Queen’s study, with its desk buried in parchments and dark bookshelves looming on every side.
“I know you mourned the loss of those books about humans,” said the Queen. “As did poor Campion. Had I known how much she would suffer, I would have taken her into my confidence. But even if this comes too late to console her, it is not too late for you.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the shelves. “Look up, Knife, and tell me what you see.”
Grudgingly Knife raised her eyes-and gasped. There stood Laurel’s Human Conventions and Courtesies with its well-creased spine, the two fat volumes by Juniper entitled On the Ways of Men, and all the other books about humans she had thought lost forever. “But how?” she asked. “Campion said they’d been burned-”
“Things are not always as they seem,” said Amaryllis. “I ordered the library cupboard emptied, it is true; and at the same time I told Mallow to light the kitchen fire and burn all the fuel I sent her. But the books that Campion saw taken away were mere glamour, more illusion than substance; the originals had already been gathered up by Bluebell at my command and brought safely here.” She ran her fingers along the spines in a lingering caress. “Even though I had given up hope that they would ever be needed again, I could not bring myself to destroy them.”
“And yet you ask me to murder Paul McCormick.” The words were bitter in Knife’s mouth. “How can any number of books about humans be worth more than a human life?”
“You forget, Knife, he is dying already. In truth he was doomed even as a child, for by meeting him face-to- face you awakened in him a restless need to create-and then you vanished from his life, your work with him unfinished.” She walked slowly around Knife as she spoke. “Still, he might have lived, though never quite happily, had you not sought him out again. You rekindled the spark between you; you fanned it with your friendship and fueled it with a kiss; and now it has become a fire that will surely consume you both…unless you do as I bid, and quench it.”
Knife turned away, sick at heart. The Queen is lying, she tried to tell herself, she’s mistaken, she’s wrong… And yet she could not help but remember Paul’s words to her just before they parted: There’s a reason I told you that story about Alfred Wrenfield. What Jane Nesmith gave to him…that’s what you’ve given me.
Wrenfield had drugged himself into an early grave after Jasmine left him; and Philip Waverley also had died young, his potential as a poet unfulfilled. Had she saved Paul from drowning only to condemn him to another, even more hopeless death?
“Your actions forged this bond,” the Queen continued, soft but relentless, “so only your hand can break it. And if you refuse to cut the thread that binds your lives together, then you too will wither away and die, as surely as if the Silence had taken you. The crows will return to the Oakenwyld, and we shall all suffer for it; for Thorn has not your strength, your speed, or your courage. There will be no one to seek out other faeries, and in the end we shall all perish-”
“Stop!” Knife clapped her hands over her ears. A teardrop seared her cheek as she whispered, “Enough.”
Amaryllis said nothing, only watched her steadily. Knife swallowed back a shard of pain and went on: “You said-you would give me something to-”
“Yes,” said the Queen. “I have in my keeping a certain potion, brewed by magic long ago. A single drop in his drink, or in his food, will send him into a sleep from which he cannot wake. He will feel no pain, sense no wrong, never be aware that his heart has stopped. To his parents, it will seem a natural death; and for him, it will be a mercy.”
“You swear it?” faltered Knife, and then passionately, “Swear!”
“I do.”
“And then…when I come back…”
“You will be free.” Amaryllis laid a hand on her shoulder. “You will mourn him, of course; but like all sorrows, it will pass. I shall restore your wings, and then you shall serve me and your sisters as the Queen’s Hunter once more.” Her fingers tightened briefly, consoling. “I know your heart cries out against this thing. But I assure you, Knife, it is the only way.”
Knife bowed her head. Then she said very quietly, “Yes.”
Outside the Oak, twilight had stained the sky indigo, littering it with crumpled rags of cloud and a smudge of vermilion along the horizon where the sun had slipped away. Deep in the forest an owl questioned the night, but received no answer.
Knife slid out the window and walked to the end of the branch, staring blindly out across the Oakenwyld. Then she spread her wings and launched herself into the gathering darkness. In three long glides she crossed the lawn and landed at the back of the House, trembling with the effort of flight. She paused to catch her breath, then thrashed her way up to the kitchen window and crouched there, waiting.
Slowly the minutes passed, until at last the light clicked on and Beatrice McCormick padded into view. Out came the familiar china teacups, clinking onto their saucers; then the milk jug emerged, bowing three times before returning to the depths of the refrigerator. The last item in the ritual was the sugar bowl, and Knife pressed her face to the window, intent as a hunting mink. Two spoonfuls went into the first cup, one in the second, but the third cup remained untouched-Paul’s.
Once she had filled the teakettle and plugged it in, Beatrice left the kitchen, but Knife knew it would not be long before the woman returned. Clutching the phial Amaryllis had given her, she ducked through the window and dropped onto the countertop below.
Paul’s cup stood innocently before her. Willing herself not to think about what she was doing, Knife pulled out the stopper and tipped the bottle over it. A thread of purple snaked out, traced a dark spiral in the milk, and vanished.
I’ve done it, she thought in relief. It’s over. I can go.
And yet her legs refused to move, and the fingers that clutched the phial were slippery with sweat. She felt flushed, dizzy, and her rib cage ached from the hammering of her heart. I can’t do this- But it’s already done- It’s murder- No, it’s mercy- He’ll die if I do this- We’ll both die if I don’t Knife’s fingers uncurled, and the bottle slipped from her hand. Spinning, it tumbled through the air, struck the counter, and smashed to glittering dust.
For a moment Knife stood paralyzed, little explosions of shock firing all over her body. Then with sudden determination she lunged forward, put her shoulder against the poisoned teacup, and pushed. She waited only long enough to watch it teeter over the edge before she whirled and dove back through the window, pressing herself flat against the wall. Panting, she listened to the thud-thud-thud of the woman’s footsteps, her sharp exclamation at the wreckage littering her kitchen floor.
Do you love him? Wink had asked her only a few hours ago, and Knife had not been sure of the answer. How could she love a human, at her tiny size? It was like falling in love with a mountain, or a tree. Yet for some reason she could not harm Paul McCormick, even in the name of mercy; it would have been easier to carve out her own heart.
Knife clung to the rough brick, calling on all her reserves of strength and courage. It didn’t matter what had kept her from killing Paul: Whether it was love or only loyalty, the path before her was the same. She must return to the Oak, and surrender herself to whatever fate the Queen and the Great Gardener might decree. But first, she had to see Paul one last time, and warn him.
She had thought he would be surprised to see her again, especially after the way their last conversation had ended. But as he opened the window he only looked resigned. “You’ve come back for your book, I suppose,” he said as she climbed in.
“Book?” said Knife in confusion. Then blood scorched her cheeks as she remembered Heather’s second diary, but Paul had already gone on:
“Look, Knife, I should never have done what I did this morning. I didn’t realize-” He stopped, coloring in his turn. “Anyway, it was stupid of me. I know better now.”
“Paul? I’ve brought your tea.”
Hastily Knife sprang to her feet and ducked behind the curtain as the door swung wide and Beatrice came in. “It’s the oddest thing,” she said. “Vermeer’s asleep, and we haven’t had mice in months. But your cup fell off the counter while I was waiting for the kettle to boil.”
“Really,” said Paul, and though his voice was relaxed, the line of his shoulders was not.
“Smashed all to bits,” his mother mused, “and yet I could have sworn it wasn’t anywhere near the edge. It’s almost enough to make one believe in poltergeists.” When Paul did not reply, she set the saucer down by his elbow and stooped to kiss his cheek. “You’ve had a busy day, dear. Don’t you think you might like to turn in early?”
