Queen. “I will,” she said, taking the knife with care.
“Then you are dismissed,” said Amaryllis.
Bryony curtsied and backed out of the room. Bluebell met her in the corridor, clucking disapproval at the weapon in her hand. “Really, Bryony—”
“No.”
“‘No’? ‘No’ what?”
“From now on,” said Bryony firmly, “you can call me Knife.”
Five
“T his will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.
“It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”
Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that the work could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then. But after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injuryhad not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time, but if it had been her wing…
Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.
“Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching gray eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”
“Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.
Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proven that quite sufficiently.”
Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a conversation with her? The idea was so bizarre, so unfaerylike, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow had reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about anymore.
“Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”
There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?
“Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment”—she handed the pot to Knife—“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”
Knife nodded.
“Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.
Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow, and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened musclesback into fighting shape; by the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.
When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons
“Then you are dismissed,” said Amaryllis.
Bryony curtsied and backed out of the room. Bluebell met her in the corridor, clucking disapproval at the weapon in her hand. “Really, Bryony—”
“No.”
“‘No’? ‘No’ what?”
“From now on,” said Bryony firmly, “you can call me Knife.”
Five
“T his will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.
“It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”
Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that the work could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then. But after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injuryhad not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time, but if it had been her wing…
Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.
“Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching gray eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”
“Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.
Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proven that quite sufficiently.”
Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a conversation with her? The idea was so bizarre, so unfaerylike, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow had reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about anymore.
“Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”
There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?
“Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment”—she handed the pot to Knife—“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”
Knife nodded.
“Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.
Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow, and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened musclesback into fighting shape; by the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.
When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons
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