six

Knife lay on her bed, staring at the gnarled ceiling of her room. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul was still sitting in his wheeled throne, looking at her.

She couldn’t believe she had just stood there like that, right in front of a human. Perhaps it was the shock. She had been too astonished to feel afraid, or even to move. And fortunately he had been just as astonished, or she might not be here right now.

Yet it wasn’t just shock that had made Knife linger by Paul’s side: it was fascination. This was the boy she had met when she first stepped out of the Oak eight summers ago, after all, and something in her had always longed to see him again  . . .

She flopped over onto her stomach, rubbing her eyes. Stupid girl, she told herself. He might not want to eat you, but he could still stomp you flat in an instant. Or worse, he could put you in a cage and keep you there until you die. He’s human, and you’re a faery – you’re nothing alike.

A soft tapping sounded at her door. “Hello?” she said, but there was no reply.

Mystified, Knife rose, lit her candlestick, and went to answer. She stepped out onto the landing and looked around, but all the doors were closed. Had she imagined that knock?

Then her foot struck something solid and she bit back a yelp as it skittered away across the floor. Some crawling insect? But no, it was just a small parcel, with her name printed on it. When she picked it up and tore off the wrappings, it turned out to be a book.

More puzzled than ever, Knife went back into her room and sat down on the sofa to examine it. Easing open the cover, feeling the worn leather flake and crackle beneath her fingers, she began to read.

I have never before tried to keep a diary, but Laurel says it is a worthy exercise; and as there is no one whose writings I admire more, I should be foolish not to take her advice. Still, even as I pen these words, I find myself at a loss for what to say. Had I a remarkable friend like Dr. Johnson, I should have no lack of diverting incidents to record, but alas, I am no Boswell.

Knife stared at the tiny, elegant handwriting. Dr. Johnson, Boswell  . . . Those were human names. The writer must have lived when the ties between the Oak and the human world were closer – and if so, this diary might help her find the answers she’d been looking for.

Nevertheless, for the sake of my imagined reader I must give myself a proper introduction: Heather by name, one-and-forty summers of age, born in the reign of good Queen Snowdrop, and now appointed Seamstress of the Oak. I have an apprentice, named Bryony  . . .

That confirmed it, thought Knife with a flare of excitement. She had never heard of Heather, but she knew her own egg-mother’s history well enough: the old Bryony had become the Oak’s Seamstress in the last few years of Queen Snowdrop’s reign, then served for nearly a century before dying and passing that role to her own apprentice, Wink. So this diary had been written near the end of the Days of Magic – exactly the time in the Oak’s history that she needed to know about.

Somehow, Knife decided as she smoothed out the crumpled second page, whoever had sent her this book had known she was trying to find out about the Oakenfolk’s past. Campion, perhaps? But surely it would have been easier for her to just slip the diary onto the back shelf and wait for Knife to find it?

Slowly she turned the diary’s pages. The first few entries were disappointingly ordinary: Heather had found a new lace pattern and was eager to try it, she approved of the chemise her apprentice had just made, and so on. It was like living with Wink all over again, and Knife was just about to put the book down when the next line caught her attention:

Jasmine returned to the Oak today, much to everyone’s surprise. No one dared ask why she had come back, for she was full of black looks and could not give a civil word to anyone. I am sure Queen Snowdrop will want to speak to her; she has always been a difficult creature, and now she is insupportable.

Jasmine  . . . The name tweaked at Knife’s memory. She felt sure she had heard it before, but where?

Azalea says that Jasmine should be called to account for abandoning her post; but the Queen appears to feel more kindly toward her. Indeed, she has forbidden anyone to question Jasmine, and says that she will by no means allow her to be punished.

Knife frowned at the page. What did abandoning her post mean? Had Jasmine been sent beyond the Oakenwyld on some important assignment? But if so, what?

The only idea she could think of was that Jasmine might have been sent out as an ambassador to another faery Wyld. But the Oakenfolk had not seen or heard from any of their fellow faeries in centuries, so she would have had to search for them first. Curiosity rekindled, Knife read on:

 . . . Jasmine came to my room today, bringing with her a gown, which she said was in need of mending. I was tempted to refuse, yet I could not help but exclaim aloud when I saw it, for the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped quite away. The skirt was blackened almost to the knee, as though she had fallen in the mire, and it seemed to me that if this were the gown in which she had returned home, it was little wonder the others had found her ill-tempered. Pity overcame me, and I told her I should have it mended in a fortnight.

“And how shall I repay you for your services?” she asked.

I knew I ought not to pry, yet my curiosity was too great to resist. “Knowledge,” I said. “What misfortune befell you that you should return to the Oak?”

Her lips pressed tightly together. “I cannot speak of it,” she said. “Suffice it to say that I believe I can better serve our people here.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, for I saw that I had grieved her.

“No matter,” she said. “If curiosity is a fault, it is one I share. But I shall offer you knowledge more suited to your craft – some sketches of clothing I saw when Outside, perhaps?”

“Oh!” I said, much surprised. “Could you?”

“Certainly. I have gained some little skill as an artist since I went away.” She smiled, but her eyes remained bitter. “It would be pleasant to put the talent to more  . . . worthy use.”

I could not think what to say to that, and we stood a moment in silence. Then Jasmine continued in a lighter tone: “I shall bring you the drawings soon. A fortnight before the gown is mended, you say? I should not like to press you, for I know that you do fine work; but I fear that I have little else to wear.”

“I shall have it ready in a few days,” I told her, for now I truly did pity her. She inclined her head to me, and left.

I have always felt inferior in Jasmine’s presence, and inclined to fault her for it; but now I see that my thoughts have been unkind, and that she has suffered more than any of us guessed. I think that I shall exhort the other faeries to show her more kindness – but discreetly, for Jasmine is proud even in her disgrace, and would no doubt be offended if she thought I were gossiping about her.

Knife was tempted to read on, but by now she was so tired she could scarcely see the page. She pulled out one long white hair and used it to mark her place, then shut the diary and crawled into bed.

•••

The next morning Knife found the Gatherers lined up in front of the Queen’s Gate as usual, shouldering their baskets and discussing their plans for the day. She could hear Holly’s voice raised above the general chatter: “ . . . done well these past few days, especially as it hasn’t rained until now. We’re well stocked with berries and greens, so—”

All at once she caught sight of Knife and stopped, swallowing visibly. The other Gatherers also fell silent and averted their eyes.

“What?” asked Knife, but no one answered. The silence thickened before Holly cleared her throat to reply:

“I think we won’t be needing you today after all. The crow seems to have moved on, so we should be all right on our own for a while.” She looked around at the others. “You agree, don’t you?”

They all nodded.

“All right,” said Knife, perplexed. “It’s all the same to me. I’ll be out hunting later anyway. If you need me you can always shout.”

Holly looked relieved. “Yes. We’ll do that. All right, then, everyone ready? Let’s go.”

Knife watched until the Gatherers had filed out and shut the door behind them. What had all that been about? Surely they couldn’t be frightened of her just because she had been near a human?

Eventually she shrugged, and headed off toward the kitchen. If her services weren’t going to be needed right away, she might as well have a proper breakfast – and then, perhaps, she’d pay a visit to the library. Reading Heather’s diary had made her curious about the reign of Queen Snowdrop, and she wanted to see what the old histories had to say.

She was surprised, on reaching the kitchen, what a blaze they had going in the fireplace. Usually the cooking fire was modest during the summer months, to keep the inside of the Oak from becoming too stuffy.

Still, that was their problem and not hers, and furthermore all the kitchen workers kept looking askance at her, as though finding her presence unwelcome, so she poured herself a cup of hot chicory and headed off to the library.

Campion was sitting at the desk when she arrived. The catalogue lay open before her, and she dipped her pen mechanically into the inkwell as she stroked out one entry after another. Her head was down, her face hidden behind her hair, but the fingers that gripped the quill were trembling.

“Campion, what—” began Knife, but at the same moment she glanced toward the back of the library and the words froze on her tongue.

The door to the secret closet stood open, and a trail of ashy footprints led into it and out again. The shelves were empty, the precious books on humans all gone.

“What happened?” demanded Knife, rounding on Campion. “Who did this?”

Campion slowly put the quill back in the inkpot and looked up. Her face was colorless, her eyes so full of fury that Knife took a hasty step back, afraid the other woman might strike her.

“You,” said Campion in a low voice. “You never thought, did you? You couldn’t pretend, even for a moment, to be afraid.”

“I – don’t understand—”

“Of course not, you’re too young to think about anyone but yourself. All you cared about was showing off to the Gatherers. Look at me, not a bit frightened of humans, tra la!” She gave a hysterical laugh. “It never occurred to you, did it, that the Queen might hear how terribly brave you were, and start wondering just what had made you feel so confident around humans? Or that she might take  . . . steps  . . . to make sure that no one else would follow your example?”

Knife felt nausea creeping into her throat. “You mean  . . . the books  . . . they’ve been destroyed?”

“Oh, yes,” said Campion, biting off the words savagely. “Didn’t you notice what a lovely cheerful fire they’ve got going in the kitchen this morning? All because of you, and I’m sure we’ll appreciate the extra heat even more by this afternoon.”

Knife closed her eyes, her lips shaping inaudible oaths.

“Those books were priceless,” Campion told her. “Irreplaceable. I hope you’re happy.” She snatched up her quill again and began crossing out entries, while a large tear rolled off the end of her nose and splashed onto the page.

“I’m  . . . sorry,” said Knife. She felt helpless and, for the first time she could remember, ashamed.

“Yes, well, that’s what the Queen said too,” sniffed Campion. “But at least she was doing what she thought was best for all of us. What’s your excuse?”

There was no answer to that, so Knife bowed her head and turned to leave. But then a thought struck her, and she looked back. “I don’t suppose  . . .? What I mean is, if you knew this was coming, then maybe  . . .”

The uncertainty in her voice made Campion look up again, the anger in her sharp face easing. “What?” she said.

“Did you send me a package last night?”

“Me, send a package? To you? Right now I wouldn’t give you a dead slug if you offered me gold for it.” Her mouth hardened. “Now get out.”

Defeated, Knife left the library. Climbing the stairs to the Oak’s ground level, she made her way slowly toward the East Root exit, her thoughts full of black smoke.

•••

The first thing she heard when she emerged from the Oak was Beatrice’s tremulous voice: “Paul. Please.”

The words came faintly from the far end of the lawn, but there was no mistaking the distress in them. “I just – I want to talk to you. Why won’t you speak to me?”

Paul made no reply. His blond head inclined a little as she spoke, but his face remained expressionless. Beatrice pressed her apron to her mouth as though muffling a sob, then hurried back into the House, leaving her son alone on the veranda.

Knife folded her arms and studied Paul critically. He must be quite proud of that throne of his, since he was always sitting in it. And yet for all his wealth he did not seem happy.

Well, he was in good company there, thought Knife with a rush of bitterness. How could Amaryllis have burned those books? She had been a scholar once; she should have known better  . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of faery voices. Knife glanced back to see two Gatherers emerge from the Oak, duck beneath the hedge and pick their way down the slope, heading for the distant wood. Somehow they had become separated from the rest of the group, but judging by their slow pace it didn’t concern them very much.

Knife made a disgusted noise. All that fuss about Old Wormwood and the need for extra protection, when the whole time she’d guarded them there was scarcely a crow to be seen. And now there they were, sauntering across the field as though—

She snapped her fingers. Of course! Old Wormwood had never returned at all. The whole story had been a lie, an excuse to keep Knife busy. Somehow Queen Amaryllis must have found out that she’d been watching the humans again, and put her on guard duty to punish her. No wonder the Gatherers out there didn’t seem afraid! They knew there had never been any real danger.

It all made perfect, maddening sense. The lot of them must have thought Knife so gullible, perhaps even had a good laugh when her back was turned. She slammed a fist into her palm. Well, they wouldn’t laugh again. She’d—

A scream sliced the air and Knife jumped, her anger forgotten. Out upon the open field, a huge black shape wheeled and dived into the grass. There was a frantic rustling, and the next shriek was abruptly cut off.

“Don’t run!” shouted Knife. “Drop your baskets and fly!”

There was no answer. Knife plunged through the hedge and leaped into the air, wings whirring. She drew her knife, wishing fervently that she had brought her bow and quiver instead.

The crow raised its head, and she recognized the limp form dangling from its beak: Linden. A soft-spoken faery, whose shyness and drab coloring made her easy to overlook – but she could carry twice her own weight in chestnuts, and the Gatherers could ill afford to lose her.

At first Knife feared she might already be too late to save her, but as she flew closer Linden roused and began to struggle. The crow’s grip on her was cruel, but he had not killed her yet. Gathering her strength, Knife put on a final burst of speed, flashed up to him and hacked wildly at his tail.

A ludicrous attack, but it did as Knife had intended: Old Wormwood squawked in alarm and Linden tumbled free. Knife hastily stuck her dagger between her teeth, then dived and caught the other faery before she could hit the ground.

Laying Linden down on the grass, Knife glanced about and saw Tansy, one of the other Gatherers, cowering a few crow-lengths away. Impatiently Knife beckoned her to come and help, then leaped out of the grass and took to the air again to face her enemy.

She had all his attention now, just as she had hoped. With a cry of defiance, Knife fled back across the field as Old Wormwood took up the chase. She wanted to lure him as far away from Linden and Tansy as she could, but right now she could barely keep out of his reach. Relentlessly the crow pursued her, up the rise and over the hedge into the Oakenwyld.

Knife’s wing muscles burned with the effort of flying at full speed, but she dared not slacken her pace. She rounded the House in a turn so tight her foot scraped the brick, then looped wildly across the garden, but try as she might she could not shake her enemy. She launched herself straight up toward the sun, hoping that Old Wormwood would lose her in its dazzling light, but he was too quick. He soared above her, a looming shadow three times her size. The beating of black wings roared in Knife’s ears and in desperation she lashed out with her dagger. The blade snagged in her enemy’s feathers, tearing skin and flesh, and he screamed.

Knife darted away, but the crow thrashed after her, a scant wingspan behind. His eyes glowed with fury and his yellowed talons raked the air. She had wounded him, but he was still faster, still stronger. Her only hope of escape was to dive low over the garden, then snap out her wings and shoot straight for the Oak. If she timed it just right—

Then she glanced down, and her muscles turned to water. Paul was rolling down the stone path toward the Oak, completely blocking her planned approach. He could not know, she thought wildly, that her own death turned upon his wheels. Unless—

A searing pain shot across her wing as the crow raked it open. Out of control, Knife tumbled through the air, her mind shrieking: Fool! Fool! Never hesitate!

Old Wormwood was upon her now, beak wide as if to swallow her whole. Knife’s wing was useless; she could barely keep aloft. Soon she would fall, and where the ground leaped up to meet her she would die. But better that than surrender to those cruel claws.

With the last of her strength, Knife slapped her wings flat against her back. Agony drowned her consciousness as she spiraled from the sky and dropped, senseless, straight into Paul McCormick’s lap.