Knife

  Knife looked down at the diary in her lap. Now that the first shock of discovering that faeries used to marry humans and even have children with them had subsided, she felt strangely calm: She knew what she had to do, for both their sakes. “I know we talked about spending the next two days together, but I can’t. I have to go back to the Oak and tell them what I’ve found.”

  “Is that all?” He sounded relieved. “Well, that’s no problem. Just let me know when—”

  “No.” Her voice was quiet, but resolute. “You’ve given me so much, Paul, and I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me today. But I can’t keep meeting with you like this. The Queen’s already caught me once—the next time she won’t be so forgiving. Besides, I belong with my own people. And so do you.”

  Paul looked at her in disbelief. “You mean…that’s it? We’re never going to see each other again?”

  Knife closed her eyes. If only she didn’t have to look at him, hear the pain in his voice; this would be so much easier, if only she could pretend he wasn’t there. “Yes,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”

  “I thought we were friends.” The words were edged with anger. “After everything that’s happened, everything we’ve done for each other—none of that matters?”

  “Of course it matters!” She gripped the diary hard with both hands, wishing once more that she had never seen it, never learned the secrets it contained. “And yes, you are my friend.” Her voice lowered. “My best friend.”

  “Really?” The bitterness left his tone. “But then…”

  “Don’t you see? That’s just why! This isn’t right, Paul, it doesn’t make any sense. You’re human, and I’m a faery—” And once this magic wears off, I’ll be seven inches tall.

  “I know,” he said. “But there’s something else I know, too.” He shifted closer to her, intent. “There’s a reason I told you that story about Alfred Wrenfield. What Jane gave to him—that inspiration, that genius even—that’s what you’ve given me. When you’re around, I can draw, I can paint, I can capture the images in my head and put them on paper in a way I haven’t done for years. And if you leave—”

  “Don’t!” She jerked away from him. “Don’t make this any harder for me, Paul. I have a child to look after back at the Oak, and friends who need my help. The Queen’s depending on me to help her find more faeries, because she believes that’s our only hope for our people to survive—and now I know she’s right.” Knife pushed her hands up into her hair, clenched them. “I love your art, and I…I wish I could help you. But they need me more.”

  “All right,” said Paul, with surprising calm.

  Caught off guard, she dropped her hands, and found his face close to hers. “I’ll let you go,” he continued, “and I won’t ask for anything more. Except…”

  “Yes?” said Knife faintly. Her heart felt as if it were trying to beat sideways, and her lungs seemed to have shrunk to faery size.

  “This.” And with that his hand slipped around the back of her neck, and his mouth pressed down on hers.

  She had read about kissing in the books that Amaryllis had burned; a strange human custom, she had thought. But as Paul’s lips moved against her own, it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world. His arms locked around her, strong as oak and warm as fire; she melted into the embrace, her fingers curling against his cheek. This, she realized with her last flicker of conscious thought, was what had drawn Heather to Philip Waverley; not obligation or even friendship, but—

  No!

  Knife stiffened, then writhed free of Paul’s grasp. One hand flew to her burning face; the other flailed wildly at the door handle. “Knife? What’s the—”

  “I can’t!” she shouted, throwing her weight against the door. It popped open, and she half leaped, half fell out onto the grass. Her foot turned over, and pain shot up her ankle, but she paid it no heed; she dragged herself away from the car and began struggling toward the Oakenwyld.

  “Knife!”

  The door slammed behind her; the engine woke with a groan. Knife limped deeper into the grass as Paul backed the car onto the road. “I was going to say I was sorry,” he called out the window. “But that would be lying, so I’d better just say—good-bye.”

  Knife stood still while he drove past, watching the vehicle pick up speed as it vanished into the distance. Distracted, she walked forward—and put her foot straight into a hole. Fresh agony tore through her muscles as she stumbled, and flung out both hands to catch herself.

  It was then that she realized something was missing. Aghast, she looked down at her empty, mud-smeared palms.

  “Oh, for Garden’s sake!” she screamed at the sky. “I’ve left the diary in his blighted crow-eaten car!”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than her body tingled, and the world overwhelmed her with its enormity. For a moment she stood swaying, dizzy with the cruel abruptness of the change; then she sank to her knees, dropped her face against her hands, and wept.

  Nineteen

  Swiping the tears from her eyes, Knife forced herself back to her feet. Her ankle throbbed, but she gritted her teeth and started back up the slope toward the road. Only after several painful steps did she remember that she was a faery again, and there was no need for her to walk unless she wanted to.

  Knife flexed her shoulders. She could feel her wings, but only just; they were mere ghosts of themselves now, light as dry leaves and almost as brittle. She had to concentrate hard to lift herself off the ground, and once in the air she could only glide a short distance before dropping back to her feet again. In accidentally making herself human for the second time, she had used up nearly all the magic that made her a faery.

  She settled for walking again, with a few intermittent leaps, until she reached the road. But she had only gone a little way along it when she saw an enormous dead crow splayed across the pavement, no doubt struck by some passing car. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Knife began to limp past—then stopped.

  This was not just any crow. This was Old Wormwood.

  She ought to have been glad to see him dead. But instead she felt disappointed, even a little sorry. She had imagined meeting him in one last battle, all her wits and skill concentrated into giving him the death he deserved. But that could never happen now, because the humans had killed him first—and not even on purpose.

  One of the crow’s breast feathers lay at her feet. Knife picked it up and tucked it into her belt. Then she spread her wings again and continued her awkward journey home.

  “Oh!” gasped Wink, dropping her sewing as Knife climbed through her window. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until—” She stopped, her brows crooking together. “Knife…you look awful.”

  Knife glanced about the room, rubbing her cold arms. Linden appeared to be comfortably asleep in her cradle, but she stooped to drape another blanket over the child just in case. “Do you know where Thorn is?” she said.

  “She’s in her room, I think—but what happened to you? What’s wrong?”

  Knife dropped into the nearest chair and sagged forward, leaning heavily on her knees. “I don’t have the diary,” she said to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  Wood scraped as Wink pulled up another chair beside her, and she felt a small hand warm her shoulder. “You did your best,” the other faery said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, Wink. I only wish it were that easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In halting words Knife told her story. By the time she finished, her cheeks were burning, and she did not dare to look at her foster mother’s face for fear of what she might see there. But Wink only said, in an almost wistful tone, “Was it nice?”

  Knife blinked at her. “You mean…Waverley Hall?”

  “No, I mean what Paul did. Did you like it?”

  Knife choked back a laugh. “Wink, you are the strangest—after all the things I’ve just told you, how can you even think about that?”

>   Wink only looked at her, but it was enough. Knife’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not about how I feel,” she said. “It’s about what’s possible. And this…isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m too small!” Knife almost shouted. “And I don’t have enough magic to make myself human again, even if I knew how. So how could I bear to keep seeing him, talking to him, when I can never—”

  “You mean…you’re in love with him? Like Heather and Philip?”

  “I don’t know,” said Knife wretchedly. “I’m not even sure I know what love is.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Wink with surprising confidence. “For a while I wasn’t sure, but…you do care, Knife. Not just about Paul, but about Linden, me, even Thorn. You just aren’t good at admitting it.”

  Knife groaned and put her head in her hands. “But I don’t want feelings, Wink.”

  Wink put an arm around her shoulders. “I know. They can be awful at times. But I think you’re much nicer with them, myself.”

  For a moment Knife sat stiffly, resisting the embrace; then she sighed and dropped her head against Wink’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. “All my life you’ve been kind to me, and I haven’t always appreciated that the way I should.”

  “It’s all right.” Wink gave her a little squeeze before letting her go. “But Knife…this is serious, about losing Heather’s diary. I believe what you’ve told me, even if it scares me a little. But if we can’t find another way to prove that our people used to mate with humans, and that all our new ideas used to come from the humans as well—”

  Knife’s gaze slid to the open window and the distant House. “I know,” she said. “It’s going to be hard to make people believe. Maybe the Queen was right not to tell us, especially since it seems there’s nothing we can do to fix it.”

  “Thorn isn’t going to like that at all,” said Wink. “She’ll—”

  A rap at the door interrupted her, and she jumped up to answer it. Valerian stood on the landing, her Healer’s kit in hand. “There you are,” she said to Knife. “They told me you’d gone, but then I heard your voice…Campion’s asking for you.”

  “Asking?” said Knife, startled. “But I thought the Silence had taken her.”

  “Yes, so did I,” said Valerian. “But she only slept through the night, and when I visited her this morning, I found that she could still hear and speak. She’s been holding on, waiting for you to come back and tell her more…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Knife turned quickly to Wink. “Can you find Thorn, and tell her where I am? Tell her I need Heather’s third diary right away—not for me, but for Campion.”

  “I will,” said Wink. “But Campion needs you. Go!”

  Campion’s cheeks were sunken, and her hair lay lank and dull upon the pillow. But when she caught sight of Knife her face brightened, and her hand fluttered toward the bedside chair, beckoning.

  “I’m here,” said Knife, limping over and sitting down. “But—” She glanced back at Valerian uncertainly.

  “I cannot claim to be deaf,” said Valerian, “but I can at least pledge to be discreet. Whatever you say here will remain here.” She opened her Healer’s bag and took out a roll of bandages. “Now, will you lift that injured ankle so I can bind it up while you talk?”

  Still Knife hesitated, but only for a moment. Campion was surely dying anyway, and would take these secrets to her grave; and Valerian was the Oak’s only Healer, so she could not be punished too severely even if the Queen found out. Turning to Campion, Knife took the Librarian’s hand as she had done the night before and began to tell her what she had learned from Heather’s second diary.

  It did not take long for Valerian to bind Knife’s ankle, and after it was done she put her Healer’s kit aside and sat down on the end of the bed, listening. As the story drew to its close, with Heather preparing to return to the Oak and give birth to her daughter there, Knife saw Valerian’s expression become troubled; but Campion simply absorbed the words, like a parched root drinking water.

  “Is that…all?” she said when Knife had finished.

  “No,” said Knife. “There’s a third diary—but it won’t unlock without a password, and I’ll need time to read it before I can tell you the rest of the story.”

  Campion nodded, her eyelids drooping shut again. Valerian rose swiftly and laid her hand on the Librarian’s brow; then she motioned Knife to follow her to the other side of the room so that they could speak in private.

  “This is remarkable,” she said, glancing back at Campion. “She should have passed into the next stage of the Silence hours ago. Yet she seems no weaker than when you first spoke to her last night, and the delirium has passed. Perhaps I am seeing only what I hope to see, but…”

  “You’re not imagining it,” said Knife. “She actually gripped my hand, near the end. But what’s going to happen when there’s no more story to tell?”

  Valerian was silent for a long time, looking down at her folded arms. “This Heather you spoke of,” she said at last. “The one who married the human. She was Lavender’s friend, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you think perhaps…” But she had no time to finish the sentence before the door scraped open and Thorn pushed herself through, disheveled and breathless.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, waving the book in her hand, then stopped short at the sight of Valerian. “Oh, blight.”

  “Make that blessing,” said Knife, steering her toward the Healer. “She’ll tell you what was in the second diary while I read the third one; it’ll be quicker that way.”

  “Are you cracked?” demanded Thorn. “Bringing her into this, when we don’t know we can trust her?” But Knife had already pulled the diary from her hand and raised it to her lips.

  “Philip,” she whispered to it, and it opened.

  I have missed the Oak, and part of me is glad to return; yet I long for my husband and my little James, and even these few days without them seem like an eternity. I could not bear to think of leaving my daughter here, were it not for the hope of seeing her again one day, and if not for my confidence that dear Lavender will care for her more tenderly than any human nurse—indeed, perhaps more so than I could do myself.

  Yet it has troubled me to find the Oak so altered from when I left it. Snowdrop is dead, and Jasmine has become Queen in her place; my sisters seem content enough to accept the change, but my heart is filled with foreboding. Jasmine—though I suppose I must say Her Majesty, now—welcomed me and received my report with all courtesy, and yet the coolness of her gaze made me shiver. If I had not pledged long ago to put the needs of the Oak above my own, I should gladly have returned to Waverley Hall at once; but I have sacrificed much to come this far, and I dare not leave before my daughter is born.

  Lavender has done much to reassure me about Jasmine, saying that she rules the Oak justly and well, and that I am wrong to fear her. Still, I think that I shall set a password upon this diary, just in case….

  “What?” yelped Thorn from the other side of the room, where Valerian was explaining what Knife had found in the second diary. “The bit about Heather marrying a human was bad enough, but now you expect me to believe she had a baby, too?”

  “You should believe her, if you believe anyone,” interrupted Knife, putting her book down. “She’s Heather and Philip’s daughter.”

  Valerian turned sharply. “It’s true, then? I was right?”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Knife.

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Thorn objected. “All right, we had magic back then and we weren’t frightened of the humans, but why go to all this trouble and nonsense to have children with them? There were still plenty of Oakenfolk alive in Heather’s day without having to make more, and if it weren’t for the Sundering and then the Silence, there still would be. Why fuss about with humans when you can make a perfectly good egg on your own?”

  Knife and Valerian exchanged glances. “I cannot tell
you that,” the Healer said at last, “and clearly Knife is not yet sure of the answer herself. But I am not certain that leaving eggs behind when we die is as natural to us faeries as you think. In fact, since no other creatures do likewise, one might well call our method of doing things…unnatural.”

  “Speaking of strange things,” said Knife, waving the diary in her hand, “did either of you know about Jasmine becoming Queen, when Snowdrop died? I knew I’d heard her name somewhere before, but I’d thought the throne passed straight from Snowdrop to Amaryllis.”

  “I…know,” said Campion’s weak voice from the bed, and they all turned to look at her. She gave a thin smile and went on, “Finally…reading all that history…worth something.”

  “What can you tell us?” asked Knife.

  “Can’t prove it, but…now I know more about Jasmine, I think…maybe Snowdrop’s death wasn’t…an accident.”

  “But the South Root tunnel collapsed on top of her,” said Valerian. “I read of it in the death records—three other faeries perished the same way. What else could it be?”

  “You’re forgetting,” said Thorn, with sudden grimness. “Our people had magic then. All of them.”

  Campion nodded. “By then…Jasmine had…already made herself popular at Court,” she said. “She was…next in line…for the throne. And she was there…when the roof fell in.”

  “But there must have been witnesses,” Knife said. “If she’d used magic, they would have noticed—”

  “No,” said Campion. “Kitchen workers…heard a rumble, went to see what was going on…found Jasmine scrabbling in the dirt…trying to get to the Queen.”

  “As any loyal subject would do,” said Valerian.

  “Or any murderer who wanted to look like a loyal subject,” retorted Thorn. “I know it’s a thin twig for such a heavy acorn. But my gut tells me Campion’s right.”

  “So does mine,” admitted Knife. “But if it’s true that Jasmine murdered Snowdrop—what does that say about Amaryllis? Surely, if Jasmine was that powerful and that determined, she’d never have given up the throne except by force?”