R. Anderson - Rebel

“All right,” said Linden dubiously. How Thorn intended to get Timothy out of the Oak without anyone seeing, she couldn’t imagine. But if Queen Valerian thought it would be all right-and by her silence it seemed she did-then who was Linden to argue?

Reluctantly Timothy got up from his chair. He followed Thorn toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “Er…there’s just one thing.”

All the faeries looked at him.

“What you said before, about being in my debt… Would you mind not telling Peri…I mean, Knife…that I’ve been here?”

The Oakenfolk exchanged surprised glances, and Wink positively glared at him. “What sort of bargain is that?” she demanded, but Thorn interrupted her.

“It’s not like he’s asking for the moon on a platter, is he? Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not a fair bargain. Go on, promise.”

Wink folded her arms and said petulantly, “Oh, all right.”

“Campion?”

“You have my word,” said the other faery, and Valerian gave Thorn an unfathomable look before adding, “And mine. Although it seems a poor way to repay Knife for all her service to us.”

“There,” said Thorn to Timothy. “Satisfied?”

Timothy nodded. He gave Linden a tight farewell smile, and followed Thorn out.

Linden’s shoulders slumped, and she stared down at her crumb-littered plate. She had so hoped that Timothy would stay, that he might even come with her to find the Children of Rhys. But now he was going away, and who knew when-or whether-she’d ever see him again?

“I don’t have magic, remember,” Thorn muttered to Timothy as he shuffled along at her side, barely able to see past the hood of the cloak she’d thrown over him. “So if we bump into anybody else on the way, you let me do the talking, and if I tell you to run, you run.”

“Run where?” objected Timothy. “We’re nine floors up. And I don’t have wings, remember?”

“Cheeky one, aren’t you?” said Thorn. “Just pick the nearest landing, up or down. If you can find a door that isn’t locked, go through it and don’t come out until I tell you. There’s so few of us left now, odds are there won’t be anyone on the other side.” She made a derisive noise. “A human in the Oak. Don’t know what Linden was thinking.”

“Speaking of Linden-” Timothy began, but Thorn hissed him silent. He grimaced and fell into step behind her as they trudged toward the Oak’s ground floor.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Thorn marched straight for the exit, but Timothy lingered, gazing up into the great tree’s vast, hollow heart. This would probably be the last chance he had to look at this incredible place, and he didn’t want to forget any of it.

“Come on,” Thorn whispered at him, tugging open the same door that Timothy and Linden had used to get in. Reluctantly he obeyed-only to have her grab him by the scruff of the neck and practically toss him outside.

“Up the ladder! Go!” she ordered, and Timothy scrambled upward, tripping on the topmost rung and tumbling onto the wet grass.

Thorn climbed up after him, then put two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Well,” she said with satisfaction, “that’s taken care of you-and none too soon, either.” She spread her wings and flashed away across the lawn.

Distractedly Timothy wondered where she was going-and then, to his horror, he realized. He leaped to his feet, shouting, “Wait! Don’t! You promised!”

But she had already given the signal, and his protest came too late. Panicked, Timothy tried to flee, but he had only taken a couple of steps when the glamour Linden had put on him dissolved, and he shot up to his usual size. Dazed, he reeled back against the Oak as the glass doors at the back of the house burst open and Peri rushed out, shouting, “Timothy!”

Thorn flew past him with a chortle, and disappeared among the roots of the Oak. “I know,” said Timothy resignedly as Peri shook him and then seized him in a furious embrace. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“You lied to him!” Linden accused when Thorn came back into the Queen’s study. “And you tricked me!”

“No, I didn’t,” replied the older faery smugly, sitting down and propping her feet up on the table. “I made all of you promise not to tell Knife-but did you ever hear me say that I wouldn’t?”

She was right, Linden realized. Part of her was glad that Timothy was back with Knife and Paul, but what Thorn had done still made her uneasy, and she wondered if Timothy would ever trust a faery again.

“Linden,” said Valerian, and she looked up as the Queen continued, “the knowledge that you gained from your adventure with Timothy is of great value to us all, and I am glad that you returned safely to tell us of it. But even so”-her voice became stern-“you also acted foolishly in leaving the Oak without permission, and it is only by the Gardener’s mercy that you are still alive. What I said to you before, I will say again: You are still too young and unskilled in magic to undertake such a dangerous task.”

She rose to her feet, her gaze holding Linden’s. “As Queen Amaryllis’s appointed successor, I forbid you to leave the Oak again until I give you my permission to do so.”

Linden’s cheeks flamed, and she hung her head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I also forbid you to have any more contact with Timothy. This is not his quest, and we have no right to involve him in it. Already he dares not return to London because of what you have done; we can only pray that he suffers no worse consequences. Do you understand? You must let him go, for his sake.”

A knot of pain formed in Linden’s throat. She slumped forward and buried her face in her arms, overwhelmed with misery.

“It’s all right,” said Wink soothingly, stroking Linden’s hair. “Knife and Paul will take good care of-What is it?”

This last was to Thorn, who had gone very still and held up a hand for silence. Soundlessly the dark-haired faery eased herself out of her chair, padded to the door, and with one swift motion yanked it open-but no one was there.

“Blight,” she muttered as she slammed the door again and stalked back to her seat. “The little weasel must have heard me coming.”

Campion looked up sharply from her stack of books. “Bluebell? How long was she listening?”

“She must have followed me up the Stair when I came back,” said Thorn. “And I was too busy congratulating myself on having outwitted the boy to notice her listening at the keyhole-but I’d know that prissy sniff of hers anywhere. Wither and gall!” She thumped her fist into her palm.

“All is not lost,” said Valerian. “If she only heard the last part of our conversation, then she knows nothing except that Linden is being punished for leaving the Oak and for making contact with Timothy. The matters we discussed earlier will remain safe with us, as they should be. Campion, have you found anything?”

“The problem is,” said the Librarian abstractedly, turning another page, “even the best of our records only go back four hundred years, well after our people broke off from the other faeries-or were exiled from them, I suppose. And when I talk about best, I mean the Queen’s own version of our history, which she had to rewrite from memory after the Sundering; Jasmine had destroyed or censored everything else. There just isn’t much here to work with.”

Valerian looked grave. “Then the human legends are our last remaining hope. We can only pray that Timothy is able to find the information we need.”

“If Knife doesn’t strangle him first,” said Thorn, and Wink rapped her over the head with the teapot. “Ow!”