alight?
Magic, she thought in dismay. The humans have magic.
Bryony sat down heavily on the doorstep. She knew, now, that the humans could not be monsters. They might still be dangerous, but they were not animals, living by mere instinct. They were intelligent. They were people.
All at once a shadow passed over her, and she leaped up in panic before realizing that she was still safe, that the dark shape remained on the far side of the door. In fact, with such bright light coming from inside the House, and nothing but darkness in the garden where she stood, it would be difficult for the humans to see her unless they already knew where to look. Silently rebuking herself for her cowardice, she crouched by the window again.
“Did you see?” The voice sounded hollowly from the other side of the glass. “We had a letter from Paul today.”
The speaker was an older female, her hair a loose cap of brown curls streaked with silver. She picked up a tray from the tea table and padded out of sight again, adding as she went, “He’s sounding much happier lately. I wonder if he’s met someone?”
They speak our language, thought Bryony in amazement. How could they have lived so close to us for so many years, and we never knew?
“I doubt that,” said a deeper voice, and Bryony craned her neck to see a second human enter the room and sit down in one of the armchairs. She frowned a moment, bemused by the square jaw, flat chest and heavy hands; then she realized that the two humans were a mated pair, and this must be the male. What a strange-looking creature he was! But he also reminded her of the boy she had met climbing the Oak, all those years ago. Did he live in the House, too?
“Well anyway, he’s enjoying the choir,” offered the woman, “and they’ve made him captain of the rowing team this year.”
“Beatrice,” said the man, waving a folded piece of paper at her, “I can read.”
His mate made a clucking noise and was silent. Eventually the man let the page fall to his lap and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
“Away for Christmas,” he said dolefully.
“Oh, George, he’s young. At sixteen, would you have given up an opportunity to go to Paris just to sit at home with your parents? At least he’ll be well looked after, and we’ll have him for the New Year.”
“I suppose.” He tossed the envelope onto the tea table. It skittered across the surface and tumbled to the floor. Bryony read the address written on it quickly- George and Beatrice McCormick -then ducked back into the shadows as the man approached.
“Do you need help with those dishes?” he asked, stooping to retrieve the letter. “I’ll dry up, if you like.”
“All right,” said the woman, and then as if it were nothing she added, “Thanks.”
Bryony took a step back, appalled. How could the human thank her mate, just like that? Putting herself forever in his debt, all for the sake of a few dishes?
On the other hand, she realized as the shock subsided, the man had seemed just as unconscious of his own strange behavior-offering help without being asked for it, and not even taking the time to bargain. Did he really value his own services so little? Wasn’t he afraid that his mate would take advantage of him?
Or was it possible that these two humans had reached some sort of understanding, and no longer needed to bargain with each other at all?
Part of her wanted to stay and find out. But she had wasted enough time already: She could see no useful metal here, and she dared not go into that room in any case. With a last wistful glance through the glass, Bryony backed up a few steps and launched herself up to the next window.
She flitted from kitchen to dining room, to the top level of the House and down again, amazed and fascinated by the things she glimpsed inside. But nowhere did she see anything like a faery-sized knife. Eventually, however, she found a room that looked more promising. It was dimly lit, but as she peered through the gap in the curtains she could see what appeared to be a study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and across from her stood a desk with papers stacked upon it. And there, beneath the radiance of the swan-necked lamp, sat an earthenware pot holding a few pens, a ruler, and “Oh,” she whispered reverently.
At first glance it looked like a spear, a pole of gleaming silver just a little shorter than Bryony herself. But instead of the diamond-shaped spearheads that she and Thorn carved, it bore a long, angled blade. The point looked wickedly sharp, and Bryony clapped her hands with excitement. If she could pull that blade free of its shaft, it would make a perfect knife.
The room stood deserted: She had her opportunity, if only she could find a way inside. Bryony crouched, jammed her hands into the crack beneath the window, and yanked upward. For a moment she felt nothing except the sting of scraped knuckles, and she feared that it might be locked. But then came a creak, and the window shifted. It took a few more tooth-gritting efforts, but at last she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze through.
Now was her last chance to turn back. At present she was safe, the humans nowhere in sight, but once she entered the House, anything could happen. If they had magical lights, they might have magical traps as well. Was it worth the risk?
She would just go in a little way at first, she told herself as she lay down upon the sill. That way, she might still have time to escape if anything went wrong. Wriggling through the gap, she clambered to her feet on the far side and waited, every muscle tensed. But nothing happened, and she began to wonder if the humans might not be so magical after all.
Her sensitive wings quivered against her back, eager to taste the air; she hesitated, then spread them wide and glided down to the desk. With both hands she seized the knife on its silver pole, and tugged.
It lifted easily-too easily, for as it came free the whole container tipped over. Scrambling to keep her feet as pens and pencils clattered about her, Bryony did not see the worst of the danger until it was too late: The earthenware pot tumbled off the edge of the desk and crashed to the floor below.
“What was that?” exclaimed the woman’s voice from the other room, and her mate replied, “It sounded like it came from the study.”
Footsteps in the corridor-too fast, too close. There was no time to reach the window. She had to find a place to hide. Bryony ran to the other side of the desk, looking frantically in all directions. Seeing below her a basket half filled with crumpled papers, she hurled the knife into it point-first, then leaped after it. She just had time to crouch down and tug a scrap of paper over her head before she heard a snap, and the room flooded with light.
“What is it, George?” asked the woman.
“Something’s knocked over my pens,” the man called back. “A mouse, I suppose.” He paced around the desk, his shadow darkening the basket, and Bryony cringed.
“Oh, good.” His mate sounded relieved. “As long as that’s all. I’ll put out the traps before we go to bed.”
“Mm,” said the man dubiously, and Bryony heard a scraping noise followed by clinks as he picked up the pot from the floor and dropped his writing tools back into it. Then he put out the lights and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Bryony pressed her face against her knees, swallowing. He had come so very close to her hiding place, so close that she could smell him-but by the Gardener’s mercy he had not scented her. She must get out of the House at once.
Breathing hard, she flung herself from one side of the wastebasket to the other until it tipped over, showering her with crumpled wads of paper. Then she dragged her stolen knife into the moonlight and began to examine it.
The blade was loose, jiggling in its socket. She fiddled with the shaft until she figured out how to twist it apart, and her new knife dropped onto the floor at her feet.
Finally she had the perfect weapon: a slim silver triangle lighter than flint, stronger and more resilient than bone. Its far end bore a slotted tab where it had fit into the barrel-a perfect core for a hilt.
Leaving the two pieces of the barrel lying next to the overturned basket, Bryony crawled out the window and flew back to the Oak, her glittering prize clenched between her teeth.
That night she didn’t sleep at all.
