seven

Knife woke in a cold sweat, the torn edge of her wing sizzling with pain. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and her throat burned with thirst. But the moment she tried to sit up her head spun like a weaver’s bobbin, and she had to clap a hand to her mouth to keep from being sick.

How long had she lain unconscious? In the darkness it was impossible to guess. The last thing she remembered was Old Wormwood’s talons ripping through her wing, and the ground rushing up to meet her as she fell  . . .

I will never fly again. The realization came to her with cruel clarity, and for a moment she wanted to curl into a ball and weep. To live without the thrill of the hunt, or the joy of soaring through the air  . . . short of death itself, Knife could imagine nothing worse.

Yet there was nothing she could do about it. No poultice could heal a torn wing; a hundred stitches would never close the wound. She had been the youngest and the best Hunter ever to serve the Queen – but without the ability to fly, she would be useless. Thorn would take over her duties, and she would go back to being Bryony, a nobody. She would spend the rest of her life trapped in the Oak—

No. She would not, could not. If Queen Amaryllis refused to let her go Outside, then she would simply run away and live as best as she could, as long as she could, alone.

Breathing deeply to quell her nausea, Knife tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. The room was so dark, her wits so blurred with pain, that it took her several attempts to realize that there was no edge – that the soft thing on which she lay was in fact the floor.

Knife’s stomach knotted. No wonder it was dark; no wonder the room smelled strange. Instead of lying on her own bed in the Oak, waiting for Valerian to come and tend her, she was in some unfamiliar place, all alone.

But where?

Cautiously, trying not to jar her injured wing, Knife crawled forwards into the blackness. She had shuffled only a few beetle-lengths when her hand struck something cold. She felt her way up its smooth surface to find a huge glass bowl, filled with—

Water. Oh, Great Gardener. Clambering to her feet, Knife leaned over the bowl and drank thirstily, then plunged her hands into it and splashed her face and neck. By the time she had finished washing, she felt almost alive again.

Beside the bowl sat a plate heaped with chunks of some spongy, cake-like substance. It smelled peculiar, but it seemed to be food. Tentatively, Knife took a bite and began to chew.

After a few more mouthfuls she no longer felt light-headed, and her queasiness began to subside. Her wing still hurt, but she could bear it. Feet braced wide for balance on the too-soft carpet, Knife set off into the darkness again.

Three or four steps in any direction brought her up against the wall: not wood, not stone, but a tough papery substance. It gave a little when she pushed against it, but as soon as she let go it sprang back. There had to be an exit somewhere  . . .

Knife squinted upwards. A faint stripe of radiance crossed the ceiling from one end of the room to the other. Could the door be up there?

Without warning, her prison tipped to one side. Knife tumbled to the floor, scrabbling for a hold as the carpet slid sideways and the water in the bowl slopped over. Then with a bump the room righted itself again.

Knife lay still, afraid to move in case she set off another tremor. But the floor remained steady, and when she lifted her head she found the room had brightened.

Automatically she looked up – and choked back a cry. The ceiling had cracked wide open, and an enormous human face stared down at her. Knife scrambled back into the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding her face against them.

“It’s all right.” His voice sounded husky, as though it had not been used in a long time. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Knife drew a ragged breath. Her worst fears had come to pass: she was trapped, flightless, a prisoner. The humans had put her in a box, and now they had come to torment her.

“You’re still here,” he went on, hushed with wonder. “I half thought, when I opened the box  . . . but you’re real.” A finger touched her hair, and Knife shuddered. She would not cry out, must not—

“You’re frightened.” He sounded surprised. “You weren’t yesterday.” A pause, and then, “All right, I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”

There was a rustling noise, then silence. Thinking that he had gone, Knife lifted her head – and found Paul still sitting there.

“So you do understand me,” he said.

Knife slumped back into the corner, defeated. Hollowly she said, “Let me go.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

His mouth quirked. “Oh, right,” he said. “I should have guessed. So what are you, some kind of crow-fighting warrior faery?”

He made her sound like a joke, and Knife’s pride flared. “Yes, I am! What gives you the right—” Then common sense caught up with her and she stopped. Fighting crows was one thing, but arguing with a creature ten times her size? That wasn’t courage, it was suicide. “Never mind,” she muttered.

“I see you’ve eaten the bread. What else would you like? Fruit? Vegetables?” He paused, then added, “You don’t eat meat, do you?”

“Yes,” said Knife.

“Really?”

She nodded.

“All right, then, I’ll see what I can find. Later.”

“Why not now?” she asked. If she could convince him to leave her unguarded, just for a moment—

“Because my mother’s in the kitchen,” said Paul. “And she’ll want to know what I’m looking for – or worse, offer to get it for me.” The words were laced with bitterness.

“You mean,” said Knife, surprise momentarily overriding fear, “she doesn’t know about me?”

“No. And I’d like to keep it that way, so  . . .” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk so loud.”

Knife sat back a little, digesting this. If Paul was the only one who knew about her, then  . . .

“Look,” said Paul. “What if I let you out for a bit? You’re not going to run away, are you?”

The tone sounded casual, but Knife was wary. Why did he want her to come out? “No,” she said, then realized too late that her answer had been unclear as Paul’s hand swooped down and snatched her into the air.

She was not used to being touched, let alone swept up completely. Panicking, Knife struggled, but could not get free. As soon as he set her down again she tried to bolt, but her legs would not obey; she staggered a few steps and sat down with a thump.

“There,” said Paul.

He sounded so satisfied, as though he had done her a favor. Knife gritted her teeth. If he touched her like that again, she would stab him in the thumb, and blight the consequences—

But the sheath at her belt was empty.

Knife’s heart constricted. Where had her dagger gone? She leaped up and turned around, searching the desk where she stood. It had fallen out when he put her down, must have. It had to be here.

“Lost something?” asked Paul.

Knife ran to the edge of the desk, frantically scanning the floor below. But even there she could see nothing but a few stray hairs and webs of dust. Her box-prison sat open at the end of the bed, but it too was empty.

She turned away, feeling sick. Her precious metal blade, the only possession she had ever valued – and she had lost it. How could she possibly escape from the House now?

“What’s wrong?” her captor demanded.

Knife shook her head, unable to reply. She sat down and hugged her knees again, feeling smaller and more frightened than ever.

Paul reached past her to pull a spiral-bound notebook from the shelf. Wrapped in misery, Knife paid little attention until he laid the book on his lap and began flipping through it. Then her unfocused gaze sharpened, and she scrambled to her feet. The Oak!

There it stood, traced in silvery lines upon the page: there could be no mistaking the shape of those wide-flung branches, or that gnarled breadth of trunk. A real drawing, such as none of her people had made in well over a century – and like enough to make her feel homesick. How had he done it?

“I’d like to sketch you,” said Paul. “Is that all right?”

“Me?” Knife was so startled that she forgot to be unhappy. “You mean – draw my picture? Now?”

He nodded.

Her eyes returned to the drawing of the Oak. “Did you do that?”

“Yes.”

Knife hesitated a moment longer, then said, “All right.”

“Excellent.” His face lit up. “Just stay as you are, then, and try not to move.” He plucked a pencil from the drawer and bent over the page.

Knife tried to watch, but his lowered head blocked her view, so she began to look around the room instead. At first glance it appeared plain compared to the others she had seen in the House, with its bare floor and simple furnishings. But then she looked up, and a shiver of excitement ran through her.

The walls were full of pictures.

The biggest hung over the bureau: a swirling storm of gold, ochre and blue with a dark shape moving through it. Another frame showed pine trees amid a snowy landscape, overshadowed by distant spires. Across the room, a host of tiny figures swarmed against a backdrop of lakes and mountains. And in the far corner, a man looked straight into a mirror at the back of his own head.

Knife studied each of the paintings in turn, fascinated. They were nothing like the tapestries in the Queen’s Hall, or the simple pictures of flowers and fruit she had seen elsewhere in the House: these were startling, bewildering, in some cases almost ugly. Yet they seemed somehow more than the other pictures – more meaningful, more alive; it was as though they were shouting at her in a language she did not understand.

“There,” said Paul with satisfaction. He raised the sketchbook from his lap, and Knife was captivated all over again. In a few spare strokes he had described the angles of her limbs, then traced the outlines of her hair, wings and clothing: it was almost carelessly done. Yet that very roughness made it seem alive, as though at any moment her figure might leap off the page.

The face, though – that was even more amazing. There were her narrow, slanting eyes, her broad mouth and pointed chin; he had even captured her wary expression. Not even Wink’s mirror had ever caught her likeness so perfectly. Somehow he had not merely drawn her appearance, but her essence.

“It’s  . . . very good,” said Knife, when she could speak.

“Is it?” said Paul, and turned the page to look at his drawing again. “Do you know,” he said in a slow, wondering tone, “I think you might be right.”

Suddenly it was all too much for Knife – the fight with Old Wormwood, the loss of her dagger, waking up to find herself a prisoner in the House, and now this. “I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need to rest.”

“Oh.” Paul sounded disappointed. “I’d wanted to draw you again, but all right.” He reached for her.

Knife leaped back, fists raised. “Don’t touch me!”

“What?” said Paul. “I didn’t hurt you last time, did I?”

“It’s not that,” said Knife flatly. “I just don’t like being grabbed and carried about without so much as a by-your-leave. Would you?”

His face darkened. “Not all of us get a choice,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better, here.” He held his hand out to her, palm upward.

Knife licked her lips, mustering her courage. The hand was a dry, bleached leaf, she told herself, or the upturned cup of a mushroom. Nothing more. Gingerly she stepped forwards, and Paul lowered her into the box upon his lap. She jumped off his hand and lay down, shivering.

“I’ll put you back in the wardrobe,” said her captor’s voice, as the lid of the box rasped back into place. “You’ll be safe there.” She heard a squeak of wheels, then felt a bump as he set her prison back upon the shelf. The wardrobe door swung shut, muffling her in darkness.

Rest now, she told herself. You’ll need all your strength to escape – and with that, she fell asleep.

•••

When Knife woke, the room was so black, so silent, that she knew it must be night. She got up stiffly and helped herself to another drink and a few bites of bread. Then she sat down cross-legged, put her chin in her hand and started thinking.

The pain in her wing had eased while she slept, but that didn’t help much. Her metal knife was gone. She was trapped in a box with walls too smooth and high for her to climb. How to escape?

Then an idea came to her, clear and irresistible as a voice calling her true name: the walls of her prison were made of paper.

Knife jumped up, grabbed the drinking bowl by the rim and tipped it over. Water gushed out, soaking deep into the carpet at her feet. For a few moments she waited, giving it time to seep in. Then she squelched over to the corner of the box, crouched, and began to scratch her way out. The sodden pulp came away easily in her hands, and soon she had made a hole large enough to crawl through.

As she clambered out onto the shelf, she could just make out a bar of dim light: the edge of the wardrobe door.

Cautiously Knife sidled up to it and gave it a shove. Nothing happened, so she leaned harder. The door flew open and Knife tumbled out.

It was not a long drop, but the floor was hard. Clutching her bruised elbow, Knife rocked and hissed between her teeth until the pain subsided. When she looked up, the first thing she saw was Paul’s wheeled throne, sitting empty beside the bed. Its steely frame glowed in the moonlight, and she wondered again why Paul, of all his family, should be so honored.

Still, even if he was a king by day, he seemed ordinary enough in sleep: eyes closed, mouth slack. Knife watched him warily, but he did not stir, and at last she tiptoed away.

Hurrying down the corridor to the familiar sitting room, Knife inspected every crack and corner in search of an exit. It was no use. The doors were latched, the lone window closed, and the metal grill in the floor too heavy for her to lift. Heart drumming, she fled through the archway into the kitchen.

Crossing the tiled floor, she studied the glossy face of the oven, the smoothly varnished wood of the cupboard doors. If she could find a way to climb up onto the counter, she might be able to reach the window above the sink. It looked to be slightly open; if she could reach it, it would be easy to slip out.

Knife had not tested her wings since the crow wounded her, but she had to try them now. She would not be able to fly in a straight line, or for any great distance, but . . . holding her breath, Knife moved her wings slowly backwards, then forwards again. Her injured forewing felt stiff, and the air sliding across its ragged surface made her stomach lurch. She crouched and tried again, harder this time, repeating the motion until her nausea began to settle. Her wings beat faster and faster, lifting her from the ground.

Little by little she rose toward the counter high above, weaving drunkenly through the air, but flying nonetheless. It was working! Just a few more wing beats and she’d be there  . . .

Intent on her goal, Knife neither saw nor smelled the cat until it leaped out from the shadows and its heavy paw smashed her to the ground.