Faery Rebels (17 page)

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 anymore. 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 stole her wits 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….”

“A
nd that’s where Heather’s first diary ended,” said Knife to the motionless Campion, leaning close to make sure the Librarian did not miss a word. “But there’s another one, and as soon as I’ve read it, I’ll come back and tell you all about—”

She stopped, her throat tightening. Campion’s mouth hung slack, and her eyes had closed. Her hand slid from Knife’s and fell to the mattress, limp as a dead bird.

“She can’t hear you now,” Valerian said quietly. She drew the covers up around Campion’s shoulders. “Let me look after her. You’ve done all you could.”

Knife felt a dull pain beneath her ribs, as though she had swallowed a bone. “But not enough,” she said bitterly, and turned away.

“Valerian was a
what
?” asked Wink.

“A changeling,” said Knife wearily, taking Linden from her and sitting down on the sofa. “Born human, then stolen and turned into a faery. Or at least that’s what we both think.”

Wink sank down beside her. “And Campion has the Silence…. I can’t believe it. She isn’t even the oldest of us; she’s younger than Thorn. How could this happen?”

There was no answer to that, and Knife did not try to give one. They sat together without speaking for a long time. Finally Wink said in a soft voice, “Well, I hope you find Heather’s diary tomorrow. But even if you don’t, I’ll be glad if you just come back safe.” She looked away, as though embarrassed. “I know you’re used to taking risks, but…I worry about you.”

Looking at Wink’s small, forlorn figure, Knife felt as though someone had taken hold of her heart and squeezed it. “You needn’t worry,” she said gently. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

As Knife headed out the Queen’s Gate the next morning, the sky hung gray and lowering, and cold mist blanketed the ground. Rain seemed inevitable, so she set off across the Oakenwyld at her briskest pace, consoling herself that if she got soaked at least Paul’s car would be dry.

When she reached the stone bridge where they had
agreed to meet she was apprehensive at first, for she had never ridden in a car before. But the longer she waited the more restless she became, and by the time the berry-colored wagon finally rumbled over the bridge and crunched to a stop beside her, Knife leaped up and ran toward it without hesitation. Surely this was how Heather must have felt on the day she left the Oak, after all those months of planning and waiting….

“Knife?” said Paul’s voice as the door cracked open.

“I’m here,” she said. One fluttering leap took her to the floor of the car, another to the seat. It smelled strange—of dirt and metal, and a sour tang she did not recognize. But it also smelled like Paul, and that was reassuring.

Paul frowned at the map in his hand. “Just a minute, while I check…right, I’ve got it.” He folded the page and tucked it away, then leaned past her to yank the passenger door shut. “You’d better sit down,” he said.

Knife dropped to her knees, curling her legs beneath her. Unable to see out the window high above, she concentrated on the brisk movements of Paul’s hands as he jolted the car into motion and steered it down the narrow lane. The growl of the engine changed its timbre, an invisible hand pressed her back against the upholstery; then Paul swung the wheel and she tumbled over, skidding across the seat with a cry.

“Sorry,” said Paul. “I should have buckled you in—or maybe you’d be better off in my pocket?”

“I think so,” she gasped.

“Here, then.” He slowed the car and brought it to a stop. Picking herself up, Knife hurried across the seat and climbed into the inside pocket of Paul’s jacket. It was too shallow for her to stand in comfortably, but there was just enough room to sit.

“All right?” asked Paul.

“Yes,” she said, and the car picked up speed again.

Cradled in a hammock of soft fabric, Knife could finally relax. She leaned against the comforting warmth of Paul’s side and closed her eyes.

“Knife.”

She stirred, dimly aware that the car had stopped moving again. “Mmm?”

“We’re here. No,” he cautioned as she began to clamber out of his pocket, “you’d better stay where you are. Can you see?”

“Not much.” The jacket draped across her view on one side, and his body all but blocked the other; it was like peering out through the flap of a very tall and narrow tent.

“Well, then, I’ll give a signal when it’s time for you to come out. Like this.” He nudged her lightly with his elbow. “All right?”

“All right,” said Knife, sinking down into the pocket again.

“Hang on, I’m going to open the doors.” A creaking
noise followed, and a rain-scented breeze flowed into the car. “Just have to pull my wheelchair out of the backseat and set it up…and now I’m ready to transfer out. Here goes.”

The pocket swung outward at an alarming angle, then bumped back into place. Gravel crackled as the chair rolled backward; then the doors slammed shut. Knife raised herself up on her knees, bracing herself with a hand against Paul’s side, and leaned forward to see where they were going.

She had expected that Waverley Hall would be little different from the House, but now she knew she might as well have compared a sapling to the Oak itself. It towered above them, morning sunlight flashing on its tall windows and setting its russet brick aglow.
This
was where Heather had left her diary?

“Three cheers for wheelchair accessibility,” Paul muttered, pushing his chair up a slight ramp and pressing a button on the wall. With a low hum the door swung inward, and Knife ducked back inside Paul’s jacket as they entered Waverley Hall.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of roses. She heard whispers and giggles around them; it seemed that she and Paul were not the only ones touring the estate that morning. Money changed hands, guidebooks were handed out, and in a few moments a bright female voice hushed all the others into silence:

“Welcome to Waverley Hall, built by Sir John Waverley in 1683 and still owned by his descendants today. The family
is glad to welcome you to their estate, but before we begin our tour we’ll need to go over a few simple rules….”

The young woman went on to explain that they must stay with the group at all times, respect the privacy of the owners, and above all
not touch anything
. Knife grimaced. With several other people on the tour and the guide watching them all closely, how could she hope to slip out of Paul’s pocket without being seen?

“We’ll begin our tour here in the main hall,” the guide said, her footsteps receding, and Knife clung to Paul as his chair rolled forward. “This is where the Waverley family portraits are kept: Over the fireplace you can see Sir John, and on the far side his wife, Prudence, and their firstborn son, James. Several generations of the family are represented here, all painted by leading artists of the day….”

As they wound their way through the room, Knife felt Paul’s ribs expand with his sudden intake of breath. “That’s a Wrenfield,” he murmured to her. “Can you see it?”

She peered cautiously out of his jacket and looked up to see a painting of a man with reddish hair and sober gray eyes. His lips were curved a little upward, but one could see at a glance that the smile was false, a brave attempt at hiding some secret pain. “Who was he?” she whispered back.

“Philip Waverley,” Paul said behind his hand. “Born 1798, died in 1832. Some sort of poet, I think. But never mind that. Look at the background.”

Knife obeyed, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She was about to ask Paul what he meant when her eye fell upon it, almost invisible among the shadows: a dark, slender figure…with wings.

“That’s the first faery Wrenfield ever painted,” Paul went on softly. “But this portrait was the last time he ever painted anything else.”

“Now that we’ve met the family,” said the young woman leading the tour, “I’d like you to follow me into the drawing room….”

The group moved on, and Knife waited with growing impatience as the guide led them from one room to another, chattering on about the history of the estate, the development of its architecture and décor, and other unimportant matters. She was beginning to wonder if she would have better luck searching the house on her own when she heard the guide say, “…and now let’s move on to the library.”

Knife grabbed a double handful of Paul’s shirt and swung herself free of his inside pocket, crouching just inside the front of his coat as the group slowly circled the room. As they drifted out again Paul hung back, leaning to one side while he pretended to adjust his wheel brake. “Go,” he whispered, and Knife slithered down his hip, swung off the frame of the chair, and dropped to the carpet by his side. Paul gave her a quick crossed-finger gesture, then pushed himself out into the corridor, leaving Knife alone.

Knife straightened up and looked around to find herself in a fresh, well-lighted room lined with shelves and cabinets. An exotic rug covered the floor, flanked by leather furniture, while in the middle of the room an oval table squatted under the weight of an enormous porcelain vase. Somewhere in all this opulence, Knife knew, she would find Heather’s second diary—but where?

The bookcases seemed the most logical place to start. She flew to the top of the first shelf and began running her hands along the spines, reading each one as quickly as she could.
I’m here,
she pleaded silently.
Heather sent me. Where are you?

Every creaking footstep, every distant voice, made her heart jerk; every few seconds she glanced at the door, ready to dive into hiding the moment anyone should appear. Flitting from row to row, she had touched all the books in three full cases and was just beginning the fourth when a burning pain shot through her fingertips. With a cry she jumped back—and plunged off the edge of the shelf.

Her wings caught her before she had fallen more than a sparrow-length, and she bit off her scream almost at once; but the commotion had not gone unheard. A rapid clicking sounded in the hallway, and a squat, wrinkle-faced dog ambled in. Hovering in midair, Knife held as still as she could as the animal padded toward her, and a questioning noise rumbled in its throat.

“Good dog,” whispered Knife—but that was a mistake. The air erupted with hoarse barking as the little dog bounced up and down in a futile attempt to reach her. Knife clapped her hands over her ears and leaped to the top of the bookshelf, getting as far away from the noisy animal as she could.

“Yahtzee, hush!” said a woman’s reproachful voice from the corridor, and Knife glanced about in panic for a place to hide. The shelves were all full, the cabinets sealed; the furniture stood too high and the porcelain vase too low—

“Silly creature, what are you fussing about?” chided the human as she bustled in, bending to seize the agitated dog by the collar. She was a small woman with upswept hair and beautifully made clothes. Knife’s heart sank as she realized that this must be the owner of the house.

The woman tried to coax the dog back toward the door, but still it strained toward Knife’s hiding place, yelping. With a frown the woman picked it up and stepped forward, so close now that Knife could smell her perfume. She glanced out the window at the lawn; then her face cleared and she held the dog up in front of her, crooning, “Naughty squirrels! You’d like to teach them a lesson, wouldn’t you? But not today, so come along and behave.” Tucking her pet tenderly into the crook of her arm, she carried it out and shut the doors behind her.

Knife let go of the curtain and collapsed to the windowsill, head tipped back against the cool glass. When her heart stopped pounding she clambered to her feet again and flew back up to the bookcase.

She could see the diary tucked away at the far end of the shelf: an ordinary-looking little book, except for the faint glow emanating from its spine. Gingerly she reached out, bracing herself for another shock—but even as she touched it the light died away, and she was able to put her hand upon it. Heather’s second diary was hers at last.

There was only one problem, and she cursed herself for not having anticipated it: The diary was human-sized. How could she possibly get it off the shelf, let alone sneak it out of the building, when it was bigger than she was?

Knife glanced from the shelf to the window and back again. Perhaps she could open the window and push the diary out for Paul to retrieve later? It was not a very good plan, but it was better than no plan at all, so she decided to try it.

Her fingers dug into the leather, tugging hard. The diary shifted grudgingly forward. Knife’s wings blurred into action as she stepped backward into the air, and for one excited moment she believed her plan would work. But then the book’s full weight toppled onto her, crushing the wind from her lungs, and in an instant the whole library spun upside down and she was falling—

She thumped down between the sofa and the table, the diary clutched in her sweat-slick palm. The vase wobbled dangerously, then began to tip toward her; she flung out a hand and caught it just in time.
Oh no,
thought Knife as she looked at her human-sized fingers spread out against the porcelain,
I’ve done it again.

Her head swam and her muscles felt like bags of wet sand, but Knife dared not stop to rest, or even think: She had to get out of the library at once. Shoving the book down the front of her tunic, she hauled open the window and scrambled through it, landing painfully on the gravel drive. Quickly she leaped up and dragged the window shut again, then crawled behind the shrubbery and crouched there, rigid with fear. Surely Mrs. Waverley had heard her fall and was coming to investigate; any moment she would hear her cry, “Thief!”

But the only noise Knife heard was the song of a distant thrush, and through the branches she glimpsed nothing but an empty stretch of gravel. Awkwardly she rose, one hand clasping the diary against her chest, and slipped out of the cover of the shrubbery. She hurried along the back of the house and around the corner to Paul’s car.

But the door was locked, and Paul had the keys. She would just have to brazen it out, and pretend to be an ordinary visitor—albeit a strangely dressed one—while she waited for Paul to finish the tour.