpanned.
Feeling light and happy enough that she was all but bouncing on her overly high heels, Dylan hauled Tristan onto the dance floor. Positioning herself in front of him, she grabbed his hands, placing one down by her side and the other over her shoulder.
“Just watch everybody else and do what they do,” she instructed. “You’ll be fine.”
Tristan nodded, expression grim. He looked like a prisoner about to face the walk to the executioner’s chair.
“I love you,” she told him, unable to contain her smile in the face of his misery.
If they weren’t surrounded by half the school – and if they weren’t supposedly cousins – she’d have kissed him.
The music changed into the rhythm for the dance and they started forwards.
“Forward two, three, four.” She twisted, tugging Tristan’s hands to make him do the same. “Back two, three, four. Forward two, three, four.” Twist. “Back two, three, four. Now,” she dropped one of his hands, “just walk.” Putting all of her weight on the ball of her foot, she spun beneath Tristan’s arm. “Okay, waltz! Round and round and round we go, ready to start again!”
By the third time through, Tristan had it, and Dylan was able to stop her muttered instructions and just enjoy the flow of dancing with him. His warm hands, the strength of his body when he held her, his martyred expression…
“See?” she commented when the music stopped. “You can do it!”
“Great. Please tell me we can spend the rest of the night sitting on one of those lovely comfy chairs over there. Or better yet, find some quiet, dark corner where we can—”
“Right folks, next up is a Strip the Willow. Everybody into sets of eight, please.”
Strip the Willow – Dylan’s absolute favourite. Spinning, twirling and burling – and if your feet didn’t leave the floor you weren’t doing it right. She bit her lip and eyed Tristan hopefully. He looked at her, then at the chairs, then at the dance floor. Heaving a sigh, he turned and wordlessly led her towards the chaos of pupils trying to get into position.
Dylan got Tristan through a Strip the Willow, a Canadian Barn Dance and even a Dashing White Sergeant, though he was clearly unimpressed that he had to share her with Robbie Muldoon from their science class for that one.
The next dance, a quickstep, was a progressive and Dylan gave in to the horrified (and terrified) look on Tristan’s face and let him drag her out of the hall. They bypassed the queue for the toilets and Tristan tugged her a little way up the technical corridor. This was out of bounds, the lights off, but he shouldered through the double doors until they were encased in near-night darkness.
“Tristan! What are we doing here?”
“Guess,” Tristan replied, nudging Dylan over until her back was to the wall and he was towering over her. “I want to collect my reward.”
Dylan smiled, her hands finding Tristan’s in the dark. That was how she’d enticed him here in the first place, promising a kiss for every dance he survived.
“We won’t,” he promised. “Now, by my count that was four dances, and I think I deserve double for that last one.”
“Hmmm. Maybe…” Dylan lifted herself up until her nose was level with his chin – Tristan was too tall for her to get any higher.
“Will this convince you?” He pulled something out of his pocket and dangled it above Dylan’s head.
“What on earth is it?” Dylan peered in the dark.
“Mistletoe,” Tristan said, looking pleased with himself.
“Where did you get mistletoe?” Dylan snatched it out of the air, felt the hard, unyielding shape of it. “This is plastic! It totally doesn’t count!”
“Use your imagination,” Tristan insisted. He plucked it out of her hand and held it once more over her head, his expression aggrieved.
“You’re adorable,” Dylan told him, grinning. She kissed his jaw, all she could reach until he dropped his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her until she ran out of breath and was forced to pull away.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered. “Your first Christmas,” a bubble of laughter, “and your first Christmas dance.”
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back. “My first Christmas… and hopefully my last Christmas dance!”
“We’ll see,” Dylan hedged. “I’ll sneak you more eggnog when we get home.”
“I’ll need it,” he grumbled.
The soft strains of music changed and Dylan turned her head.
“Tristan!” she said. “It’s the Flying Scotsman. Come on, we have to do this one! Please!”
He groaned, burying his face in her neck, but he let her lead him back down to the hall and out onto the floor where they joined the throng preparing for the dance.
Her heart lifted at the whirling to come. Standing opposite Tristan, waiting to start, Dylan felt her throat tighten and her eyes glisten. He looked stoic, resigned… and pretty miserable. And he was doing it for her, because he loved her. It was a gift beyond measure.
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Hungry for more? Both Trespassers and Ferryman are available to buy now! Get your copy for Christmas here!
(And look out for the series finale, Outcasts, in March 2019!
