fourteen

Bluebell was a small faery compared to Mallow, with hair coiled regally atop her head and a high-waisted gown falling in gauzy layers to her feet. At the sight of Rhosmari, her cheeks turned white as sea foam. But Mallow only glared at her and said, “Do you mind? We’re busy.”

“No, Mallow,” Bluebell said tremulously before Rhosmari could answer. “You and I are done.” Gathering up her skirts, she swept past the other faery and out into the corridor, tossing back over her shoulder, “And don’t ever talk to me again.”

Rhosmari could think of nothing to add to that. She held Mallow’s insolent stare a moment, then followed Bluebell back out into the passage.

“I’m sorry to have startled you,” she said as she caught up with the Chief Housekeeper, “but Linden told me I should talk to you about getting a room?”

Bluebell turned to her, looking distracted. “Oh, I see,” she said. “Yes, of course. Let me just check my ledger first.”

She left Rhosmari waiting on the second landing of the stair, and returned a few minutes later with a ring of ancient-looking metal keys. Unlocking a door, she showed her into a tiny room with only one window. The only furniture in it was a narrow bed that sagged visibly in the middle, and the air was thick with dust.

“I’m afraid this is the best I can do,” Bluebell said. “I’ll have it cleaned, of course.”

“It’s all right,” said Rhosmari. She did not care much for luxuries, and if all went well she would not be spending long here anyway. But as Bluebell turned to go she added, “I don’t mean to intrude. But I couldn’t help hearing what Mallow said to you.”

“Is that so?” the other faery asked with a little sniff, and all at once Rhosmari could see the haughtiness Linden had spoken of–the spark of pride that had once made Bluebell think herself fit to be Queen. “Well, it’s all empty talk and bluster. Nothing will come of it. Not now that Mallow knows I want nothing to do with her and her schemes.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Rhosmari. After all, even if she did not feel very kindly toward the Oak and its people right now, she did not want to see them vulnerable to the Empress. “But it sounds as though you’re not the first person Mallow has talked to about this. If she succeeds in convincing even a few other faeries to leave the Oak, that will put all the rest in danger. And if the Queen finds out that we knew what Mallow was planning, and said nothing . . .”

Bluebell’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . she will think that I was protecting Mallow? That I am as disloyal as she is?” She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, as though the idea chilled her. “I see now. You’re right. I must go and talk to Valerian at once. Will you come with me? I don’t want there to be any doubt that I’m telling the truth.”

Her haughty air had vanished; she looked anxious now, and Rhosmari felt sorry for her.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be glad to come.”

Rhosmari stood by the window in her lonely room, watching the half moon sail through waves of cloud and listening to the sounds of the night. Earlier that evening she and Bluebell had gone up to see Queen Valerian, who had given her full attention to hearing their story. Afterward she had questioned them both for some time, drawing out every detail, before expressing her gratitude and letting them go. And though the Queen had not said how she intended to deal with the situation, Rhosmari could tell that she was deeply troubled by Mallow’s behavior, and would not allow her to continue spreading treachery for long.

Knowing that she had done something to help the Oak made Rhosmari feel a little better, but not enough to make her happy with the thought of being trapped here indefinitely. She waited until the great tree had gone quiet and only the occasional murmur echoed in the corridor outside her room; then she focused her thoughts on the humans’ house, and Leaped.

Without Timothy’s invitation, she could never have got further than the veranda. But she landed easily just inside the glass door, and from there it was not difficult to pick her way through the darkened sitting room and down the corridor.

Murmurs came from behind a closed door to her left, and she paused, listening. One male voice, one female: that must be Paul and Peri. So Timothy’s room had to be upstairs. But across from the foot of the staircase stood a pair of glass doors, with light still glowing faintly through them–and when she glanced inside, there was Timothy, seated at a desk with his eyes on a luminous screen. Gathering courage, Rhosmari tapped on the glass.

Timothy spun around in his chair. “Rhosmari?” he said incredulously, and got up to let her in.

“I needed to talk to you,” she said. “I hope it’s not too late.”

“No, it’s not.” He waited for her to sit down on the sofa before climbing back into his own seat, one foot casually hooked behind the other knee. “So what’s going on?”

“Garan told me this afternoon,” she said, pushing the words past the lump in her throat, “that I can’t go back to the Green Isles.”

Timothy grimaced. “Yeah,” he said. “I suspected that.”

“Can you help?” She did not mean the question to sound so abrupt, but it came out before she could soften it. “Please?”

“Help?” He crooked one dark brow at her. “You mean . . . talk to them? Tell them to let you go?”

She shook her head. “I know better than to think they will change their minds. But you–you ran away before, and you managed to avoid the Empress and all her servants, and find your way safely to the Green Isles. If you could just tell me or show me, what to do . . .”

Timothy watched her for a long moment in the bluish-white light of the screen, his gaze travelling over her face from eyes to lips and back again. At last he said, “You said the Blackwings found you and Martin in Birmingham. Did you ever find out how? Did they ever take something from you, or did you leave something behind, that they could use to track you down?”

“Never.” She spoke emphatically. “I know better than that. Martin must have—” All at once she stopped, chilled by memory. Martin had been communicating with the Blackwings, certainly. But even so, he could not have been certain that he and Rhosmari would always stay together; he would have wanted to make sure they could track Rhosmari even if she was on her own. And just before they left Cardiff, he had done exactly that.

“My cloak,” she whispered. “They have my cloak.”

Timothy nodded. “So now they know exactly where you are. And they always will, no matter where you go–or how.”

“But they can’t move faster than a car,” she said, knowing that she was grasping at sand but unwilling to give up yet. “You could take me—”

“I can’t drive. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Timothy—”

“If it was just you taking the risk, or even just you and me, that would be different. But this isn’t about one or two lives, Rhosmari. The freedom of the Green Isles, of the Oak, maybe of all the faeries on the mainland, depends on you staying away from the Empress.”

“Don’t you see that’s exactly what I’m trying to do?” pleaded Rhosmari. “If I can only get to the Green Isles, she can’t touch me there. But here—”

“I know!” His voice rose in frustration, and he made a face before lowering it again. “I know you’d be safer there, and I’d be glad to take you, if I thought we had a chance of making it. But Garan and the others are right. You have to stay.”

“I see. Well, then, I’m sorry I interrupted you.” She spoke bitterly, not troubling to hide her disappointment. Pushing herself up off the sofa, she walked to the door before turning back for the parting shot: “But I thought you would understand.”

“Rhosmari, wait!” Timothy scrambled to his feet, but he had only taken two steps before his leg slipped out from under him. He crashed to the floor, muttered a curse, and grabbed at the chair to pull himself up again–but before he could speak, Rhosmari had Leaped away.

•••

“Rhosmari? Are you there?”

The soft voice came from just outside her door, breaking into her troubled dreams. Blearily Rhosmari lifted her head from the mattress, to find that it was morning. “Yes?” she mumbled.

“It’s Linden. I just wanted to see if you were all right, since you didn’t come down to breakfast.”

Her temples throbbed, and she felt as though someone had rubbed ash into her eyes. Rhosmari climbed off the bed, pulled her thick hair back into its clasp, and opened the door.

“Oh,” said Linden. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Would you like me to go away?”

There was no anger left in Rhosmari any more, only resignation. “It’s all right,” she said, stepping back to let Linden in.

The other girl moved cautiously into the room–then stopped short. “This is the room Bluebell gave you?” she said. “I am so sorry. I’ll see what I can do about getting you a better one.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rhosmari replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What can I do for you?”

Linden hesitated, then sat down beside her. “Rob told me Garan had talked to you. About staying here. Are you . . . going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Rhosmari, getting up again and opening the window for some fresh air. From here she could just see the back of the house, where Timothy and Peri were sparring on the veranda. Both were wearing light shirts and trousers, and neither carried a weapon–but as Peri dodged Timothy’s swing and whirled behind him to slash the side of her hand across his shoulder, Rhosmari was appalled at the speed and ruthlessness with which the human woman moved. No wonder the other faeries called her Knife.

Linden came over to see where she was looking, and sucked in her breath as Timothy staggered. “He pushes himself so hard,” she said softly. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

“Pushes himself?” asked Rhosmari. To her it looked more like Peri was pushing Timothy, and that relentlessly. But she had barely framed the thought before Timothy ducked under Peri’s swing and poked her in the ribs, forcing a laugh out of her that echoed across the garden. Then the two of them broke off their mock fight and headed back into the house.

“The Empress nearly killed him at Sanctuary,” said Linden. “Blasted him with all her power–if he hadn’t been carrying iron, he’d have been dead for certain. And for days afterward, he kept having these spasms where he’d drop things, or his legs would go numb. I think he still has them sometimes, though he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

So that was why he had fallen last night. Rhosmari had thought it a harmless accident, but now guilt crawled over her. No wonder Timothy had gone into Waverley Hall wearing so much iron. No wonder Peri had been upset when he dashed upstairs to rescue Rhosmari from Martin and the Empress all by himself. How much courage must that have taken for him to face someone–indeed two people–who had hurt him so badly?

“He’s trapped here too, you know,” said Linden, turning earnest hazel eyes to hers. “Peri and Paul had to get permission to take him out of school, because the first day he tried to go back the Empress sent someone to kill him. If Lily hadn’t gone along to keep an eye on him . . .” She gave a little shudder.

So the house had become Timothy’s prison, just as the Oak was hers. Once again, Rhosmari had misjudged him–and now she owed him an apology. But perhaps, after she had so callously abandoned him last night, he would not want to speak to her again?

“Anyway,” Linden went on in a brisker tone, “if you’re ready to come out, I could show you around the Oak a bit. So you know where everything is, like the baths, and the kitchen, and the library—”

“You have a library?” The last of Rhosmari’s fatigue vanished. If she had books to study, then at least she would not be idle. And if she looked carefully enough, perhaps she would even learn something that would help them against the Empress. “Are there any histories of the Oak I could look at? Any books that mention Jasmine, and what she was like when she lived here?”

Linden blinked. “Well, yes, we have a few of those. Not a lot, but—”

“Is the library far? Would you take me?”

“It’s just at the foot of the Spiral Stair,” said Linden. “Meet me on the landing when you’re dressed, and I’ll show you.”

•••

“This is everything we have about Jasmine,” said Campion, pushing a stack of volumes across the table. The Librarian had quickly recognized a kindred spirit in Rhosmari, and the two of them had struck up a conversation about faery history while Linden crept apologetically away and finally slipped out the door. “But are you sure you really want to read them all? I could summarize the information for you.”

“I appreciate that,” Rhosmari said as she pulled the topmost book off the pile, “but I’d like to search through them myself. Do you have any loreseeds to go with these?”

Campion looked mystified, but also intrigued. “No, what are those?”

“Living records of an event,” Rhosmari explained, “from one person’s point of view. They can still be misleading in some ways, and open to interpretation–but they’re very useful if you want to get a sense of how something really looked and sounded at the time it happened.”

“Do you know how they’re made?” Campion leaned forward, eyes lit with fascination. “Could you show me how they work?”

“I’d be glad to,” said Rhosmari. “Perhaps later, after I’ve had a chance to go through these?”

“Oh–yes, of course.” With ill-concealed disappointment the Librarian straightened up again. “Well, if you have any questions, or need anything, just ring the bell. I’ll be next door in the archive.”

Left alone in the library’s musty, windowless silence, Rhosmari leafed through the first of the books Campion had given her. Snowdrop the Queen appeared to be a biography of the woman the Empress had called her mentor. Next came A Restored History of the Oakenfolk and After the Sundering, both by the late Queen Amaryllis, and finally three well-worn diaries that had belonged to Heather, the faery who had married Philip Waverley and borne him two children.

As she began to read, time vanished and the world around her slipped away. She pored over one passage after another, mulling over the details and making notes whenever she found something that might be useful. So far she had not learned much about the Empress that she did not know already, but . . .

“Found anything interesting?”

Rhosmari nearly dropped her book. “Timothy! What brings you here?”

“Looking for you,” he said. He spoke easily, as though their quarrel last night had never happened. “Paul and Peri and I were about to have tea, and I thought you might like to join us.”

Was it that late already? Somehow she had missed the noon meal and not even noticed. “That’s kind of you,” she said haltingly. “But I owe you an apology—”

He held up a hand. “No need. Yesterday was hard on all of us, but you especially. I don’t blame you for being . . .” He stopped. “OK, maybe human isn’t the word I want to use here. But you know what I mean.”

“I think so,” said Rhosmari, unable to keep from smiling at the rueful look on his face.

“Good. Let’s leave it at that.” He looked over her shoulder. “Is that one of Heather’s diaries you’re reading? What for?”

So he had read them, too. “I’m trying to understand Jasmine,” she said. “If I can figure out how she thinks, then perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to stop her.”

“That would be brilliant,” Timothy said. “Though right now I’d settle for just knowing when she’s going to attack.” He leaned against the edge of the table. “I’d like to believe Rob’s right about the Empress being weak, or at least not having quite as many followers as she claims. But Queen Valerian seems to think, and Peri and I do too, that the Empress is waiting for something. Or at least she was, before she got hold of this idea of invading the Green Isles . . . and now that she’s lost you, she’s gone back to waiting again.”

“Perhaps, but she can’t wait much longer,” Rhosmari said. “If she doesn’t stop Garan and the others from using the Stone, it won’t be long before they’ve freed more slaves than she can command.”

“Good point.” Timothy stood up again. “So it has to be something pretty big, to make her hold off this long. We should probably talk this over with Peri–but that brings me back to tea. Are you coming?”

Rhosmari closed the diary and put it back on the top of the pile. “Do you know,” she said. “I think I will.”

•••

As Rhosmari followed Timothy out into the garden, the sky was blue from one horizon to the other, and the sun was blazing through the branches of the Oak. The air felt so warm, the breeze so light, that if the meadow on the other side of the hedge had been water instead of grass, she could almost have imagined herself back on the Green Isles . . .

No, she was not going to think about that. But it was certainly a pleasant spring day. With a glance at Timothy’s open collar and rolled-up sleeves, she slipped out of her jacket and laid it by the foot of the Oak. Then she walked with him across the lawn, where a number of faeries had gathered around Rob, Garan and Thorn for their daily lessons in combat.

By the rose hedge on their left, Rob was showing his onlookers various offensive and defensive spells. To their right, Thorn was telling a nervous-looking faery girl how to shoot a bow. “Straighten your arm,” she said. “Tighten those back muscles. . . and stop sticking your thumb out like that, you’ll poke yourself in the eye.”

In the middle of the lawn some of the rebels and Children of Rhys were sparring, the clack of wooden swords competing with the sweeter sounds of rustling grass and birdsong. Since all of the faeries had remained small, there was plenty of room for everyone; and between the tall hedge border that surrounded their training ground and the open meadows to either side, no passing human would be likely to notice them. Though judging by the ripple of power Rhosmari sensed around the edges of the garden, the whole area was protected by glamour anyway.

“I hope you can find a way to defeat Jasmine without fighting,” said Timothy. “But just in case you can’t, I’m thinking it might be a good idea if you learned to defend yourself.”

He spoke mildly, but annoyance flickered inside Rhosmari all the same. “I already know how to do that,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So . . . how, exactly? I mean, what’s your specialty?”

Of course he would ask about that–the last thing she wanted anyone to know. “Does it matter? I competed in the Rhysian Games each year, like everyone else. And I did well enough.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind giving me a demonstration?”

There was a gleam in his eye she did not like; it reminded her of the way Rob had looked when he suggested they attack the Empress. “Fight you, you mean?” she asked. “No.”

“Then fight somebody else. You don’t have to hurt them. Just show me what you can do.”

She did not reply.

“Look, if you’re shy about it—”

“I’m not shy.” She spoke flatly, her hands curling tight at her sides. “I just don’t want to. Why can’t you just believe me? Why do you need proof?”

“I’m not asking for proof. All I want is a bit of evidence. You were the one who said you didn’t believe in fighting, remember–can you blame me?”

He was baiting her. Trying to goad her into betraying herself. “All right,” she said. “If you won’t take my word for it, then maybe you’ll take someone else’s.” She strode over to where Garan stood by the garden shed with bow in hand, showing the Oakenfolk how to aim at a target. “Garan,” she interrupted him, “do I or do I not know how to defend myself?”

For a moment Garan only looked baffled. Then his gaze shifted to Timothy, and his expression turned blank. “That is not for me to judge,” he said.

Rhosmari stared at him, speechless at this unexpected betrayal. Then she snatched the bow out of his hands, nocked an arrow to the string, and fired it straight into the center of the target, forty paces away.

“Judge that,” she snapped, and stalked off back to the Oak.

•••

Back at the table in the library, Rhosmari buried her face in the crook of her arm. Now that her anger had subsided, she could only berate herself for being so foolish. What did it matter if Timothy thought her weak, or untrained, or even cowardly? It would have been better to let him despise her, to let him and most of the others go on believing that she was a scholar and nothing more.

But now that she had fired that arrow, she might as well have come to the Oak fully armed and bedecked with all her prizes from the Rhysian Games. No one who had seen Rhosmari shoot would be content to let her stay out of battle: an archer of her skill was too great an asset for any army to lose.

Yet she still could not bring herself to fire a bow at any living being, even in a cause she believed was just. To deliberately shed blood, she would have to ignore everything her father’s death had taught her–and worse, it would mean giving up all hope of seeing her homeland and her people again . . .

“Rhosmari.”

The voice was Garan’s. She sat up abruptly and pulled the books toward her as he went on, “I did not mean to distress you. I know you have no love of battle, but you are such a skilled archer, and I thought . . . perhaps you wanted to show Timothy what you could do.”

“Why would I want that?” She spoke coolly, to deny the humiliation rushing through her.

“Because you wanted to be rid of him, perhaps? Ever since he rescued you at Waverley Hall, he appears to have appointed himself your protector. And though I have tried to tell him you are well looked after here, he insists on seeking you out. I know you may scoff at my saying so, but . . . I believe Timothy is attracted to you.”

Rhosmari could not look at him for fear she might laugh, or weep. She opened a book and began leafing through it. “Whatever makes you think so?”

He made a little, disbelieving sound. “Rhosmari . . . you’re holding that book upside down.”

Heat flooded her face. She snapped the book shut–and at that same moment, a thunderous bang resounded from the corridor outside. A chorus of screams followed, then a second crash, bringing both Garan and Rhosmari to their feet. They dashed out of the library together, but as they came through the door Garan flung out an arm to bar Rhosmari’s path. Straight in front of them, Mallow stood with her back against the Queen’s Gate, brandishing her cleaver at Llinos and an exasperated-looking Broch.

“Don’t you touch me,” she panted.

“We are here to arrest you in Queen Valerian’s name,” Llinos told her, quiet but adamant. “You cannot escape justice, Mallow. If you have done no wrong, you have nothing to fear; but if you resist, we will have to restrain you.”

Mallow’s scullions huddled in the corridor nearby, some open-mouthed and others sobbing. By the time a pale but determined Holly had come out of the kitchen and shepherded the lot of them back inside, Broch had disarmed Mallow and was lashing the Chief Cook’s hands behind her back. “More trouble than you’re worth, aren’t you?” he muttered, then dodged as she turned her head and spat.

“Peace, Mallow,” said Garan sternly. “You have already dishonored yourself enough.”

“Dishonored. Think yourself so lordly, don’t you?” she sneered back at him. “Or should I say kingly? I’ve seen how you look at Valerian. There’s more than one way to gain a throne.”

Startled, Rhosmari glanced at Garan–but he shook his head. “You have the tongue of an adder, Mallow,” he said. “But Valerian is five times my age, or more. Compared to her, I am a mere child–and I am not a fool.” He nodded at Llinos and Broch. “Take her to the Queen. I will follow.”

The male faeries began to lead Mallow up the stairs, but when the Chief Cook saw Rhosmari, she planted her heels. “You! You’ll be sorry, you nasty little spy. When I get hold of you, I’ll—”

Broch snapped his fingers, cutting off the sentence before Mallow could finish it. Yet her mouth continued to move despite the silencing spell, soundlessly vowing revenge.

Sick at heart, Rhosmari turned away.