shining head and closed the window.
“You heard Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “You had better come with me.”
Sometime later, bandaged from wrist to elbow and freshly dressed in the cleanest tunic and breeches she could find, Bryony followed Bluebell up the last turn of the Spiral Stair to the Queen’s chambers.
As Bluebell, with lamp in hand, led her along the corridor Bryony stole quick glances into the rooms they passed. The first archway revealed a small audience chamber draped in scarlet curtains; next came a private bath with fixtures of polished stone and a mirror even larger than Wink’s; and last and most interesting, a library littered with open volumes and scribbled sheets of paper, as though the Queen had been interrupted in the middle of some urgent study. Only one last door remained, and it was closed. Bluebell stopped and gave the brass knocker a respectful tap.
“Enter,” came the Queen’s voice from within.
Bluebell opened the door. “Your Majesty, Bryony is here.”
“Very well. You may leave us.”
The Queen’s attendant bowed her head and retreated. Bryony was left standing alone in the doorway, gazing about the chamber and thinking how much it reminded her of the House-though the furnishings here were older, and beginning to look a little worn. There was a wide feather bed with a post at each corner, and a table with two chairs upholstered in delicate needlework. The window, twice the size of any other in the Oak, looked straight out at the House-but it was closed now, the curtains drawn.
On the room’s far side stood a dressing table topped by an oval mirror, and there sat Amaryllis, combing her hair. She did not look up as Bryony approached and performed the ritual curtsy. Only when she had finished did Amaryllis put down her comb and turn gracefully in her seat, drawing her dressing gown about her.
“Precisely what did you mean by your reckless behavior?” she inquired.
Bryony met the Queen’s blue eyes with her own black ones. “To kill a crow, Your Majesty.”
“And so you did,” replied Amaryllis. “But why were you out so late at night?”
Bryony opened her mouth and shut it again, her color deepening. How could she explain without admitting that she had been to the House? At last she said, “Your Majesty, I hoped to rid our people of a dangerous enemy. And…I wanted to test my new weapon.”
“Ah, yes.” Amaryllis held out her hand. “Show me this metal knife of yours.”
Bryony drew the dagger from its sheath and held it out to the Queen, who took it in her long, white hands. “It appears,” she said dryly, holding the sharp edge up to the light, “to be effective. How did you come by it?”
Bryony bit the inside of her lip, unsure of how to answer.
“I asked you a question,” said the Queen. Her tone was mild, but as she spoke her shining wings lifted and spread wide, a wordless reminder of her magical power.
“I stole it,” said Bryony. “From the House.”
“Where the humans live.”
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to make a habit of disobeying my commands and risking your life?”
Bryony straightened her shoulders. “Your Majesty, I needed a better weapon to fight crows with, and I could see no other way to get it. Yes, I risked my life then, and I risked it again tonight, and I will continue to risk my life as long as you call me your Hunter, because that is my duty.”
The Queen was silent a moment. Finally she said, “Disobedient you may be, but you are also courageous. I know of no Hunter who has ever killed a crow. Very well, you have my pardon-this time. But beware, child. You are no match for a human, and I do not wish you to enter their House again. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good.” Amaryllis folded her wings and turned back to the mirror, laying the knife down on the dressing table. “How then shall I reward your bravery?”
Bryony drew herself up. “Your Majesty…I would like to change my name.”
“Is that all?” asked the Queen. “But that privilege has always been yours; surely you knew that. Tomorrow, when I confirm you publicly as my new Hunter, you may choose for yourself whichever common-name you please.”
“But you wouldn’t let me choose just any name,” said Bryony. “Not the one I really want.” She gestured to the blade upon the table.
The Queen sat back in her chair, regarding Bryony’s reflection with narrowed eyes. “Do I understand you rightly? You must know that none of our people has ever taken such a name.”
“I know.”
“You are determined to be different, aren’t you?” the Queen murmured, and then in brisker tones, “Very well. I shall announce your choice to the others tomorrow. But should you die in battle, that name will not pass to your egg-daughter.”
“That’s all right,” said Bryony. “I wouldn’t want it to. Your Majesty, may I withdraw? I am…tired.”
“You may.” The Queen picked up the dagger, turned, and held it hilt-first out to her. “Here is your weapon: I give it to you. And if anyone should ask how you came by it, you will tell them so-that you received it as a gift from me.”
Which would satisfy the other faeries’ curiosity about where the blade had come from, without letting them suspect that their Hunter had visited the House. Looking into Amaryllis’s level eyes, Bryony felt a surge of admiration: No wonder she was the Queen. “I will,” she said, taking the knife with care.
“Then you are dismissed,” said Amaryllis.
Bryony curtsied and backed out of the room. Bluebell met her in the corridor, clucking disapproval at the weapon in her hand. “Really, Bryony-”
“No.”
“‘No’? ‘No’ what?”
“From now on,” said Bryony firmly, “you can call me Knife.”
Five
“This will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.
“It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”
Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that the work could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then. But after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injury had not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time, but if it had been her wing…
Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.
“Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching gray eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”
“Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.
Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proven that quite sufficiently.”
Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a conversation with her? The idea was so bizarre, so unfaerylike, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow had reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about anymore.
“Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”
There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she
