Faery Rebels

by R. J. Anderson

  “That’s the first faery Wrenfield ever painted,” Paul went on softly. “But this portrait was the last time he ever painted anything else.”

  “Now that we’ve met the family,” said the young woman leading the tour, “I’d like you to follow me into the drawing room….”

  The group moved on, and Knife waited with growing impatience as the guide led them from one room to another, chattering on about the history of the estate, the development of its architecture and décor, and other unimportant matters. She was beginning to wonder if she would have better luck searching the house on her own when she heard the guide say, “…and now let’s move on to the library.”

  Knife grabbed a double handful of Paul’s shirt and swung herself free of his inside pocket, crouching just inside the front of his coat as the group slowly circled the room. As they drifted out again Paul hung back, leaning to one side while he pretended to adjust his wheel brake. “Go,” he whispered, and Knife slithered down his hip, swung off the frame of the chair, and dropped to the carpet by his side. Paul gave her a quick crossed-finger gesture, then pushed himself out into the corridor, leaving Knife alone.

  Knife straightened up and looked around to find herself in a fresh, well-lighted room lined with shelves and cabinets. An exotic rug covered the floor, flanked by leather furniture, while in the middle of the room an oval table squatted under the weight of an enormous porcelain vase. Somewhere in all this opulence, Knife knew, she would find Heather’s second diary—but where?

  The bookcases seemed the most logical place to start. She flew to the top of the first shelf and began running her hands along the spines, reading each one as quickly as she could. I’m here, she pleaded silently. Heather sent me. Where are you?

  Every creaking footstep, every distant voice, made her heart jerk; every few seconds she glanced at the door, ready to dive into hiding the moment anyone should appear. Flitting from row to row, she had touched all the books in three full cases and was just beginning the fourth when a burning pain shot through her fingertips. With a cry she jumped back—and plunged off the edge of the shelf.

  Her wings caught her before she had fallen more than a sparrow-length, and she bit off her scream almost at once; but the commotion had not gone unheard. A rapid clicking sounded in the hallway, and a squat, wrinkle-faced dog ambled in. Hovering in midair, Knife held as still as she could as the animal padded toward her, and a questioning noise rumbled in its throat.

  “Good dog,” whispered Knife—but that was a mistake. The air erupted with hoarse barking as the little dog bounced up and down in a futile attempt to reach her. Knife clapped her hands over her ears and leaped to the top of the bookshelf, getting as far away from the noisy animal as she could.

  “Yahtzee, hush!” said a woman’s reproachful voice from the corridor, and Knife glanced about in panic for a place to hide. The shelves were all full, the cabinets sealed; the furniture stood too high and the porcelain vase too low—

  “Silly creature, what are you fussing about?” chided the human as she bustled in, bending to seize the agitated dog by the collar. She was a small woman with upswept hair and beautifully made clothes. Knife’s heart sank as she realized that this must be the owner of the house.

  The woman tried to coax the dog back toward the door, but still it strained toward Knife’s hiding place, yelping. With a frown the woman picked it up and stepped forward, so close now that Knife could smell her perfume. She glanced out the window at the lawn; then her face cleared and she held the dog up in front of her, crooning, “Naughty squirrels! You’d like to teach them a lesson, wouldn’t you? But not today, so come along and behave.” Tucking her pet tenderly into the crook of her arm, she carried it out and shut the doors behind her.

  Knife let go of the curtain and collapsed to the windowsill, head tipped back against the cool glass. When her heart stopped pounding she clambered to her feet again and flew back up to the bookcase.

  She could see the diary tucked away at the far end of the shelf: an ordinary-looking little book, except for the faint glow emanating from its spine. Gingerly she reached out, bracing herself for another shock—but even as she touched it the light died away, and she was able to put her hand upon it. Heather’s second diary was hers at last.

  There was only one problem, and she cursed herself for not having anticipated it: The diary was human-sized. How could she possibly get it off the shelf, let alone sneak it out of the building, when it was bigger than she was?

  Knife glanced from the shelf to the window and back again. Perhaps she could open the window and push the diary out for Paul to retrieve later? It was not a very good plan, but it was better than no plan at all, so she decided to try it.

  Her fingers dug into the leather, tugging hard. The diary shifted grudgingly forward. Knife’s wings blurred into action as she stepped backward into the air, and for one excited moment she believed her plan would work. But then the book’s full weight toppled onto her, crushing the wind from her lungs, and in an instant the whole library spun upside down and she was falling—

  She thumped down between the sofa and the table, the diary clutched in her sweat-slick palm. The vase wobbled dangerously, then began to tip toward her; she flung out a hand and caught it just in time. Oh no, thought Knife as she looked at her human-sized fingers spread out against the porcelain, I’ve done it again.

  Her head swam and her muscles felt like bags of wet sand, but Knife dared not stop to rest, or even think: She had to get out of the library at once. Shoving the book down the front of her tunic, she hauled open the window and scrambled through it, landing painfully on the gravel drive. Quickly she leaped up and dragged the window shut again, then crawled behind the shrubbery and crouched there, rigid with fear. Surely Mrs. Waverley had heard her fall and was coming to investigate; any moment she would hear her cry, “Thief!”

  But the only noise Knife heard was the song of a distant thrush, and through the branches she glimpsed nothing but an empty stretch of gravel. Awkwardly she rose, one hand clasping the diary against her chest, and slipped out of the cover of the shrubbery. She hurried along the back of the house and around the corner to Paul’s car.

  But the door was locked, and Paul had the keys. She would just have to brazen it out, and pretend to be an ordinary visitor—albeit a strangely dressed one—while she waited for Paul to finish the tour.

  Knife brushed the gravel from her knees, combed her hair with her fingers, and took Heather’s diary out of the bottom of her tunic. Then with all the casualness she could muster she walked to the nearest bench, sat down, and began to read.

  “Knife?”

  Paul didn’t just sound surprised; he sounded thunder-struck. Caught off guard, Knife leaped to her feet and blurted the first thing that came into her head: “I’m sorry.”

  “But…how did you do it?” he asked. “I thought you’d used up all your magic.”

  “So did I. But I was trying to get the diary and it just”—she waved a hand at herself—“happened.”

  Paul’s eyes traveled down her body to the book in her hand. “Well, you’ve got what you came for, at least,” he said. “Did you find out anything useful?”

  “Not yet,” Knife admitted, watching him unlock the car and begin transferring himself and his wheelchair inside. “So far she’s just been meeting people and going to balls and such. What about you?”

  “They had a terrific collection of Dutch masters,” said Paul with enthusiasm as she climbed in beside him. “And a couple more Wrenfield paintings, including a portrait of a woman named Jane Nesmith. The guide was telling us—” He glanced at Knife, who had opened the diary again. “Well, never mind. You want to read.”

  “It’s all right,” said Knife, leafing through the pages to find where she had left off. “What were you saying?”

  “About this woman Jane. Seems that Wrenfield caught sight of her on the street and decided he had to paint her, and soon she became his favorite model and eventually his m
istress. She was with him for three years, and during that time he turned out more and better paintings than ever before. But when she left, he fell apart.”

  “Why did she leave?” asked Knife.

  “Nobody knows.” He turned the key, and began backing out of the parking space onto the drive. “Some historians believe that Wrenfield was unfaithful, or that Jane herself found another lover. Others think he beat her—his temper was legendary. There’s even a theory that he’d started taking laudanum already, was useless half the time, and that his most successful paintings were actually finished by Jane.” He gave a flickering grin. “I like that one, though I’m not sure I believe it. But there’s no doubt that after she disappeared, Wrenfield was never the same again.”

  “I see,” said Knife absently, and turned another page.

  “The one thing nobody has been able to figure out, though,” Paul went on as they headed down the tree-lined lane, “is why he started painting faeries—”

  “Oh!” said Knife.

  “What is it?”

  Knife lowered the book, staring out the car’s front window at the distant roadway. “She’s just met Philip Waverley.”

  “Really,” said Paul. “What does she say about him?”

  Everyone speaks well of him; his manner is most pleasant, and he shows not the least inclination to melancholy or ill-temper; I would scarcely have known him for a poet, but in truth he is a very fine one. He gave me a copy of his Sonnets on an English Garden, and I have been carrying it about with me ever since….

  “She likes his poetry,” Knife replied in a distracted tone, finding it difficult to read and talk at the same time, “and she hopes they’ll meet again so they can talk about it.” She was silent then, absorbed in her reading, until Paul said, “And did she?”

  “What? Oh—yes. Quite a few times, actually.” She read a few more paragraphs, then added slowly, “It looks like they’ve become…friends.”

  “You sound surprised,” said Paul.

  Knife gave a wan smile. “I suppose I am.” She had thought that her friendship with Paul was something special, perhaps even unique in the Oak’s history. But if Heather had been able to talk to Philip in a similar way, then perhaps humans and faeries were more alike than she had supposed…and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.

  I am overwhelmed with roses—Lily declares that she has never seen such handsome ones, and their fragrance lingers about me as I write. They were brought to my door this morning by a little messenger boy, bright as a robin, who bowed prettily and presented me with a card:

  Receive this gift, O gentle Muse,

  And Heaven’s poetry peruse;

  For mortal tongue can ne’er compose

  A sonnet sweeter than a rose.

  Which is not perhaps quite up to Mr. Waverley’s usual standard, but I am very well pleased, nonetheless.

  “So what’s happening now?” prompted Paul.

  “She’s…started writing poems,” said Knife, looking at the next page, which was full of crossed-out lines and lists of rhyming words. “Her own, I mean, not his.”

  “So you were right,” Paul said, nudging her with an elbow. “About your people borrowing creativity from us, I mean.”

  “Yes, but…” Knife edged away from him, unaccountably flustered. “I’m still not sure why she’s there, or how what she’s doing is supposed to help the Oak. I mean, writing poetry is all very well, but what use is it?”

  “You could say the same thing about art,” said Paul.

  “I know,” said Knife, “but that’s not what I meant, not exactly—” Her eyes traveled down the page as she spoke, and all at once she broke off, fingers clenching around the diary. “No,” she breathed. “No, no, no…”

  “What?” asked Paul sharply, but Knife could not bring herself to answer.

  For all my hopes and ambitions, my eagerness to be of service to the Oak, I never thought it should come to this: Philip Waverley has asked me to become his wife. And I…

  This was madness. It was a mistake. It simply couldn’t be. And yet even before she turned the page, Knife knew what she would find there:

  …I have accepted him.

  Eighteen

  Knife’s cheeks flamed, and her hands shook beneath the diary’s slight weight. More than anything she wanted to slap the book shut and fling it away from her, but it was too late: Heather’s words had seared into her mind, and nothing could make her forget them.

  Was this really how the Oakenfolk of Heather’s day had repaid their human benefactors—by pledging their own bodies and souls to them in marriage? But Philip Waverley had not known himself to be marrying a faery; he thought Heather was a woman of his own kind. Had Heather been prepared to spend a human lifetime keeping up that illusion? Did she really think the gift of poetry that Philip had given her, or even the pleasure of his friendship, was worth so great a sacrifice?

  It was no use speculating. She had to know. Shutting out Paul’s curious look, the drone of the engine and the tree-dotted hillsides flashing by, Knife hunched over the diary and began turning pages as quickly as she could read them.

  Heather was true to her word: She soon married Philip, and came to live with him at Waverley Hall. With her by his side his poetic gift flourished, and near the end of their first year together, Heather wrote:

  I dared not speak of it until I was certain, but now there can be no doubt. I am with child: a human child, a son. How delighted Philip will be!

  Knife put a hand to her temple, feeling her pulse drumming against her fingertips. That a faery might conceive a human’s child, carry it in her own body, and give birth to it without dying—she had never even imagined such a thing could be possible. Yet Heather seemed to think it perfectly natural, and in all this time, she had never once mentioned eggs….

  Feverishly Knife leafed through the second half of the diary, skimming over the birth of Heather’s son, James, and several months of motherly anecdotes, until she came to this:

  I have done a thing I believed I should never do; yet in my heart I knew it was right, indeed that it was meant to be so. Tonight I have cast myself upon Philip’s mercy, and told him everything.

  He knows now that his beloved wife and Muse is in truth a faery; he knows that his daughter, also faery, grows within me unseen; and he also knows that I must return to the Oak before she is born, for no infant with wings and magic can thrive apart from the protection and guidance of her own kind—things that I in my human guise cannot give her.

  My dear Philip bore all this in silence, though I could see that he was shaken to his very marrow. It was not that he could not believe me, for I took pains to be sure that he did; yet even my promise to return to Waverley once our daughter was safely delivered seemed to bring him little comfort.

  At length I ended my confession, and cast myself in tears upon his feet. I feared that he might disown me then, and banish me from his presence; yet by the Gardener’s mercy he did not hesitate to lift me up and enfold me in his arms. I knew then that despite all, my husband had not ceased to love me; and that such faithfulness must not go unrewarded….

  “I think,” said Paul to the air at large, “that I ought to get some sort of medal for patience.”

  All at once the car seemed far too small, and Knife could not bear to look at him. She leaned against the passenger door, pressing her forehead to the sun-warmed glass. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s too much. I can’t talk about it. I can’t.”

  Silence. She glanced back, saw the rigid set of his jaw and the way his hands had tightened on the wheel, and knew that she had hurt him.

  “It’s not you,” she added hastily. “I trust you. It’s just—”

  Just that everything she had believed about faeries and humans, even about Paul and herself, was wrong. She had thought that they could comfortably go on being friends forever. But now that she knew what might have been, what should have been if not for the Sundering, how could she ever be at ease wit
h him again?

  Paul sighed. “Look, it’s all right. It’s only curiosity; I’m not going to die of it. And it’s really nothing to do with me, anyway.”

  He shrugged as he spoke, and the realization that he was trying to spare her feelings was more than Knife could bear.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she burst out, clutching her elbows and rocking miserably. “The Sundering changed my people so much, I can’t see how we can ever make things right. All the things we’ve been missing, that we’d forgotten—there’s no way for us to get them back, not when we’ve so little magic left. And now Campion’s got the Silence, and we’re all going to die of it, me and Linden and Wink and Thorn and all of us—”

  Paul’s hand dropped from the wheel to the lever below; the car angled away from the road and bumped to a stop by its edge. Another car flashed past as he turned to her and said fiercely, “No.”

  Knife cringed, but he took her by the shoulders and went on: “I don’t know what you read in that diary, but it doesn’t matter. Even if you can’t go back to the way you used to be, why should that mean there’s no hope? Look at yourself, Knife! Look at all the things you’ve done, even without magic. And ask yourself: How many people would be dead right now if not for you?” He lowered his voice and added, “Including me.”

  “But the Silence—”

  “—is there, yes, and I’m sorry to hear about Campion. But she’s not dead yet, and there’s still a chance that you or someone else will find a cure.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “You’re a fighter, Knife. Don’t stop fighting now.”