Faery Rebels by R. J. Anderson Page B

done!”
    “Maybe that’s how things work in that oak tree of yours,” said Paul mildly. “But you’re not there now, are you?”
    Knife looked down at the painting of the girl, torn between doubt and yearning. For saving her from Old Wormwood, she already owed Paul a great debt. If she accepted any more favors, she might as well sign herself up as his slave, because it would take her years to pay him back.
    And yet…
    “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to see some more. Please.”
    The tension lifted from Paul’s face, and for a moment he looked almost like the boy who had climbed the Oak again. “Let me show you The Lacemaker ,” he said, and began turning pages.
     
    When Knife woke the next morning her body ached, but her mind had never felt more alive. If only she could write down everything she had learned, before she had the chance to forget it!
    She and Paul had talked for hours. Once he realized that she was genuinely interested in the art he loved, allthe pent-up words of the past few weeks came rushing out of his mouth. He took book after book off his shelves, explaining different painting techniques and styles, pointing out his favorite artists and telling her why their work was important. Now and then he paused to give Knife a sidelong glance, as though he could scarcely believe that she was still listening; but all she ever said was, “Go on,” and in the end he did.
    When they had finished looking at the pictures, Paul took out his sketchbook again and began showing her how to draw, making quick sketches of her from various angles as he talked about things like shading, perspective, and point of view. For Knife it was a feast of knowledge, and she felt as though she could listen forever; but eventually Paul’s voice thinned to huskiness, and when she caught him rubbing his eyes she realized that she had kept him up long enough. Still, when she said good night and climbed back into her damp-smelling box she could not help feeling disappointed that the conversation had not lasted longer. There was so much she could do with this knowledge once she returned to the Oak….
    Except that she couldn’t, because then everyone would want to know where she had learned it. The Oakenfolk didn’t have new ideas anymore; they had a hard enough time not forgetting the things they knew already. Besides, without Paul’s books to show them, what good would it be? Shehad learned a great deal about art last night, but that didn’t make her an artist.
    Knife sighed as she rolled over and climbed to her feet. She crawled out of her box and sat down on the edge of the shelf, kicking the wardrobe door wide for a view of the room beyond.
    Judging by the color of the light fingering its way past the curtains, it was almost noon, but Paul was still asleep. She cleared her throat loudly and rapped on the wooden shelf until he stirred in his nest of blankets, muttered something unintelligible, and opened his eyes.
    “Good morning,” said Knife.
    He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze focusing blearily upon her. “You’re still here,” he said. “You weren’t a dream.”
    “No. Should I have been?”
    He ignored the question, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I feel terrible.”
    “Well, I feel hungry,” said Knife. “And you promised me meat, remember?”
    Paul snorted, but the sound was good-natured. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
     
    “You managed to get all this from your mother without saying a word?” said Knife when Paul returned, bearing a heavily laden tray across his lap.
    Paul stopped and shook his head warningly. “Not so loud,” he mouthed, and Knife cringed. He was right, of course: They would both need to speak quietly if they wanted to keep her presence in the House a secret.
    Gingerly Knife hopped onto the tray, sidestepping a glass of orange liquid and sitting down next to a plate steaming with two enormous eggs, a pile of beans in brown sauce, and several strips of