or-”
“The first faery taken by the Silence,” said Valerian, “was my own foster mother, Lavender. The Queen and I did everything we could think of to save her-teas and potions, poultices and liniments, healing spells by moonlight. But in the end she died, just the same.”
“Lavender?” asked Knife. “But if she raised you, then…what was Campion talking about when she called you Motherless?”
Valerian’s face was unreadable. “It has long been the Healer’s duty,” she said, “to make a note of every death among the Oakenfolk, along with the circumstances of that death. But nowhere is there mention of a faery named Valerian. It seems as though I am the first to bear that name in all the Oak’s history-as though my egg- mother never existed.”
Changeling. “You came from Outside,” breathed Knife, suddenly comprehending. A human child, stolen and transformed into a faery to increase the Oak’s population; it was the only explanation that made sense.
Valerian nodded. “I believe so. And I was not the first.”
Knife sank down on the end of Campion’s bed. Could this be the reason Heather and others like her had gone out into the human world? It made a terrible kind of sense, for unless the Oakenfolk found some way to add new faeries to their number, their population would eventually die out. Perhaps that was why Jasmine’s return to the Oak had been such a disappointment: They had sent her to steal a human child, but she had failed…
And yet it seemed so wrong, so unfair. Borrowing ideas and inspiration from the humans was one thing; but taking their children? What could any faery give to a human family that would make up for such a loss? And how could the gentle, kind-hearted Heather have looked forward to her mission so eagerly, if all the while she knew this was how it would end?
“Burned…” came a husky whisper from behind her, and Knife turned around to see Campion’s eyes fluttering open. But there was no anger in the Librarian’s face now, only unhappiness. “I tried to stop it…but I couldn’t.”
“I know,” said Knife, shifting closer and taking Campion’s limp hand in hers. Valerian’s brows rose, but she did not interrupt as Knife went on quietly, “I’m sorry, Campion. You were right-it was my fault the Queen burned them. I don’t blame you for hating me.”
Campion shook her head, eyes closing as though even that slight movement exhausted her. “Not hate,” she murmured. “I just…once you’d read those books, I wanted to talk to you about them so badly, but I could never find the nerve. I kept hoping you would bring it up, give me some sign to let me know…” Her words trailed off in a sigh.
“Let you know,” said Knife, leaning forward in an effort to hear. “Know what?”
“That you saw the same things in them that I did. That you understood…how important they were.” Campion opened her eyes again, staring blindly at the ceiling. “But then the Queen had them burned, and you disappeared, and when you came back…you didn’t seem to miss them anymore. You asked me for books about other things instead…I knew then that I’d been foolish to hope, that nobody…” Her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “That nobody believed in the humans, nobody cared about them, except me.”
Knife sat back, stricken. She had been afraid to trust Campion with the things she had learned about humans, unwilling to take the risk that the Librarian might misunderstand or betray her. Now she understood how wrong she had been not to be honest with her from the start-but now it was too late.
Still, she could at least talk to Campion, in these few moments before the Silence stole her wits completely. She owed the Librarian that much, and perhaps it would bring her some comfort. “Valerian,” she said over her shoulder, “would you do me a favor? Go up to my room and ask Wink if she can look after Linden a little while longer.”
It was, she realized belatedly, a very human sort of request: She had not even made the traditional offer to bargain. But Valerian did not reproach her, or even look surprised. Instead, she walked straight past Knife and out into the corridor, closing the door gently in her wake.
Knife turned back to Campion. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I have a story to tell you, about an old diary, and a Seamstress named Heather…”
Seventeen
“And that’s where Heather’s first diary ended,” said Knife to the motionless Campion, leaning close to make sure the Librarian did not miss a word. “But there’s another one, and as soon as I’ve read it, I’ll come back and tell you all about-”
She stopped, her throat tightening. Campion’s mouth hung slack, and her eyes had closed. Her hand slid from Knife’s and fell to the mattress, limp as a dead bird.
“She can’t hear you now,” Valerian said quietly. She drew the covers up around Campion’s shoulders. “Let me look after her. You’ve done all you could.”
Knife felt a dull pain beneath her ribs, as though she had swallowed a bone. “But not enough,” she said bitterly, and turned away.
“Valerian was a what?” asked Wink.
“A changeling,” said Knife wearily, taking Linden from her and sitting down on the sofa. “Born human, then stolen and turned into a faery. Or at least that’s what we both think.”
Wink sank down beside her. “And Campion has the Silence… I can’t believe it. She isn’t even the oldest of us; she’s younger than Thorn. How could this happen?”
There was no answer to that, and Knife did not try to give one. They sat together without speaking for a long time. Finally Wink said in a soft voice, “Well, I hope you find Heather’s diary tomorrow. But even if you don’t, I’ll be glad if you just come back safe.” She looked away, as though embarrassed. “I know you’re used to taking risks, but…I worry about you.”
Looking at Wink’s small, forlorn figure, Knife felt as though someone had taken hold of her heart and squeezed it. “You needn’t worry,” she said gently. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
As Knife headed out the Queen’s Gate the next morning, the sky hung gray and lowering, and cold mist blanketed the ground. Rain seemed inevitable, so she set off across the Oakenwyld at her briskest pace, consoling herself that if she got soaked at least Paul’s car would be dry.
When she reached the stone bridge where they had agreed to meet she was apprehensive at first, for she had never ridden in a car before. But the longer she waited the more restless she became, and by the time the berry-colored wagon finally rumbled over the bridge and crunched to a stop beside her, Knife leaped up and ran toward it without hesitation. Surely this was how Heather must have felt on the day she left the Oak, after all those months of planning and waiting…
“Knife?” said Paul’s voice as the door cracked open.
“I’m here,” she said. One fluttering leap took her to the floor of the car, another to the seat. It smelled strange-of dirt and metal, and a sour tang she did not recognize. But it also smelled like Paul, and that was reassuring.
Paul frowned at the map in his hand. “Just a minute, while I check…right, I’ve got it.” He folded the page and tucked it away, then leaned past her to yank the passenger door shut. “You’d better sit down,” he said.
Knife dropped to her knees, curling her legs beneath her. Unable to see out the window high above, she concentrated on the brisk movements of Paul’s hands as he jolted the car into motion and steered it down the narrow lane. The growl of the engine changed its timbre, an invisible hand pressed her back against the upholstery; then Paul swung the wheel and she tumbled over, skidding across the seat with a cry.
“Sorry,” said Paul. “I should have buckled you in-or maybe you’d be better off in my pocket?”
“I think so,” she gasped.
“Here, then.” He slowed the car and brought it to a stop. Picking herself up, Knife hurried across the seat and climbed into the inside pocket of Paul’s jacket. It was too shallow for her to stand in comfortably, but there was just enough room to sit.
“All right?” asked Paul.
“Yes,” she said, and the car picked up speed again.
Cradled in a hammock of soft fabric, Knife could finally relax. She leaned against the comforting warmth of
