of humor.”
“My egg-mother had nothing to do with it!” said Knife indignantly. “I chose the name my-” Then she realized she had said too much, but it was too late.
“Really?” said Paul. “Why ‘Knife’?”
For a faery, you’re a terrible liar, he had said. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, because that would mean confessing that she had stolen her weapon from his House, and who knew what he might do to her then? Her only chance was to change the subject, and quickly.
“Where did you get that throne?” she blurted.
Silence crashed down between them, and the color ebbed out of Paul’s face. “Throne.” His voice rasped on the word. “Is that what you think this is?”
Knife shifted in her seat, embarrassed without knowing why. Then her gaze fell to Paul’s uncovered legs, so still and awkwardly bent, and her eyes widened as she realized her mistake “That’s right,” said Paul grimly. “I’m a cripple. You thought my parents were fussing over me and pushing me around in this thing because I liked it?” He spat out a laugh. “I wish!”
Knife swallowed. She had thought herself the injured one, but he had suffered a far greater loss. “I’m…” she began, but Paul cut her off.
“Don’t say it.” He shoved the chair back from the bed with a savage thrust of both hands. “I’m sick of apologies, and I don’t want your pity. The only thing I want to know is, can we make a bargain?”
“A…bargain?”
“You’re a faery. Isn’t it obvious?”
She shook her head.
Paul gave an exasperated sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. “Magic. You have it, I need it. One wish, that’s all I want-and then you can go home.”
Knife looked at him helplessly. “I…can’t,” she said. “I don’t have any magic.”
“Look,” said Paul. “I know faeries are supposed to be full of tricks and all that, but I’m not that stupid.”
“Neither am I!” snapped Knife in frustration. “If I could cast spells, don’t you think I’d have vanished in a puff of smoke by now, or at least healed my own wing so I could fly again? Not to mention that horrible cat of yours- believe me, I’d have been delighted to turn him into a toad and save you the trouble of rescuing me.”
“If you’d stayed where I put you, you wouldn’t have needed rescuing.” His mouth twisted. “What a stupid thing to-”
“I didn’t know you had a cat. And why shouldn’t I try to escape? You put me in a box!” She folded her arms and added resentfully, “I don’t understand why you won’t just let me go.”
“Are you serious? Do you have any idea what it means for a human being to find a real, live faery?”
“About the same as it means for a faery to find a real, live human being, I suppose,” said Knife tartly. “Except I don’t have a box big enough to put you-”
The last word froze on her tongue as the door creaked open, and Paul’s cat squeezed himself through the gap. He sat down, showed his pointed teeth in a yawn, and began to wash himself with great thoroughness, while Knife ducked into Paul’s shadow and tried to make herself as small as she could.
“It’s all right,” Paul said, and offered her his hand again. She climbed onto it, and he lifted her to the safety of his shoulder. Then he whistled between his teeth, making the cat look up.
Knife clutched at his shirt. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry,” said Paul. “I won’t let him harm you.” He rubbed a finger along the edge of the blankets, and the cat hurried to the side of the bed, watching with rapt golden eyes. Paul bent and scooped up the animal, dragging it onto his lap and holding it there.
“He’s a silly cat, really,” Paul remarked. “No brain whatsoever.” He scratched the back of the cat’s head, kneading his way down the spine to the tail, and it collapsed, purring. “He found a mouse once and had no idea what to do. So he sat on it until we came and took it away.”
“He seemed to think he knew what to do with me,” said Knife doubtfully.
“He probably thought you were some kind of wonderful new toy. He might have killed you by accident, but not on purpose.”
This struck Knife as less than comforting, but there seemed little use in saying so. “What did you say his name was? Vermeer?”
“That’s what I call him. Because of the way his fur shines in the light.”
Not a true name, then, she thought, disappointed. She had hoped that knowing the cat’s name would give her power to command it as Paul did. “I don’t understand,” she said aloud.
“Vermeer was a painter, back in the seventeenth century. Here, I’ll show you.” He seized the half-slumbering cat around the belly and tossed him onto the bed, then rolled over to the bookshelf. There he took down the biggest book Knife had ever seen and opened it to a full-color portrait of a young woman. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and a teardrop-shaped ornament dangled from her ear.
Paul’s finger traced the metallic sheen along the earring. “He was a genius with light,” he said. “And he used a lot of rich, warm tones in his paintings.”
Knife was silent, gazing at the girl’s luminous face. The picture was beautiful, and yet somehow it was more than that. It was as though the artist were not merely showing her a girl, but telling her something about the girl as well.
Then in a flash Knife understood: That was what made the other paintings in the room special, too. They weren’t just images, they were ideas. Excited, she slid off Paul’s shoulder and leaped onto the desk, scanning each of the hanging canvases in turn. If she could just figure out what they were saying…
“You like them,” said Paul, and when she glanced back she saw a new respect in his eyes. “You really get it, don’t you-art, I mean. You’re not just being polite.”
Knife nodded.
“Do you…would you like to see some more?”
She hesitated. He was offering her knowledge, but without magic, what could she give him in return? “I can’t pay you,” she said.
Paul made a face, as though she was being ridiculous. “Pay me? What for? I’m not an expert. I just like art.”
“But you have knowledge,” she persisted. “That’s worth something. You can’t just give it away.”
“Why not?”
“Because-” She struggled for an explanation, and finally threw up her hands. “Because that isn’t how it’s done!”
“Maybe that’s how things work in that oak tree of yours,” said Paul mildly. “But you’re not there now, are you?”
Knife looked down at the painting of the girl, torn between doubt and yearning. For saving her from Old Wormwood, she already owed Paul a great debt. If she accepted any more favors, she might as well sign herself up as his slave, because it would take her years to pay him back.
And yet…
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like to see some more. Please.”
The tension lifted from Paul’s face, and for a moment he looked almost like the boy who had climbed the Oak again. “Let me show you The Lacemaker,” he said, and began turning pages.
When Knife woke the next morning her body ached, but her mind had never felt more alive. If only she could write down everything she had learned, before she had the chance to forget it!
She and Paul had talked for hours. Once he realized that she was genuinely interested in the art he loved, all the pent-up words of the past few weeks came rushing out of his mouth. He took book after book off his shelves, explaining different painting techniques and styles, pointing out his favorite artists and telling her why their work was important. Now and then he paused to give Knife a sidelong glance, as though he could scarcely believe that she was still listening; but all she ever said was, “Go on,” and in the end he did.
When they had finished looking at the pictures, Paul took out his sketchbook again and began showing her how to draw, making quick sketches of her from various angles as he talked about things like shading, perspective, and point of view. For Knife it was a feast of knowledge, and she felt as though she could listen forever; but eventually Paul’s voice thinned to huskiness, and when she caught him rubbing his eyes she realized that she had
