“This.” And with that his hand slipped around the back of her neck, and his mouth pressed down on hers.
She had read about kissing in the books that Amaryllis had burned; a strange human custom, she had thought. But as Paul’s lips moved against her own, it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world. His arms locked around her, strong as oak and warm as fire; she melted into the embrace, her fingers curling against his cheek. This, she realized with her last flicker of conscious thought, was what had drawn Heather to Philip Waverley; not obligation or even friendship, but No!
Knife stiffened, then writhed free of Paul’s grasp. One hand flew to her burning face; the other flailed wildly at the door handle. “Knife? What’s the-”
“I can’t!” she shouted, throwing her weight against the door. It popped open, and she half leaped, half fell out onto the grass. Her foot turned over, and pain shot up her ankle, but she paid it no heed; she dragged herself away from the car and began struggling toward the Oakenwyld.
“Knife!”
The door slammed behind her; the engine woke with a groan. Knife limped deeper into the grass as Paul backed the car onto the road. “I was going to say I was sorry,” he called out the window. “But that would be lying, so I’d better just say-good-bye.”
Knife stood still while he drove past, watching the vehicle pick up speed as it vanished into the distance. Distracted, she walked forward-and put her foot straight into a hole. Fresh agony tore through her muscles as she stumbled, and flung out both hands to catch herself.
It was then that she realized something was missing. Aghast, she looked down at her empty, mud-smeared palms.
“Oh, for Garden’s sake!” she screamed at the sky. “I’ve left the diary in his blighted crow-eaten car!”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than her body tingled, and the world overwhelmed her with its enormity. For a moment she stood swaying, dizzy with the cruel abruptness of the change; then she sank to her knees, dropped her face against her hands, and wept.
Nineteen
Swiping the tears from her eyes, Knife forced herself back to her feet. Her ankle throbbed, but she gritted her teeth and started back up the slope toward the road. Only after several painful steps did she remember that she was a faery again, and there was no need for her to walk unless she wanted to.
Knife flexed her shoulders. She could feel her wings, but only just; they were mere ghosts of themselves now, light as dry leaves and almost as brittle. She had to concentrate hard to lift herself off the ground, and once in the air she could only glide a short distance before dropping back to her feet again. In accidentally making herself human for the second time, she had used up nearly all the magic that made her a faery.
She settled for walking again, with a few intermittent leaps, until she reached the road. But she had only gone a little way along it when she saw an enormous dead crow splayed across the pavement, no doubt struck by some passing car. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Knife began to limp past-then stopped.
This was not just any crow. This was Old Wormwood.
She ought to have been glad to see him dead. But instead she felt disappointed, even a little sorry. She had imagined meeting him in one last battle, all her wits and skill concentrated into giving him the death he deserved. But that could never happen now, because the humans had killed him first-and not even on purpose.
One of the crow’s breast feathers lay at her feet. Knife picked it up and tucked it into her belt. Then she spread her wings again and continued her awkward journey home.
“Oh!” gasped Wink, dropping her sewing as Knife climbed through her window. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until-” She stopped, her brows crooking together. “Knife…you look awful.”
Knife glanced about the room, rubbing her cold arms. Linden appeared to be comfortably asleep in her cradle, but she stooped to drape another blanket over the child just in case. “Do you know where Thorn is?” she said.
“She’s in her room, I think-but what happened to you? What’s wrong?”
Knife dropped into the nearest chair and sagged forward, leaning heavily on her knees. “I don’t have the diary,” she said to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Wood scraped as Wink pulled up another chair beside her, and she felt a small hand warm her shoulder. “You did your best,” the other faery said. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“Oh, Wink. I only wish it were that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
In halting words Knife told her story. By the time she finished, her cheeks were burning, and she did not dare to look at her foster mother’s face for fear of what she might see there. But Wink only said, in an almost wistful tone, “Was it nice?”
Knife blinked at her. “You mean…Waverley Hall?”
“No, I mean what Paul did. Did you like it?”
Knife choked back a laugh. “Wink, you are the strangest-after all the things I’ve just told you, how can you even think about that?”
Wink only looked at her, but it was enough. Knife’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not about how I feel,” she said. “It’s about what’s possible. And this…isn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m too small!” Knife almost shouted. “And I don’t have enough magic to make myself human again, even if I knew how. So how could I bear to keep seeing him, talking to him, when I can never-”
“You mean…you’re in love with him? Like Heather and Philip?”
“I don’t know,” said Knife wretchedly. “I’m not even sure I know what love is.”
“Yes, you do,” said Wink with surprising confidence. “For a while I wasn’t sure, but…you do care, Knife. Not just about Paul, but about Linden, me, even Thorn. You just aren’t good at admitting it.”
Knife groaned and put her head in her hands. “But I don’t want feelings, Wink.”
Wink put an arm around her shoulders. “I know. They can be awful at times. But I think you’re much nicer with them, myself.”
For a moment Knife sat stiffly, resisting the embrace; then she sighed and dropped her head against Wink’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. “All my life you’ve been kind to me, and I haven’t always appreciated that the way I should.”
“It’s all right.” Wink gave her a little squeeze before letting her go. “But Knife…this is serious, about losing Heather’s diary. I believe what you’ve told me, even if it scares me a little. But if we can’t find another way to prove that our people used to mate with humans, and that all our new ideas used to come from the humans as well-”
Knife’s gaze slid to the open window and the distant House. “I know,” she said. “It’s going to be hard to make people believe. Maybe the Queen was right not to tell us, especially since it seems there’s nothing we can do to fix it.”
“Thorn isn’t going to like that at all,” said Wink. “She’ll-”
A rap at the door interrupted her, and she jumped up to answer it. Valerian stood on the landing, her Healer’s kit in hand. “There you are,” she said to Knife. “They told me you’d gone, but then I heard your voice…Campion’s asking for you.”
“Asking?” said Knife, startled. “But I thought the Silence had taken her.”
“Yes, so did I,” said Valerian. “But she only slept through the night, and when I visited her this morning, I found that she could still hear and speak. She’s been holding on, waiting for you to come back and tell her more… I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Knife turned quickly to Wink. “Can you find Thorn, and tell her where I am? Tell her I need Heather’s third diary right away-not for me, but for Campion.”
“I will,” said Wink. “But Campion needs you. Go!”
Campion’s cheeks were sunken, and her hair lay lank and dull upon the pillow. But when she caught sight of Knife her face brightened, and her hand fluttered toward the bedside chair, beckoning.
