knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?
“Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment”-she handed the pot to Knife-“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”
Knife nodded.
“Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.
Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow, and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened muscles back into fighting shape; by the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.
When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons into the House’s front drive and filling the once-quiet Oakenwyld with their appalling mechanical din, it was impossible not to take notice. At first the Oakenfolk were terrified, and it was all the Queen herself could do to reassure them. Then, as the pounding and screeching went on day after day, their fear turned to resignation, and finally to impatience.
“What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”
Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back down the table.
“What for?”
“I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans- her humans-were still away from the House more often than not, so she had no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.
“So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”
“They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.
“What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Only Wink looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.
Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase, Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss-why?
Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.
“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.
His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He-said that?”
“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”
“But he didn’t speak to you?”
George’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“You told him he’s coming home?”
“I told him. He just looked at me.”
Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband. “You’ll see.”
“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it.”
“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”
“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?” she said.
“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”
Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.
Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.
“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”
Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld without her knowing it? But the Queen went on:
“One of the Gatherers reported that a large crow attacked their party just after dawn, as they were heading toward the wood. They were fortunate enough to find places to hide before it could harm them, but two of the workers had nervous fits and had to be carried back. I would prefer that this not happen again.”
“You want me to kill him?” asked Knife.
“I would not ask you to take such a risk,” said the Queen. “He has killed one Hunter already; I do not wish to lose another. No, your task will be to escort the Gatherers whenever they go out. Their work is vital to our survival, and nothing must be permitted to hinder them.”
Guard duty. Inwardly Knife groaned, but she kept her voice polite as she said, “For how long?”
“As long as the threat remains. I trust you will still be able to carry out your own duties while you wait for the Gatherers to finish theirs?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then you are dismissed.”
Knife bowed and left the room with every appearance of calm, but her thoughts were in turmoil. The Gatherers had spotted Old Wormwood before she did-that was a serious blow. It was the Hunter’s task to watch for predators, and she had failed in that duty…
“Did the Queen tell you?” said a timid voice at her elbow, and Knife turned to see Holly, the Chief Gatherer, standing there.
“About Old Wormwood?” she said. “Yes.”
“He’s huge.” Her eyes were haunted. “And fast-I’ve never seen a crow move that fast before. He pecked a hole straight through Linden’s basket.” She shuddered visibly before going on: “So will you be coming with us tomorrow? The others-we all want to know.”
“I’m coming,” said Knife.
“You’ll meet us right at sunrise? And you’ll stay with us all the way to the forest and back again?”
“I’ll bring my bow,” Knife told her. “And I’ll keep close watch. I won’t let the crow get near you.”
Color rushed back into Holly’s face, a pink wave of relief. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried back down the Spiral Stair.
Knife followed in gloomy silence, fingers drumming on the sheathed blade at her side. There was no help for it: Her duty was clear. She must put her curiosity about the humans aside, and concentrate on the task the Queen had given her. The double load of work would be exhausting, and now it might be weeks before she found out what had happened to Paul.
It would be so much easier if she could put the humans out of her mind, convince herself that they didn’t matter. But she couldn’t forget the woman’s stricken face, or the man’s voice cracking on the words very nice.
Perhaps she was getting too attached to the humans.
Over the next few days Knife carried out the Queen’s command, watching over the Gatherers as they worked. Once she had seen them safely across the open field, she busied herself with her own duties, hunting when they foraged and dressing her kills while they unloaded their baskets at the Oak. All the while she kept an eye out for Old
