Strange, thought Knife, that she should feel relieved. “Then…what do you want with her?”
The Queen strode to the corner, bent, and lifted Linden from the cradle. “You never cease to ask questions,” she said. “But there are times when you must learn to restrain your curiosity, Knife, and simply obey.” She pulled one of the furs from Knife’s cot and wrapped Linden up in it until only her small face was visible. “I will return her to you shortly, when I am done.” And with that she swept out, taking the baby with her.
Knife stood beside the empty cradle, listening to the Queen’s footsteps fade away. Then she stalked across the room and flung open the clothespress, reaching for her boots and cloak.
Crouched at the mouth of the secret tunnel, invisible amid the shadows of the hedge, Knife watched as the East Root door cracked open and the Queen slipped out, moving lightly as a spider. The dry grass whispered beneath her boots as she crossed the lawn and paused, glancing up at the generous moon. Then she crouched down, laid Linden upon the ground, and began to unwrap her.
She moved quickly, peeling back layer after layer until the baby was almost naked. Linden wailed piteously as the wind swirled around her, and it was all Knife could do not to rush out from her hiding place at once—but she forced herself to remain still, and wait.
The Queen reached out, laying one white hand upon Linden’s brow and the other upon her belly. She remained there unmoving, head bent, while the child writhed and sobbed upon the cold ground. Knife’s indignation flamed up again, and she was just about to step forward when she saw the Queen’s hands begin to glow, magic fanning outward from her fingers and rippling like moonlit water. It swirled about the baby, enfolding her in a chrysalis of light, and as Linden’s cries melted into happy gurgles, Knife sat back on her heels. A spell of blessing, perhaps, or protection. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be doing the child any harm—
All at once Amaryllis clenched her hands. The magical cocoon pulsed, and Linden began to scream.
Knife could bear it no longer. She burst out of her hiding place and plunged across the lawn, knocking the Queen aside and snatching Linden up in her arms. For an instant she felt a wrenching pain deep in her belly, but she did not even have time to gasp before it stopped. The bubble of light burst, and Linden’s shrieks turned to sobs as Knife cradled her close and wrapped the cloak around her.
“Stop it!” she shouted at Amaryllis, too angry and frightened for courtesy. “You’re hurting her!”
“I must finish the spell!” The Queen struggled to her feet, hands outstretched. “Quickly, give her back to me, before—”
Knife held the baby closer and took a step back. “Leave her alone!”
“Foolish girl,” said Amaryllis between her teeth, “you have no idea—” Then she stopped, staring at something over Knife’s shoulder.
Knife turned to see a fox slip out from the shadows and pad across the lawn toward them, tongue lolling with hunger. Her mouth went dry.
“Why didn’t you scent it?” demanded the Queen.
“Because we were upwind,” said Knife shortly, never taking her eyes off the fox. “How do you think it scented us?”
“Can we outrun it?”
“Are you joking?”
Amaryllis whipped off her cloak and flung it on the ground. Wings spread, she leaped into the air—and a gust of wind caught her, tossed her like a dry leaf, and flung her down again.
“The air currents are wild out here,” Knife shouted to her. “It’s no use—even if we could stay aloft, we’d never get anywhere against this wind!”
The fox stepped closer, steam threading from its mouth. Knife backed away, stripping off her own cloak as she went and bundling Linden up in it. “Take her!” she said, thrusting her at Amaryllis, who had struggled to her feet. “Get back to the Oak!”
The Queen reached out and took the child, but it was only to lay her down upon the frosty ground again. “Not without you,” she said.
“Take her!” roared Knife. She waved her arms, willing the fox to focus its attention on her, to ignore Amaryllis and the child. “Get away while you have the chance!”
“And what will you do?” retorted the Queen. “Die?”
Knife drew her dagger. The fox lunged; she ducked away from its snapping jaws. “Not if I can help it,” she panted. “But I don’t have time to argue, Amaryllis—just go!”
“I have seen too many of my people die,” said the Queen grimly. “Knife, stand aside.”
Knife scarcely heard her, intent on the circling fox. The icy wind bit through her tunic, needling into her skin; already her muscles felt stiff, and she knew she could not dodge the vixen long. But if she could distract it for another few seconds…
“I said, stand aside!” thundered Amaryllis, and an invisible hand plucked Knife off her feet, tossing her back across the lawn. Then the Queen’s wings burst into shimmering light as she raised both hands, palms outward, and directed a beam of blinding radiance at the fox.
It yelped and leaped backward, head tossing and paws scrabbling at the snow. “Begone!” commanded the Queen in a ringing voice, and the fox turned tail and dashed away.
Still glowing, Amaryllis stood erect until the fox squirmed through the hedge and vanished in the darkness beyond. Then she turned toward Knife, her face drained of color, and collapsed.
Knife stumbled across the lawn and dropped to her knees. She rubbed Linden’s face until the baby whined in protest; then she tucked her into the crook of one arm and reached for Amaryllis with the other. “Your Majesty,” she pleaded, “wake up!” But the Queen did not stir.
Gritting her teeth, Knife hefted Amaryllis by the waist and began dragging her toward the hedge. But her legs were made of stone, and even breathing was an effort. A curious warmth enfolded her, tempting her to lie down; the ground looked so soft, so welcoming….
Panting silver clouds into the air, Knife lurched across the lawn, muscles screaming as she hauled her double burden. Her breeches were stiff with ice, and she could no longer feel her hands. She plunged forward another step, and another, until her foot kicked something warm and she fell, nearly crushing Linden beneath her. Struggling to her feet again, she turned to see Amaryllis lying on the ground; she had dropped the Queen without realizing it. Wearily she bent, slung Amaryllis’s arm about her shoulders, and hauled her a few more steps into the tangled shadow of the hedge.
As she stooped into the secret tunnel, Knife began to shout for help. Shuffling along, feeling Linden and Amaryllis grow heavier with every step, she called out until her throat was hoarse, but no one answered. She had almost given up hope when she saw light glimmer at the other end of the tunnel, and a stocky figure hurried toward her with lantern in hand.
“Thorn,” rasped Knife. “Take Linden, quickly. And the Queen—” Then her knees buckled, the floor rushed up to meet her, and she knew no more.
Fourteen
“Knife, oh, Knife, wake up, please—”
Her eyes cracked open to see a white blob that gradually resolved itself into Wink’s face. “Oh, merciful Gardener,” the other faery breathed, “drink this,” and she tipped something into Knife’s mouth.
Knife spluttered but forced herself to swallow. “What does Valerian put in that stuff?” she gasped as the medicine seared its way down her throat. “Pine needles and fish oil?”
“Probably,” said Wink, wavering between laughter and tears. “Oh, Knife, I’m so glad you’re all right. For a little while, I thought—”
“Linden,” said Knife, struggling to sit up. “Where is she? And the Queen?”
“Sleeping. Both of them. Valerian says they’ll be fine—Knife, do lie down, you’re making me nervous.”
Reluctantly Knife lay back as Wink plumped her pillow and pulled the blankets up about her shoulders. “You do know you aren’t my Mother anymore?” she said.
She had meant it as a joke, but Wink’s face fell. “No one ever asked me if I was ready to stop being your Mother,” she said. “I ju
st woke up, and they’d taken you away from me, and there was nothing I could do about it. So…no.” She lifted her head, eyes brimming. “No, I don’t know that. I don’t think I ever will.”
Knife felt as though a tree branch had clubbed her in the stomach. “I didn’t know,” she said lamely.
“Oh, I don’t blame you,” sniffled Wink. “You were only a child. You probably thought they were punishing you.”
This was true, but Knife had also assumed that Wink had been glad to see her go. She had never imagined that Wink had actually missed her—why would she, when Knife had never given her anything but trouble?
“Anyway,” Wink went on, taking out a handkerchief and blowing her nose, “none of that matters now. What I want to know is what you and Linden and the Queen were doing out there in the first place.”
“I’m not sure,” said Knife slowly. “The Queen took Linden into the moonlight and started casting some kind of spell. I managed to stop her, but—”
Wink’s mouth fell open. “You stopped the Queen?”
“She was hurting Linden. What else could I do?”
“Oh,” said Wink, looking stricken. “Oh, dear. So that was why the Queen wouldn’t let me come with her, the night she took you.”
“Took me?” Knife sat up again, ignoring the pounding in her head. “When?”
“You can’t have been much older than Linden is now. The Queen just turned up at my door one night and took you away for a while. She never would tell me why, but you seemed to be all right when she brought you back, so…” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry, Knife.”
“It’s all right, I don’t remember it,” Knife said, but her hand slid to her belly as she spoke, and for a moment she felt an echo of last night’s brief, wrenching pain. “Is Linden here?”
“Knife, you can’t just—oh, do get back in bed!” Wink fluttered about her, trying to drape the blanket around her shoulders, but she was too short to reach. “It’s too cold, it’s too soon, Valerian said you weren’t to get up until tomorrow—”
“I’m fine,” said Knife shortly. In truth she felt as though she had fallen down all nine flights of the Spiral Stair, but she managed to shuffle over to Linden’s cradle.
Studying the baby’s face, Knife had to admit that she appeared none the worse for her ordeal. Her cheeks looked redder than usual, the points of her ears chapped and flaking, but otherwise—Knife folded back the blankets to be sure—there was not a mark on her.
“You don’t see anything, do you?” said Wink.
“No,” said Knife. “But I know the Queen did something to her.” And whatever it was, she finished silently, I’m going to find out.
After a day’s rest and two more doses of Valerian’s noxious medicine, Knife felt almost well again. It helped, of course, that Wink stayed with her the whole time, keeping her and Linden warm, fed, and mostly undisturbed.
The exception was Thorn, who showed up in the middle of the day to give Knife a hard, questioning look and mutter a few words to Wink before leaving again with ill-concealed impatience. Wink, surprisingly, seemed to take this in stride, and when Knife asked her what was going on, she only shook her head and said that it would wait until Knife was better.
Then came Midwinter’s Day, and the Oak itself seemed to vibrate with excitement as faeries rushed up and down the Spiral Stair, preparing for the Feast. Some dashed about the corridors hanging garlands of beads and dried berries, while others lit the brass lamps and set them in place. Campion and her helpers draped the Dining Hall with tapestries and linens from the archives. At Amaryllis’s command Wink opened the wardrobes where the prettiest gowns from the Days of Magic were kept, and began helping the eager Oakenfolk into them.
Knife, however, spent most of the day in her room, distracting Linden as best she could while she leafed through a book called On the Nature and Uses of Magical Power. She had found it in the library—albeit with no help from Campion, who had made a point of ignoring her—and though she could not say exactly what kind of spell the Queen had been trying to cast on Linden, she was learning more about magic than she ever knew before.
Late in the afternoon Wink burst in breathless and triumphant, her arms full of yellow silk. “I’ve been wanting to try this one for years!” she announced, shaking out the gown and holding it up to her shoulders. “Do you think it will look well on me?”
“I suppose,” said Knife, without much interest.
“It’s such a shame.” Wink sighed. “Everyone tries to take good care of these gowns, but they can’t last forever. And when they’re gone, no one will even remember what they looked like.” She folded the dress over her arm. “What are you going to wear to the Feast, then? The same thing as last year?”
“Of course.” Knife had grown even taller since she was first presented to the Queen, and nothing in the old wardrobes would fit her. Besides, she found her own simple tunic and skirt more comfortable than corsets and layers of petticoats. “But never mind that,” she said, “listen to this: ‘The light magics or glamours may be wrought at any time; but to effect a permanent alteration requires great power, and is best done by moonlight.’”
“Moonlight?” said Wink. “You mean that’s why the Queen had to take Linden out of the Oak to cast her spell? But that would mean—”
“A permanent change,” Knife finished for her. “The only question is, what?” And what will it mean for Linden, that I stopped it?
Wink draped the gown over the table and hurried over. “What else does the book say?”
“There are two kinds of magic,” said Knife. “The first kind is light magic or glamour, which is easy to do but doesn’t last—growing or shrinking, turning invisible, that kind of thing. The second kind is deep magic, which takes more effort but is permanent: You can use it to turn wood to metal, or change a crow into a mouse. You can even use it to heal wounds and such—but if you want to work deep magic on another person, you’ve got to get their permission first.”
“Why?” asked Wink.
“I’m not sure,” said Knife, turning pages. “Maybe it just makes the spell easier, or…no, I’ve found it.” She bent over the book, her finger running down the paragraphs. “Because,” she said slowly, “if you use deep magic on someone against their will, it becomes dark magic. Which the book describes as…” She paused, then read out in a low voice, “‘…forbidden by the Great Gardener’s decree, an evil of which it is better not to speak.’”
Wink let out a little gasp. “You mean—you think the Queen was doing that to Linden?”
“Maybe,” said Knife. “Maybe that’s why she had to do it now, before Linden was old enough to refuse.”
“But that’s horrible!” Wink jumped to her feet. “No, I can’t believe it. I know the Queen can be cold sometimes, but she isn’t evil.”
For a moment Knife had been tempted to tell Wink everything she had learned—about Heather, about Jasmine, even about the humans. But hearing Wink defend the Queen in spite of all the suspicious things she had done, Knife realized what a mistake confiding in her might be.
“No,” she said, “you’re right. There must be some other explanation.” She closed the book and put it aside. “Anyway, it’s nearly time for the Feast. Do you need me to help you get dressed?”
The clack of goblets meeting in toast resounded through the Dining Hall, and drops of berry wine darkened the tablecloths as the Midwinter Feast began. Knife watched Amaryllis closely as she swept up the aisle to her seat, and thought that the Queen still looked a little pale. But her poise never faltered, and she wore her elaborate gown as though it were weightless—which, since it looked too new to be anything but a glamour, it probably was.
Knife stood at the head of her table, slicing the roast hare and passing platters to the faeries waiting at the other end. Plates rattled, cutlery scraped, and hands reached for bowls heaped high with roots, nuts, and berries.
“Do you want me to hold Linden while you eat?” asked Wink, at Knife’s el
bow.
“No,” said Knife, “I’ll take her.” She laid down the carving knife and sat. “I’m not especially hungry.”
Wink handed Linden over, and Knife settled the baby on her knee. Now that she was used to it, she rather liked holding Linden; touch was rare among the Oakenfolk, and there was a simple honesty in that little form nestled against her that Knife found comforting. Linden had not learned to bargain or scheme, and her wants were easily satisfied. And that, thought Knife wryly, probably made her a better person than anyone else in the Oak.
Meanwhile the faeries at her table seemed bent on proving her right, shoveling food into their mouths with greedy abandon. Now and then they paused to finger the embroidered tablecloth, or admire the reflection of the torchlight on their silver cutlery. But they paid no attention to each other’s finery, only to their own; and they made no conversation, except to demand more food and drink. If each of them had been alone at her own private feast it would hardly have made a difference.
Inwardly, Knife sighed. Already she longed for the Feast to be over—but that would take hours. After the meal there would be more toasts; then they would play some silly games, leading to the inevitable quarrels about who should get the prizes; the Queen would make a speech about duty and cooperation while everyone else tried not to fall asleep, and then—
She stood up, her fork clattering onto her plate. “I have to go,” she said to Wink. “Would you keep Linden for me?”
“But Knife, you can’t! The Queen—”
“Tell the Queen,” said Knife, “that I am unwell.” She held the baby out, and reluctantly Wink took her.
“Perhaps you’ll feel better if you lie down?” she said.
Knife gave a halfhearted nod. Ignoring the disapproving glances of the Oakenfolk around her, she threaded her way between the tables and hurried out into the corridor, heading for the Spiral Stair.
Later, her formal skirt traded for breeches and her hands clasped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea, Knife sat beside her bedroom window and gazed at the distant House. From here she could see the humans only as shadows. But as she watched, two of those dark shapes rose and moved about, while the third never stirred from his chair.