Knife

  “Did you see?” The voice sounded hollowly from the other side of the glass. “We had a letter from Paul today.”

  The speaker was an older female, her hair a loose cap of brown curls streaked with silver. She picked up a tray from the tea table and padded out of sight again, adding as she went, “He’s sounding much happier lately. I wonder if he’s met someone?”

  They speak our language, thought Bryony in amazement. How could they have lived so close to us for so many years, and we never knew?

  “I doubt that,” said a deeper voice, and Bryony craned her neck to see a second human enter the room and sit down in one of the armchairs. She frowned a moment, bemused by the square jaw, flat chest and heavy hands; then she realized that the two humans were a mated pair, and this must be the male. What a strange-looking creature he was! But he also reminded her of the boy she had met climbing the Oak, all those years ago. Did he live in the House, too?

  “Well anyway, he’s enjoying the choir,” offered the woman, “and they’ve made him captain of the rowing team this year.”

  “Beatrice,” said the man, waving a folded piece of paper at her, “I can read.”

  His mate made a clucking noise and was silent. Eventually the man let the page fall to his lap and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

  “Away for Christmas,” he said dolefully.

  “Oh, George, he’s young. At sixteen, would you have given up an opportunity to go to Paris just to sit at home with your parents? At least he’ll be well looked after, and we’ll have him for the New Year.”

  “I suppose.” He tossed the envelope onto the tea table. It skittered across the surface and tumbled to the floor. Bryony read the address written on it quickly—George and Beatrice McCormick—then ducked back into the shadows as the man approached.

  “Do you need help with those dishes?” he asked, stooping to retrieve the letter. “I’ll dry up, if you like.”

  “All right,” said the woman, and then as if it were nothing she added, “Thanks.”

  Bryony took a step back, appalled. How could the human thank her mate, just like that? Putting herself forever in his debt, all for the sake of a few dishes?

  On the other hand, she realized as the shock subsided, the man had seemed just as unconscious of his own strange behavior—offering help without being asked for it, and not even taking the time to bargain. Did he really value his own services so little? Wasn’t he afraid that his mate would take advantage of him?

  Or was it possible that these two humans had reached some sort of understanding, and no longer needed to bargain with each other at all?

  Part of her wanted to stay and find out. But she had wasted enough time already: She could see no useful metal here, and she dared not go into that room in any case. With a last wistful glance through the glass, Bryony backed up a few steps and launched herself up to the next window.

  She flitted from kitchen to dining room, to the top level of the House and down again, amazed and fascinated by the things she glimpsed inside. But nowhere did she see anything like a faery-sized knife. Eventually, however, she found a room that looked more promising. It was dimly lit, but as she peered through the gap in the curtains she could see what appeared to be a study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and across from her stood a desk with papers stacked upon it. And there, beneath the radiance of the swan-necked lamp, sat an earthenware pot holding a few pens, a ruler, and—

  “Oh,” she whispered reverently.

  At first glance it looked like a spear, a pole of gleaming silver just a little shorter than Bryony herself. But instead of the diamond-shaped spearheads that she and Thorn carved, it bore a long, angled blade. The point looked wickedly sharp, and Bryony clapped her hands with excitement. If she could pull that blade free of its shaft, it would make a perfect knife.

  The room stood deserted: She had her opportunity, if only she could find a way inside. Bryony crouched, jammed her hands into the crack beneath the window, and yanked upward. For a moment she felt nothing except the sting of scraped knuckles, and she feared that it might be locked. But then came a creak, and the window shifted. It took a few more tooth-gritting efforts, but at last she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze through.

  Now was her last chance to turn back. At present she was safe, the humans nowhere in sight, but once she entered the House, anything could happen. If they had magical lights, they might have magical traps as well. Was it worth the risk?

  She would just go in a little way at first, she told herself as she lay down upon the sill. That way, she might still have time to escape if anything went wrong. Wriggling through the gap, she clambered to her feet on the far side and waited, every muscle tensed. But nothing happened, and she began to wonder if the humans might not be so magical after all.

  Her sensitive wings quivered against her back, eager to taste the air; she hesitated, then spread them wide and glided down to the desk. With both hands she seized the knife on its silver pole, and tugged.

  It lifted easily—too easily, for as it came free the whole container tipped over. Scrambling to keep her feet as pens and pencils clattered about her, Bryony did not see the worst of the danger until it was too late: The earthenware pot tumbled off the edge of the desk and crashed to the floor below.

  “What was that?” exclaimed the woman’s voice from the other room, and her mate replied, “It sounded like it came from the study.”

  Footsteps in the corridor—too fast, too close. There was no time to reach the window. She had to find a place to hide. Bryony ran to the other side of the desk, looking frantically in all directions. Seeing below her a basket half filled with crumpled papers, she hurled the knife into it point-first, then leaped after it. She just had time to crouch down and tug a scrap of paper over her head before she heard a snap, and the room flooded with light.

  “What is it, George?” asked the woman.

  “Something’s knocked over my pens,” the man called back. “A mouse, I suppose.” He paced around the desk, his shadow darkening the basket, and Bryony cringed.

  “Oh, good.” His mate sounded relieved. “As long as that’s all. I’ll put out the traps before we go to bed.”

  “Mm,” said the man dubiously, and Bryony heard a scraping noise followed by clinks as he picked up the pot from the floor and dropped his writing tools back into it. Then he put out the lights and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Bryony pressed her face against her knees, swallowing. He had come so very close to her hiding place, so close that she could smell him—but by the Gardener’s mercy he had not scented her. She must get out of the House at once.

  Breathing hard, she flung herself from one side of the wastebasket to the other until it tipped over, showering her with crumpled wads of paper. Then she dragged her stolen knife into the moonlight and began to examine it.

  The blade was loose, jiggling in its socket. She fiddled with the shaft until she figured out how to twist it apart, and her new knife dropped onto the floor at her feet.

  Finally she had the perfect weapon: a slim silver triangle lighter than flint, stronger and more resilient than bone. Its far end bore a slotted tab where it had fit into the barrel—a perfect core for a hilt.

  Leaving the two pieces of the barrel lying next to the overturned basket, Bryony crawled out the window and flew back to the Oak, her glittering prize clenched between her teeth.

  That night she didn’t sleep at all.

  Four

  Once Bryony had rounded out the grip and bound it with hide and twisted gut, her new knife fit so comfortably in her hand that it might have grown there. Alone in her room, she practiced slashing, stabbing, and even throwing the blade, with a sack of dry grass for a target. Soon she felt ready to try it on a real quarry, but Thorn was never far away when they went hunting, and Bryony dared not risk anyone finding out about her visit to the House, not yet. She would just have to wait for a chance to hunt alone.

  As autumn faded into
winter, however, Thorn became increasingly reluctant to go outdoors. Not because of Old Wormwood—there had been no sign of him in weeks—but if the weather was not too cold for hunting, it was too damp, or else too windy. Now most of their lessons took place inside the Oak, as Thorn taught Bryony how to tan hides using the brains of the animals they killed. It was a messy, smelly business, and though Bryony had no doubt the knowledge would be useful, it seemed a poor substitute for fresh air and freedom.

  By the time the first flakes of snow drifted from the sky, Bryony had lost all interest in tanning, rendering tallow, and the other mundane tasks Thorn was teaching her. She felt restless, ready for a new challenge; more and more her thoughts turned to the House, and the odd creatures who lived in it.

  Of course there was no real reason for her to go back there, not now that she had her knife. And yet she was tempted, for the House was so enticingly different from the Oak. The furnishings, the carpets, the draperies—they had all complemented one another in a way that she found strangely satisfying, like a well-cooked meal for her senses. And then of course there were the humans, who had done it all.

  How was it that her people knew so little about humans? Before the Sundering took their magical powers, the faeries had freely explored the world beyond the Oak, and made note of everything they learned. The library was full of their observations about every creature imaginable, including the most dangerous predators. How had humans escaped their notice?

  Unless—the thought came to her slowly but with the force of a revelation—there were books about humans somewhere in the Oak, and people had just forgotten where to find them?

  There had been a time, long before Bryony was born, when the library had bustled with activity. The well-worn seats of the chairs that ringed the central table, the creased spines and ragged pages of the books upon the shelves, bore witness to an enthusiasm for learning that was now almost unknown among the Oakenfolk. There was even a tall bookcase designed to show off the latest additions to the collection—but now it held nothing but dust, for there were no authors in the Oak these days, any more than there were painters or musicians. Somehow the faeries’ creativity, like their passion for scholarship, had died.

  The Oak’s Librarian was also responsible for the archives and storerooms, so Bryony was not surprised to find her desk empty. Most likely Campion was with the Gatherers, making sure her records of the Oak’s winter stores were accurate, or else polishing up the lanterns and other ancient decorations for the Midwinter Feast. Bryony picked up the mallet and rapped the brass gong upon the desk, sending a deep metallic note reverberating through the room and into the corridor.

  When Campion appeared a few moments later she looked harried, with a streak of dirt across one cheek and her hair in disarray. “You wanted something?” she said.

  “I’m looking for books about humans,” said Bryony.

  Campion looked wary. “Did the Queen send you?”

  “No,” said Bryony. “I just wanted to find out more about them.”

  The Librarian relaxed visibly. Stepping behind the desk, she took down her catalog and began turning pages. “Well, I do have a few volumes in a special collection,” she said. “If you had a particular subject in mind…”

  “Special collection? Why aren’t they on the main shelves?”

  Again that shrewd look from Campion, as though she was trying to decide what to make of Bryony’s request. “Because they’re…special,” she said. “And rare. I can’t give them to just anyone.”

  “Look,” said Bryony, exasperated, “I thought helping people find books was supposed to be your duty, but if you want me to bargain, I will. I have a nice piece of squirrel fur, freshly tanned and just the right size for a bedspread. You can have that, if you like. But then I’ll want to see all the books you’ve got, not just one or two.”

  Campion blinked, as though taken aback by the handsome offer—or perhaps just by Bryony’s boldness. With a furtive glance at the door she said, “Well…all right. But,” she added as she led Bryony toward the back of the library, “this stays between us. You’re a Hunter, so I suppose you have good reason to know, but I don’t think the Queen would be pleased if everyone started reading them.”

  At the back of the library, almost invisible in the shadows between the shelves, stood a narrow door. Campion unlocked this with one of the keys at her belt, and let Bryony into a closet where a single chair sat beside a tall case bulging with books. “There,” she said.

  “Which ones?” asked Bryony.

  “All of them,” said Campion with a touch of impatience. “There’s a lamp and a tinderbox on the top shelf. Keep the door closed while you’re reading, and let me know when you’ve had enough. I’m going back to the storeroom.” And with that she disappeared, leaving Bryony staring up at the shelf and wondering where to begin.

  It seemed she had found something to do over the winter after all.

  After that, Bryony visited the secret closet as often as she could. Campion became accustomed to her presence in the library, and even began leaving the key for her as a matter of course. By Midwinter, Bryony had read every book on the shelves, some of them twice over.

  One thing at least had become plain: The Oakenfolk’s attitude to humans had changed drastically since these books had been written. It seemed that before the Sundering, faeries had not only been well informed about the habits of human beings, they took a keen interest in them. Naturally the Oakenfolk would have been bolder when they still had all their magic, but even so, Bryony was amazed, for the books seemed to cover every possible aspect of human life and society.

  Among other things, she learned that human beings did not have magic after all. All the marvels she had seen in the House were the work of clever minds and skillful hands, nothing more. Furthermore, humans did not eat faeries, or hunt them for sport—in fact few of them even believed in her people’s existence. All they knew of faeries were ridiculous tales, which Bryony read with mingled amusement and disgust: stories where men tricked faeries into becoming their mates, or where human children were stolen away and replaced by hideous changelings. There was even one about a faery hiring a human midwife to help her give birth—how absurd, when everyone knew that faeries hatched from eggs, and that the Mother would have to die before her egg-daughter could be born!

  She also read that human men and women sometimes swore vows to each other, becoming mates for life. This might be why the pair in the House had felt no need to bargain, and had seen nothing unusual about thanking each other. Still, it seemed strange to Bryony that anyone would commit themselves to another person so completely. Surely it was better to be free, and not in debt to anyone?

  Learning about humans was fascinating, yet the more Bryony read about them, the more mystified she became. Sundering or not, it didn’t seem to make sense—if her fellow faeries had once been so interested in humans, why were they so ignorant and fearful of them now?

  For weeks the Oakenwyld lay brown and barren, while the faeries’ winter stores grew ever more scant and fresh meat harder to come by. Each night Bryony puzzled over the books until her head ached, but she came no closer to answering her question. She considered asking Campion what she thought, but it would be hard to do that without explaining her visit to the House, and she was not sure she could trust the older faery with the secret. Eventually she gave up, handed in the key, and went back to studying the habits of crows instead.

  At last spring arrived, heralded first by a scattering of snowdrops, then by the crocuses that raised their golden and purple heads at the base of the Oak. The animals crept out of their winter homes, and the air lightened with bird-song. When the sun came out, Bryony was quick to follow, reveling in the chance to stretch her wings. She had shot a vole and was skinning it by the Queen’s Gate when Thorn stamped up and said:

  “I’ve no more to teach you.”

  Bryony looked up sharply. “What?”

  “I said, I’ve no more to teach you.” Tho
rn shook back her dark hair with a brusque movement of her head. “You know the work as well as I do now, and the Oak only needs one Hunter, so as far as I’m concerned, you may as well take over.”

  Bryony was stunned silent. She had not expected this so soon. Thorn might not love hunting as Bryony did, might even be glad to give it up, but she was a thorough and exacting teacher. If she believed that Bryony was ready…

  “You’re good,” said Thorn. “If you ask me, it’s unnatural, and I think you’re mad for actually wanting to do this filthy work. If you end up in a crow’s belly, I won’t be surprised. Still, you’re better at this than I’ll ever be, so—here.” She unstrapped the leather band from her arm and held it out to Bryony.

  “Oh,” said Bryony faintly. Her head was whirling, and as her fingers closed around the band she felt very young and small again.

  “I’ll be moving out of the Hunter’s quarters this week,” continued Thorn. “I’ll let you know when you can move in.”

  Bryony nodded, too distracted to speak.

  “The Queen will want to see you, too. She’ll ask if you’d like to take a new common-name. I’ll let her know that I’ve approved you, and she’ll call on you in a day or so.”

  There was an awkward pause. “All right,” said Bryony, since Thorn seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  Still Thorn remained, looking down at her. “You know,” she said at last, “you’re sitting in almost the same place I found your egg.”

  “Oh?” said Bryony.

  Thorn cursed, made an abrupt turn, and plunged back into the Oak, slamming the door behind her. Bryony sat back on her heels. What was all that about?

  Part of her was tempted to go after the older faery and ask. But the half-skinned vole would attract crows if she left it for long, so after a moment Bryony sighed and picked up her flint again. Thorn could look after herself, and surely would: but Bryony was the Queen’s Hunter now, and she had work to do.