Believe

Angie Bailey

Description

'Believe' is an utterly captivating first novel in a series that will lead you on an irresistible journey into the magical world of Believers and Never-Believers. Abigale Johnson was born a Never-Believer, in a world full of greyness: no Christmases, no birthdays, no smiling and most definitely, no magic. That all changes with a fateful train journey when Abigale is catapulted into the world of the Believer Fae. A crazy, holographic professor, an enchanted train, and new magical best friends, combined with the tinkering of first love, a wicked queen and a host of lost family secrets all await you, in a story that is likely to become part of your heart forever.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Distributed by eBookpartnership
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839784323
• Langue: English

Extrait

Believe
the first book in the series ‘Believe’
Angie Bailey


Believe
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: [phone] www.theconradpress.com [e-mail]
ISBN 978-1-839784-32-3
Copyright ©Angie Bailey, 2021
The moral right of Angie Bailey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.


For Charley, Dexter and Jackson,
You are my heart,
You are my soul,
You are my magic.


Chapter 1
A bigale Johnson was born into a family of Never-Believers. She had two brothers; an older, Peter, and a younger, George. Both boys were tinged with grey, their skin had a greyish stony tone, that made their blue-grey eyes appear dull and sad.
Even though Peter was fifteen and George was ten, the roots of their mousy-brown hair were already grey. Typical of Never-Believer children. The life of no Christmases, no birthdays, no smiling, and the complete lack of magic, wonder and celebration, turns them prematurely grey and typically mean.
These boys, however, were meaner than the average Never-Believer brothers. They fought constantly and viciously. Pulling Abigale’s hair at every opportunity. Pushing and shoving her, teasing her to the brink of tears. More so on the days they got tired of fighting with each other, joining forces to terrorise Abigale. They were either the worst of enemies or the best of friends; in both instances, Abigale was more often than not the target of their hate.
Peter thought himself way above his station; with barely emerging muscles he spent hours in front of the mirror.
Everything about Peter was spiky. His features were pointy and sharp, and just as cutting as his contemptible attitude which was always hurtful and mean. He was forever moulding the spikiness of his grey-rooted hair in a bid to somehow make him more appealing to Never-Believer girls.
Abigale hesitated a second too long at Peter’s bedroom door, making eye contact with his reflection, which she instantly regretted.
‘What? Guttergale!’ Peter shouted, ‘What you looking at?’ He paused admiring himself, ‘Perfection?’ Peter flexed his nothingness then whispered menacingly to Abigale, ‘Don’t look in my mirror, you’ll crack it, Guttergale.’
George emerged from his room, his plumpness nearly filling the doorway. He had bulging, grey-blue eyes framed by thick-rimmed, black glasses that hung on the end of his rounded nose.
He always seemed to have a piece of bread in his hand and crumbs around his absurdly small mouth. So small in fact that Abigale was always surprised by how much food fitted inside it. His cheeks were always bursting full of food, like an overgrown, mousy-brown, grey-rooted hamster.
He waddled around, huge for his age, unaware of his size or other people’s personal space.
George began to charge; he was surprisingly swift for his size, catching Abigale off guard. He outstretched his chubby hand to give her an extra shove into Peter’s wooden doorframe, making sure he heard a thud.
‘Owwwww!’ cried Abigale, George’s bulbous frame holding her there, the doorframe wedged between her shoulder blades, trapped.
‘Get out of that, Guttergale! Good one, George.’ Peter gave George a high five, smirking as they tag-teamed her.
George pushed Abigale harder against the doorframe, Abigale pleaded to him, ‘Please George, you’re crushing me.’
Shoving another slice of bread into his mouth, the crumbs tumbling everywhere, he mocked, ‘Did you hear that, Peter? I thought I heard something?’
‘Nope, I can’t hear a thing,’ Peter’s face was full of fake astonishment, looking quickly from side to side, one hand cupping his ear, giving George the cue to push harder.
A voice of authority then broke the boys’ wicked shenanigans, calling Peter and George to immediate attention, ‘What’s going on here?’ Mrs Johnson clipped, appearing suddenly at the top of the stairs.
‘Nothing Mumsie,’ oozed George with smarm, just like he always did. His voice so sickly sweet it made Abigale’s teeth hurt. Mrs Johnson gave the boys the once-over. Patting George on the head, she turned on her heels and headed back down the stairs, giving absolutely no acknowledgement of Abigale.
Abigale lowered her head; she knew her mother never cared for her, a point that George and Peter exploited at every opportunity.
‘She doesn’t even know you exist,’ George spat, his voice just low enough to be out of Mrs Johnson’s earshot.
‘It’s worse than that, George,’ Peter scoffed, ‘Mum hates her. Everything about her is wrong.’ Peter looked Abigale up and down as she froze against the door. ‘Your hair is wrong,’ he said and pulled one of her plaits, jolting her head down and causing a burning sensation in Abigale’s neck.
George planted his hand hard in Abigale’s face, ‘Your face is wrong,’ he joined in, smiling as a piece of bread covered in his spittle stuck to Abigale’s cheek.
‘Mum even spelt your name wrong, you’re that much of a wrong ‘un,’ Peter cackled at his own wit. He returned to his mirror flicking his head from side to side as if the movement would increase the spike in his hair and tiny droplets of gel splattered the room.
Mr Johnson was waiting for Mrs Johnson at the bottom of the stairs. Oblivious to his surroundings and consumed with his own important thoughts, he too ignored this obvious display of bullying as he kept his head firmly engrossed in the newspaper.
Mr and Mrs Johnson were the worst Never-Believer parents ever; at barely forty, their hair had already turned completely grey.
Mr Johnson had been entirely grey by the time he had reached twenty. After having his spirit broken time after time, disappointment after disappointment, he was bitter through and through.
Mr Johnson was rounded, like George. He had the same thick, black-rimmed glasses that sat at the edge of his rounded nose. Cold, grey-blue eyes that made you shiver when he ran them over your skin, like ice being thrown all over your body. Eyes of pure and utter emptiness.
Mr Johnson liked nothing more than to ridicule everything about Believers. He would find holes in their principles and celebrations, and siphon every ounce of happiness out of their customs.
This act only saddened his own spirit, scarring his soul more by the day. Meanness ran through his veins.
‘Have you heard this?’ Mr Johnson called to Mrs Johnson as she descended the stairs. ‘Singing at strangers’ doors in the snow!’ he scoffed reading the Never Gazette . ‘Utter ridiculousness, pointless venture, singing to strangers indeed.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose with indignation. ‘“Carolling” they called it, ridiculous name, carolling!’ he sniggered, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Pitiful people,’ Mrs Johnson joined in, sucking in her lips filling her voice with contempt.
Mrs Johnson makes my heart ache and my throat tighten. Believers are taught that mothers are the heart of their belief system. They are the people that teach you love, kindness and most importantly, make you believe in magic.
Mrs Johnson was not this kind of mother. Mrs Johnson barely even cared that her children existed, barely touched them, barely loved them. Actually, she didn’t love them, she loved herself.
Mrs Johnson was twice as conceited as Peter, spending hours in front of the mirror, priming and primping her grey nothingness. She shared Peter’s sharpness in features except for her rounded nose that looked rather odd against her sharpness. It looked virtually cut out and planted in the centre of her face, like it didn’t quite belong. But it somehow added to her severe look.
Mrs Johnson’s hair was a dark, murky grey, cut into a sharp, pointy bob that followed the angle of her jawline. Her eyes were grey with a purple hue. She held an expression of deep coldness, giving the impression that the meeting of her gaze could turn you to stone.
The only thing Mrs Johnson believed in was her own superiority and righteousness. Abigale was pleased she didn’t engage with her, she could hear her mother now, it would have been all her fault.
‘Stand up straight, you lazy girl,’ Mrs Johnson would correct. ‘You should be neither seen nor heard, insolent girl,’ she would scorn, ‘Where is it?’ she would ask, it, meaning Abigale, in place of, ‘Where is she?’
Abigale’s mind raced with all the mean things her mother would say. Sometimes she thought Mrs Johnson was unable to even say her name. The sheer mention of it appeared to leave a horrible taste in her mouth.
Maybe the boys were right, thought Abigale. Maybe she was all wrong just like her name.
Mrs Johnson appeared to take pleasure in picking holes in everything to do with Abigale. She wanted to be the belle of her grey family ball. Abigale hindered that. Mrs Johnson shopped, moaned, and encouraged meanness in her boys. That was all she did. And all she was really good at.
The thing that filled Mrs Johnson with pride the most was the greyness that consumed their rather modest semi-detached, four-bedroom house.
The outside was covered in a wash of polished pebble-grey, which gave a medium grey, shiny element to the walls. The rims around the windows and doors were in a darker charcoal-grey, with the front door being as black as a witch’s blackest cat.
The greyness set off the rows of alternating black and white roses that straddled the concrete grey path which wound up towards the front door.
The front door had the strangest knocker in an odd silvery-grey. The colour was called Never-Grey. It was the symbol of the Never-Believers which was five circles; two at the top and three at the bottom. Inside each circle, was a tiny, b