"You can lie down now," said Will. "Come on."

He led his mother to the bed and she almost fell onto it. She had been poorly this whole trip and Will could not help but worry as he tucked her in.

"Are you warm enough?" asked Will.

"Yes," said his mother softly.

He squeezed her hand and smiled. "Well I'm not. This country has dreadful weather even in summer."

His mother smiled too, her eyes half-closed. "You'll get used to it. Go help your father unpack."

He nodded and left, thinking that it was very unlikely indeed that he would "get used to it". In truth, he doubted that he would ever like this rainy country his parents considered home.

Will Davis had recently celebrated his eleventh birthday on the journey from New Zealand to England. It was there that his father had been recently stationed and it was there that Will had spent all of his childhood. But after his father had returned from the campaign in the South African Republic, it had been announced to them that they were to travel to London, where Private Davis would be stationed in Knightsbridge Barracks for the last few years of his career.

Although Will had barely arrived in England, he disliked the country fervently. The weather was dreary and the people miserable. Though one would think boiled meat rations should taste the same in most places, even the food was worse here and unendurably bland. And now, as far as Will was concerned, this wretched country was draining his mother of her health.

And so, as he got used to these unfamiliar barracks over the next week, Will preferred spending time on the balcony looking out on the parade-ground or inside tending to his mother to seeking out the other children. He did not take the time to frequent the playground on the roof of the lodgings, thinking himself too old for such things anyway. Instead, with his mother ill, he washed clothes and cleaned the flat to prepare for the inspections as his father went to drills or performed other duties. As he sat next to his mother's bedside, he used her equipment to mend the clothes that had gotten torn on the journey, taken special care with his father's uniform. She sometimes watched him work but mostly slept, her even breathing calming Will.

He grinned as he extended a forefinger and - after a moment's hesitation - the needle rose and hovered in midair.

"You're doing it again."

Will jumped and realised that his mother was awake after all. The needle clattered to the floor.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it."

"I know you can't. Just… be careful."

Will looked at his mother, frowning. "I wish I could do something useful with it."

His mother smiled gently. "You don't have to do anything." There was the sound of a door opening and closing loudly. "You should, however, ask your father whether he needs help with anything."

Will stood up reluctantly, placing the clothes aside, and left his mother. If only all things were as easy as making a needle hover.

Private Davis, having come back from a drill, greeted Will with a nod. "How's your mother?"

"The same," said Will. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No. Listen, William, why don't you go outside and find some of the other children?"

Will scrunched up his face. He would have much preferred a word of praise for the cleanliness of the sitting room. "I might later. I was wondering, father, whether you know how long we'll be here."

"What do you mean?" asked Private Davis.

The boy took a somewhat nervous breath and pressed on. "In England."

"Forever, I think. I'm an old hat - I'll retire soon."

"So we won't go back to New Zealand?"

Davis scowled. "No. This is our real home, not some colony. You'd do well to remember that, boy."

There was a tense silence before Will sighed. "Well, I'd better go and meet some people then."

"You'd better."

In truth, Will had no intention of finding children or meeting people. Instead, he headed to the barrack's library. The sight of the boy with dark brown hair and heavy eyelids swiftly and assuredly seeking out books was not one familiar to the men of the barracks but they would have to get used to it. Will read everything he could get his hands on and he had done so for years. As he let his hands run across the books, his nose taking in the familiar scents of old parchment and dust, his eyes alighted on a book he had seen many soldiers read: The heir of Redclyffe. The only problem was that it was out of his reach. He jumped in a futile attempt to try to grab it. Then, he reached out with his hand. After a moment's hesitation, the book quivered and floated gently into his hand. The boy shivered in excitement, surprised that it had worked.

For as long as Will could remember, strange things had happened all around him. At first, he simply could not do anything about it.

Like when he was five and he and his mother had gone out for a walk while the soldiers were at a drill. There had been a rather high wall with a few handy footholds that Will has scaled, despite his mother's protestations. When he reached the top, he stood up and started walking as his mother shouted at him to come down, 'you little idiot'. Then, at a particularly high point, a loose stone had caught him off guard and he stumbled. His mother had screamed as he quivered on the edge for a moment. But instead of falling to a broken leg, he descended gently, almost as if he were floating. When he reached the ground, he jumped back up lightly as his mother watched in confusion and fear. When she demanded an explanation, Will could only say that the air must have acted as a pillow. His mother was not satisfied by this answer.

And then another time, when he was seven, his father had tried to take a book that Will was currently reading away from him. They engaged in a surprisingly prolonged struggle for a grown soldier fighting with a boy. His father grabbed at Will's hand in frustration, then suddenly yelped in pain. When he drew back his fingers, Will saw that they were blistered. Somehow, his skin had become so hot as to burn his father. Private Davis sternly admonished Will and burnt the book as punishment while the boy cried, then never mentioned the incident again. And when his mother once again wanted an explanation, Will told her that he had been reading in bed and must have absorbed too much heat from the blanket. He would never forget his mother's look of utter incredulity.

But it had not stopped with those incidents and in the years since then, Will had learnt to heat his food when it was cold and had now even developed the ability to move things without touching them.

How any of this was possible was a mystery to Will. All he knew was that his parents were unhappy when he did these things, seeming troubled at these skills outside of their comprehension, and thus he had learned to hide them. This did not stop him from constantly testing what he could do and trying to learn new skills. He might not understand it, whatever it was, but it was still something that could not help but thrill him.

For now, he sat on the floor with the newly acquired copy of The heir of Redclyffe. He flipped to the first page and started reading.

The drawing-room of Hollywell House was one of the favoured apartments, where a peculiar air of home seems to reside, whether seen in the middle of summer, all its large windows open to the garden, or, as when our story commences, its bright fire and stands of fragrant green-house plants contrasted with the wintry fog and leafless trees of November.

It was several hours before Will looked up. He realised with some regret that it was growing late and thus replaced the book as he had taken it, another thrill of excitement running through him, then made his way out of the library. It was early summer and the days were at their longest so it was still fairly light as he made his way in the direction of the apartments where married privates lived.

All of a sudden, his path was blocked by three boys around his age. Will faced them with an odd sense of trepidation.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"You can, freak," said the boy in the middle. He was squinting intensely at Will with small, piggish eyes.

"We saw you in the library," said the boy in the left, the tallest of the three.

"What were you doing there?" asked Will as his heart beat faster.

"Following you."

"Wondered why a little runt like you wanted to go to the library," said the blonde-haired boy on the right.

"And you know what we saw?" said the piggish boy in the middle.

"Books, I imagine," said Will.

"You moved a book without touching it," the middle boy continued. "What did you do, freak?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," said the tall boy.

"Liar," echoed the blonde one.

"I'm really not," said Will. "You must have seen things wrongly."

"All three of us?" asked the middle boy and stepped uncomfortably close to Will. He realised that he was shorter than all of them. "You think we're blind?"

"No."

"Just show us how you did it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Show us," said the boy and took another step forward, forcing Will to step back. The other two advanced and echoed the middle one in a low murmur: "Show us. Show us. Show us. Show us."

Will stepped back again, fear rising in him as his hand shook - and then the boys tripped, the tall one and the middle one falling over. He turned and started walking away quickly but the blonde boy grabbed his arm.

"How did you do that?"

The other two boys stood up and surround him, the piggy-eyed one giving him a shove.

"You knocked us over."

"Please, leave me alone," said Will.

The tall one shoved him, hard. Will fell backwards and landed on the ground hard, his eyes stinging. The piggy boy kicked him in the side as terror mounted in Will.

"Freak!"

"Just leave me alone," he mumbled as another boy kicked him.

"Freak!"

They kept kicking him. He just wanted to get away. He wanted to get back home. Why could these boys not just stop bothering him? Why could they not just go away?

A wave of heat passed through Will and all of the boys fell on their backs. He looked at them in shock: he had not touched them. But he instantly jumped on his feet and looked down as the boys as they tried to regain their bearing. Clenching his fists, he looked down at them.

"You'll tell no one of this," he said. "If you ever come near me again, or bother me in any way, I'll make sure something far worse happens to you."

He raised his hand and the three boys flinched. After hesitating for a moment, he dropped his hand and turned around, walking away.

Only when he was out of sight from the boys did he start shaking in shock and fear. How could he have been so careless? Why had the boys attacked him so viciously? He looked at his shivering hand. What was wrong with him?

Will could feel his eyes growing wet but he tried to suppress the hot tears, but a single one rolled down his cheek as he ran home. When he reached the door, he paused for a moment, wiping away the tear and trying to compose himself, then entered.

His father stalked towards him the moment he had crossed the threshold.

"You missed the inspection. Where the hell have you been?"

"I was -" said Will, then came to a halt, unable to form coherent words.

His father regarded him with sudden concern. "Are you all right? Did something happen?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look it. You're as pale as a sheet."

"I said I'm fine."

"William…"

But Will did not have to answer again. For at that moment, there was a knock at the door.