smashed or eaten by the crows before we could find them. But when the Silence takes a faery, it’s even worse, because then there’s no egg at all.”
Nausea overwhelmed Bryony. “I didn’t-I never knew-”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Thorn flatly, “because Wink didn’t want to give you nightmares. I always did say that woman was too softhearted.”
“But-” Bryony was still struggling to understand. “Where does the Silence come from?”
“Ah, that’s the question,” said Thorn. “Nobody knows, not even the Queen. But I’ve seen this happen a few times now, and you know what I think?” She beckoned Bryony closer, bent, and hissed in her ear, “It’s the humans.”
Shocked, Bryony jerked away. “Got your attention now, haven’t I?” Thorn said. “Think about it. The House was built just over a hundred years ago…and the Silence came not long after. Do you really think that’s just coincidence?”
She was right, Bryony realized, looking down at her own hands in horror. She had reached out to the human child-the boy. What would have happened if she had touched him?
“There are only forty-six of us left now,” Thorn pressed on, “and with those humans right on our doorstep, staying in the Oak is our best hope of staying alive. So if you don’t want to end up in the same nutshell as Sorrel-”
Bryony could bear it no longer. She whirled, stumbling on the rug, and rushed from the room as fast as her legs would carry her. As she dashed back up the Spiral Stair, she tried to think of her toys, her books, Wink’s mirror-anything but the terrible thing Thorn had shown her…
She flung herself through Wink’s door and collided with someone tall. Staggering back, she looked up into the austere face and grave gray eyes of Valerian-and with that, Bryony burst into tears.
“You needn’t worry about the child now,” said Thorn’s voice from behind her, as Bluebell clucked reproachfully and Valerian stroked Bryony’s hair. “She won’t do it again.”
Two
Bryony sat back on her haunches, wiping her brow with her forearm. All morning she’d been
scrubbing the floor of the Dining Hall, polishing each cobble until it shone, but she was still nowhere near finished. As usual, Mallow had given Bryony the most grueling chore she could find.
But the window behind her stood open, the sound of gentle rainfall mingling with the fragrance of wet grass and new-turned soil, and Bryony inhaled deeply as she worked. Nearly seven years had passed since she stepped out of the Oak and met the human boy, but she had never forgotten that bittersweet taste of freedom. And though her dread of the Silence had kept her from venturing out again, she still often found herself thinking about it.
Everything had changed after that day, much of it for the worse: She had been taken away from Wink and given to Valerian, who had filled Bryony’s days with work and study and left her no chance to be idle. When she had learned how to read, write, and do her duty to the Queen’s satisfaction, she had been moved into a small room of her own near the foot of the Spiral Stair and told that she must carry out whatever tasks the older faeries gave her, until she was old enough to be given an occupation of her own.
Since then Bryony had done everything from carding rabbit wool to digging out new privies, but all the while she knew what she really longed for: to be a Gatherer. It was hard work, she knew, with no time for exploration or flight; it was also dangerous, for a faery with a basket on her back was an easy mark for predators if she did not remain alert. But neither of those things would trouble Bryony, she felt sure, if only she could go outdoors again.
Gatherers were chosen for their strength and endurance rather than their wits, but Bryony felt confident she had enough of both to be a good candidate. The only question was, would the Queen feel the same? Or would her magical Sight tell her to place Bryony in some other position, and she would simply have to make the best of it?
Until recently Bryony had not troubled herself with such questions, since she was still too young to do a grown faery’s work. But over the winter she had shot up like a sapling, her spindly child’s frame filling out, and now she was a fly’s length taller than anyone else in the Oak. She had also worked hard to prove herself dutiful at all her tasks, no matter how unpleasant. At any time the Queen might summon her to an audience, and Bryony was determined to be ready.
She bent again to her work, wielding the brush with renewed vigor. One more hour, she told herself, and she’d be finished. Then she could have a bath and pick out a book from the library, to reward herself after yet another of Mallow’s miserable chores well done.
“Bryony! Where are you?”
The voice came faintly down the corridor, muffled by echoes. But it sounded like Bluebell, and Bryony snapped her head up to listen. If the Queen’s attendant was looking for her…
“There you are!” exclaimed Bluebell, bustling into the Dining Hall. “What are you doing here? The kitchens are empty, and we’ve all been waiting for you this age! Mallow said she gave you my message an hour ago.”
Of course she did, thought Bryony with a spark of anger. No doubt it had pleased the Chief Cook to leave her scrubbing the floor when she should be getting ready for the most important moment of her life. She flung the brush into the bucket and stood up.
“Oh, dear Gardener,” said Bluebell, “you can’t go before the Queen looking like that!” She whisked Bryony around and gave her a little push toward the door. “To the bath, and then off to Wink-hurry!”
There was no time for argument. Bryony took off at a sprint, vaulting tables as she went, and raced down the corridor to the bath chamber. The water in the great tub was cold, but Bryony gritted her teeth and plunged in, scrubbing at the dirt beneath her fingernails. She soaped and rinsed her hair, then leaped out of the bath again, snatching up a towel to cover herself as she fled. Rushing back along the empty tunnel, she took the Spiral Stair two steps at a time, arriving breathless and dripping at Wink’s door.
She had barely knocked before it flew open, and a pair of fluttering hands tugged her inside. “I thought you’d never get here! Quick-put these on!” Wink said, and she thrust a white shift and a length of silky, thistle-colored stuff into Bryony’s arms.
Bryony wormed her way into the petticoat, then the gown. It smelled of dust and rose petals, and the fabric was so fine that it seemed to weigh nothing at all. The sleeves were mere puffs, the neckline low and square, and the skirt fell in soft folds from the bodice to brush against her ankles.
“It’s too short,” fretted Wink, bustling around her and twitching various bits of the dress into place. “I knew it would be, even after I let it out-you can breathe, though, can’t you? Only don’t breathe too much,” she added in haste as Bryony began to inhale. “You’ll split the seams, and Campion will never let me hear the end of it. Whatever took you so long?”
“I didn’t know,” said Bryony.
Wink picked up a comb and set to work on her hair. “You mean-Mallow didn’t tell you? Of all the spiteful things to do! Well, she’ll be sorry when-”
“Is she ready yet?” asked Bluebell from behind them, and Bryony turned to see the Queen’s attendant standing in the doorway, one foot tapping with impatience.
“Oh, I wanted to put her hair up. Well, never mind,” Wink said, and she handed Bryony a pair of slippers.
Bryony bent to put on the shoes. Like the dress, they were too small, but she would have to manage. Already Wink was tugging her toward Bluebell, who looked her up and down and sighed. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Here.” She held out a long, downy-plumed feather.
“What’s this for?” Bryony asked.
“You’re to give it to Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “It’s part of the ceremony. Now hurry!”
Bryony stopped short at the entrance to the Queen’s Hall, gazing up at the festive tapestries hanging from the rafters. Though worn with age, their colors were a wonder, as were the intricate patterns of birds and flowers they depicted. No faery alive knew how to dye such tints anymore, much less make pictures from them, and the sight of them brought a lump to Bryony’s throat. It seemed so wrong that this marvelous craft, like so many other
