Faery Rebels

by R. J. Anderson

  The face, though—that was even more amazing. There were her narrow, slanting eyes, her broad mouth, and pointed chin; he had even captured her wary expression. Not even Wink’s mirror had ever caught her likeness so perfectly; somehow he had not merely drawn her appearance, but her essence.

  “It’s…very good,” said Knife, when she could speak.

  “Is it?” Paul said, and turned the page to look at his drawing again. “Do you know,” he said in a slow, wondering tone, “I think you might be right.”

  Suddenly it was too much for Knife—the fight with Old Wormwood, the loss of her dagger, waking up to find herself a prisoner in the House, and now this. “I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need to rest.”

  “Oh.” Paul sounded disappointed. “I’d wanted to draw you again, but all right.” He reached for her.

  Knife leaped back, fists raised. “Don’t touch me!”

  “What?” said Paul. “I didn’t hurt you last time, did I?”

  “It’s not that,” said Knife flatly. “I just don’t like being grabbed and carried about without so much as a by-your-leave. Would you?”

  His face darkened. “Not all of us get a choice,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better, here.” He held his hand out to her, palm upward.

  Knife licked her lips, mustering her courage. The hand was a dry, bleached leaf, she told herself, or the upturned cup of a mushroom. Nothing more. Gingerly she stepped forward, and Paul lowered her into the box upon his lap. She jumped off his hand and lay down, shivering.

  “I’ll put you back in the wardrobe,” said her captor’s voice as the lid of the box rasped back into place. “You’ll be safe there.” Wheels squeaked, and she felt a bump as he set her prison back upon the shelf. The wardrobe door swung shut, muffling her in darkness.

  Rest now, she told herself. You’ll need all your strength to escape— and with that, she fell asleep.

  When Knife woke, the room was so black, so silent, that she knew it must be night. She got up stiffly and helped herself to another drink and a few bites of bread. Then she sat down cross-legged, put her chin in her hand, and started thinking.

  The pain in her wing had eased while she slept, but that didn’t help much. Her metal knife was gone. She was trapped in a box with walls too smooth and high for her to climb. How to escape?

  Then an idea came to her, clear and irresistible as a voice calling her true name: The walls of her prison were made of paper.

  Knife jumped up, grabbed the drinking bowl by the rim, and tipped it over. Water gushed out, soaking deep into the carpet at her feet. For a few moments she waited, giving it time to seep in. Then she squelched over to the corner of the box, crouched, and began to scratch her way out. The sodden pulp came away easily in her hands, and soon she had clawed a hole large enough to crawl through.

  As she clambered out onto the shelf, she could just make out a bar of dim light: the edge of the wardrobe door. Cautiously Knife sidled up to it and gave it a shove. Nothing happened, so she leaned harder. The door flew open, and Knife tumbled out.

  It was not a long drop, but the floor was hard. Clutching her bruised elbow, Knife rocked and hissed between her teeth until the pain subsided. When she looked up, the first thing she saw was Paul’s wheeled throne, sitting empty beside the bed. Its steely frame glowed in the moonlight, and she wondered again why Paul, of all his family, should be so honored.

  Still, even if he was a king by day, he seemed ordinary enough in sleep: eyes closed, mouth slack. Knife watched him warily, but he did not stir, and at last she tiptoed away.

  Hurrying down the corridor to the familiar sitting room, Knife inspected every crack and corner in search of an exit. It was no use. The doors were latched, the lone window closed, and the metal grille in the floor too heavy for her to lift. Heart drumming, she fled through the archway into the kitchen.

  Crossing the tiled floor, she studied the glossy face of the oven, the smoothly varnished wood of the cupboard doors. If she could find a way to climb up onto the counter, she might be able to reach the window above the sink. It looked to be slightly open; if she could reach it, it would be easy to slip out.

  Knife had not tested her wings since the crow wounded her, but she had to try them now. She would not be able to fly in a straight line, or for any great distance, but—

  Holding her breath, Knife moved her wings slowly backward, then forward again. Her injured forewing felt stiff, and the air sliding across its ragged surface made her stomach lurch. She crouched and tried again, harder this time, repeating the motion until her nausea began to settle. Her wings beat faster and faster, lifting her from the ground.

  Little by little she rose toward the counter high above, weaving drunkenly through the air, but flying nonetheless. It was working! Just a few more wingbeats, and she’d be there—

  Intent on her goal, Knife neither saw nor smelled the cat until it leaped out from the shadows and its heavy paw smashed her to the ground.

  Eight

  Knife writhed away from the cat before it could pin her, but her head reeled from the force of the blow. Instinctively she grabbed for her dagger, only to find it missing. No weapon to fight with, no wings to fly away—what was she going to do?

  Shadows rippled along the cat’s body as it paced around her. Knife dropped into a crouch, feinting to one side, then the other. But the cat was not fooled, and its paw lashed out again, flicking her off her feet. Grit seared Knife’s arms and legs as she skidded across the tile.

  This was impossible, she thought wildly. How could she not have noticed that the humans had a cat? Unless it was a new arrival, and belonged to—

  “Paul!”

  She screamed his name as the cat pounced, batting her between velvet paws. Again she cried out while the cat tossed her up in the air and caught her again, this time in its mouth. Hot breath steamed over her, and the stench of fish made her gag. Near fainting, she gasped Paul’s name a final time and went limp.

  “Vermeer!” hissed a voice from behind them, and the cat froze. Cringing, it dropped Knife and slunk away.

  Knife lay winded on the tile, watching the ceiling swim in and out of focus. Her wounded wing felt as though it had been dipped in lye, and she could not move for trembling. But her rescuer made no move to touch her, nor did he speak again.

  At last Knife’s fluttering heart slowed, and she felt her strength return. The room clouded, lurched sideways, sharpened into focus, and she looked up—so very far up—into Paul’s face.

  “I owe you my life,” she said weakly.

  “Yes,” said Paul, sounding tired, “you do.” He leaned over in the chair, reaching out to her; Knife pulled herself upright, staggered two steps, and collapsed into the hollow of his hand.

  Knife was barely aware of Paul lifting her onto the counter, and the trickle of running water sounded muffled and far away. Only when he began to dab at her bleeding hands did she blink back to awareness, startled.

  “Sorry,” said Paul, mistaking her reaction. “Is the water too hot?”

  “No,” said Knife, “it’s just…warm.” She touched the washcloth wonderingly. “How did you do that?”

  “Magic,” he said. “Or a hot-water heater, whichever you prefer. Here.” He handed her the cloth, and Knife rubbed it cautiously across her face, wincing as soap worked its way into the scratches.

  When she had patted and rinsed herself clean, Paul held out his hand to her. The smell of sweat hung heavy around him, and she wrinkled her nose as she stepped onto his palm. Pushing himself about in that throne must be hard work—but why had he bothered taking the time to get into it, when she had needed his help so urgently? Surely he couldn’t be that proud?

  “Do you want to go up or down?” said Paul.

  “What?” asked Knife.

  “I need that hand to steer the chair, so you’d better decide where I should put you. Unless you want to spend the rest of the night here in the kitchen, going in circles.”

&nbs
p; “Oh.” Knife looked from his face to his knee and back again. “Then I suppose…down.”

  Paul lowered her to the edge of the seat and waited until she settled herself beside him. Then with practiced movements of his hands he pushed the wheeled throne forward, gliding noiselessly around the corner and down the corridor to his room. He half-turned the chair as they entered, easing the door shut; then he rolled up beside the bed, and Knife jumped onto it.

  “Why do you—” she started to ask, but Paul interrupted:

  “How do you know my name?”

  Knife toed the blankets. “Oh. Well. I’ve…heard your parents speak about you. And to you, sometimes.”

  “So you live nearby. In the garden? The wood? Or…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “I know—you live in the old oak tree.”

  Her heart plummeted, but she managed to stay calm. “We live in many places,” she said. “Sometimes we use the Oak as a lookout, but—”

  “For a faery, you’re a terrible liar,” said Paul. “What are you afraid of? I’m not planning to chop it down.” His eyes became distant. “I thought I’d just imagined you, that day I climbed the oak tree all those years ago. But when I saw you again in the garden, with that white hair and those black eyes—I knew I hadn’t been dreaming after all.”

  Knife sank down onto the mattress and put her head in her hands. So that was it: After centuries of secrecy, the Oakenfolk were no longer safe from humans, and it was her fault. If she had only listened to Wink at the beginning, or at least resisted the temptation to spy on the humans later on, none of this would have happened.

  “So what’s your name, then?” asked Paul. “Or am I not supposed to know that either?”

  I wish I knew myself, thought Knife unhappily. Without her weapon or her wings, the only name that truly belonged to her was the one she could never speak. Unless, of course, she went back to being Bryony—but no. Not as long as she still had a choice. “My name is Knife,” she said.

  Paul looked incredulous. “Knife? As in, a thing to cut with?”

  She nodded, and he made a noise halfway between a snort and a chuckle. “Your mother had quite the sense of humor.”

  “My egg-mother had nothing to do with it!” said Knife indignantly. “I chose the name my—” Then she realized she had said too much, but it was too late.

  “Really?” said Paul. “Why ‘Knife’?”

  For a faery, you’re a terrible liar, he had said. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, because that would mean confessing that she had stolen her weapon from his House, and who knew what he might do to her then? Her only chance was to change the subject, and quickly.

  “Where did you get that throne?” she blurted.

  Silence crashed down between them, and the color ebbed out of Paul’s face. “Throne.” His voice rasped on the word. “Is that what you think this is?”

  Knife shifted in her seat, embarrassed without knowing why. Then her gaze fell to Paul’s uncovered legs, so still and awkwardly bent, and her eyes widened as she realized her mistake—

  “That’s right,” said Paul grimly. “I’m a cripple. You thought my parents were fussing over me and pushing me around in this thing because I liked it?” He spat out a laugh. “I wish!”

  Knife swallowed. She had thought herself the injured one, but he had suffered a far greater loss. “I’m…” she began, but Paul cut her off.

  “Don’t say it.” He shoved the chair back from the bed with a savage thrust of both hands. “I’m sick of apologies, and I don’t want your pity. The only thing I want to know is, can we make a bargain?”

  “A…bargain?”

  “You’re a faery. Isn’t it obvious?”

  She shook her head.

  Paul gave an exasperated sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. “Magic. You have it, I need it. One wish, that’s all I want—and then you can go home.”

  Knife looked at him helplessly. “I…can’t,” she said. “I don’t have any magic.”

  “Look,” said Paul. “I know faeries are supposed to be full of tricks and all that, but I’m not that stupid.”

  “Neither am I!” snapped Knife in frustration. “If I could cast spells, don’t you think I’d have vanished in a puff of smoke by now, or at least healed my own wing so I could fly again? Not to mention that horrible cat of yours—believe me, I’d have been delighted to turn him into a toad and save you the trouble of rescuing me.”

  “If you’d stayed where I put you, you wouldn’t have needed rescuing.” His mouth twisted. “What a stupid thing to—”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat. And why shouldn’t I try to escape? You put me in a box!” She folded her arms and added resentfully, “I don’t understand why you won’t just let me go.”

  “Are you serious? Do you have any idea what it means for a human being to find a real, live faery?”

  “About the same as it means for a faery to find a real, live human being, I suppose,” said Knife tartly. “Except I don’t have a box big enough to put you—”

  The last word froze on her tongue as the door creaked open, and Paul’s cat squeezed himself through the gap. He sat down, showed his pointed teeth in a yawn, and began to wash himself with great thoroughness, while Knife ducked into Paul’s shadow and tried to make herself as small as she could.

  “It’s all right,” Paul said, and offered her his hand again. She climbed onto it, and he lifted her to the safety of his shoulder. Then he whistled between his teeth, making the cat look up.

  Knife clutched at his shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Paul. “I won’t let him harm you.” He rubbed a finger along the edge of the blankets, and the cat hurried to the side of the bed, watching with rapt golden eyes. Paul bent and scooped up the animal, dragging it onto his lap and holding it there.

  “He’s a silly cat, really,” Paul remarked. “No brain whatsoever.” He scratched the back of the cat’s head, kneading his way down the spine to the tail, and it collapsed, purring. “He found a mouse once and had no idea what to do. So he sat on it until we came and took it away.”

  “He seemed to think he knew what to do with me,” said Knife doubtfully.

  “He probably thought you were some kind of wonderful new toy. He might have killed you by accident, but not on purpose.”

  This struck Knife as less than comforting, but there seemed little use in saying so. “What did you say his name was? Vermeer?”

  “That’s what I call him. Because of the way his fur shines in the light.”

  Not a true name, then, she thought, disappointed. She had hoped that knowing the cat’s name would give her power to command it as Paul did. “I don’t understand,” she said aloud.

  “Vermeer was a painter, back in the seventeenth century. Here, I’ll show you.” He seized the half-slumbering cat around the belly and tossed him onto the bed, then rolled over to the bookshelf. There he took down the biggest book Knife had ever seen and opened it to a full-color portrait of a young woman. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and a teardrop-shaped ornament dangled from her ear.

  Paul’s finger traced the metallic sheen along the earring. “He was a genius with light,” he said. “And he used a lot of rich, warm tones in his paintings.”

  Knife was silent, gazing at the girl’s luminous face. The picture was beautiful, and yet somehow it was more than that. It was as though the artist were not merely showing her a girl, but telling her something about the girl as well.

  Then in a flash Knife understood: That was what made the other paintings in the room special, too. They weren’t just images, they were ideas. Excited, she slid off Paul’s shoulder and leaped onto the desk, scanning each of the hanging canvases in turn. If she could just figure out what they were saying….

  “You like them,” said Paul, and when she glanced back she saw a new respect in his eyes. “You really get it, don’t you—art, I mean. You’re not just being polite.”

  Knife nodded.
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  “Do you…would you like to see some more?”

  She hesitated. He was offering her knowledge, but without magic, what could she give him in return? “I can’t pay you,” she said.

  Paul made a face, as though she was being ridiculous. “Pay me? What for? I’m not an expert. I just like art.”

  “But you have knowledge,” she persisted. “That’s worth something. You can’t just give it away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” She struggled for an explanation, and finally threw up her hands. “Because that isn’t how it’s done!”

  “Maybe that’s how things work in that oak tree of yours,” said Paul mildly. “But you’re not there now, are you?”

  Knife looked down at the painting of the girl, torn between doubt and yearning. For saving her from Old Wormwood, she already owed Paul a great debt. If she accepted any more favors, she might as well sign herself up as his slave, because it would take her years to pay him back.

  And yet…

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to see some more. Please.”

  The tension lifted from Paul’s face, and for a moment he looked almost like the boy who had climbed the Oak again. “Let me show you The Lacemaker,” he said, and began turning pages.

  When Knife woke the next morning her body ached, but her mind had never felt more alive. If only she could write down everything she had learned, before she had the chance to forget it!

  She and Paul had talked for hours. Once he realized that she was genuinely interested in the art he loved, all the pent-up words of the past few weeks came rushing out of his mouth. He took book after book off his shelves, explaining different painting techniques and styles, pointing out his favorite artists and telling her why their work was important. Now and then he paused to give Knife a sidelong glance, as though he could scarcely believe that she was still listening; but all she ever said was, “Go on,” and in the end he did.