after you, or why I grew big, or why I lost my wings and got them back again. I don’t know why I’m still sitting here talking to you when I should be on my way home-I don’t know why I should even care!” She pressed her knuckles against her forehead in frustration, then added in a lower voice, “All I know is that I do.”
For a moment Paul sat unmoving, his head bent. Then he said quietly, “All right. I’ll tell you.”
Eleven
Knife sat down cross-legged on the mattress, waiting for Paul’s answer. He knotted his hands together, then cleared his throat and began to speak:
“I already told you that I started drawing when I was just a kid, and that I was good. Better than good, even-there were words like genius and prodigy being tossed around. But after a couple of years, my creativity just…dried up. I could still draw, but everything I did seemed ordinary. Lifeless, even. I wasn’t special anymore.
“I was pretty unhappy, and my parents could tell, but I couldn’t explain it to them. How could I, when I didn’t even understand it myself? In the end they decided there must be something wrong with the art program at the local school, so they sent me to boarding school instead. Which was actually not bad, once I got used to it. My art didn’t get any better, but I made some friends and they got me interested in something I’d never tried before- rowing.”
“Rowing?” said Knife, but Paul did not seem to hear her.
“I’d never been much of an athlete, but once I felt those oars in my hands, I just knew. I dropped everything else and threw myself into training, and by the end of the year I was winning competitions.” His face brightened with the memory. “I don’t know if I can describe it to you-the feeling you get when you’ve just finished a race, when you’re all out of breath and your nerves are shredded and every muscle in your body is screaming, but at the same time you feel so incredibly alive.”
“Oh, yes,” said Knife. That feeling, at least, she understood perfectly.
“Once I started winning, I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d failed as an artist, but as a rower I just kept getting better, and after a while sculling was the only thing I cared about anymore. I had so many plans-I was going to qualify for the World Championships, maybe even the Olympic team. But then-”
He hunched forward, his hands sliding up over his face. “It was a Friday night,” he went on thickly, “and I’d gone out with some friends to watch a football game, but I stayed too late… I could see the school gates closing ahead of me, so I started to run. The light hadn’t changed, but the road looked clear, and I was halfway across when this car came around the corner, I didn’t even see it until it hit me, and I felt my spine just snap -”
Knife bit her lips, appalled. There was a long silence.
“And now,” said Paul in a whisper, “I’m paralyzed from the waist down. I can’t walk, I can’t row, I can’t even-” He gave a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you don’t want to know about some of the things I can’t do. I’ll never qualify for the Olympics, never row properly again. All my dreams-gone. Just like that.”
“And that’s why…?” asked Knife, still uncertain. She could imagine how devastated Paul had been: She had felt the same helpless misery when she’d thought she would never fly again. But to give up on life completely…that part she couldn’t understand.
“No,” said Paul, sounding tired. “I mean, yes, but that’s not the only reason. After the accident, none of my friends knew what to say to me anymore. Oh, they came, and they tried, but it was just pathetic all around, and in the end, nobody came to see me except my parents.
“My parents,” he repeated bitterly, “didn’t give up, but after a while I wished they had. When they told me they’d fixed up the house for me, and that they were taking me home…it was like the last few years had just been erased from my life. As though I’d never gone away to school, never grown up at all. I’d stopped being the son who was going to make them proud, and had become this sad, crippled little boy.”
“I thought you said you weren’t angry with them,” said Knife.
“I wasn’t, not exactly. I knew it wasn’t their fault. It was more like-” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “I didn’t want them to make any more sacrifices for me. I didn’t want them to care. I wanted to stop being their son, and become a thing in a chair that they would get tired of. So when I finally got the chance to kill myself, it’d be a relief for them, too.”
“So,” Knife said slowly, “you stopped talking to everyone. Except me. Why?”
“You were different.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You should.” He let his hand drop, and Knife flinched at the anguish in his eyes. “I never expected to meet you again,” he said. “After so many years, I’d given up believing you were real. But there you were, standing by the hedge, looking at me. It took me a long time to get my mind around that. And then, just as I’d almost convinced myself I’d been dreaming, you fell out of the sky and landed in my lap.
“When I saw you lying there, with that ripped wing, I-I wanted you to live. I wanted to see if you could still fly, or what you would do if you couldn’t. But then you woke up, and you talked to me. Without gentleness, without pity. As if I were-whole.”
Apprehension prickled up Knife’s spine. She opened her mouth to tell him that he’d said enough, but it was too late. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, and an unfamiliar ache grew inside her as she realized that he was crying.
“Then you let me sketch you, and it turned out-it was perfect. The best thing I’d done in years. And when we were talking about art, you were so interested in everything I said, it made me think that maybe-”
“Stop,” pleaded Knife. “You don’t have to go on, I understand.” And she did, for the rest of the story was painfully clear. He had come to think of her as a friend, but then he had lost his temper and frightened her away. The one good thing that had happened to him since his accident, spoiled-and it was his fault. No wonder he had decided to give up.
Paul gave a shaky laugh and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Spreading it a bit thick, I know. Sorry.”
“No,” said Knife, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I was being…” She hesitated. Had she ever used this word before in her life? But it was the truth. “Selfish.”
“You’re a faery,” said Paul. “Of course you don’t think like a human would. I don’t blame you.”
Knife looked down at her feet. “I should go. My people-they’ll be wondering where I am.”
Paul reached up, unlocking the window and sliding it open. “I know it’s not much, considering you saved my life,” he said. “But if you ever want to come and talk about art, or look at my books, or anything…I’ll be here. All right?”
“All right,” said Knife, a little dazed by the generous offer. With a flick of her wings she leaped to the sill, then paused and looked back at him. “I’ll come,” she said. “I’m not sure when, but-I’ll try.”
He smiled. “Good.”
Knife turned and stepped straight out into the air. Wings thrumming, she dropped lightly to land on the old stone path, half buried in mosses and grass. Sunlight warmed her back, and she heard lark song in the distance. She was free.
“Good-bye, Knife,” said Paul’s voice from above, and she heard his chair creak as he rolled away. Knife stood still, looking up at the empty window. Then she shook herself, squared her shoulders, and set off down the path into the Oakenwyld.
Skirting the edge of the garden, Knife slipped from shadow to shadow as she made her way back toward the Oak. Halfway through the journey she paused by one of the flower beds, plunged her hands deep into the moist earth, and rubbed them over her face and arms, leaving muddy streaks everywhere. With her fingers she raked her hair into a tangle, crumbling in bits of bark and dead leaves for good measure. Then she wiped her palms on her breeches and continued on.
She had barely set foot inside the Oak before she ran into one of the Gatherers, who turned white and stumbled off down the corridor toward the kitchen, yelling. Within moments Knife found herself at the center of a commotion, goggle-eyed Oakenfolk all quarreling and pushing to get a look at their Hunter, seemingly returned from the grave.
It was Thorn who finally broke through the crowd and addressed Knife, her scowl doing nothing to hide her
