(Note: This chapter contains references to dirty diapers. I know what Holly Black said about faeries not ever needing to use the bathroom, but I really don't see how they can be vertebrate mammals that have circulatory and respiratory systems, need to eat and drink every day, require sleep, reproduce sexually, can interbreed with humans, give birth to live young, experience menstrual cycles, have food allergies, can become intoxicated on alcohol, can be poisoned with natural chemicals, leave a body that rots after death, and not need to process bodily wastes on a daily basis. It's just biology, folks.)

Weaver

Inside, the walls of the cottage are polished smooth, and are lined with hundreds of shelves, extending from the floor up into the darkness of the hollow tree trunk. They're crowded with berries and nuts, baskets and books, spools of thread and yarn, and length upon length of woven fabric. A skilled wood-singer has been at work here: not only are there shelves, but a wide bed, formed from the living wood, extrudes smoothly from the opposite wall, hidden by a blue curtain. Off to the side, a loom sprawls. In addition to the softly glowing lamps, there's a fire, and a few candles providing light. Still, the light doesn't extend very far up the tree. High above our heads, in the darkness, I hear a few gentle clicks and scurries: the weaver's spinners must live up there, tending their silken webs.

The weaver—that's what she must be—fusses around, placing the baby gently in a cradle made from a magically worked nutshell and straightening with a groan of relief. Seen closer, she does not look well: her eyes are hollow from too many sleepless nights, and her bark-skin is cracked in places. Clearly, this baby has not been easy.

"He's asleep," she says quietly, with infinite relief. "Oh, thank the Trees, he's asleep at last." She looks at me more closely. "Who are you, my dear? And what brings you to Thistleweft's door?"

Politely, I curtsy. Taryn, I try to say, but nothing comes out. Helplessly, I mouth, and lay a hand at my throat.

"Voiceless, eh? Here." The hob woman—Thistleweft?—takes down a sheet of lined paper and a pencil, obviously stolen from the human world, and hands them to me.

There's no table, but a wide shelf beside the fireplace acts as a counter, scattered with cooking equipment. Moving aside a knife, I write on the paper, The unicorn brought me here. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.

She reads it, and her pure-black eyes go wide. "The unicorn?" She gapes at me. Then, to my surprise, her eyes fill with tears. "Oh, you poor soul."

I blink. I expected surprise, disbelief, maybe even fear, but not this: a deep welling of horror and sympathy. I cock my head inquiringly.

She sighs, shaking her head. "The unicorn's a pure and benevolent thing," she says heavily, "but she only manifests to women who have suffered. Really suffered. Experienced true injustice, so badly that Faerie itself owes them a debt. For her to have carried you here…" She looks at me with a fascinated horror. "What happened to you?"

I can't tell her. It's not that I don't want to—part of me is screaming to say it, scrawl the truth across the paper, shout it from the forest canopy—but I literally can't do it. I can't even open my mouth to fruitlessly try to explain. I can't gesture. I can't write. I can't move at all, just stand rigidly and stare at her, unable to so much as shake my head.

And I realize that Balekin's second curse has come true.

The room is blurring before my eyes. I can't stop shaking. Murmuring soothingly, Thistleweft guides me to a bench, another wide shelf extruding from the wall, sitting me down. I can't acknowledge her. All I can do is shake, and shed silent tears. Balekin raped me—and he's made sure I can't ever reveal what he did. The unicorn might have spirited me away, but I'm as helpless as I ever was, and with sullied honor and a defiled body besides. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Here, dear." Thistleweft presses something warm into my hands. "You don't have to discuss it. Drink this."

Blindly, I drink. It's some kind of herbal tea, spicy and with a hint of earth. It's good. I drain it down; it's the first thing I've drunk since that night, so many nights ago.

"In any case," Thistleweft says, glancing back at her peacefully slumbering baby, "I shouldn't be pestering you. I do believe you've saved my son's life. And probably mine as well," she adds wryly. She takes the empty mug away and sits down on the bed beside me. Her shoulders slump. "He was born two months ago." Her voice is so thin, so weary. "First child I ever bore. But he was so weak, like so many faerie babies…I didn't think he'd live even so long as he has." She looks up at me with wonder. "And then you appear, and just lay your hands—and he's better." She shakes her head wonderingly. "It must be meant to be."

Even in my quagmire of building misery, I have to smile a little. I'm glad to have saved your son, I write, bracing the paper against the wall. What's his name?

"Dogwood. His father was a tree goblin." Thistleweft gestures up the tree. "There's a whole tribe of them, lives about a mile east of here. My escape hatch leads right to the village."

Escape hatch? Anything, to keep my mind off the enveloping darkness.

She points upward. "I've got a ladder that lets out onto a treeway, high above ground level. The treeway runs to the village." She shrugs. "You need an escape exit, living around here. Even living in a Great Tree isn't a guarantee of safety."

Great Tree? I look around with surprise and awe. This is a Great Tree of Faerie? One of the pillars that upholds this reality, great with a deep and sacred power. I shift a little on the bench: a piece of the Tree.

"Yes." Thistleweft smiles slightly, seeing my expression. "This is a Great Tree. Some very powerful wood singer sang it into a cottage, a long time ago." She pats the wood fondly. "I think this Tree likes to have people living inside it. I've been happy here, even alone."

I cock my head at her inquiringly.

"I've been alone here for centuries," she says simply. "The villagers are my allies, though." With a grunt, she stands up, placing the mug on the counter and twitching her red shawl closer. "They like my fabric, but I'm not a goblin. Not really one of them."

Don't I know what that's like. I'm sorry, I write.

She waves a long, gnarled hand. "Nothing to feel sorry for," she says. "I like it here, on my own." Her gaze softens on Dogwood. "Until my son, of course. Whose life you have saved."

Her glowing look makes me uncomfortable. I shrug awkwardly. I don't really know what I did.

"I do," she says, confidently and unexpectedly. "It must be a gift from the unicorn. She gave you the ability to heal by laying on your hands."

And, of course, the moment she says so, it's obvious. I remember holding up my hands, the unicorn tapping her horn against them: the sense of power wreathing around my fingers, sinking into my bones. I look down at my hands wonderingly. What a gift! Then I feel a tremor: faerie gifts are seldom free. What price will I have to pay for this?

Then I remember: I've already paid. I shove my hands between my knees, locking them out of sight.

"Remarkable," Thistleweft is saying. There's a flicker in her eyes: I can see she's burning to ask exactly what happened to make the unicorn owe me so much. But she suppresses the urge. "Do you have anywhere to stay, my dear?"

I shake my head and eye her sidelong, half wary, half hopeful.

"Well, then." She straightens and stands stiffly up, turning to face me. "I think Fate has brought us together for a reason, girl-who-was-brought-by-the-unicorn. You are welcome to stay with me as long as you like." She correctly interprets my wary silence. "I swear I will not try to enspell or enslave you. Though you do have to help out—you're not a High Court lady out here. We both have to work."

I nod; this is more than reasonable. Though I have to ask: How did you know I was a High Court lady?

"Your clothes, and your manners." She shrugs. "And most mortals in Faerie belong to a Court. Especially the High Court."

I nod. This is true: only aristocrats have the privilege of stealing humans away from Earth, whether to marry them or make them servants. Common faeries, like this hob, don't have that right. It's therefore highly unusual to meet a mortal outside a Court; and by far the largest concentration can be found at Eldred's High Court.

"Like I said, though, you can stay with me," Thistleweft says. "I promise I won't make you a slave, but you will have to work. I don't have servants."

I know why she's hammering it home so hard: the idea of having to work would be utterly incomprehensible to most High Court gentry. The thought's amusing, in a sour sort of way. A smile tugs at my lips and I nod.

She relaxes. "Good. In exchange, I'll give you houseroom, and share my supplies with you, and give you what protection I can. Is that bargain good to you?"

I nod. Standing up, I curtsy, one hand over my heart. It is sworn.

Clumsily, she curtsies in response, and nearly overbalances. I stiffen a little, but she's smiling as she comes up, so I smile too. "Like I said," she says. "Lovely manners. What do I call you, dear, if we're going to be living together?"

I think for a moment. I could tell her my name—I doubt it would mean anything to her—but if Madoc or…others…are hunting me, I don't want to make it too easy for them.

And besides, I realize, I don't want my old name. I want a new name. A new life.

I think of the roses outside. I recall lessons given by Oriana, in the language of flowers. White roses symbolize silence, and that certainly describes me.

Albia, I write at last. I think that will do: an elegant word for "white", and utterly unlike my old name. A new name for new beginnings. A white rose, as silent as myself.

"Albia," Thistleweft says, and so it is agreed.

Thistleweft checks on Dogwood—still sleeping soundly—before pulling back the covers on the bed. "You'll have to sleep with me," she says, almost to herself. "There's nowhere else."

I nod. Turning my back, I take off my ruined ballgown and most of my underclothes, until I'm down to just my petticoat. The clothes I shove onto a shelf; I really don't care if they're wrinkled. I also take off my jewels: by some miracle, I haven't lost a single one on my journey, not even the earrings.

It's strange to slide into bed next to a stranger. One more thing to get used to, I suppose. After the bare beds of my journey, though, the ferny mattress feels decadently comfortable.

Thistleweft has touched every lamp, making them die down, leaving only the fire. In the darkness, she sniffs. "First thing in the morning, Albia," she says, "you need a bath."

This makes me giggle. Silently, of course.

In the morning, I make breakfast, taking instruction from Thistleweft while she nurses Dogwood. He suckles vigorously, with loud wet noises and waves of his hands and feet. "He's never nursed so strongly before!" Thistleweft exclaims in pleasure. "And he slept the night through as well. Never done that before." She looks at me with even more approval. "I do believe you've saved my life as well as Dogwood's, Albia. Even if you can't cook."

I shrug and give a grimacing smile as I stir the oats. I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the fireplace and blink in surprise: Thistleweft was right about me needing a wash. My face is smudged with dirt and my hair is matted with tangles. I touch it gingerly and sigh: I think most of it is going to have to go.

"First thing after breakfast, you take a wash," Thistleweft says, picking up on my silent observations. "I'll show you how to use the shower. We'll do something about your hair, too."

I wonder what she means by "shower" as we start to eat breakfast, sitting on the floor. I know human showers, but I don't think that's what she means.

It turns out that Thistleweft collects rainwater in a vat, high in the Tree, and has rigged a complex contraption that, with a tug of the rope, will bring a cascade down onto a wooden platform, with grooves to let the water sluice away onto the Tree's roots. "There's a lake down in the valley, and a river running into the lake," she says, "but of course it's not safe to bathe there. Here, hold Dogwood while I get it set up."

I take Dogwood while she busies herself about the machinery. I cuddle him close: he's a sweet little thing, covered in light brown fuzz. He kicks and coos at me. I try to hum him a song—but nothing happens. My vocal cords won't move.

And suddenly, without warning, I'm blinded by rage.

That Balekin has cursed me so! That he has willed it so I can't even hum a damn lullaby to a baby! Unfair, unfair: evil and wrong and unfair. I look away, shaking, fighting back tears.

"—There we go; should be all set up." Thistleweft bustles back around and stops short. "Albia? What's the matter?"

I shake my head, cradling Dogwood awkwardly to wipe at my eyes. He cries out in protest at the change in position.

Thistleweft takes him back and stares at me a moment with her ink drop eyes. My heart thuds. She suspects what's happened. Of course she does.

For a moment, I'm certain she's going to confront me with it, but she just says, "I'll let you get cleaned up."

I watch her go and look around. The rope dangles, ready to be pulled. Around me, the forest spreads out. Craning, I can spot a gap in the branches, where I can see the deep blue of a wide calm lake and, beyond that, a range of snowcapped mountains. It's quiet, except for the morning chirp of birds, and the buzzing progress of a few flower-fey who don't even glance in my direction.

I wrap my arms around myself. I didn't put my ballgown back on this morning; I'm still in my petticoat. So I'm half-naked anyway, but I find I can't bring myself to strip off this layer of fabric, even alone.

What's wrong with me? Part of it is that I've never bathed out the open before. But there's something more: an inchoate, panicky reluctance.

—Balekin's weight on me, pulling up my skirt—

I gasp, and my knees buckle. I steady myself against the Tree, bark warm under my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to stop pounding. I'm here, not there. Balekin is nowhere near here. But I can still feel his hands on me, his body. Being pounded back against the earth, bruised and smacked. The tearing inside.

He's not here, he's not here, he's not here!

I open my eyes and take a deep breath. Whatever my feelings, I have to shower; I can't stay this dirty forever. Moving as fast as I can, I pull off my petticoat and remove my underwear. The air touches certain parts of me, and I gag, but I don't let myself stop. Yanking on the rope, I let down a cascade of cold water on my head, and scrub myself with the bar of soap in the little wooden box attached to the Tree.

I wash as quickly as I can before hastily toweling off and darting to put my clothes back on. Dressed, I feel a little better, but still have to breathe deeply a moment, head spinning, before going back to find Thistleweft.

She's sitting on a sort of bench carved out from one of the great exposed roots of the Tree, shelling nuts, Dogwood at her side. She looks up as I come around. "All done?"

I nod before touching my hair, grimacing. She nods understanding. "Yes, I agree, your hair's beyond salvation. Here, sit down. I'll give you a haircut."

I sit on the bench and hold Dogwood in my lap while she bustles about getting scissors. I smile down at the half-goblin child: he is a sweet thing, and a bit of a distraction from the growing darkness of my thoughts, the creeping horror. Not enough, though.

Why am I remembering Balekin now? I wonder while Thistleweft cuts my hair. I hardly gave him a thought while I was with the unicorn. But the moment I ask myself the question, I know the answer.

The unicorn's mode was one of peace, detachment, serenity. While I was wrapped in her aura, all my emotions were placed at a distance, even my curiosity and confusion transmuted into an unquestioning wonder. Memories were dim and feeble; neither pain nor passion existed. But now that I'm away from the unicorn, just as my physical needs are reviving, so my emotions are coming back to the surface. And they're bringing my memories with them.

I shut my eyes. I don't want to remember. But I have no choice: in the darkness behind my closed lids, I see Balekin's face again, his bestial excitement. Those hands, clawing at me. The weight of him. And, most of all, the ruthless, brutal thrusting.

And then he just left, back to the party, without a backward glance.

That alone tells me everything. I was less to him than I was to the Court of Grackles. To them, at least, I was a person, with thoughts they could damage and feelings they could hurt. But to Balekin I was just something he could use. And then discard, like a filthy old rag.

In my lap, Dogwood squeaks, and I force my eyes open. I'm here now: far away from Balekin. Focus. I bounce Dogwood on my knee, which he seems to enjoy. I get a whiff though; I think he needs a diaper change.

"All done," says Thistleweft finally. I toss my head; it feels very light and strange without my mane of long hair. I wonder reflexively how I look, before realizing that I don't really care. The thought, oddly, makes me feel better: it's strangely liberating.

Thistleweft takes her son with a wrinkled nose, and we change him before washing my shorn hair in a bowl of water. The wastewater is brown and scummy when we throw it away.

"Now: clothes," says Thistleweft, ushering me back inside. I'm carrying Dogwood again, all clean now. "Your gown's lovely, but not practical." She takes it off the shelf, shaking it out doubtfully. "Though I suppose we could remake it—"

No! I shake my head firmly, holding Dogwood to my chest.

She frowns at me. "Sell it, then?"

I shake my head again, even more emphatically. I don't want it sold, where Madoc or any other pursuer may find it. In fact, now that it's off my body, I can't look at it without a shudder. That's the gown that Balekin touched, the gown I wore to my doom. I don't want it to exist at all.

Holding Dogwood to my shoulder, I snatch up a knife from the counter and make a slashing motion. Thistleweft's eyes widen. "Tear it up?"

I nod vigorously.

"But Albia, this is beautiful fabric. We could sell it, or use it to make something wonderful—"

I shake my head and stamp my foot, making Dogwood cry out. I put the knife down to soothe him, jiggling him on my shoulder.

"Well, all right." I can tell Thistleweft thinks I'm being unreasonable, but she lowers the gown. "We'll feed it to the spinners," she decides. "They can reuse the silk."

Together, we cut up the gown and pass up scraps of silk to the vast spiders that clamber down to suck them through their mandibles.

Thistleweft makes a new suit of clothes for me, pulling down swathes of green and brown fabric and muttering spells over her snapping scissors and flashing needle. The sewing is done at supernatural speed while I look after Dogwood. He seems to like me, and there's no point thinking a human can help out with faerie sewing.

When Thistleweft is done, I have a loose shirt under a tight bodice, and practical, calf-length pants over moccasin-like shoes. It's strange to wear pants, but I can see its uses out here in the forest. I give her a curtsy in thanks, and we laugh at how odd the gesture is without skirts.

My petticoats we feed to the spiders too.

Another day, I think as we go to bed. I've gotten through another day.

I keep getting through the days, one at a time. Thistleweft is extraordinarily kind and patient, showing me how to do things around the house. "Though you certainly have a gift for looking after Dogwood," she says, seeing me jiggling him while he coos. "Quite a help, that."

I've always liked babies, I write on the paper, which is getting crowded.

She shakes her head at the lined paper. "We need to figure something else out, Albia. All this writing stuff down is getting ridiculous."

Slowly, she introduces me to the local faeries. Thistleweft is respected for her skill in weaving and sewing, so it gives me some status too, when she introduces me as Dogwood's new nurse. I'm a bit cautious about being introduced as a servant, but I have to admit that it might be better to have an official status, especially when we meet the Jenny Greenteeth down by the lake, slithering out the water, leering at me. I jump back when one lays a clawed hand on my leg, making Dogwood cry out. She cackles at me slimily.

"Back off," Thistleweft warns. "Albia's my friend. And you don't want her disfavor."

"Why not?" demands the Greenteeth, still laughing. "She's mortal. She's nothing."

I turn away, unable to deny this. I don't even have the power to keep Balekin out of my nightmares.

My meeting with the goblin tribe is even more unnerving, in its way.

Treeways, as it turns out, are a large, complex network of bridges and roads built into the canopy, constructed of twisting, woven branches and vines. They're narrow, with barely room for two average-sized faeries to walk side by side, and they are punctuated by drawbridges: gaps over space where the pedestrian has to place their hand on a knot of wood to make the bridge appear, vines spiraling and weaving out to close the gap. "The tribe has to give you permission first for that to work," Thistleweft explains. "They own and maintain the treeways." She laughs a little. "It's worth it to stay in the goblins' favor, just to use these paths. They're much safer than moving at ground level. Out of the reach of predators. And those Unseelie swine." She scowls.

I make a note to ask her about this as soon as we get hold of some paper, as we enter the goblin village. It's built in the treetops, of course: platforms and treehouses, built on multiple levels in the branches and around the trunks. The goblins race up the sides of their own houses, along suspension bridges, and scrabbling along vines and branches, their tails whipping back and forth to maintain balance, claws hooking into the bark. The goblins are all about my height, covered with brown fur, each with a prehensile tail and a crest of stiff, spiky hairs on their heads that flash colors. I freeze, half entranced and half intimidated by the scene.

Thistleweft has no such reservations. "Oi, Birch, move it!" she says crossly, pushing aside a goblin in a red vest. "We need to see Heartwood."

The male goblin, holding a piece of magic-worked wood, blinks at me. "Who's this?" His voice is surprisingly deep and pleasant.

"Albia, my son's nurse and my friend," Thistleweft says tartly, sweeping past him. "So mind your manners."

"Never would have thought you'd get a nurse for the boy," he says. His crest, tipped with red and spotted with iridescent blue, rises a little, inquiringly. "Snatch her from the human world, did you? You know, you can get into trouble for that." He peers at Dogwood. "He's looking very well now, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," says Thistleweft grudgingly. "Move aside, Birch!" Birch gives a bow and watches as we go by. "That Birch!" Thistleweft mutters. "Thinks everything's his business."

He seemed all right to me, but I can hardly argue as we thread our way through the goblin village. It's even noisier and busier in its center, with goblins screeching and shouting and racing like squirrels, coming over to gape at us—and, more specifically, me. I catch snatches of conversation: "That's her…The human Thistleweft hired…Heard she did something to save Dogwood…Is it true she's from the High Court?"

I hunch over the sling where I carry Dogwood on my chest. I hate the attention being beamed on me, like hands touching.

We finally achieve the central tree deck: a wide open platform with a strange feature in the middle: a great, bulbous, ugly knot of twisted branches and wood, protruding up through a hole in the deck. I can't help staring at it as I follow Thistleweft to where a goblin woman sits, strung with beads, clothing a patchwork of fabric and styles, smoking a pipe and raising her face to the sun.

"Chieftainess Heartwood," Thistleweft says, bowing. "I would like to make an introduction. This is Albia, my son's nurse and my companion."

I give my own bow as Heartwood peers through a curtain of smoke at me. Her furry face is calm, her red eyes fathoms deep. As a female, her crest is smaller than the males', and without their blue spots, but all the same she has great presence.

"Albia?" she says. Nervously, I nod. "Well, come here, child."

I step closer, trying not to show my nerves. In his sling, Dogwood begins fussing; he's hungry. Gesturing apologetically, I hand him over to Thistleweft, who begins nursing him, quite unembarrassed about doing so under the gaze of the curious goblin tribe.

"I've heard stories, young Albia, since you arrived here," Heartwood says abruptly. "You're not just this boy's nurse, are you? Did you truly save his life by laying on your hands?"

My palms sweat. I can't see any way out of this. Reluctantly, I nod. Behind me, Thistleweft shifts uneasily.

"Hmm." Heartwood regards me intently a moment more. "Let's experiment." Moving stiffly, she extends a gnarled, twisted old foot. "I've had trouble with this foot since I was young and an Unseelie knight decided to play with me." Her voice is matter-of-fact, with no hint of bitterness. "Could you do something about it?"

Can I do something about it? I have no choice. My hands leap forward, wrap around the foot. The unicorn's power flares, and I feel, fleetingly, the magic writhing in, correcting the crushed and twisted bones, the flesh and blood vessels that have rerouted themselves around the mishmash of breaks. A flash of light, and it's done: Heartwood's foot is whole, smooth and untwisted.

The tribe lets out a gasp, and a frenzy of whispers and speculation arises. Heartwood flexes her foot in satisfaction, seeming completely unsurprised. "Well, well," she says, "it seems the unicorn did bless you." At my startled look, she smiles. "I'm old, child. This isn't the first time I've encountered the unicorn's power."

The goblins gibber even more. Off to the side, I see Birch staring, red eyes round. I sigh. This story is going to spread. So much for obscurity. Nervously, I hope this rumor doesn't fly too far or too fast.

"Well, Albia," Heartwood says, sounding pleased, "I do believe you are welcome here." She rests her weight on her formerly bad foot and lets out a pleased gasp at standing without pain. "Oh, that's better!" She beckons me. "Come, Albia."

After a nervous look at Thistleweft, who nods encouragingly, I follow Heartwood across the platform to the great, hideous mass of branches. Up close, it's even uglier, but more fascinating: the ropes of living tree tie around one another in a fabulously complicated puzzle, stained with lichen and strung with spiderwebs. There's also a strange, dark stain covering it.

"This is the Knot," says Heartwood. "It is the center of power for the Red Branch tribe of tree goblins, and the means by which we maintain our covenant with the trees." She turns to me. "The covenant is this: that any Red Branch goblin, or those who we permit, are safe from most predators and other faeries as long as we are in or touching one of the trees. The trees also provide us with food, shelter and materials.

"There is of course a price for this." She shrugs. "We must feed the trees our blood, at least once a year." She points, and I see the stain is old, dried blood. "If you enter the covenant, Albia, you too must feed the trees. Will you do so?"

An awestruck murmur runs through the crowd: "Covenant…a mortal?...But we don't even know her…"

I do not turn to look at the tribe. I know what this is: a chance at protection, and also a test. I nod, placing my right hand over my heart.

"Very well." Heartwood looks at Thistleweft. "Will you vouch for her, Thistleweft?"

"Yes, Chieftainess." Thistleweft nods. "She is a good and helpful girl, and will bring no harm to the tribe. Indeed, I think she will bring much good."

"I think so too." Heartwood turns to me, drawing a small copper knife from her belt. "In exchange for healing my leg, Albia, I grant you the protection of our tribe, and the covenant of the trees. Hold out your arm."

A little hesitantly, I do so, and she draws the knife shallowly across it. Blood trickles down my arm and onto the Knot.

A cheer rises, and Heartwood smiles. "There. You are now under our protection, and that of the trees. The trees will feed you, and as long as you are touching one, you will be safe from enemies."

I can't stop myself smiling. Maybe she's only doing it in return for healing her leg, and because I look like I'll be a useful addition to the tribe—but I am now protected. And, what is more—I'm in the community. Like Thistleweft, I may not be one of them, but at least I have some sort of place now.

My cut is still bleeding. Raising my other hand, I try to summon the unicorn's power to heal myself, but, though the white glow appears and the power crackles, my cut won't heal.

"What's the matter, Albia?" Thistleweft comes up, through the chattering crowd.

Frowning, I show her how the gift isn't working on me. Heartwood, still standing close, leans in interestedly. "Looks like the unicorn's gift works on others, but not you," she observes. She turns. "Oi! Alder! Elder!"

"Here!" Two younger goblins swing through the branches, landing lightly before their Chieftainess.

"A pair of idiots like you must have some injuries," Heartwood says in a calm, observational tone. "Have our new Lady Healer heal one."

The two goblins fall about laughing. They must be identical twins, like me and Jude: I can't tell them apart.

"Okay, okay," giggles one, and shows me a small bruise on his arm.

With some trepidation—what if the power isn't working at all anymore?—I lay on my hands, and it heals instantly. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Heartwood must be right: the unicorn's gift works on others, but not me. That's a bit disappointing, but better than it suddenly vanishing.

"All right!" cheers the goblin twin. I curtsy and smile.

Heartwood looks at me closely. "Can't you speak at all, child?"

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. Thistleweft speaks up. "I think it's a curse, Heartwood." I look at her in surprise, and she shrugs. "What else could it be?"

"Ah." Heartwood looks at me sidelong. "Like that, eh?" She turns back to the goblin twins. "You like stealing things from Ironside, don't you? And you owe the Lady Healer now. So, next time you're out shopping, get Albia here a book on sign language. Humans have that sort of thing, I understand." She pauses thoughtfully. "Get me a copy too, while you're at it. And some salt."

"Salt!" They draw back, making disgusted faces.

"Mortals need it just to stay alive," Heartwood says. "Our new healer needs it."

Behind me, Thistleweft sucks in her breath, dismayed. But what can we do? The goblins are already chattering and exclaiming enthusiastically, and starting to push forward their injuries and small, squalling babies. "Please…Touch my daughter!...I've got a cut…See this?"

"You can touch me anytime, lovely," leers a male, only to be cuffed back by his tribemates. I shudder away, hoping no one notices the flash of disgust.

—Balekin's fingers, digging into my breasts, my hair being dragged back through the mud as I'm raked brutally back and forth across the ground—

"Respect!" barks Heartwood, who is watching me keenly. "Albia, would you be willing to share your gift more today?" she asks me formally.

Focus. I take a breath, then another. My secret's out, and I can't afford to alienate this tribe, especially since they seem to be a major power in this valley. Drawing myself up, I nod.

After that, it's surprisingly orderly. The goblins who need my help line up, and I touch each one. My gift flares in white light, and my patients go away on healed limbs or with strengthened babies, each promising me something in exchange later. It's very satisfying to see their wounds heal, and with so little effort, and to know that I have a string of gifts and favors coming my way. When I straighten at last, it's with a smile of pleasure.

"Very good!" says Heartwood approvingly. "Albia, Thistleweft, will you not stay the night?"

"No," says Thistleweft abruptly. She stands. "We must be getting back to the Tree. Here, Albia, take Dogwood." I place Dogwood back in his sling and make one last bob to Heartwood.

"Goodbye, Lady Healer!" The goblins all wave, and I wave back, smiling.

Thistleweft isn't pleased, though, as we move along the treeway back to the house. "Dammit," she mutters. "That Heartwood. She always knows everything ahead of time. I was hoping we could keep that gift of yours a secret, Albia. Now the whole valley's going to know!"

I wonder why she's so upset. Is she jealous of the attention, of my gift? Or just possessive? She has seemed to be enjoying my company. Maybe she doesn't want to share. Or she thinks I'm getting above myself. Or that it's going to attract unwanted attention.

Well, it's too late now, I think as we descend the ladder back into the house, past the level of the spiders. The goblins know. And I healed dozens of them today. I should probably be nervous about this—miraculous healing isn't conducive to hiding for one's life—but instead I feel a strange glow: I healed them.

I made a difference today, all on my own.

I go to bed happy, and I'm completely unprepared for the nightmares.

Hands, crawling all over me, rough and ruthless. Balekin's voice, whispering my old name. The awful weight on me, the earth all around me, and then I'm sinking, sinking, suffocating under layers of earth and stone, and Balekin's hands won't stop—

I wake with a silent scream ripping my throat. I scream and scream, bolt upright in the bed, while Thistleweft sleeps beside me and Dogwood snuffles in his cradle. Silently, I shriek in the darkness of the treehouse, and it's a long time before I can make myself stop, drawing in breath after sobbing breath.

I curl up, huddling around myself in the darkness. Focus. Breathe. I'm here, not there. Balekin is far away.

So how can I still feel him?

I lie back with a silent moan. I hate this so much. I hate Balekin, and I hate myself. I should have known better than to let him get me alone that night. Jude would have known better. Jude would have kept herself safe. But not me. Why was I so stupid? Why am I always so stupid?

But really, how was I to know he would assault me? Why would I suspect he would do such a thing? Oriana was right: he's a prince. If he'd asked for me, I couldn't have refused. Even Madoc wouldn't have dreamed of saying no. He could have used me for as long as he liked, free of consequences. He had no need to rape me.

Then I remember his snarled command: "Don't make a sound, Taryn. Don't ruin it." And earlier: "That silence…so intoxicating."

Balekin didn't want even the pretense of a consensual relationship. He wanted to hurt me. He liked my silence, my self-annihilation. He wanted to force himself on me in every sense, to break my passive resistance, to dominate me completely. To break me.

Can it be? That the silence I undertook as self-protection…was my downfall?

Tears track across my face, slipping onto the pillow. Why am I always so dumb? Vivienne, Oriana, Jude and Madoc were all utterly correct in thinking me a complete weakling. Everyone was. Now I have to live with the consequences of that weakness forever. Silence excited Balekin's interest, led to my rape—and now I'm silent for the rest of my life. I couldn't tell my family a thing even if they were here. Balekin will never face any consequences for what he did.

My family. For the first time, guilt stabs me: I left without so much as a farewell note. They must still be frantic; I know Madoc at least was actively looking for me. But—selfishly, cowardly—I can't bear the thought of facing them again, any of them. Not with that between me and them. Not at Court.

I take a deep breath and let it out again. Perhaps it's for the best. No doubt they're all upset, but maybe, when the fuss dies down, my sisters can get on with their lives, now that they don't have to look after me. Vivi can leave Faerie, as she's always wanted to do, and move in with that human lover of hers—what was her name? Heather, that's it. Vivi can go live with Heather. And Jude can concentrate on her studies and become a knight, according to her ambition. Oriana, too, will get on with her life, and I daresay Madoc will find something else to do. I don't doubt that they're afraid and unhappy about me right now—but they'll move on. They're the strong ones, after all.

Dogwood stirs and starts to cry. I get out of bed and pick him up, a warm, squirming bundle. He's hungry. As I hand him over to a sleepy Thistleweft, I feel just the slightest bit better.

I may be weak and broken, but here at least I can help.