Faery Rebels (21 page)

“N
o!”

Knife spun away from Amaryllis and dashed for the door. She had to find Paul, warn him—But the archway had vanished, as had all the windows, and she could see no exit.

It’s a trick,
she thought frantically,
just a glamour
,
it must be.
But when she pushed at the place where the door had stood, her outstretched hands found only solid oak. She hammered against its unyielding surface, shouting for help. But no one answered her except the Queen herself:

“Even if I were to let you go, you could not save him. There is only one choice…but first, there is something I want to show you.” Amaryllis waved her hand, and the door sprang open. “Come with me,” she said. “And Knife, I
would not do that, if I were you.”

With a hiss Knife snatched her fingers back from the hilt of her dagger, her hand smarting as though she had clutched a thistle. Robbed of her last defense, she could only follow Amaryllis down the corridor and into the Queen’s study, with its desk buried in parchments and dark bookshelves looming on every side.

“I know you mourned the loss of those books about humans,” said the Queen. “As did poor Campion. Had I known how much she would suffer, I would have taken her into my confidence. But even if this comes too late to console her, it is not too late for you.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the shelves. “Look up, Knife, and tell me what you see.”

Grudgingly Knife raised her eyes—and gasped. There stood Laurel’s
Human Conventions and Courtesies
with its well-creased spine, the two fat volumes by Juniper entitled
On the Ways of Men
, and all the other books about humans she had thought lost forever. “But how?” she asked. “Campion said they’d been burned—”

“Things are not always as they seem,” said Amaryllis. “I ordered the library cupboard emptied, it is true; and at the same time I told Mallow to light the kitchen fire and burn all the fuel I sent her. But the books that Campion saw taken away were mere glamour, more illusion than substance; the originals had already been gathered up by Bluebell at my
command and brought safely here.” She ran her fingers along the spines in a lingering caress. “Even though I had given up hope that they would ever be needed again, I could not bring myself to destroy them.”

“And yet you ask me to murder Paul McCormick.” The words were bitter in Knife’s mouth. “How can any number of books about humans be worth more than a human life?”

“You forget, Knife, he is dying already. In truth he was doomed even as a child, for by meeting him face-to-face you awakened in him a restless need to create—and then you vanished from his life, your work with him unfinished.” She walked slowly around Knife as she spoke. “Still, he might have lived, though never quite happily, had you not sought him out again. You rekindled the spark between you; you fanned it with your friendship and fueled it with a kiss; and now it has become a fire that will surely consume you both…unless you do as I bid, and quench it.”

Knife turned away, sick at heart.
The Queen is lying,
she tried to tell herself,
she’s mistaken
,
she’s wrong….
And yet she could not help but remember Paul’s words to her just before they parted:
There’s a reason I told you that story about Alfred Wrenfield. What Jane Nesmith gave to him…that’s what you’ve given me.

Wrenfield had drugged himself into an early grave after Jasmine left him; and Philip Waverley also had died young,
his potential as a poet unfulfilled. Had she saved Paul from drowning only to condemn him to another, even more hopeless death?

“Your actions forged this bond,” the Queen continued, soft but relentless, “so only your hand can break it. And if you refuse to cut the thread that binds your lives together, then you too will wither away and die, as surely as if the Silence had taken you. The crows will return to the Oakenwyld, and we shall all suffer for it; for Thorn has not your strength, your speed, or your courage. There will be no one to seek out other faeries, and in the end we shall all perish—”

“Stop!” Knife clapped her hands over her ears. A teardrop seared her cheek as she whispered, “Enough.”

Amaryllis said nothing, only watched her steadily. Knife swallowed back a shard of pain and went on: “You said—you would give me something to—”

“Yes,” said the Queen. “I have in my keeping a certain potion, brewed by magic long ago. A single drop in his drink, or in his food, will send him into a sleep from which he cannot wake. He will feel no pain, sense no wrong, never be aware that his heart has stopped. To his parents, it will seem a natural death; and for him, it will be a mercy.”

“You swear it?” faltered Knife, and then passionately, “Swear!”

“I do.”

“And then…when I come back…”

“You will be free.” Amaryllis laid a hand on her shoulder. “You will mourn him, of course; but like all sorrows, it will pass. I shall restore your wings, and then you shall serve me and your sisters as the Queen’s Hunter once more.” Her fingers tightened briefly, consoling. “I know your heart cries out against this thing. But I assure you, Knife, it is the only way.”

Knife bowed her head. Then she said very quietly, “Yes.”

Outside the Oak, twilight had stained the sky indigo, littering it with crumpled rags of cloud and a smudge of vermilion along the horizon where the sun had slipped away. Deep in the forest an owl questioned the night, but received no answer.

Knife slid out the window and walked to the end of the branch, staring blindly out across the Oakenwyld. Then she spread her wings and launched herself into the gathering darkness. In three long glides she crossed the lawn and landed at the back of the House, trembling with the effort of flight. She paused to catch her breath, then thrashed her way up to the kitchen window and crouched there, waiting.

Slowly the minutes passed, until at last the light clicked on and Beatrice McCormick padded into view. Out came the familiar china teacups, clinking onto their saucers; then
the milk jug emerged, bowing three times before returning to the depths of the refrigerator. The last item in the ritual was the sugar bowl, and Knife pressed her face to the window, intent as a hunting mink. Two spoonfuls went into the first cup, one in the second, but the third cup remained untouched—Paul’s.

Once she had filled the teakettle and plugged it in, Beatrice left the kitchen, but Knife knew it would not be long before the woman returned. Clutching the phial Amaryllis had given her, she ducked through the window and dropped onto the countertop below.

Paul’s cup stood innocently before her. Willing herself not to think about what she was doing, Knife pulled out the stopper and tipped the bottle over it. A thread of purple snaked out, traced a dark spiral in the milk, and vanished.

I’ve done it,
she thought in relief.
It’s over. I can go.

And yet her legs refused to move, and the fingers that clutched the phial were slippery with sweat. She felt flushed, dizzy, and her rib cage ached from the hammering of her heart.

Knife’s fingers uncurled, and the bottle slipped from her hand. Spinning, it tumbled through the air, struck the counter, and smashed to glittering dust.

For a moment Knife stood paralyzed, little explosions of shock firing all over her body. Then with sudden determination she lunged forward, put her shoulder against the poisoned teacup, and pushed. She waited only long enough to watch it teeter over the edge before she whirled and dove back through the window, pressing herself flat against the wall. Panting, she listened to the
thud-thud-thud
of the woman’s footsteps, her sharp exclamation at the wreckage littering her kitchen floor.

Do you love him?
Wink had asked her only a few hours ago, and Knife had not been sure of the answer. How could she love a human, at her tiny size? It was like falling in love with a mountain, or a tree. Yet for some reason she could not harm Paul McCormick, even in the name of mercy; it would have been easier to carve out her own heart.

Knife clung to the rough brick, calling on all her reserves of strength and courage. It didn’t matter what had kept her from killing Paul: Whether it was love or only loyalty, the path before her was the same. She must return to the Oak, and surrender herself to whatever fate the Queen and the Great Gardener might decree. But first, she had to see Paul one last time, and warn him.

She had thought he would be surprised to see her again, especially after the way their last conversation had ended. But as he opened the window he only looked resigned. “You’ve come back for your book, I suppose,” he said as she climbed in.

“Book?” said Knife in confusion. Then blood scorched her cheeks as she remembered Heather’s second diary, but Paul had already gone on:

“Look, Knife, I should never have done what I did this morning. I didn’t realize—” He stopped, coloring in his turn. “Anyway, it was stupid of me. I know better now.”

“Paul? I’ve brought your tea.”

Hastily Knife sprang to her feet and ducked behind the curtain as the door swung wide and Beatrice came in. “It’s the oddest thing,” she said. “Vermeer’s asleep, and we haven’t had mice in months. But your cup fell off the counter while I was waiting for the kettle to boil.”

“Really,” said Paul, and though his voice was relaxed, the line of his shoulders was not.

“Smashed all to bits,” his mother mused, “and yet I could have sworn it wasn’t anywhere near the edge. It’s almost enough to make one believe in poltergeists.” When Paul did not reply, she set the saucer down by his elbow and stooped to kiss his cheek. “You’ve had a busy day, dear. Don’t you think you might like to turn in early?”

“I’ll go to bed soon. Thank—I mean, I appreciate the tea.”

Polite as Paul’s voice had been, Mrs. McCormick seemed to understand that she was being dismissed. She heaved a little sigh and plodded out, shutting the door behind her.

Knife stepped out from her hiding place. She opened her mouth, but Paul cut her off:

“The broken cup. Was that you?”

Knife winced. “Yes.”

“An accident?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Why were you in the kitchen?”

“I came to—” she began, and then her eyes welled up. It was a struggle to continue, and when she did, every word felt as though it were clawing its way out of her throat: “The milk, in your cup—it was poisoned. The Queen—my Queen—told me to kill you—but I couldn’t—”

“Knife.” He reached out and cupped his hand around her, thumb and forefinger warming her shoulders like an embrace. She leaned back against his palm, breathing the scent of his skin, and felt a strange quietness come over her.

“I couldn’t do it,” she said, when she could speak. “Amaryllis says that without me you’ll die of despair, like Alfred Wrenfield and Philip Waverley did. But maybe there’s still hope, if—”

“Wait,” said Paul. “Why would your Queen order you
to kill me if she thinks I’m going to die anyway?”

Knife could not bear to look at him anymore. She pushed his hand until it dropped away, and walked over to the window. “Because she said that unless you died…I’d die, too.”

Paul was silent.

“I’ve ruined everything,” Knife burst out, burying her face in the curtain. “I’ve ruined your life, I’ve ruined mine—I wish I’d never been born!”

“No!” The word exploded out of him, startling her. “Listen to me, Knife. It wasn’t that long ago that I wanted to kill myself. Would have, if not for you. And though I won’t pretend I haven’t been tempted to try again, especially when I drive past the river and I see them out there, rowing—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “But anyway, I haven’t tried, and I don’t plan to. I’ve chosen to live, Knife…but I could never have made that choice, if not for you.”

“Paul—”

“And now you’ve saved my life a second time, when you had every reason to take it. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me, after the way I—what I did this morning. I was being stupid, telling myself it wouldn’t matter if I kissed you, that you were a faery and couldn’t have those kinds of feelings anyway. No wonder you were so upset, especially after what you’d just read about Heather and—”

“Don’t,” Knife said hastily. “It’s all right, you don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.” He shifted his chair closer to the window. “What I mean to say is, I understand why you’d be tempted to kill me, especially if you thought I was already doomed. So I don’t blame you for almost going through with it. In fact—Knife, look at me.”

Reluctantly she lifted her eyes to his, and he went on: “I want you to understand this as though I were one of your own people. Because that’s what it means to me.” He drew a deep breath. “
Thank you.
Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for my life.”

There could be no doubting the force of those words, or the conviction in his blue eyes as he spoke them. Knife let go of the curtain and sank to the windowsill, overwhelmed.

“Don’t go back to the Oak,” she heard Paul say, his voice strange and distant in her ears. “Stay here, where your Queen can’t touch you.”

Miserably she shook her head. “I can’t. My people—my friends—they need my help. And you—you have
thanked
me. How could I stay with you, now that—”

“I know,” said Paul, sounding resigned. “You think I expect you to feel about me the way that Heather did about Philip Waverley. But I don’t, Knife. I know that could never happen, even if—” He broke off, his gaze dropping to his
crippled legs. “Well, never mind that. What I mean is, you don’t have to worry that I’ll make things awkward for you if you stay. I only meant to thank you as—as a friend.”

“Oh, Paul,” said Knife in a voice that was half wail, “don’t you understand? I’m not afraid because I don’t love you. I’m afraid because—” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “Because I do.”