you’re real.” A finger touched her hair, and Knife shuddered. She would not cry out, must not “You’re frightened.” He sounded surprised. “You weren’t yesterday.” A pause. “All right, I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”
There was a rustling noise, then silence. Thinking that he had gone, Knife lifted her head-and found Paul still sitting there.
“So you do understand me,” he said.
Knife slumped back into the corner, defeated. Hollowly she said, “Let me go.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“I can take care of myself.”
His mouth quirked. “Oh, right,” he said. “I should have guessed. So what are you, some kind of crow-fighting warrior faery?”
He made her sound like a joke, and Knife’s pride flared. “Yes, I am! What gives you the right-” Then common sense caught up with her, and she stopped. Fighting crows was one thing, but arguing with a creature ten times her size? That wasn’t courage, it was suicide. “Never mind,” she muttered.
“I see you’ve eaten the bread. What else would you like? Fruit? Vegetables?” He paused, then added, “You don’t eat meat, do you?”
“Yes,” said Knife.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“All right, then, I’ll see what I can find. Later.”
“Why not now?” she asked. If she could convince him to leave her unguarded, just for a moment “Because my mother’s in the kitchen,” said Paul. “And she’ll want to know what I’m looking for-or worse, offer to get it for me.” The words were laced with bitterness.
“You mean,” said Knife, surprise momentarily overriding fear, “she doesn’t know about me?”
“No. And I’d like to keep it that way, so…” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk so loud.”
Knife sat back a little, digesting this. If Paul was the only one who knew about her, then…
“Look,” said Paul. “What if I let you out for a bit? You’re not going to run away, are you?”
The tone sounded casual, but Knife was wary. Why did he want her to come out? “No,” she said, then realized too late that her answer had been unclear as Paul’s hand swooped down and snatched her into the air.
She was not used to being touched, let alone swept up completely. Panicking, Knife struggled, but could not get free. As soon as he set her down again she tried to bolt, but her legs would not obey; she staggered a few steps and sat down with a thump.
“There,” said Paul.
He sounded so satisfied, as though he had done her a favor. Knife gritted her teeth. If he touched her like that again, she would stab him in the thumb, and blight the consequences But the sheath at her belt was empty.
Knife’s heart constricted. Where had her dagger gone? She leaped up and turned around, searching the desk where she stood. It had fallen out when he put her down, it must have. It had to be here.
“Lost something?” asked Paul.
Knife ran to the edge of the desk, frantically scanning the floor below. But even there she could see nothing but a few stray hairs and webs of dust. Her box prison sat open at the end of the bed, but it too was empty.
She turned away, feeling sick. Her precious metal blade, the only possession she had ever valued-and she had lost it. How could she possibly escape from the House now?
“What’s wrong?” her captor demanded.
Knife shook her head, unable to reply. She sat down and hugged her knees again, feeling smaller and more frightened than ever.
Paul reached past her to pull a spiral-bound notebook from the shelf. Wrapped in misery, Knife paid little attention until he laid the book on his lap and began flipping through it. Then her unfocused gaze sharpened, and she scrambled to her feet. The Oak!
There it stood, traced in silvery lines upon the page: There could be no mistaking the shape of those wide- flung branches, or that gnarled breadth of trunk. A real drawing, such as none of her people had made in well over a century-and a good enough likeness to make her feel homesick. How had he done it?
“I’d like to sketch you,” said Paul. “Is that all right?”
“Me?” Knife was so startled, she forgot to be unhappy. “You mean-draw my picture? Now?”
He nodded.
Her eyes returned to the drawing of the Oak. “Did you do that?”
“Yes.”
Knife hesitated a moment longer, then said, “All right.”
“Excellent.” His face lit. “Just stay as you are, then, and try not to move.” He plucked a pencil from the drawer and bent over the page.
Knife tried to watch, but his lowered head blocked her view, so she began to look around the room instead. At first glance it appeared plain compared to the others she had seen in the House, with its bare floor and simple furnishings. But then she looked up, and a shiver of excitement ran through her.
The walls were full of pictures.
The biggest hung over the bureau: a swirling storm of gold, ocher, and blue with a dark shape moving through it. Another frame showed pine trees amid a snowy landscape, overshadowed by distant spires. On the other side of the room a host of tiny figures swarmed against a backdrop of lakes and mountains. And in the far corner, a man looked straight into a mirror at the back of his own head.
Knife studied each of the paintings in turn, fascinated. They were nothing like the tapestries in the Queen’s Hall, or the simple pictures of flowers and fruit she had seen elsewhere in the House: These were startling, bewildering, in some cases almost ugly. Yet they seemed somehow more than the other pictures-more meaningful, more alive; it was as though they were shouting at her in a language she did not understand.
“There,” said Paul with satisfaction. He raised the sketchbook from his lap, and Knife was captivated all over again. In a few spare strokes he had described the angles of her limbs, then traced the outlines of her hair, wings, and clothing; it was almost carelessly done. Yet that very roughness made it seem alive, as though at any moment her figure might leap off the page.
The face, though-that was even more amazing. There were her narrow, slanting eyes, her broad mouth, and pointed chin; he had even captured her wary expression. Not even Wink’s mirror had ever caught her likeness so perfectly; somehow he had not merely drawn her appearance, but her essence.
“It’s…very good,” said Knife, when she could speak.
“Is it?” Paul said, and turned the page to look at his drawing again. “Do you know,” he said in a slow, wondering tone, “I think you might be right.”
Suddenly it was too much for Knife-the fight with Old Wormwood, the loss of her dagger, waking up to find herself a prisoner in the House, and now this. “I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need to rest.”
“Oh.” Paul sounded disappointed. “I’d wanted to draw you again, but all right.” He reached for her.
Knife leaped back, fists raised. “Don’t touch me!”
“What?” said Paul. “I didn’t hurt you last time, did I?”
“It’s not that,” said Knife flatly. “I just don’t like being grabbed and carried about without so much as a by- your-leave. Would you?”
His face darkened. “Not all of us get a choice,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better, here.” He held his hand out to her, palm upward.
Knife licked her lips, mustering her courage. The hand was a dry, bleached leaf, she told herself, or the upturned cup of a mushroom. Nothing more. Gingerly she stepped forward, and Paul lowered her into the box upon his lap. She jumped off his hand and lay down, shivering.
“I’ll put you back in the wardrobe,” said her captor’s voice as the lid of the box rasped back into place. “You’ll be safe there.” Wheels squeaked, and she felt a bump as he set her prison back upon the shelf. The wardrobe door swung shut, muffling her in darkness.
Rest now, she told herself. You’ll need all your strength to escape- and with that, she fell asleep.
When Knife woke, the room was so black, so silent, that she knew it must be night. She got up stiffly and
