Wormwood, but there was no sign of him.
Sometime during that week-though when exactly, Knife never knew-Paul arrived at the House. Despite her weariness, Knife did everything she could to catch a glimpse of him, but he always seemed to be in his room with the curtains drawn, or the lights turned out, or both.
“He doesn’t say a word to me all day,” Beatrice sobbed. “Never a single word. He looks through me like I’m not there.”
“There’s no excuse for it,” her husband said, setting down his teacup with unnecessary force. “There’s nothing wrong with his tongue, or his brain. It’s just stubbornness, that’s all.”
“George, don’t,” implored the woman. “Be patient with him. He’s been through so much-we don’t know what might be wrong.”
And I don’t even know what he looks like, thought Knife in frustration. A blight on Old Wormwood, and the Queen, and all her precious Gatherers, too-this has been the longest week of my life.
That week, however, came to an abrupt and spectacular end when Knife, with eight weary Gatherers in tow, climbed up the slope at the Oakenwyld’s western border to find a peculiar obstacle blocking their way to the Oak. Through a gap in the hedge Knife glimpsed a flash of sunlight on polished metal, the black-edged curve of an enormous wheel. With a chopping motion she directed the others to lie flat, and crawled beneath the bushes to examine the monstrous machine more closely.
She assumed it was some new gardening tool that the humans had left on the lawn, but as soon as she emerged from the hedge she realized her mistake. Great Gardener. It’s him.
He sat upon a silver throne, a book laid open on his knees: a young king, uncrowned and plainly dressed. He was slim, with broad shoulders and long arms wiry with muscle, and Knife thought he must be nearly as tall as his father when he stood. The wind blew his pale hair across his brow; he shook it back with an impatient movement of his head And froze, staring. At her. At Knife.
She couldn’t move. Her mouth worked dryly; her hand quivered on the hilt of the dagger at her hip. All the while those blue eyes regarded her unblinking, while wonder dawned on Paul McCormick’s face. She was only just out of reach; one lunge would put her in his grasp. But he did not move.
“Paul!” came a shrill cry from the direction of the House.
He turned his head toward the sound, and the spell shattered; Knife dove back through the hedge to find the shivering Gatherers waiting for her.
“I’m coming to bring you in,” Beatrice shouted across the lawn. “It’s time for tea.”
“What do we do?” whimpered Clover, her nails digging into Knife’s arm. Knife grimaced and shook her off.
“Just wait,” she breathed. “He’ll be gone in a moment.”
They all went still, listening to the crunch of footsteps on the fresh-mown grass. Just visible on the other side of the hedge, the woman’s stocking-clad legs appeared. “There now,” she said, and the wheels of the silver throne turned toward the House.
“You were right beside him,” whispered Holly in Knife’s ear. “So close-to a human. Weren’t you afraid?”
“No,” said Knife distractedly, watching Paul’s seated figure shrink toward the House and finally vanish through the back door. She turned to the others. “It’s safe now. Pick up your baskets and let’s go.”
“Did he see you?” squeaked another voice.
Knife ducked under the hedge and began walking toward the Oak, not looking back.
“Of course not,” she said.
Six
Knife lay on her bed, staring at the gnarled ceiling of her room. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul was still sitting in his wheeled throne, looking at her.
She couldn’t believe she had just stood there like that, right in front of a human. Perhaps it was the shock. She had been too astonished to feel afraid, or even to move. And fortunately he had been just as astonished, or she might not be here right now.
Yet it wasn’t just shock that had made Knife linger by Paul’s side: It was fascination. This was the boy she had met when she first stepped out of the Oak eight summers ago, after all, and part of her had always longed to see him again…
She flopped over onto her stomach, rubbing her eyes. Stupid girl, she told herself. He might not want to eat you, but he could still stomp you flat in an instant. Or worse, he could put you in a cage and keep you there until you die. He’s human, and you’re a faery-you’re nothing alike.
A soft tapping sounded at her door. “Hello?” she said, but there was no reply.
Mystified, Knife rose, lit her candlestick, and went to answer. She stepped out onto the landing and looked around, but all the doors were closed. Had she imagined that knock?
Then her foot struck something solid, and she bit back a yelp as it skittered away across the floor. Some crawling insect-? But no, it was just a small parcel, with her name printed on it. When she picked it up and tore off the wrappings, it turned out to be a book.
More puzzled than ever, Knife went back into her room and sat down on the sofa to examine it. Easing open the cover, feeling the worn leather flake and crackle beneath her fingers, she began to read. I have never before tried to keep a diary, but Laurel says it is a worthy exercise; and as there is no one whose writings I admire more, I should be foolish not to take her advice. Still, even as I pen these words, I find myself at a loss for what to say. Had I a remarkable friend like Dr. Johnson, I should have no lack of diverting incidents to record, but alas, I am no Boswell.
Knife stared at the tiny, elegant handwriting. Dr. Johnson, Boswell…Those were human names. The writer must have lived when the ties between the Oak and the human world were closer-and if so, this diary might help her find the answers she’d been looking for. Nevertheless, for the sake of my imagined reader I must give myself a proper introduction: Heather by name, one and forty summers of age, born in the reign of good Queen Snowdrop, and now appointed Seamstress of the Oak. I have an apprentice, named Bryony…
That confirmed it, thought Knife with a flare of excitement. She had never heard of Heather, but she knew her own egg-mother’s history well enough: The old Bryony had become the Oak’s Seamstress in the last few years of Queen Snowdrop’s reign, then served for nearly a century before dying and passing that role to her own apprentice, Wink. So this diary had been written near the end of the Days of Magic-exactly the time in the Oak’s history she needed to know about.
Somehow, thought Knife as she smoothed out the crumpled second page, whoever had sent her this book must have known she was trying to find out about the Oakenfolk’s past. Campion, perhaps? But surely it would have been easier for her to just slip the diary onto the back shelf and wait for Knife to find it?
Slowly she turned the diary’s pages. The first few entries were disappointingly ordinary: Heather had found a new lace pattern and was eager to try it; she approved of the chemise her apprentice had just made; and so on. It was like living with Wink all over again, and Knife was about to put the book down when the next line caught her attention: Jasmine returned to the Oak today, much to everyone’s surprise. No one dared ask why she had come back, for she was full of black looks and could not give a civil word to anyone. I am sure Queen Snowdrop will want to speak to her; she has always been a difficult creature, and now she is insupportable.
Jasmine…The name tweaked at Knife’s memory. She felt sure she had heard it before, but where? Azalea says that Jasmine should be called to account for abandoning her post, but the Queen appears to feel more kindly toward her. Indeed, she has forbidden anyone to question Jasmine, and says that she will by no means allow her to be punished.
Knife frowned at the page. What did abandoning her post mean? Had Jasmine been sent on some important assignment? But if so, what?
The only idea she could think of was that Jasmine might have been sent out as an ambassador to another faery Wyld. But the Oakenfolk had not seen or heard from any of their fellow faeries in centuries, so she would have had to search for them first. Curiosity rekindled, Knife read on…Jasmine came to my room today, bringing with her a gown which she said was in need of mending. I was tempted to refuse, yet I could not help but exclaim aloud when
