Paul’s side and closed her eyes.
“Knife.”
She stirred, dimly aware that the car had stopped moving again. “Mmm?”
“We’re here. No,” he cautioned as she began to clamber out of his pocket, “you’d better stay where you are. Can you see?”
“Not much.” The jacket draped across her view on one side, and his body all but blocked the other; it was like peering out through the flap of a very tall and narrow tent.
“Well, then, I’ll give a signal when it’s time for you to come out. Like this.” He nudged her lightly with his elbow. “All right?”
“All right,” said Knife, sinking down into the pocket again.
“Hang on, I’m going to open the doors.” A creaking noise followed, and a rain-scented breeze flowed into the car. “Just have to pull my wheelchair out of the backseat and set it up…and now I’m ready to transfer out. Here goes.”
The pocket swung outward at an alarming angle, then bumped back into place. Gravel crackled as the chair rolled backward; then the doors slammed shut. Knife raised herself up on her knees, bracing herself with a hand against Paul’s side, and leaned forward to see where they were going.
She had expected that Waverley Hall would be little different from the House, but now she knew she might as well have compared a sapling to the Oak itself. It towered above them, morning sunlight flashing on its tall windows and setting its russet brick aglow. This was where Heather had left her diary?
“Three cheers for wheelchair accessibility,” Paul muttered, pushing his chair up a slight ramp and pressing a button on the wall. With a low hum the door swung inward, and Knife ducked back inside Paul’s jacket as they entered Waverley Hall.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of roses. She heard whispers and giggles around them; it seemed that she and Paul were not the only ones touring the estate that morning. Money changed hands, guidebooks were handed out, and in a few moments a bright female voice hushed all the others into silence:
“Welcome to Waverley Hall, built by Sir John Waverley in 1683 and still owned by his descendants today. The family is glad to welcome you to their estate, but before we begin our tour we’ll need to go over a few simple rules…”
The young woman went on to explain that they must stay with the group at all times, respect the privacy of the owners, and above all not touch anything. Knife grimaced. With several other people on the tour and the guide watching them all closely, how could she hope to slip out of Paul’s pocket without being seen?
“We’ll begin our tour here in the main hall,” the guide said, her footsteps receding, and Knife clung to Paul as his chair rolled forward. “This is where the Waverley family portraits are kept: Over the fireplace you can see Sir John, and on the far side his wife, Prudence, and their firstborn son, James. Several generations of the family are represented here, all painted by leading artists of the day…”
As they wound their way through the room, Knife felt Paul’s ribs expand with his sudden intake of breath. “That’s a Wrenfield,” he murmured to her. “Can you see it?”
She peered cautiously out of his jacket and looked up to see a painting of a man with reddish hair and sober gray eyes. His lips were curved a little upward, but one could see at a glance that the smile was false, a brave attempt at hiding some secret pain. “Who was he?” she whispered back.
“Philip Waverley,” Paul said behind his hand. “Born 1798, died in 1832. Some sort of poet, I think. But never mind that. Look at the background.”
Knife obeyed, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She was about to ask Paul what he meant when her eye fell upon it, almost invisible among the shadows: a dark, slender figure…with wings.
“That’s the first faery Wrenfield ever painted,” Paul went on softly. “But this portrait was the last time he ever painted anything else.”
“Now that we’ve met the family,” said the young woman leading the tour, “I’d like you to follow me into the drawing room…”
The group moved on, and Knife waited with growing impatience as the guide led them from one room to another, chattering on about the history of the estate, the development of its architecture and decor, and other unimportant matters. She was beginning to wonder if she would have better luck searching the house on her own when she heard the guide say, “…and now let’s move on to the library.”
Knife grabbed a double handful of Paul’s shirt and swung herself free of his inside pocket, crouching just inside the front of his coat as the group slowly circled the room. As they drifted out again Paul hung back, leaning to one side while he pretended to adjust his wheel brake. “Go,” he whispered, and Knife slithered down his hip, swung off the frame of the chair, and dropped to the carpet by his side. Paul gave her a quick crossed-finger gesture, then pushed himself out into the corridor, leaving Knife alone.
Knife straightened up and looked around to find herself in a fresh, well-lighted room lined with shelves and cabinets. An exotic rug covered the floor, flanked by leather furniture, while in the middle of the room an oval table squatted under the weight of an enormous porcelain vase. Somewhere in all this opulence, Knife knew, she would find Heather’s second diary-but where?
The bookcases seemed the most logical place to start. She flew to the top of the first shelf and began running her hands along the spines, reading each one as quickly as she could. I’m here, she pleaded silently. Heather sent me. Where are you?
Every creaking footstep, every distant voice, made her heart jerk; every few seconds she glanced at the door, ready to dive into hiding the moment anyone should appear. Flitting from row to row, she had touched all the books in three full cases and was just beginning the fourth when a burning pain shot through her fingertips. With a cry she jumped back-and plunged off the edge of the shelf.
Her wings caught her before she had fallen more than a sparrow-length, and she bit off her scream almost at once; but the commotion had not gone unheard. A rapid clicking sounded in the hallway, and a squat, wrinkle-faced dog ambled in. Hovering in midair, Knife held as still as she could as the animal padded toward her, and a questioning noise rumbled in its throat.
“Good dog,” whispered Knife-but that was a mistake. The air erupted with hoarse barking as the little dog bounced up and down in a futile attempt to reach her. Knife clapped her hands over her ears and leaped to the top of the bookshelf, getting as far away from the noisy animal as she could.
“Yahtzee, hush!” said a woman’s reproachful voice from the corridor, and Knife glanced about in panic for a place to hide. The shelves were all full, the cabinets sealed; the furniture stood too high and the porcelain vase too low “Silly creature, what are you fussing about?” chided the human as she bustled in, bending to seize the agitated dog by the collar. She was a small woman with upswept hair and beautifully made clothes. Knife’s heart sank as she realized that this must be the owner of the house.
The woman tried to coax the dog back toward the door, but still it strained toward Knife’s hiding place, yelping. With a frown the woman picked it up and stepped forward, so close now that Knife could smell her perfume. She glanced out the window at the lawn; then her face cleared and she held the dog up in front of her, crooning, “Naughty squirrels! You’d like to teach them a lesson, wouldn’t you? But not today, so come along and behave.” Tucking her pet tenderly into the crook of her arm, she carried it out and shut the doors behind her.
Knife let go of the curtain and collapsed to the windowsill, head tipped back against the cool glass. When her heart stopped pounding she clambered to her feet again and flew back up to the bookcase.
She could see the diary tucked away at the far end of the shelf: an ordinary-looking little book, except for the faint glow emanating from its spine. Gingerly she reached out, bracing herself for another shock-but even as she touched it the light died away, and she was able to put her hand upon it. Heather’s second diary was hers at last.
There was only one problem, and she cursed herself for not having anticipated it: The diary was human- sized. How could she possibly get it off the shelf, let alone sneak it out of the building, when it was bigger than she was?
Knife glanced from the shelf to the window and back again. Perhaps she could open the window and push the diary out for Paul to retrieve later? It was not a very good plan, but it was better than no plan at all, so she decided to try it.
Her fingers dug into the leather, tugging hard. The diary shifted grudgingly forward. Knife’s wings blurred into action as she stepped backward into the air, and for one excited moment she believed her plan would work. But
