“She was hurting Linden. What else could I do?”
“Oh,” said Wink, looking stricken. “Oh, dear. So that was why the Queen wouldn’t let me come with her, the night she took you.”
“Took me?” Knife sat up again, ignoring the pounding in her head. “When?”
“You can’t have been much older than Linden is now. The Queen just turned up at my door one night and took you away for a while. She never would tell me why, but you seemed to be all right when she brought you back, so…” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry, Knife.”
“It’s all right, I don’t remember it,” Knife said, but her hand slid to her belly as she spoke, and for a moment she felt an echo of last night’s brief, wrenching pain. “Is Linden here?”
“Knife, you can’t just-oh, do get back in bed!” Wink fluttered about her, trying to drape the blanket around her shoulders, but she was too short to reach. “It’s too cold, it’s too soon, Valerian said you weren’t to get up until tomorrow-”
“I’m fine,” said Knife shortly. In truth she felt as though she had fallen down all nine flights of the Spiral Stair, but she managed to shuffle over to Linden’s cradle.
Studying the baby’s face, Knife had to admit that she appeared none the worse for her ordeal. Her cheeks looked redder than usual, the points of her ears chapped and flaking, but otherwise-Knife folded back the blankets to be sure-there was not a mark on her.
“You don’t see anything, do you?” said Wink.
“No,” said Knife. “But I know the Queen did something to her.” And whatever it was, she finished silently, I’m going to find out.
After a day’s rest and two more doses of Valerian’s noxious medicine, Knife felt almost well again. It helped, of course, that Wink stayed with her the whole time, keeping her and Linden warm, fed, and mostly undisturbed.
The exception was Thorn, who showed up in the middle of the day to give Knife a hard, questioning look and mutter a few words to Wink before leaving again with ill-concealed impatience. Wink, surprisingly, seemed to take this in stride, and when Knife asked her what was going on, she only shook her head and said that it would wait until Knife was better.
Then came Midwinter’s Day, and the Oak itself seemed to vibrate with excitement as faeries rushed up and down the Spiral Stair, preparing for the Feast. Some dashed about the corridors hanging garlands of beads and dried berries, while others lit the brass lamps and set them in place. Campion and her helpers draped the Dining Hall with tapestries and linens from the archives. At Amaryllis’s command Wink opened the wardrobes where the prettiest gowns from the Days of Magic were kept, and began helping the eager Oakenfolk into them.
Knife, however, spent most of the day in her room, distracting Linden as best she could while she leafed through a book called On the Nature and Uses of Magical Power. She had found it in the library-albeit with no help from Campion, who had made a point of ignoring her-and though she could not say exactly what kind of spell the Queen had been trying to cast on Linden, she was learning more about magic than she ever knew before.
Late in the afternoon Wink burst in breathless and triumphant, her arms full of yellow silk. “I’ve been wanting to try this one for years!” she announced, shaking out the gown and holding it up to her shoulders. “Do you think it will look well on me?”
“I suppose,” said Knife, without much interest.
“It’s such a shame.” Wink sighed. “Everyone tries to take good care of these gowns, but they can’t last forever. And when they’re gone, no one will even remember what they looked like.” She folded the dress over her arm. “What are you going to wear to the Feast, then? The same thing as last year?”
“Of course.” Knife had grown even taller since she was first presented to the Queen, and nothing in the old wardrobes would fit her. Besides, she found her own simple tunic and skirt more comfortable than corsets and layers of petticoats. “But never mind that,” she said, “listen to this: ‘The light magics or glamours may be wrought at any time; but to effect a permanent alteration requires great power, and is best done by moonlight.’”
“Moonlight?” said Wink. “You mean that’s why the Queen had to take Linden out of the Oak to cast her spell? But that would mean-”
“A permanent change,” Knife finished for her. “The only question is, what?” And what will it mean for Linden, that I stopped it?
Wink draped the gown over the table and hurried over. “What else does the book say?”
“There are two kinds of magic,” said Knife. “The first kind is light magic or glamour, which is easy to do but doesn’t last-growing or shrinking, turning invisible, that kind of thing. The second kind is deep magic, which takes more effort but is permanent: You can use it to turn wood to metal, or change a crow into a mouse. You can even use it to heal wounds and such-but if you want to work deep magic on another person, you’ve got to get their permission first.”
“Why?” asked Wink.
“I’m not sure,” said Knife, turning pages. “Maybe it just makes the spell easier, or…no, I’ve found it.” She bent over the book, her finger running down the paragraphs. “Because,” she said slowly, “if you use deep magic on someone against their will, it becomes dark magic. Which the book describes as…” She paused, then read out in a low voice, “‘…forbidden by the Great Gardener’s decree, an evil of which it is better not to speak.’”
Wink let out a little gasp. “You mean-you think the Queen was doing that to Linden?”
“Maybe,” said Knife. “Maybe that’s why she had to do it now, before Linden was old enough to refuse.”
“But that’s horrible!” Wink jumped to her feet. “No, I can’t believe it. I know the Queen can be cold sometimes, but she isn’t evil .”
For a moment Knife had been tempted to tell Wink everything she had learned-about Heather, about Jasmine, even about the humans. But hearing Wink defend the Queen in spite of all the suspicious things she had done, Knife realized what a mistake confiding in her might be.
“No,” she said, “you’re right. There must be some other explanation.” She closed the book and put it aside. “Anyway, it’s nearly time for the Feast. Do you need me to help you get dressed?”
The clack of goblets meeting in toast resounded through the Dining Hall, and drops of berry wine darkened the tablecloths as the Midwinter Feast began. Knife watched Amaryllis closely as she swept up the aisle to her seat, and thought that the Queen still looked a little pale. But her poise never faltered, and she wore her elaborate gown as though it were weightless-which, since it looked too new to be anything but a glamour, it probably was.
Knife stood at the head of her table, slicing the roast hare and passing platters to the faeries waiting at the other end. Plates rattled, cutlery scraped, and hands reached for bowls heaped high with roots, nuts, and berries.
“Do you want me to hold Linden while you eat?” asked Wink, at Knife’s elbow.
“No,” said Knife, “I’ll take her.” She laid down the carving knife and sat. “I’m not especially hungry.”
Wink handed Linden over, and Knife settled the baby on her knee. Now that she was used to it, she rather liked holding Linden; touch was rare among the Oakenfolk, and there was a simple honesty in that little form nestled against her that Knife found comforting. Linden had not learned to bargain or scheme, and her wants were easily satisfied. And that, thought Knife wryly, probably made her a better person than anyone else in the Oak.
Meanwhile the faeries at her table seemed bent on proving her right, shoveling food into their mouths with greedy abandon. Now and then they paused to finger the embroidered tablecloth, or admire the reflection of the torchlight on their silver cutlery. But they paid no attention to each other’s finery, only to their own; and they made no conversation, except to demand more food and drink. If each of them had been alone at her own private feast it would hardly have made a difference.
Inwardly, Knife sighed. Already she longed for the Feast to be over-but that would take hours. After the meal there would be more toasts; then they would play some silly games, leading to the inevitable quarrels about who should get the prizes; the Queen would make a speech about duty and cooperation while everyone else tried not to fall asleep, and then She stood up, her fork clattering onto her plate. “I have to go,” she said to Wink. “Would you keep Linden for me?”
“But Knife, you can’t! The Queen-”
“Tell the Queen,” said Knife, “that I am unwell.” She held the baby out, and reluctantly Wink took her.
“Perhaps you’ll feel better if you lie down?” she said.
Knife gave a halfhearted nod. Ignoring the disapproving glances of the Oakenfolk around her, she threaded
