five

“This will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.

“It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”

Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that being Outside could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then, but after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injury had not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time: but if it had been her wing  . . .

Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.

“Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching grey eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”

“Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.

Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proved that quite sufficiently.”

Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a conversation with her? The idea was so bizarre, so un-faery-like, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about any more.

“Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”

There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?

“Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment,”–she handed the pot to Knife–“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”

Knife nodded.

“Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.

Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened muscles back into fighting shape; and at the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.

When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons into the House’s front drive and filling the once-quiet Oakenwyld with their appalling mechanical din, it was impossible not to take notice. At first the Oakenfolk were terrified, and it was all the Queen herself could do to reassure them; then, as the pounding and screeching went on day after day, their fear waned to resignation, and finally to impatience.

“What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”

Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back along the table.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans–her humans–were still away from the House more often than not, so she had no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.

“So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”

“They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.

“What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Wink alone looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.

Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss – why?

Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.

“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.

His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He – said that?”

“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”

“But he didn’t speak to you?”

George’s jaw tightened. “No.”

“You told him he’s coming home?”

“I told him. He just looked at me.”

Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.

“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband, “you’ll see.”

“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it?”

“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”

•••

“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?”

“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”

Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.

Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.

“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”

Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld and she not known it? But the Queen went on:

“One of the Gatherers reported that a large crow attacked their party just after dawn this morning, as they were heading toward the wood. They were fortunate enough to find places to hide before it could harm them, but two of the workers had nervous fits and had to be carried back. I would prefer that this does not happen again.”

“You want me to kill him?” asked Knife.

“I would not ask you to take such a risk,” said the Queen. “He has killed one Hunter already; I do not wish to lose another. No, your task will be to escort the Gatherers whenever they go out. Their work is vital to our survival, and nothing must be permitted to hinder them.”

Guard duty. Inwardly Knife groaned, but she kept her voice polite as she said, “For how long?”

“As long as the threat remains,” said the Queen. “I trust you will still be able to carry out your own duties while you wait for the Gatherers to finish theirs?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

Knife bowed and left the room with every appearance of calm, but her thoughts were in turmoil. The Gatherers had spotted Old Wormwood before she did – that was a serious blow. It was the Hunter’s task to watch for predators, and she had failed in that duty  . . .

“Did the Queen tell you?” said a timid voice at her elbow, and Knife turned to see Holly, the Chief Gatherer, standing there.

“About Old Wormwood?” she said. “Yes.”

“He’s huge.” Her eyes were haunted. “And fast – I’ve never seen a crow move that fast before. He pecked a hole straight through Linden’s basket.” She shuddered visibly before going on, “So will you be coming with us tomorrow? The others – we all want to know.”

“I’m coming,” said Knife.

“You’ll meet us right at sunrise? And you’ll stay with us all the way to the forest and back again?”

“I’ll bring my bow,” Knife told her. “And I’ll keep close watch. I won’t let the crow get near you.”

Color rushed back into Holly’s face, a pink wave of relief. She bobbed a curtsey and hurried back down the Spiral Stair.

Knife followed in gloomy silence, fingers drumming on the sheathed blade at her side. There was no help for it: her duty was clear. She must put her curiosity about the humans aside and concentrate on the task the Queen had given her. The double load of work would be exhausting, and now it might be weeks before she found out what had happened to Paul.

It would be so much easier if she could put the humans out of her mind, convince herself that they didn’t matter. But she couldn’t forget the woman’s stricken face, or the man’s voice cracking on the words “very nice”.

Perhaps she was getting too attached to the humans.

•••

For the next few days Knife carried out the Queen’s command, watching over the Gatherers as they worked. Once she had seen them safely across the open field, she busied herself with her own duties, hunting when they foraged and dressing her kills while they unloaded their baskets at the Oak. All the while she kept an eye out for Old Wormwood, but there was no sign of him.

Sometime during that week – though when exactly Knife never knew – Paul arrived at the House. Despite her weariness, Knife did everything she could to catch a glimpse of him; but he always seemed to be in his room with the curtains drawn, or the lights turned out, or both.

“He doesn’t say a word to me all day,” Beatrice sobbed. “Never a single word. He looks through me like I’m not there.”

“There’s no excuse for it,” her husband said, setting down his teacup with unnecessary force. “There’s nothing wrong with his tongue, or his brain. It’s just stubbornness, that’s all.”

“George, don’t,” implored the woman. “Be patient with him. He’s been through so much – we don’t know what might be wrong.”

And I don’t even know what he looks like, thought Knife in frustration. A blight on Old Wormwood, and the Queen, and all her precious Gatherers too – this has been the longest week of my life.

•••

That week, however, came to an abrupt and spectacular end when Knife, with eight weary Gatherers in tow, climbed up the slope at the Oakenwyld’s western border to find a peculiar obstacle blocking their way to the Oak. Through a gap in the hedge Knife glimpsed a flash of sunlight on polished metal, the black-edged curve of an enormous wheel. With a chopping motion she directed the others to lie flat, and crawled beneath the bushes to examine the monstrous machine more closely.

She assumed it was some new gardening tool that the humans had left on the lawn; but as soon as she emerged from the hedge she realized her mistake. Great Gardener. It’s him.

He sat upon a silver throne, a book laid open on his knees: a young king, uncrowned and plainly dressed. He was slim, with broad shoulders and long arms wiry with muscle, and Knife thought he must be nearly as tall as his father when he stood. The wind blew his pale hair across his brow; he shook it back with an impatient movement of his head—

And froze, staring. At her. At Knife.

She couldn’t move. Her mouth worked dryly; her hand quivered on the hilt of the dagger at her hip. All the while those blue eyes regarded her unblinking, while wonder dawned on Paul McCormick’s face. She was only just out of reach; one lunge would put her in his grasp. But he did not move.

“Paul!” came a shrill cry from the direction of the House.

He turned his head toward the sound, and the spell shattered. Knife dived back through the hedge to find the shivering Gatherers waiting for her.

“I’m coming to bring you in,” Beatrice shouted across the lawn. “It’s time for tea.”

“What do we do?” whimpered Clover, her nails digging into Knife’s arm. Knife grimaced and shook her off.

“Just wait,” she breathed. “He’ll be gone in a moment.”

They all went still, listening to the crunch of footsteps on the fresh-mown grass. Just visible on the other side of the hedge, the woman’s stocking-clad legs appeared. “There now,” she said, and the wheels of the silver throne turned toward the House.

“You were right beside him,” whispered Holly in Knife’s ear. “So close–to a human–weren’t you afraid?”

“No,” said Knife distractedly, watching Paul’s seated figure shrink toward the House and finally vanish through the back door. She turned to the others. “It’s safe now. Pick up your baskets and let’s go.”

“Did he see you?” squeaked another voice.

Knife ducked under the hedge and began walking toward the Oak, not looking back.

“Of course not,” she said.