sixteen

“He’s going to take you to Waverley Hall?” exclaimed Wink. “Knife, that’s wonderful! When do you leave?”

“It’ll be a few weeks yet,” Knife said, pulling off her cloak and hanging it up to dry. “Paul needs time to prepare, but he’s promised to give me a signal when he’s ready.”

“You mean  . . . you’re not going to see him until then? But—”

“It’s all right,” Knife reassured her. “We talked about it, and we both understand that it’s for the best.” Tempting as it was to take full advantage of Wink’s offer to help, she knew it would be unwise to try and see Paul any more than necessary. The Queen had already caught her sneaking out at night once; she might easily do so again, and then their whole plan would be ruined.

“I know,” said Wink dolefully. “But if you don’t see him then you won’t be able to draw – and I really wanted to see that picture.”

Knife let out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that all?” she said. “Well, give me some paper and I’ll see what I can do.”

This time the lines flowed smoothly, and soon she had completed three sketches: not only the skirt she had failed to draw before, but a blouse and tailored jacket to go with it. “Here,” she said, handing them to Wink.

The Seamstress gazed at the drawings, oblivious to Linden’s attempt to climb up her skirts. Then her eyes welled up and she let the pages fall back to the table. “They’re so beautiful,” she said in a quavering voice. “And I would love to sew them, if I could only figure out how  . . . but then I couldn’t wear them, or everyone would want to know where I’d got the ideas from. And what’s the good of making something beautiful that nobody else will ever see?”

“I know,” said Knife. “It’s hard. But I promise you, Wink, it won’t be this way forever. Once I get Heather’s second diary, and once we know the truth  . . .” She clenched her fist around the charcoal, feeling it crumble against her palm. “Things in the Oak are going to change.”

•••

“This is your request?” asked Amaryllis incredulously, looking down at Knife from the height of her carved throne. “Three days away from your duties, nothing more?”

It had been Thorn’s idea that Knife should ask the Queen for three full days, to make the claim that she was going out to look for other faeries more plausible. “I’d like to do some more exploring,” Knife said, trying to keep her voice casual. “Not now, of course, but once the ground’s thawed and the crows stop flocking  . . .”

The Queen’s brows rose. “Exploring, you say. What do you hope to find?”

Here it comes, thought Knife. Please the Gardener she doesn’t use the Sight on me – and that I’m not as obvious a liar as Paul thinks. Aloud she said, “When I was gone for those two days last summer, I came across a place that reminded me of a Wyld. I didn’t see any faeries there, but it made me think that if I looked around a little more, I might find some – or at least a clue to help us figure out where they went.”

Amaryllis’s lips parted, but she did not reply, and as the silence deepened Knife’s temptation to fidget became an even stronger impulse to bolt. Had the Queen seen through her request? But finally, Amaryllis spoke:

“I have long yearned to send out an emissary to search for other Wylds,” she said. “Yet in a hundred years and more I have found no one fit for such a task, let alone willing. That you should have come to this of your own free will, and would ask it of me as a boon – it is more than I dared hope.”

She spoke quietly, without a trace of her usual imperious manner, and Knife’s stomach twisted with guilt. “It’s not too much,” she said. “I’d be glad to help.” After all, she told herself, just because she was going to find Heather’s second diary didn’t mean she couldn’t keep her eyes open for other Wylds on the way. And there would always be time to make a proper survey later.

“Then I would be pleased to grant your petition,” said the Queen, and for the first time Knife saw her smile. “But you need not spend your Midwinter Gift on this. Save your request until you have thought of something that you, and you alone, desire. Whatever you ask, I swear it shall be yours.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll ask for half the kingdom?” Knife said, shaken.

“I know you do not want it. And that is well, for I would not wish such a burden on anyone.” She smiled again, but thinly. “You may go. Come again when you are ready to leave – or when you know what you truly want.”

“I will,” said Knife.

As she walked back down the Spiral Stair, the Queen’s words reverberated in her mind: Whatever you ask, I swear it shall be yours. How much did she mean what she had said? Amaryllis was not given to making promises she did not plan to keep. But then, she did not know how close her Hunter had already come to betraying her.

Or did she?

•••

Soon winter began to lose its grip on the Oakenwyld, finger by icy finger; frost melted into dew, and rain coaxed life from the frozen ground. Crocuses exploded into bloom at the foot of the Oak, and new grass dappled the lawn.

For Knife, however, spring that year was marked by a different sign entirely – a piece of yellow paper stuck to Paul McCormick’s bedroom window, announcing in bold letters:

I PASSED!

When she caught sight of the note, Knife was just returning from her morning’s hunt. She knew she ought to wait for nightfall to respond – but that was hours away. Did she dare to visit him now? She cast a furtive glance at the Oak, then shoved her pack beneath the hedge and doubled back around the front of the House.

He was still in his room, as she had hoped. The curtains were open, a shaft of sunshine slanting into the room and making the dust motes dance. And in that beam of golden light sat Paul, half-dressed and with his hair still tousled from sleep, lifting weights.

One hand gripped the heavy barbell, the other the wheel of his chair; his clenched fist lifted and curled toward his shoulder, the lean muscles of his arm flexing. His hair stuck damply to his brow, and beads of perspiration slipped down his back. Helpless, the Queen had called him; but looking at Paul now, Knife could see nothing but strength.

She had missed him more than ever these past few weeks, seen his face a hundred times in her dreams. And yet she was suddenly struck by how beautiful he was, in a way she had never noticed before. Her heart bounded giddily at the sight of him, as though he were some marvelous work of art the Gardener had created just for her. Paul. Her human. Her friend.

She raised her fist eagerly and rapped upon the glass.

Paul stopped exercising at once, snatching up a shirt from the bureau and pulling it on before skimming across the room to meet her. He flung up the window, and she stepped through onto his outstretched palms.

“You got my message,” he said with a flash of a smile.

“I did,” said Knife. “And I was so glad, I couldn’t wait to talk to you. Can we go, then? Soon?”

“I don’t see why not. For a while I wasn’t sure we’d be able to get in, but then I looked up this Waverley Hall place in a guidebook and it turns out they give tours, so that’s all right. When it comes to stealing the diary, though—”

“It isn’t stealing,” protested Knife. “It’s got no value to them, and anyway how can they miss it when they don’t even know it’s there?”

“They won’t,” said Paul, “unless they catch us with it.” He spoke solemnly, but there was a spark in his eye she had not seen before; he seemed to be looking forward to the adventure, and Knife felt her own spirits lifting in return.

“They won’t catch us,” she said confidently. “How soon can we leave?”

•••

By the time Knife returned to the Oak, she was glowing with satisfaction. Everything seemed to be coming together perfectly: Paul had permission to use his parents’ car, he’d called ahead to make sure that Waverley Hall would be open for them to visit and, barring some unforeseen disaster, they’d be leaving tomorrow.

Tomorrow! It felt so unreal, to think of getting into that strange metal wagon with Paul and speeding off to a place she’d never visited before, so far away she couldn’t even see it from the top of the Oak. To him the journey was nothing; he didn’t even think it would take long to get there. But to Knife it was as exciting–and daunting–as a trip across the world.

She had just dragged her meat-heavy pack into the cold room and was about to unload it when she heard a thump from the corridor outside, followed by a muttered curse. It sounded like  . . . Campion? Frowning, Knife looked out and saw the Librarian staggering past with a teetering armload of volumes, one of which had just fallen onto the floor.

“I’ll get it,” said Knife, stooping to collect the book. But its spine had cracked, and the pages came loose in her hand.

“You’ve ruined it!” screamed Campion. She dropped the rest of the stack and launched herself at Knife, who barely had time to throw up her hands before the other faery barreled into her. Together they tumbled to the floor, and it was all Knife could do to hold Campion at bay: fingers stiffened into claws, she seemed determined to scratch Knife’s eyes out.

“I was only trying to help!” Knife shouted at her. “I didn’t mean any – Campion, stop!”

“I know what you’re up to! You want to destroy them, and leave me with nothing!”

“What are you talking about?” panted Knife, grabbing the other faery’s wrists as she glanced down at the pages scattered over the floor. Could it be that Campion had found some more books about humans? But no, the damaged volume was only a simple herbal, and the rest looked just as ordinary.

“I’m taking them away,” Campion spat at her. “Where they’ll be safe. You’ll never find them – and she won’t either—”

“Campion, nobody wants to take your books! Will you just listen to me?”

The other faery stopped fighting and looked confused. Then the wildness came back into her face and she shrieked, “You’re trying to trick me!” as she flung her weight against Knife again.

First you become fretful and short-tempered, said Thorn’s voice in her memory. Sometimes even violent  . . .

Horror shivered through Knife, and she stumbled back. “No,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

At that moment the kitchen door flew open and Mallow marched out. “Well, I must say this is a fine way to behave!” she exclaimed. “What would Her Majesty say if she could see the two of you brawling in the corridor like a pair of cats?”

“Call Valerian,” Knife gasped at her, still wrestling with the furious Campion. “Get the Healer – hurry!”

Campion writhed free of Knife’s grip, leaped up and lunged at Mallow. “You!” she spat. “You greedy, miserable thief! I know what you took from the archives, when you thought I wasn’t looking  . . .”

Mallow’s ruddy cheeks turned pale as dough. She stumbled backwards, then turned and rushed away. Taking advantage of the distraction, Knife pulled Campion’s feet out from under her and brought her crashing to the floor, then leaped onto her back and sat there while she rifled through her belt pouch for something to tie her up with.

Campion struggled mightily, but she was smaller than Knife and much less fit; it was not long before she collapsed, her frenzied energy spent. Knife bound her wrists and ankles together with twine, and was just about to heave the other faery onto her shoulders when she saw Valerian hurrying toward them.

“There you are!” said Knife, climbing off Campion’s back and stepping aside to let the Healer take over. “She just flew at me—” but Valerian held up a hand.

“Let me look at her first,” she said, slipping an arm around Campion and rolling her over onto her back. The Librarian immediately began to thrash about again, hissing into her face, “I know what you are! I’ve seen the records. You’re not one of us, Motherless  . . . changeling!”

Valerian went very still. Then she said quietly to Knife, “You were right to call me.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a small bottle, which she pressed against Campion’s lips. The Librarian spluttered and tossed her head, but in a moment her eyes glazed over and she went limp.

“Now,” said Valerian, “we can carry her back to her room.”

•••

“I had thought – I had hoped,” said the Healer as they laid Campion down upon her cot, “that we were done with this.” She brushed back the hair from the Librarian’s forehead, letting her hand rest there. “No fever yet, but it will come.”

“It’s the Silence,” said Knife. “Isn’t it?”

Valerian walked to the window, opening the shutters to let in the afternoon air. Without turning back she said, “Yes.”

“And if Campion could get it, then  . . .” Knife closed her eyes, chilled with dread. “It doesn’t just take the old ones after all. None of us are safe.”

Valerian did not answer.

“There has to be something we can do. I know there’s no cure, but there must be a way to slow it down, or—”

“The first faery taken by the Silence,” said Valerian, “was my own foster mother, Lavender. The Queen and I did everything we could think of to save her – teas and potions, poultices and liniments, healing spells by moonlight. But in the end she died, just the same.”

“Lavender?” asked Knife. “But if she raised you  . . . what was Campion talking about when she called you Motherless?”

Valerian’s face was unreadable. “It has long been the Healer’s duty,” she said, “to make a note of every death among the Oakenfolk, along with the circumstances of that death. But nowhere is there mention of a faery named Valerian. It seems as though I am the first to bear that name in all the Oak’s history – as though my egg-mother never existed.”

Changeling. “You came from Outside,” breathed Knife, suddenly comprehending. A human child, stolen and transformed into a faery to increase the Oak’s population; it was the only explanation that made sense.

Valerian nodded. “I believe so. And I was not the first.”

Knife sank down on the end of Campion’s bed. Could this be the reason Heather and others like her had gone out into the human world? It made a terrible kind of sense, for unless the Oakenfolk found some way to add new faeries to their number, their population would eventually die out. Perhaps that was why Jasmine’s return to the Oak had been such a disappointment: they had sent her to steal a human child, but she had failed  . . .

And yet it seemed so wrong, so unfair. Borrowing ideas and inspiration from the humans was one thing; but taking their children? What could any faery give to a human family that would make up for such a loss? And how could the gentle, kind-hearted Heather have looked forward to her mission so eagerly, if all the while she knew this was how it would end?

“Burned  . . .” came a husky whisper from behind her, and Knife turned around to see Campion’s eyes fluttering open. But there was no anger in the Librarian’s face now, only unhappiness. “I tried to stop it  . . . but I couldn’t.”

“I know,” said Knife, shifting closer and taking Campion’s limp hand in hers. Valerian’s brows rose, but she did not interrupt as Knife went on quietly, “I’m sorry, Campion. You were right – it was my fault the Queen burned them. I don’t blame you for hating me.”

Campion shook her head, eyes closing as though even that slight movement exhausted her. “Not hate,” she murmured. “I just  . . . once you’d read those books, I wanted to talk to you about them so badly, but I could never find the nerve. I kept hoping you would bring it up, give me some sign to let me know  . . .” Her words trailed off in a sigh.

“Let you know,” said Knife, leaning forward in an effort to hear. “Know what?”

“That you saw the same things in them that I did. That you understood  . . . how important they were.” Campion opened her eyes again, staring blindly at the ceiling. “But then the Queen had them burned, and you disappeared, and when you came back  . . . you didn’t seem to miss them any more. You asked me for books about other things instead  . . . I knew then that I’d been foolish to hope, that nobody  . . .” Her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “That nobody believed in the humans, nobody cared about them, except me.”

Knife sat back, stricken. She had been afraid to trust Campion with the things she had learned about humans, unwilling to take the risk that the Librarian might misunderstand or betray her. Now she understood how wrong she had been not to be honest with her from the start – but now it was too late.

Still, she could at least talk to Campion in these few moments before the Silence blotted out her senses completely; she owed the Librarian that much, and perhaps it would bring her some comfort. “Valerian,” she said over her shoulder, “would you do me a favor? Go up to my room and ask Wink if she can look after Linden a little while longer.”

It was, she realized belatedly, a very human sort of request: she had not even made the traditional offer to bargain. But Valerian did not reproach her, or even look surprised. Instead, she walked straight past Knife and out into the corridor, closing the door gently in her wake.

Knife turned back to Campion. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I have a story to tell you, about an old diary, and a Seamstress named Heather  . . .”