Faery Rebels

by R. J. Anderson

  “I did,” said Knife. “And I was so glad, I couldn’t wait to talk to you. Can we go, then? Soon?”

  “I don’t see why not. For a while I wasn’t sure we’d be able to get in, but then I looked up this Waverley Hall place in a guidebook and it turns out they give tours, so that’s all right. When it comes to stealing the diary, though…”

  “It isn’t stealing,” protested Knife. “It’s got no value to them, and anyway, how can they miss it when they don’t even know it’s there?”

  “They won’t,” said Paul, “unless they catch us with it.” He spoke solemnly, but there was a spark in his eye she had not seen before; he seemed to be looking forward to the adventure, and Knife felt her own spirits lifting in return.

  “They won’t catch us,” she said confidently. “How soon can we leave?”

  By the time Knife returned to the Oak, she was glowing with satisfaction. Everything seemed to be coming together perfectly: Paul had permission to use his parents’ car, he’d called ahead to make sure that Waverley Hall would be open for them to visit, and barring some unforeseen disaster, they’d be leaving tomorrow.

  Tomorrow! It felt so unreal to think of getting into that strange metal wagon with Paul and speeding off to a place she’d never visited before, so far away that she couldn’t even see it from the top of the Oak. To him the journey was nothing; he didn’t even think it would take long to get there. But to Knife it was as exciting—and daunting—as a trip across the world.

  She had just dragged her meat-heavy pack into the cold room and was about to unload it when she heard a thump from the corridor outside, followed by a muttered curse. It sounded like…Campion? Frowning, Knife looked out and saw the Librarian staggering past with a teetering armload of volumes, one of which had just fallen onto the floor.

  “I’ll get it,” said Knife, stooping to collect the book. But its spine had cracked, and the pages came loose in her hand.

  “You’ve ruined it!” screamed Campion. She dropped the rest of the stack and launched herself at Knife, who barely had time to throw up her hands before the other faery barreled into her. Together they tumbled to the floor, and it was all Knife could do to hold Campion at bay: Fingers stiffened into claws, she seemed determined to scratch Knife’s eyes out.

  “I was only trying to help!” Knife shouted at her. “I didn’t mean any—Campion, stop!”

  “I know what you’re up to! You want to destroy them, and leave me with nothing!”

  “What are you talking about?” panted Knife, grabbing the other faery’s wrists as she glanced down at the pages scattered over the floor. Could it be that Campion had found some more books about humans? But no, the damaged volume was just a simple herbal, and the rest looked just as ordinary.

  “I’m taking them away,” Campion spat at her. “Where they’ll be safe. You’ll never find them—and she won’t either—”

  “Campion, nobody wants to take your books! Will you just listen to me?”

  The other faery stopped fighting, and looked confused. Then the wildness came back into her face and she shrieked, “You’re trying to trick me!” as she flung her weight against Knife again.

  First you become fretful and short-tempered, said Thorn’s voice in her memory. Sometimes even violent…

  Horror shivered through Knife, and she stumbled back. “No,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

  At that moment the kitchen door flew open and Mallow marched out. “Well, I must say this is a fine way to behave!” she exclaimed. “What would Her Majesty say if she could see the two of you brawling in the corridor like a pair of cats?”

  “Call Valerian,” Knife gasped at her, still wrestling with the furious Campion. “Get the Healer—hurry!”

  Campion writhed free of Knife’s grip, leaped up, and lunged at Mallow. “You!” she spat. “You greedy, selfish, miserable thief! I know what you took from the archives, when you thought I wasn’t looking—”

  Mallow’s ruddy cheeks turned pale as dough. She stumbled backward, then turned and rushed away. Taking advantage of the distraction, Knife pulled Campion’s feet out from under her and brought her crashing to the floor, then leaped onto her back and sat there while she rifled through her belt pouch for something to tie her up with.

  Campion struggled mightily, but she was smaller than Knife and much less fit; it was not long before she collapsed, her frenzied energy spent. Knife bound her wrists and ankles together with twine, and was just about to heave the other faery onto her shoulders when she saw Valerian hurrying toward them.

  “There you are!” said Knife, climbing off Campion’s back and stepping aside to let the Healer take over. “She just flew at me—” But Valerian held up a hand.

  “Let me look at her first,” she said, slipping an arm around Campion and rolling her over onto her back. The Librarian immediately began to thrash about again, hissing into her face, “I know what you are! I’ve seen the records. You’re not one of us, Motherless—changeling!”

  Valerian went very still. Then she said quietly to Knife, “You were right to call me.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a small bottle, which she pressed against Campion’s lips. The Librarian spluttered and tossed her head, but in a moment her eyes glazed over and she went limp.

  “Now,” said Valerian, “we can carry her back to her room.”

  “I had thought—I had hoped,” said the Healer as they laid Campion down upon her cot, “that we were done with this.” She brushed back the hair from the Librarian’s forehead, letting her hand rest there. “No fever yet, but it will come.”

  “It’s the Silence,” said Knife. “Isn’t it?”

  Valerian walked to the window, opening the shutters to let in the afternoon air. Without turning back she said, “Yes.”

  “And if Campion could get it, then…” Knife closed her eyes, chilled with dread. “It doesn’t just take the old ones after all. None of us are safe.”

  Valerian did not answer.

  “There has to be something we can do. I know there’s no cure, but there must be a way to slow it down, or—”

  “The first faery taken by the Silence,” said Valerian, “was my own foster mother, Lavender. The Queen and I did everything we could think of to save her—teas and potions, poultices and liniments, healing spells by moonlight. But in the end she died, just the same.”

  “Lavender?” asked Knife. “But if she raised you, then…what was Campion talking about when she called you Motherless?”

  Valerian’s face was unreadable. “It has long been the Healer’s duty,” she said, “to make a note of every death among the Oakenfolk, along with the circumstances of that death. But nowhere is there mention of a faery named Valerian. It seems as though I am the first to bear that name in all the Oak’s history—as though my egg-mother never existed.”

  Changeling. “You came from Outside,” breathed Knife, suddenly comprehending. A human child, stolen and transformed into a faery to increase the Oak’s population; it was the only explanation that made sense.

  Valerian nodded. “I believe so. And I was not the first.”

  Knife sank down on the end of Campion’s bed. Could this be the reason Heather and others like her had gone out into the human world? It made a terrible kind of sense, for unless the Oakenfolk found some way to add new faeries to their number, their population would eventually die out. Perhaps that was why Jasmine’s return to the Oak had been such a disappointment: They had sent her to steal a human child, but she had failed….

  And yet it seemed so wrong, so unfair. Borrowing ideas and inspiration from the humans was one thing; but taking their children? What could any faery give to a human family that would make up for such a loss? And how could the gentle, kind-hearted Heather have looked forward to her mission so eagerly, if all the while she knew this was how it would end?

  “Burned…” came a husky whisper from behind her, and Knife turned around to see Campion’s eyes fluttering open. But there was no anger
in the Librarian’s face now, only unhappiness. “I tried to stop it…but I couldn’t.”

  “I know,” said Knife, shifting closer and taking Campion’s limp hand in hers. Valerian’s brows rose, but she did not interrupt as Knife went on quietly, “I’m sorry, Campion. You were right—it was my fault the Queen burned them. I don’t blame you for hating me.”

  Campion shook her head, eyes closing as though even that slight movement exhausted her. “Not hate,” she murmured. “I just…once you’d read those books, I wanted to talk to you about them so badly, but I could never find the nerve. I kept hoping you would bring it up, give me some sign to let me know…” Her words trailed off in a sigh.

  “Let you know,” said Knife, leaning forward in an effort to hear. “Know what?”

  “That you saw the same things in them that I did. That you understood…how important they were.” Campion opened her eyes again, staring blindly at the ceiling. “But then the Queen had them burned, and you disappeared, and when you came back…you didn’t seem to miss them anymore. You asked me for books about other things instead…I knew then that I’d been foolish to hope, that nobody…” Her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “That nobody believed in the humans, nobody cared about them, except me.”

  Knife sat back, stricken. She had been afraid to trust Campion with the things she had learned about humans, unwilling to take the risk that the Librarian might misunderstand or betray her. Now she understood how wrong she had been not to be honest with her from the start—but now it was too late.

  Still, she could at least talk to Campion, in these few moments before the Silence stole her wits completely. She owed the Librarian that much, and perhaps it would bring her some comfort. “Valerian,” she said over her shoulder, “would you do me a favor? Go up to my room and ask Wink if she can look after Linden a little while longer.”

  It was, she realized belatedly, a very human sort of request: She had not even made the traditional offer to bargain. But Valerian did not reproach her, or even look surprised. Instead, she walked straight past Knife and out into the corridor, closing the door gently in her wake.

  Knife turned back to Campion. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I have a story to tell you, about an old diary, and a Seamstress named Heather….”

  Seventeen

  “And that’s where Heather’s first diary ended,” said Knife to the motionless Campion, leaning close to make sure the Librarian did not miss a word. “But there’s another one, and as soon as I’ve read it, I’ll come back and tell you all about—”

  She stopped, her throat tightening. Campion’s mouth hung slack, and her eyes had closed. Her hand slid from Knife’s and fell to the mattress, limp as a dead bird.

  “She can’t hear you now,” Valerian said quietly. She drew the covers up around Campion’s shoulders. “Let me look after her. You’ve done all you could.”

  Knife felt a dull pain beneath her ribs, as though she had swallowed a bone. “But not enough,” she said bitterly, and turned away.

  “Valerian was a what?” asked Wink.

  “A changeling,” said Knife wearily, taking Linden from her and sitting down on the sofa. “Born human, then stolen and turned into a faery. Or at least that’s what we both think.”

  Wink sank down beside her. “And Campion has the Silence…. I can’t believe it. She isn’t even the oldest of us; she’s younger than Thorn. How could this happen?”

  There was no answer to that, and Knife did not try to give one. They sat together without speaking for a long time. Finally Wink said in a soft voice, “Well, I hope you find Heather’s diary tomorrow. But even if you don’t, I’ll be glad if you just come back safe.” She looked away, as though embarrassed. “I know you’re used to taking risks, but…I worry about you.”

  Looking at Wink’s small, forlorn figure, Knife felt as though someone had taken hold of her heart and squeezed it. “You needn’t worry,” she said gently. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  As Knife headed out the Queen’s Gate the next morning, the sky hung gray and lowering, and cold mist blanketed the ground. Rain seemed inevitable, so she set off across the Oakenwyld at her briskest pace, consoling herself that if she got soaked at least Paul’s car would be dry.

  When she reached the stone bridge where they had agreed to meet she was apprehensive at first, for she had never ridden in a car before. But the longer she waited the more restless she became, and by the time the berry-colored wagon finally rumbled over the bridge and crunched to a stop beside her, Knife leaped up and ran toward it without hesitation. Surely this was how Heather must have felt on the day she left the Oak, after all those months of planning and waiting….

  “Knife?” said Paul’s voice as the door cracked open.

  “I’m here,” she said. One fluttering leap took her to the floor of the car, another to the seat. It smelled strange—of dirt and metal, and a sour tang she did not recognize. But it also smelled like Paul, and that was reassuring.

  Paul frowned at the map in his hand. “Just a minute, while I check…right, I’ve got it.” He folded the page and tucked it away, then leaned past her to yank the passenger door shut. “You’d better sit down,” he said.

  Knife dropped to her knees, curling her legs beneath her. Unable to see out the window high above, she concentrated on the brisk movements of Paul’s hands as he jolted the car into motion and steered it down the narrow lane. The growl of the engine changed its timbre, an invisible hand pressed her back against the upholstery; then Paul swung the wheel and she tumbled over, skidding across the seat with a cry.

  “Sorry,” said Paul. “I should have buckled you in—or maybe you’d be better off in my pocket?”

  “I think so,” she gasped.

  “Here, then.” He slowed the car and brought it to a stop. Picking herself up, Knife hurried across the seat and climbed into the inside pocket of Paul’s jacket. It was too shallow for her to stand in comfortably, but there was just enough room to sit.

  “All right?” asked Paul.

  “Yes,” she said, and the car picked up speed again.

  Cradled in a hammock of soft fabric, Knife could finally relax. She leaned against the comforting warmth of 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.