whole time she’d guarded them there was scarcely a crow to be seen. And now there they were, sauntering across the field as though She snapped her fingers. Of course! Old Wormwood had never returned at all. The whole story had been a lie, an excuse to keep Knife busy. Somehow Queen Amaryllis must have found out that she’d been watching the humans again, and put her on guard duty to punish her. No wonder the Gatherers out there didn’t seem afraid! They knew there had never been any real danger.
It all made perfect, maddening sense. The lot of them must have thought Knife so gullible and perhaps even had a good laugh when her back was turned. She slammed a fist into her palm. Well, they wouldn’t laugh again. She’d A scream sliced the air, and Knife jumped, her anger forgotten. Out upon the open field, a huge black shape wheeled and dove into the grass. There was a frantic rustling, and the next shriek was abruptly cut off.
“Don’t run!” shouted Knife. “Drop your baskets and fly!”
There was no answer. Knife plunged through the hedge and leaped into the air, wings whirring. She drew her knife, wishing fervently that she had brought her bow and quiver instead.
The crow raised its head, and she recognized the limp form dangling from its beak: Linden. A soft-spoken faery, whose shyness and drab coloring made her easy to overlook-but she could carry twice her own weight in chestnuts, and the Gatherers could ill afford to lose her.
At first Knife feared she might already be too late to save her, but as she flew closer Linden roused and began to struggle. The crow’s grip on her was cruel, but he had not killed her yet. Gathering her strength, Knife put on a final burst of speed, flashed up to him, and hacked wildly at his tail.
A ludicrous attack, but it did as Knife had intended: Old Wormwood squawked in alarm, and Linden tumbled free. Knife hastily stuck her dagger between her teeth, then dove and caught the other faery before she could hit the ground.
Laying Linden down on the grass, Knife glanced about and saw Tansy, one of the other Gatherers, cowering a few crow-lengths away. Impatiently Knife beckoned her to come and help, then leaped out of the grass and took to the air again to face her enemy.
She had all his attention now, just as she had hoped. With a cry of defiance, Knife fled back across the field as Old Wormwood took up the chase. She wanted to lure him as far away from Linden and Tansy as she could, but right now she could barely keep out of his reach. Relentlessly the crow pursued her, up the rise and over the hedge into the Oakenwyld.
Knife’s wing muscles burned with the effort of flying at full speed, but she dared not slacken her pace. She rounded the House in a turn so tight, her foot scraped the brick, then looped wildly across the garden, but try as she might she could not shake her enemy. She launched herself straight up toward the sun, hoping that Old Wormwood would lose her in its dazzling light, but he was too quick. He soared above her, a looming shadow three times her size. The beating of black wings roared in Knife’s ears, and in desperation she lashed out with her dagger. The blade snagged in her enemy’s feathers, tearing skin and flesh, and he screamed.
Knife darted away, but the crow thrashed after her, a scant wingspan behind. His eyes glowed with fury, and his hooked talons raked the air. She had wounded him, but he was still faster, still stronger. Her only hope of escape was to dive low over the garden, then snap out her wings and shoot straight for the Oak. If she timed it just right Then she glanced down, and her muscles turned to water. Paul was rolling down the stone path toward the Oak, completely blocking her planned approach. He could not know, she thought wildly, that her own death turned upon his wheels. Unless A searing pain shot across her wing as the crow raked it open. Out of control, Knife tumbled through the air, her mind shrieking: Fool! Fool! Never hesitate!
Old Wormwood was upon her now, beak wide as if to swallow her whole. Knife’s wing was useless; she could barely keep aloft. Soon she would fall, and where the ground leaped up to meet her she would die. But better that than surrender to those cruel claws.
With the last of her strength, Knife slapped her wings flat against her back. Agony drowned her consciousness as she spiraled from the sky and dropped, senseless, straight into Paul McCormick’s lap.
Seven
Knife woke in a cold sweat, the torn edge of her wing sizzling with pain. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and her throat burned with thirst. But the moment she tried to sit up her head spun like a weaver’s bobbin, and it was all she could do not to vomit.
How long had she lain unconscious? In the darkness it was impossible to guess. The last thing she remembered was Old Wormwood’s talons ripping through her wing, and the ground rushing up to meet her as she fell…
I will never fly again. The realization came to her with cruel clarity, tempting her to weep. To live without the thrill of the hunt, or the joy of soaring through the air…short of death itself, Knife could imagine nothing worse.
Yet there was nothing she could do about it. No poultice could heal a torn wing; a hundred stitches would never close the wound. She had been the youngest and the best Hunter ever to serve the Queen-but without the ability to fly, she would be useless. Thorn would take over her duties, and she would go back to being Bryony, a nobody. She would spend the rest of her life trapped in the Oak No. She would not, could not. If Queen Amaryllis refused to let her go out with the Gatherers, then she would simply run away, and live as best as she could, as long as she could, alone.
Breathing deep to quell her nausea, Knife tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. The room was so dark, her wits so blurred with pain, that it took her several attempts to realize that there was no edge-that the soft thing on which she lay was in fact the floor.
Knife’s stomach knotted. No wonder it was dark; no wonder the room smelled strange. Instead of lying on her own bed in the Oak, waiting for Valerian to come and tend her, she was in some unfamiliar place, all alone.
But where?
Cautiously, trying not to jar her injured wing, Knife crawled forward into the blackness. She had shuffled only a few beetle-lengths when her hand struck something cold. She felt her way up its smooth surface to find a huge glass bowl, filled with Water. Oh, Great Gardener. Clambering to her feet, Knife leaned over the bowl and drank thirstily, then plunged her hands into it and splashed her face and neck. By the time she had finished washing, she felt almost alive again.
Beside the bowl sat a plate heaped with chunks of some spongy, cakelike substance. It smelled peculiar, but it seemed to be food. Tentatively, Knife took a bite and began to chew.
After a few more mouthfuls she no longer felt light-headed, and her queasiness began to subside. Her wing still hurt, but she could bear it. Feet braced wide for balance on the too-soft carpet, Knife set off into the darkness again.
Three or four steps in any direction brought her up against the wall: not wood, not stone, but a tough papery substance. It gave a little when she pushed against it, but as soon as she let go it sprang back. There had to be an exit somewhere…
Knife squinted upward. A faint stripe of radiance crossed the ceiling from one end of the room to the other. Could the door be up there?
Without warning, her prison tipped to one side. Knife tumbled to the floor, scrabbling for a hold as the carpet slid sideways and the water in the bowl slopped over. Then with a bump the room righted itself again.
Knife lay still, afraid to move in case she set off another tremor. But the floor remained steady, and when she lifted her head she found the room lighter.
Automatically she looked up-and choked back a cry. The ceiling had cracked wide open, and an enormous human face stared down at her. Knife scrambled back into the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding her face against them.
“It’s all right.” His voice sounded husky, as though it had not been used in a long time. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Knife drew a ragged breath. Her worst fears had come to pass: She was trapped, flightless, a prisoner. The humans had put her in a box, and now they had come to torment her.
“You’re still here,” the voice went on, hushed with wonder. “I half thought, when I opened the box…but
