“You’re making that edge too thin,” said Thorn.
Bryony scarcely heard her, all her concentration focused on chipping her new knife into shape. This was her latest of several attempts at crafting a fighting blade, but deep down she knew it would fail like all the others. The more she honed the edges, the sooner they crumbled; the sharper the point, the more readily it would snap.
“This is useless,” she said at last, throwing the flint down. “Why don’t we have any real weapons?”
“Made of metal, you mean?” asked Thorn, brushing a curl of wood from the stake she was whittling. It was raining, so there was little for either of them to do but sit in the East Root and wait for the clouds to move on. “Why should we?”
“Why shouldn’t we? There are metal things in the Oak.”
“Only what’s left over from the Days of Magic. Lanterns, bits of jewelry, a few tools. But most of that’s brass or copper, too soft for weapons. Anyway, the Queen doesn’t like too much metal around: You never know what it might be made of.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cold iron,” said Thorn impatiently, and when Bryony still looked blank she went on: “It stops magic-if it’s pure, that is. But there isn’t much iron around here anymore; these days you mostly find steel.”
“Steel,” said Bryony. “That’s iron mixed with…?”
“Gardener knows,” said Thorn. “All I know is that if I happen to bump into some, I can still fly afterward, and that’s good enough for me.”
It had never before occurred to Bryony to think of flying as magical, but now she realized that it must be. “So we still have some magic after all.”
“Well, it isn’t much use, since we can’t control it,” said Thorn. “Now and then one of us manages to cast a spell by accident-I saw Foxglove change size once, trying to get down a mouse hole. But it always wears off in an hour or two.” She gave a little snort and added, “You can’t use it to kill Old Wormwood, if that’s what you were thinking.”
Bryony pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “There has to be some metal we could use,” she said.
“Not in the Oak,” said Thorn. “Unless you’d like to march up to the House and ask the humans for it?”
Bryony’s mouth flattened as she picked up a new flint and bent once more to her work. Much as she had learned to respect Thorn, there were times when the older faery’s black humor went too far.
But then a thought struck her: Did either of them really know that humans carried the Silence? After all, Bryony herself ought to be dead by now, if getting close to a human was all it took. What if Thorn had been wrong, and the disease came from some other source? In which case going to the House for metal might not be such a bad idea after all…
I need to talk to Valerian, Bryony decided. The Healer had treated several cases of the Silence by now: If anyone knew how the illness worked, she would.
“What would you ask of me?” said Valerian. Her manner was formal but courteous, and she seemed only mildly surprised to find Bryony at her door.
“Knowledge,” said Bryony.
“And what have you to offer in return?”
“Herbs, any kind you like.” It would be easy enough to pick them the next time she and Thorn went hunting, and no doubt Valerian would appreciate not having to wait for the Gatherers to get around to it.
Valerian’s brows rose. “Agreed. I’d like chervil, if you can find some; if not, I can always use more comfrey or willow bark. Your question?”
“Is there any way to protect yourself against the Silence?”
“None that I know,” said Valerian. Then, at the look of disappointment on Bryony’s face, she added, “Why do you ask? It’s been years since Sorrel died, and you shouldn’t be in any danger, not at your age.”
“At my age?” Bryony was startled. “You mean you have to be older?”
“Quite a bit older, I’d say. I’d hesitate to give an exact number, but so far, all the Oakenfolk I’ve seen taken by the Silence had been born well before the Sundering.” She gave a sad smile. “Even if they were too confused to remember it.”
“But they all had some contact with humans,” said Bryony. “How much does it take?”
Valerian frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just”-Bryony hesitated, then plunged in-“now that I’m spending so much time outdoors, I’m afraid that one of these days I might end up crossing paths with a human again. So I need to know how serious-”
“What makes you think the Silence has anything to do with humans?” Valerian sounded genuinely perplexed.
“You mean it doesn’t?”
“I can’t think how it would,” said Valerian. “None of the Oakenfolk I’ve treated had ever gone near a human-at least, not in my lifetime. In fact, one of my earliest cases was so terrified of humans that she refused to open her window even in summer, for fear of seeing one. And Daisy was such a timid little thing I can’t imagine she’d ever been different, even before she lost her magic.”
Bryony sagged against the door frame, relieved. So it wasn’t true, this thing she’d grown up believing. Her instincts had been right, and Thorn was wrong.
Which meant that as long as she didn’t let the humans catch her, she could sneak right into their House to look for metal, and no one would even know…
“Are you all right?” asked Valerian. “Do you need to lie down?”
“No,” said Bryony. “I’m fine.”
Outside Bryony’s window the Oakenwyld lay shadowed, a sliver of moon barely visible in the cloud-streaked sky. Leaning on the sill, Bryony stared out across the garden, her stomach tight with anticipation.
Even if she could find some shard or snippet of metal inside the House, could she really escape with it undetected? And if the worst happened and she was caught, what might the humans do to her?
Bryony drew a deep breath and let it out. Then she climbed up onto the windowsill and dove headfirst into the darkness.
Her translucent wings snapped open, and she glided down to the surface of the lawn, bare feet almost brushing the grass. At this hour most of the Oakenfolk were in bed, but she paused and glanced back over her shoulder just in case. If anyone knew that she was out at night, alone…
But the great tree’s trunk remained dark, its windows closed. Reassured, Bryony turned and resumed her flight toward the House. As its gray bulk loomed up in her path her resolve began to falter, and for a moment she almost turned aside; then she remembered what she had come for- metal, the humans have metal -and made herself carry on.
Soon the lawn beneath her gave way to stone pavement, and she drew herself up sharply, landing just outside the House’s back entrance. A pair of doors inset with glass panes towered above her, glowing with muted light. What would she find on the other side? Summoning courage, she pressed her face to the bottom pane and peered in.
At first she could make out only dim shapes. She cupped her hands against the glass, squinting through the sheer curtains. What she saw then made her gasp, and she let her hands drop, stunned. The ugly stone House, where the human monsters lived…inside, it was beautiful.
Never in her life had she seen such magnificently crafted furniture, with its fluid curves and dark wood polished to a sheen. The Oak’s finest tapestries were crude compared to the pattern of twining leaves that covered the humans’ sofa, and no hand-knotted rug of Wink’s could rival the plush carpet that flowed across their floor. Even the walls were impossibly smooth and straight…were they really painted blue, or had it just been a trick of the light?
Wait. The light. Where did it come from? She had seen no fire, no candles, yet the whole room shone with radiance. Bryony darted back to the window, intent. Ah, there was the source: a pair of lamps set on either side of the sofa. But how could the flames inside them burn so steadily? And why did their papery shades not catch 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.