Free Faery Rebels by R. J. Anderson

it. When she picked it up and tore off the wrappings, it turned out to be a book.
    More puzzled than ever, Knife went back into her room and sat down on the sofa to examine it. Easing open the cover, feeling the worn leather flake and crackle beneath her fingers, she began to read.
    I have never before tried to keep a diary, but Laurel says it is a worthy exercise; and as there is no one whose writings I admire more, I should be foolish not to take her advice. Still, even as I pen these words, I find myself at a loss for what to say. Had I a remarkable friend like Dr. Johnson, I should have no lack of diverting incidents to record, but alas, I am no Boswell.
    Knife stared at the tiny, elegant handwriting. Dr. Johnson, Boswell…Those were human names. The writer must have lived when the ties between the Oak and the human world were closer—and if so, this diary might help her find the answers she’d been looking for.
    Nevertheless, for the sake of my imagined reader I must give myself a proper introduction: Heather by name, one and forty summers of age, born in the reign of good Queen Snowdrop, and now appointed Seamstress of the Oak. I have an apprentice, named Bryony….
    That confirmed it, thought Knife with a flare of excitement. She had never heard of Heather, but she knew her own egg-mother’s history well enough: The old Bryony had become the Oak’s Seamstress in the last few years of Queen Snowdrop’s reign, then served for nearly a century before dying and passing that role to her own apprentice, Wink. So this diary had been written near the end of the Days of Magic—exactly the time in the Oak’s history she needed to know about.
    Somehow, thought Knife as she smoothed out the crumpled second page, whoever had sent her this book must have known she was trying to find out about the Oakenfolk’s past. Campion, perhaps? But surely it would have been easier for her to just slip the diary onto the back shelf and wait for Knife to find it?
    Slowly she turned the diary’s pages. The first few entries were disappointingly ordinary: Heather had found a new lace pattern and was eager to try it; she approved of the chemise her apprentice had just made; and so on. It was like living with Wink all over again, and Knife was about to put the book down when the next line caught her attention:
    Jasmine returned to the Oak today, much to everyone’s surprise. No one dared ask why she had come back, for she was full of black looks and could not give a civil word to anyone. I am sure Queen Snowdrop will want to speak to her; she has always been a difficult creature, and now she is insupportable.
    Jasmine …The name tweaked at Knife’s memory. She felt sure she had heard it before, but where?
    Azalea says that Jasmine should be called to account for abandoning her post, but the Queen appears to feel more kindly toward her. Indeed, she has forbidden anyone to question Jasmine, and says that she will by no means allow her to be punished.
    Knife frowned at the page. What did abandoning her post mean? Had Jasmine been sent on some important assignment? But if so, what?
    The only idea she could think of was that Jasmine might have been sent out as an ambassador to another faery Wyld. But the Oakenfolk had not seen or heard from any of theirfellow faeries in centuries, so she would have had to search for them first. Curiosity rekindled, Knife read on.
    …Jasmine came to my room today, bringing with her a gown which she said was in need of mending. I was tempted to refuse, yet I could not help but exclaim aloud when I saw it, for the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped quite away. The skirt was blackened almost to the knee, as though she had fallen in the mire, and it seemed to me that if this were the gown in which she had returned home, it was little wonder the others had found her ill-tempered. Pity overcame me, and I told her I should have it mended in a fortnight.
    “And how shall I repay you for your services?” she