Free Faery Rebels by R. J. Anderson Page B

mechanically into the inkwell as she stroked out one entry after another. Her head was down, her face hidden behind her hair, but the fingers that gripped the quill were trembling.
    “Campion, what—” began Knife, but at the same moment she glanced toward the back of the library, and the words froze on her tongue.
    The door to the secret closet stood open, and a trail of ashy footprints led into it and out again. The shelves were empty, the precious books on humans all gone.
    “What happened?” demanded Knife, rounding on Campion. “Who did this?”
    Campion slowly put the quill back in the inkpot and looked up. Her face was colorless, her eyes so full of fury that Knife took a hasty step back, afraid the other woman might strike her.
    “You,” said Campion in a low voice. “You never thought, did you? You couldn’t pretend, even for a moment, to be afraid.”
    “I—don’t understand—”
    “Of course not, you’re too young to think about anyone but yourself. All you cared about was showing off to the Gatherers. Look at me, not a bit frightened of humans, tra la!” She gave a hysterical laugh. “It never occurred to you, did it, that the Queen might hear how terribly brave you were, and start wondering just what had made you feel so confident around humans? Or that she might take—steps—to make sure that no one else would follow your example?”
    Nausea crept into Knife’s throat. “You mean…the books…they’ve been destroyed?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Campion, biting off the words savagely. “Didn’t you notice what a lovely cheerful fire they’ve got going in the kitchen this morning? All because of you, and I’m sure we’ll appreciate the extra heat even more by this afternoon.”
    Knife closed her eyes, her lips shaping inaudible oaths.
    “Those books were priceless,” Campion told her. “Irreplaceable. I hope you’re happy.” She snatched up her quill again and began crossing out entries, while a large tear rolled off the end of her nose and splashed onto the page.
    “I’m…sorry,” said Knife. She felt helpless and, for the first time she could remember, ashamed.
    “Yes, well, that’s what the Queen said, too,” sniffed Campion. “But at least she was doing what she thought wasbest for all of us. What’s your excuse?”
    There was no answer to that, so Knife bowed her head and turned to leave. But then a thought struck her, and she looked back. “I don’t suppose…? What I mean is, if you knew this was coming, then maybe…”
    The uncertainty in her voice made Campion look up again, the anger in her sharp face easing. “What?” she said.
    “Did you send me a package last night?”
    “Me, send a package? To you ? Right now I wouldn’t give you a dead slug if you offered me gold for it.” Her mouth hardened. “Now get out.”
    Defeated, Knife left the library. Climbing the stairs to the Oak’s ground level, she made her way slowly toward the East Root exit, her thoughts full of black smoke.
     
    The first thing she heard when she emerged from the Oak was Beatrice’s tremulous voice: “Paul. Please.”
    The words came faintly from the far end of the lawn, but there was no mistaking the distress in them. “I just—I want to talk to you. Why won’t you speak to me?”
    Paul made no reply. His blond head inclined a little as she spoke, but his face remained expressionless. Beatrice pressed her hands to her mouth as though muffling a sob, then hurried back into the house, leaving her son alone on the veranda.
    Knife folded her arms and studied Paul critically. Hemust be quite proud of that throne of his, since he was always sitting in it. His own mother waited on him like a servant, and pleaded for his favor. And yet for all that apparent wealth and power, he did not seem happy.
    Well, he was in good company there, thought Knife with a rush of bitterness. How could Amaryllis have burned those books? She had been a scholar once; she should have known better….
    Her