Faery Rebels by R. J. Anderson Page A

me in a box!” She folded her arms and added resentfully, “I don’t understand why you won’t just let me go.”
    “Are you serious? Do you have any idea what it means for a human being to find a real, live faery?”
    “About the same as it means for a faery to find a real, live human being, I suppose,” said Knife tartly. “Except I don’t have a box big enough to put you—”
    The last word froze on her tongue as the door creaked open, and Paul’s cat squeezed himself through the gap. He sat down, showed his pointed teeth in a yawn, and began to wash himself with great thoroughness, while Knife ducked into Paul’s shadow and tried to make herself as small as she could.
    “It’s all right,” Paul said, and offered her his hand again. She climbed onto it, and he lifted her to the safety of his shoulder. Then he whistled between his teeth, making the cat look up.
    Knife clutched at his shirt. “What are you doing?”
    “Don’t worry,” said Paul. “I won’t let him harm you.” He rubbed a finger along the edge of the blankets, and the cat hurried to the side of the bed, watching with rapt golden eyes. Paul bent and scooped up the animal, dragging it onto his lap and holding it there.
    “He’s a silly cat, really,” Paul remarked. “No brain whatsoever.” He scratched the back of the cat’s head, kneading his way down the spine to the tail, and it collapsed, purring. “He found a mouse once and had no idea what to do. So he sat on it until we came and took it away.”
    “He seemed to think he knew what to do with me,” said Knife doubtfully.
    “He probably thought you were some kind of wonderful new toy. He might have killed you by accident, but not on purpose.”
    This struck Knife as less than comforting, but there seemed little use in saying so. “What did you say his name was? Vermeer?”
    “That’s what I call him. Because of the way his fur shines in the light.”
    Not a true name , then , she thought, disappointed. She had hoped that knowing the cat’s name would give her power to command it as Paul did. “I don’t understand,” she said aloud.
    “Vermeer was a painter, back in the seventeenth century. Here, I’ll show you.” He seized the half-slumbering cat around the belly and tossed him onto the bed, then rolledover to the bookshelf. There he took down the biggest book Knife had ever seen and opened it to a full-color portrait of a young woman. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and a teardrop-shaped ornament dangled from her ear.
    Paul’s finger traced the metallic sheen along the earring. “He was a genius with light,” he said. “And he used a lot of rich, warm tones in his paintings.”
    Knife was silent, gazing at the girl’s luminous face. The picture was beautiful, and yet somehow it was more than that. It was as though the artist were not merely showing her a girl, but telling her something about the girl as well.
    Then in a flash Knife understood: That was what made the other paintings in the room special, too. They weren’t just images, they were ideas. Excited, she slid off Paul’s shoulder and leaped onto the desk, scanning each of the hanging canvases in turn. If she could just figure out what they were saying….
    “You like them,” said Paul, and when she glanced back she saw a new respect in his eyes. “You really get it, don’t you—art, I mean. You’re not just being polite.”
    Knife nodded.
    “Do you…would you like to see some more?”
    She hesitated. He was offering her knowledge, but without magic, what could she give him in return? “I can’t pay you,” she said.
    Paul made a face, as though she was being ridiculous.“Pay me? What for? I’m not an expert. I just like art.”
    “But you have knowledge,” she persisted. “That’s worth something. You can’t just give it away.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because—” She struggled for an explanation, and finally threw up her hands. “Because that isn’t how it’s