Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and her throat burned with thirst. But the moment she tried to sit up her head spun like a weaver’s bobbin, and it was all she could do not to vomit. How long had she lain unconscious? In the darkness it was impossible to guess. The last thing she remembered was Old Wormwood’s talons ripping through her wing, and the ground rushing up to meet her as she fell…. I will never fly again. The realization came to her with cruel clarity, tempting her to weep. To live without the thrill of the hunt, or the joy of soaring through the air…short of death itself, Knife could imagine nothing worse. Yet there was nothing she could do about it. No poultice could heal a torn wing; a hundred stitches would never close the wound. She had been the youngest and the best Hunter ever to serve the Queen—but without the ability to fly, she would be useless. Thorn would take over her duties, and she would go back to being Bryony, a nobody. She would spend the rest of her life trapped in the Oak— No.
