into the House’s front drive and filling the once-quiet Oakenwyld with their appalling mechanical din, it was impossible not to take notice. At first the Oakenfolk were terrified, and it was all the Queen herself could do to reassure them. Then, as the pounding and screeching went on day after day, their fear turned to resignation, and finally to impatience.
“What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”
Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back down the table.
“What for?”
“I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans— her humans—were still away from the House more often than not, so shehad no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.
“So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”
“They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.
“What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Only Wink looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.
Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase, Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss—why?
Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.
“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.
His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He—said that?”
“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”
“But he didn’t speak to you?”
George’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“You told him he’s coming home?”
“I told him. He just looked at me.”
Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband. “You’ll see.”
“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it.”
“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”
“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?” she said.
“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”
Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.
Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.
“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”
Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld without her knowing it? But the Queen went on:
“One of the Gatherers reported that a large
“What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”
Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back down the table.
“What for?”
“I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans— her humans—were still away from the House more often than not, so shehad no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.
“So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”
“They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.
“What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Only Wink looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.
Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase, Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss—why?
Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.
“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.
His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He—said that?”
“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”
“But he didn’t speak to you?”
George’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“You told him he’s coming home?”
“I told him. He just looked at me.”
Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband. “You’ll see.”
“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it.”
“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”
“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?” she said.
“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”
Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.
Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.
“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”
Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld without her knowing it? But the Queen went on:
“One of the Gatherers reported that a large
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