kept him up long enough. Still, when she said good night and climbed back into her damp-smelling box she could not help feeling disappointed that the conversation had not lasted longer. There was so much she could do with this knowledge once she returned to the Oak…
Except that she couldn’t, because then everyone would want to know where she had learned it. The Oakenfolk didn’t have new ideas anymore; they had a hard enough time not forgetting the things they knew already. Besides, without Paul’s books to show them, what good would it be? She had learned a great deal about art last night, but that didn’t make her an artist.
Knife sighed as she rolled over and climbed to her feet. She crawled out of her box and sat down on the edge of the shelf, kicking the wardrobe door wide for a view of the room beyond.
Judging by the color of the light fingering its way past the curtains, it was almost noon, but Paul was still asleep. She cleared her throat loudly and rapped on the wooden shelf until he stirred in his nest of blankets, muttered something unintelligible, and opened his eyes.
“Good morning,” said Knife.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze focusing blearily upon her. “You’re still here,” he said. “You weren’t a dream.”
“No. Should I have been?”
He ignored the question, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I feel terrible.”
“Well, I feel hungry,” said Knife. “And you promised me meat, remember?”
Paul snorted, but the sound was good-natured. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You managed to get all this from your mother without saying a word?” said Knife when Paul returned, bearing a heavily laden tray across his lap.
Paul stopped and shook his head warningly. “Not so loud,” he mouthed, and Knife cringed. He was right, of course: They would both need to speak quietly if they wanted to keep her presence in the House a secret.
Gingerly Knife hopped onto the tray, sidestepping a glass of orange liquid and sitting down next to a plate steaming with two enormous eggs, a pile of beans in brown sauce, and several strips of fat-marbled meat. It was more food than she could have eaten in a week.
“Here,” said Paul, breaking off a piece of toasted bread and handing it to her. Knife bit into it with relish, and was still chewing when he pulled out a book from the pocket on the side of his armrest and laid it open on the desk nearby.
“I found this in the other room,” he said. “I thought you might like to see it.”
“What is it?” asked Knife.
“It’s about Alfred Wrenfield, a famous painter who used to live right around here-oh, must be over a hundred and fifty years ago now.” Paul began turning pages. “At first he just painted landscapes and the occasional portrait. But later on he suddenly became obsessed with faeries and refused to paint anything else.”
“Faeries?” said Knife, taken aback. “You mean…he saw them?”
“I didn’t used to think so,” said Paul. “But now that I look at you, I’m not so sure anymore. Alfred Wrenfield wasn’t the only artist who painted faeries, but he’s the only one I know of who painted ones that look like you-not all plump and babyish or skinny and wrinkled like gnomes, but sort of wild and strange and…”
“And what?” prompted Knife.
But Paul only coughed, and turned the page. “Anyway, here’s one of his early pieces, called The Faeries’ Dance. What do you think?”
Knife stood up, took one look at the picture-and burst into laughter.
“What?” asked Paul, frowning. “You don’t think they look like you?”
“Oh, the ones on the left aren’t bad,” said Knife, wiping away a tear of mirth, “but what on earth are those things lined up on the right?”
“Well, it’s a dance,” said Paul slowly, “so those must be the male faeries, right?”
“Male faeries,” echoed Knife, and broke into chortles again.
“You mean…you’ve never seen a male faery? Ever?”
Paul sounded so puzzled, and so serious about it, that Knife’s amusement faded. “Well, of course not,” she said. “There aren’t any.”
“But there must be.”
“We aren’t animals,” Knife explained patiently. “We don’t need to rush about finding mates and having young. We live for three hundred years or more, barring accidents, and when we die, we just replace ourselves.”
“Replace yourselves? With what?”
“Another faery, of course.” He must be tired, she thought, to be this stupid.
“You mean-like a clone?”
Knife had no idea what that word meant, but she could tell that he had misunderstood her. “A new faery,” she said. “Different from the one who died.”
“Full grown?”
“No, of course not. The eggs are too small for that.”
Paul’s face took on an expression of disbelief. “You lay eggs?”
“No! Can you imagine-I mean, how ridiculous!” Knife nearly choked on her toast. “The egg just appears, when the old faery disappears. It’s magic.”
His eyes narrowed. “You told me you didn’t have magic.”
“We are magic, we just don’t have very much power these days, and what’s left we can’t control. We don’t will the eggs to appear, they just…do.”
“All right, but one thing still doesn’t make sense to me,” said Paul. “I mean, I’m no scientist, and I’m no expert on magic either. But if there aren’t any male faeries and never have been, why do you look so…well, female?”
Knife opened her mouth to argue-then shut it again with a snap as she realized he was right. Why should faeries who would never give birth to children or nurse them be shaped almost exactly like human women who did?
“Thank God,” said Paul as he caught sight of Knife’s stunned expression. “I thought I was going to have to get out the anatomy textbook. So do you understand now? I didn’t mean to offend you by talking about male faeries-it was an honest mistake.”
Knife folded back into her seat beside the plate, her mind churning. Could it be that long ago, the Oakenfolk had mated and born children as other creatures did? Perhaps something had happened to the male faeries, so the abandoned females had been forced to create their own eggs with magic-and after a while they forgot that there had ever been another way?
Heather’s diary might be able to tell her. But it was back in her room at the Oak. Why did the answers Knife needed always seem to be just out of reach?
“I’m going to take a bath,” said Paul, breaking the uneasy silence. “If I leave you here, will you still be here when I get back?”
It was a gesture of trust, Knife realized: He was asking her to stay, no longer behaving as though she had no choice. And though she did want to get back to Heather’s diary and the mystery of the Oakenfolk’s past, she also wanted to learn more about art-and this might well be her only chance.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
Nine
“I ‘ve found you a better box,” said Paul when he returned from his bath, damp-haired and freshly clothed. “And my mother’s gone out to the garden, so we don’t need to worry about her hearing us talk.” He dropped the box onto the desk and pulled open the drawer. “Now where did I put my knife?”
Knife swallowed her last mouthful of toast. “Your…what?”
“Agh,” said Paul in disgust. “My father must have poached it again.” He shoved the drawer shut. “I bought him a proper letter opener two Christmases ago, but somehow my craft knife keeps on ending up in his study.” He opened his hand to reveal a small, transparent canister balanced on his palm. “All I have are the blades, and they’re
