I saw it, for the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped quite away. The skirt was blackened almost to the knee, as though she had fallen in the mire, and it seemed to me that if this were the gown in which she had returned home, it was little wonder the others had found her ill-tempered. Pity overcame me, and I told her I should have it mended in a fortnight. “And how shall I repay you for your services?” she asked. I knew I ought not to pry, yet my curiosity was too great to resist. “Knowledge,” I said. “What misfortune befell you, that you should return to the Oak?” Her lips pressed tightly together. “I cannot speak of it,” she said. “Suffice it to say that I believe I can better serve our people here.” “I beg your pardon,” I said, for I saw that I had grieved her. “No matter,” she said. “If curiosity is a fault, it is one I share. But I shall offer you knowledge more suited to your craft-some sketches of clothing I saw when Outside, perhaps?” “Oh!” I said, much surprised. “Could you?” “Certainly. I have gained some little skill as an artist, since I went away.” She smiled, but her eyes remained bitter. “It would be pleasant to put the talent to more…worthy use.” I could not think what to say to that, and we stood a moment in silence. Then Jasmine continued in a lighter tone: “I shall bring you the drawings soon. A fortnight before the gown is mended, you say? I should not like to press you, for I know that you do fine work; but I fear that I have little else to wear.” “I shall have it ready in a few days,” I told her, for now I truly did pity her. She inclined her head to me, and left. I have always felt inferior in Jasmine’s presence, and tempted to fault her for it; but now I see that my thoughts have been unkind, and that she has suffered more than any of us guessed. I think that I shall exhort the other faeries to show her more kindness-but discreetly, for Jasmine is proud even in her disgrace, and would no doubt be offended if she thought I was gossiping about her.
Knife was tempted to read on, but by now she was so tired, she could scarcely see the page. She pulled out one long white hair and used it to mark her place, then shut the diary and crawled into bed.
The next morning Knife found the Gatherers lined up in front of the Queen’s Gate as usual, shouldering their baskets and discussing their plans for the day. She could hear Holly’s voice raised above the general chatter: “… done well these past few days, especially as it hasn’t rained until now. We’re well stocked with berries and greens, so…”
All at once she caught sight of Knife and stopped, swallowing visibly. The other Gatherers also fell silent and averted their eyes.
“What?” asked Knife, but no one answered until Holly cleared her throat to reply:
“I think we won’t be needing you today after all. The crow seems to have moved on, so we should be all right on our own for a while.” She looked around at the others. “You agree, don’t you?”
They all nodded.
“All right,” said Knife, perplexed. “It’s all the same to me. I’ll be out hunting later anyway; if you need me you can always shout.”
Holly looked relieved. “Yes. We’ll do that. Everyone ready? Let’s go.”
Knife watched until the Gatherers had filed out and shut the door behind them. What had all that been about? Surely they couldn’t be frightened of her just because she had gone near a human?
Eventually she shrugged, and headed off toward the kitchen. If her services weren’t going to be needed right away, she might as well have a proper breakfast-and then, perhaps, she’d pay a visit to the library. Reading Heather’s diary had made her curious about the reign of Queen Snowdrop, and she wanted to see what the old histories had to say.
She was surprised, on reaching the kitchen, what a blaze they had going in the fireplace. Usually the cooking fire was kept modest during the summer months, to keep the inside of the Tree from becoming too stuffy.
Still, that was the kitchen workers’ problem and not hers, and furthermore they all kept looking at her askance as though finding her presence unwelcome, so she poured herself a cup of hot chicory and headed off to the library.
Campion was sitting at the desk when she arrived. The catalog lay open before her, and she dipped her pen mechanically into the inkwell as she stroked out one entry after another. Her head was down, her face hidden behind her hair, but the fingers that gripped the quill were trembling.
“Campion, what-” began Knife, but at the same moment she glanced toward the back of the library, and the words froze on her tongue.
The door to the secret closet stood open, and a trail of ashy footprints led into it and out again. The shelves were empty, the precious books on humans all gone.
“What happened?” demanded Knife, rounding on Campion. “Who did this?”
Campion slowly put the quill back in the inkpot and looked up. Her face was colorless, her eyes so full of fury that Knife took a hasty step back, afraid the other woman might strike her.
“You,” said Campion in a low voice. “You never thought, did you? You couldn’t pretend, even for a moment, to be afraid.”
“I-don’t understand-”
“Of course not, you’re too young to think about anyone but yourself. All you cared about was showing off to the Gatherers. Look at me, not a bit frightened of humans, tra la!” She gave a hysterical laugh. “It never occurred to you, did it, that the Queen might hear how terribly brave you were, and start wondering just what had made you feel so confident around humans? Or that she might take-steps-to make sure that no one else would follow your example?”
Nausea crept into Knife’s throat. “You mean…the books…they’ve been destroyed?”
“Oh, yes,” said Campion, biting off the words savagely. “Didn’t you notice what a lovely cheerful fire they’ve got going in the kitchen this morning? All because of you, and I’m sure we’ll appreciate the extra heat even more by this afternoon.”
Knife closed her eyes, her lips shaping inaudible oaths.
“Those books were priceless,” Campion told her. “Irreplaceable. I hope you’re happy.” She snatched up her quill again and began crossing out entries, while a large tear rolled off the end of her nose and splashed onto the page.
“I’m…sorry,” said Knife. She felt helpless and, for the first time she could remember, ashamed.
“Yes, well, that’s what the Queen said, too,” sniffed Campion. “But at least she was doing what she thought was best for all of us. What’s your excuse?”
There was no answer to that, so Knife bowed her head and turned to leave. But then a thought struck her, and she looked back. “I don’t suppose…? What I mean is, if you knew this was coming, then maybe…”
The uncertainty in her voice made Campion look up again, the anger in her sharp face easing. “What?” she said.
“Did you send me a package last night?”
“Me, send a package? To you? Right now I wouldn’t give you a dead slug if you offered me gold for it.” Her mouth hardened. “Now get out.”
Defeated, Knife left the library. Climbing the stairs to the Oak’s ground level, she made her way slowly toward the East Root exit, her thoughts full of black smoke.
The first thing she heard when she emerged from the Oak was Beatrice’s tremulous voice: “Paul. Please.”
The words came faintly from the far end of the lawn, but there was no mistaking the distress in them. “I just-I want to talk to you. Why won’t you speak to me?”
Paul made no reply. His blond head inclined a little as she spoke, but his face remained expressionless. Beatrice pressed her hands to her mouth as though muffling a sob, then hurried back into the house, leaving her son alone on the veranda.
Knife folded her arms and studied Paul critically. He must be quite proud of that throne of his, since he was always sitting in it. His own mother waited on him like a servant, and pleaded for his favor. And yet for all that apparent wealth and power, he did not seem happy.
Well, he was in good company there, thought Knife with a rush of bitterness. How could Amaryllis have burned those books? She had been a scholar once; she should have known better…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of faery voices. Knife glanced back to see two Gatherers emerge from the Oak, duck beneath the hedge, and pick their way down the slope, heading for the distant wood. Somehow they had become separated from the rest of the group, but judging by their slow pace it didn’t concern them very much.
Knife made a disgusted noise. All that fuss about Old Wormwood and the need for extra protection, when the
