Silence and Stone (2 page)

Then she sat on her bed to eat.

Alida always ate everything on the tray, because she was hungry. But the food was awful.

It was terrible.

Coarse bread and thin soup, clumped oatmeal and meat.

Human
food.

When she was finished, she pushed the tray back through the slot as far as she could.

There was a hinged iron cover over the slot.

It swung both ways.

Alida had tried to see through it a thousand times.

It was impossible.

It swung closed too quickly.

Iron was poisonous to faeries, so she had to be very careful. She had no stick, no broom handle; there was nothing in the chamber that would let her lift the iron cover without touching it. She could not see the humans who brought the trays. But she could hear them.

Some of the tray carriers had been slow, their feet dragging a little as they walked.

Others had louder, faster footsteps.

But they were always heavy footfalls, clomping on the stone floor—always human. Sometimes she heard the tray carrier breathing hard. The stairs that spiraled up the stone tower were long and steep.

At first she had said hello, very quietly.

Then, for a whole year, she had said it louder and louder.

No one had answered her whispers. No one answered her shouts.

She had tried being polite. She said, “Good day!” or “How are you?” but it didn't help. No one ever said anything back.

For a long time, it had made her angry.

Now it only made her sad.

She was lonely. And there was nothing she could do about it. Once there had been a spiderweb on the
window above her head. She had loved watching the spider weave its silk. But it was gone. And another one had never come.

Alida stood up and went back to the crack in the stone wall.

She breathed in the smell of sun and wind and rain.

She listened for birdsong and the quick tapping of woodpeckers.

Then she sat on her bed again.

When the footsteps finally came, Alida turned to stare at the locked door. For the first time since she had been here, the footsteps weren't clomping on the stone floor. They weren't heavy.

They were light, graceful.

Not as graceful as a faerie, but almost.

A human
child
?

Alida held her breath.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door, as always.

She watched the empty tray disappear through the slot. Then the iron cover swung back as a new tray slid through.

What happened next astonished Alida. There were no footsteps. There was silence.

Instead of leaving, the food bringer was still standing on the other side of the door.

Alida could hear breathing.

The food bringers had never waited, not even an instant. They always pushed the tray through, then clomped right back downstairs.

“Hello?” she whispered.

There was no answer.

She listened as hard as she could, hoping for a voice, a word or two.

It was silent for so long that she was sure the tray bearer had tiptoed away. But then she heard footsteps, light, graceful footsteps moving away from the door. The sound faded, getting quieter and quieter as the tray carrier went back down the steep stairs.

Alida listened until every tiny sound was gone, her heart beating hard.

She stood on the tips of her toes to reach the tray.

When she pulled it down, she blinked, amazed. There, next to the dark, coarse bread and mushy gray barley soup, was a little bouquet of yellow flowers.

They were shaped like tiny trumpets.

Real food! Faerie food!

She set the tray on her bed, her mouth watering.

Trembling, she ate each flower carefully, slowly, lost in the sweet taste, the wonderful, complicated smell of the petals. And when the flowers were all gone, she twirled in a circle, smiling.

The next day there were more yellow flowers.

They were sweet and fresh. One had a few dewdrops trapped inside.

Alida drank them instantly, using the flower as a tiny cup. She had not tasted dew or rainwater in all the long years she had been locked in this chamber.

She ate the rest of the flowers with her eyes closed, her heart joyful. When she was finished, she danced in circles, twirling and twirling.

Happiness, even just a little happiness, was amazing. The sunlight coming in through the high, dirty window seemed brighter.

The next day there were more flowers on the tray.

This time there were deep red petals mixed in.

Roses? Roses!

“Thank you,” she murmured. There was no answer.

She ate the real food and left the bread untouched.

The next day, when she heard the quiet footsteps, she leapt up and stood near the door. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said, a little louder than she had before.

There was a long silence. Then the old tray was pulled through the slot and she heard a faint whisper. Too faint.

“I can't hear you,” she answered.

She heard the human child take a long breath. “You don't want the bread?”

“Do you want it? The flowers are enough for me,” Alida whispered back.

“Yes,” came the answer.

The new tray slid toward her. There was a little pile of rose petals, a mound of the yellow flowers, and two fat white lilies.

“Do you like lilies?” It was barely a whisper and she lowered her voice to match it.

“I
love
them.”

Alida listened to the footsteps as the tray bearer left, walking light and fast.

Then she ate. And when she was finished, she could hear faerie flutes inside herself. They were playing a tune she had not remembered in a long time. She danced again.

3

The next day, Alida's tray had only flowers on it. Lilies and roses.

She listened for the fading footsteps, but there was only silence. She leaned a little closer to the ironclad door. “Are you still here?”

“Yes.”

“I haven't talked to anyone for a very long time,” she said. When the tray bearer didn't answer, she bit her lip. “What's your name?” she whispered.

There was no answer for so long that she was sure the tray bearer had tiptoed away this time. Then she heard a careful whisper.

“I am called Gavin.”

“I am Alida,” she whispered back.

“Tell me true,” Gavin said. “Are you a faerie?”

“Yes.”

She heard him take a quick breath. “You are? Faeries are
real
?”

“What a foolish thing to ask!” Alida snapped, startled by the insult.

Gavin didn't answer. She stared at the high window and waited, hoping he would at least say good-bye.

He didn't. He just walked away.

Why would he answer?

Alida was furious with herself for being so rude.

She had talked to only a few humans in her life. Maybe he had never seen a faerie. If he had always lived in towns, or in this castle, it was possible. Faeries lived in the woods.

She walked in circles, then sat on her bed, scared.

What if Gavin stopped bringing her flowers? What if he never spoke to her again?

The next morning she woke even earlier than usual.

To keep from worrying about how angry Gavin was, she danced a little, singing a song her mother had taught her. The words were odd, and she wasn't sure what they meant. But singing it made her feel better.

Then she went to look outside. Squinting to see through the crack, she stared at the yellow blooms beneath the trees.

A sudden motion caught her eye.

Someone was moving along the edge of the woods.

It was a human, a boy, picking flowers.

Gavin?

He had hair the color of wheat straw. He looked small from the height of the tower. His trousers and shirt looked too loose. He was thin.

Alida watched.

He was slow and careful. He didn't uproot the plants. He held still when he startled a few sparrows,
so that he wouldn't scare them any more than he already had.

Alida watched until he had gone too far for her to see. Then she went to sit on the edge of her bed and waited.

She jumped up when she heard footsteps.

As soon as he had pushed the tray through, she stood on her tiptoes to see better. Oh! Lilies, roses, some of the yellow flowers, and a few dark blue pansies!

“Oh my,” she breathed. “Thank you!” Then she spoke a little louder. “I am sorry I was rude.”

“It's all right,” Gavin whispered back. “It must be hard for you to be locked in.”

Alida wasn't sure what to say to that, so she didn't even try. “I think I saw you this morning,” she told him. She explained about the crack in the wall. “Is your hair the color of wheat straw?”

He didn't answer. Maybe it scared him to know she had watched him.

Some humans were afraid of faeries.

“I would never play a trick on you,” she said.

Alida hoped he believed her. It was true. And, really, she
couldn't
. She had learned only one small bit of magic before she had been brought to this place. She could make a flower drop into her hand without touching it.

Or at least she had been able to before she came here. Maybe she couldn't now. She hadn't practiced.

“Whose castle is this?” Alida whispered. “Which nobleman owns it?”

There was a long pause, as if Gavin was wondering if he should answer. Then he finally whispered, “Lord Dunraven.”

Alida felt her heart sinking. She remembered her mother crying, telling her that the Dunravens all hated magic and acted like they owned the world.

“Do you know why I am here?” she asked Gavin.

Gavin didn't answer.

Had she upset him again?

Even in whispers, even through a door, it was so lovely to talk to
someone
. She was about to apologize when he spoke.

“Can you fly?”

“Not now,” she said, and felt an ache of sorrow in her throat.

“But you could? Before you came here?”

“Almost,” she told him. “I was learning. I can't now.”

“Are your wings broken?”

“No.” Alida stiffened her wings and vibrated them.

“Magic is real?” he whispered.

“Of course,” she answered, and knew she sounded impatient.

“I will be back tomorrow,” he whispered, and she heard his quick, sudden footsteps as he ran back toward the long staircase.

Alida opened and closed her wings.

She had to stop snapping at Gavin. It was not his fault she was here.

The next day he brought her more flowers and stood outside the door while she began to eat.

“Can you work magic?” he whispered.

Alida thought he was about to ask her for a wish. Humans often asked faeries for favors like that.

She started to tell him that she wasn't sure, that she had learned only very small magic from her mother and hadn't practiced it at all. The truth was, she hadn't really even thought about practicing. Why?

“Can you work magic?” Gavin asked again, a little louder.

She took a breath, about to explain, but then he spoke again.

“Can you help someone get well?” he whispered.

Alida stood on her tiptoes, her wings spread.

She was about to admit the truth—but then she thought about it.

Did Gavin know someone who was sick?

Maybe, if he thought she could help, he would open the door. Maybe she
could
go home!

Alida took a long breath. She closed her eyes. Then she lied.

“Yes,” she said. “I know how to help someone get well.”

Gavin didn't say anything. Alida listened to his footsteps—he was running toward the stairs. She sat on the edge of her bed for a long time, ashamed of the lie, but excited, too.

Would he open the door?

Would he let her out of this chamber?

If he did, they could go find her family together.

Faeries didn't always like being bothered by humans asking for magic. But this would be different. Her family would be very glad to see her safe and sound. And her mother would be happy to help Gavin—to thank him.

Alida knew she couldn't make anyone get well.

But her mother could.

So the lie wouldn't matter.

4

Gavin didn't talk to Alida the next day.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

He brought her trays heaped with flowers, then left without a word.

She whispered hello to him every time, but he didn't answer.

Was he angry?

Had he known she was lying?

Alida ate every petal of every flower. She even chewed up the stems. And every day she felt stronger.

On the fourth morning, when she woke, she smelled rain.

Rain!

She slid out of her blanket and looked up at the barred window high above her head. There were raindrops spattering on the dusty glass.

Alida flexed her wings, pacing, wishing it would storm and wash the window clean. It didn't. There was just a gentle pattering of raindrops.