Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear (Wayward Children, #10)

by Seanan McGuire

“And do what? Turn her into a different person altogether? Not enough magic left in all of Russia for that. The law says she can surrender her baby, and if that’s what she desires to do, that’s what will be done. As for this little songbird, we’ll get her cleaned up, wait to see if the mother returns, and surrender her to the home if not.”

certain tasks would always be more difficult for her, well, wasn’t that true of everyone? No single person could do absolutely everything without aid, and so her own limitations weren’t limitations at all, merely different standards.

First the language classes, which were a punishment and a glory at the same time: the grammatical structure of English made no sense at all, and there was little poetry to the way words fit together.

Relearning the history of the world from an Americentric perspective was technically no more difficult than any other part, but it was the most frustrating by far. Seeing achievements she had been taught mattered hugely reduced to a line in a textbook, if that, made her head ache, even as she buckled down and soldiered through as best as she could.

This was not her choice. This was her body, but it was not her decision, and that alone made it very heavy, and difficult to carry.

The other kids began talking enthusiastically about the arm, how cool it was, how lucky she was to have it, and didn’t seem to notice that they weren’t talking about her anymore at all. They weren’t talking to her, either; like a room full of kindergarteners with a fun new toy, they were talking about the toy.

She’d never really considered her missing arm a disability—it was just the way she was made, and always had been, and it didn’t stop her from doing anything she wanted to do—and now it was all the other children could see.

She’d heard plenty of stories about talking foxes, and stories had to come from somewhere, didn’t they? Stories had to have beginnings, which meant someone had to be where they were beginning, or there was no purpose to them. She was just at the beginning of a story, that was all, and this was perfectly possible.

“Are human children always this hungry?” he asked. “I’ve been walking the same time as you have, and I haven’t run off to chase mice through the weeds even once.”

Sometimes people, like tales, begin where they do not belong.

Some water was thin enough to breathe, and other water wasn’t. The water of the rivers was breathable when you were under the surface, but not when you were above the surface. Most of the adults were dreadfully incurious about the inconsistent nature of the water, seeming to accept it as just the way the world worked, perhaps because they’d been accustomed to it for too long.

No one can warn the eager and excited away from their own future. A future is a monster of its own breed, different for everyone, and ever inescapable.

“It’s also possible to have a home with no children,” said Alexi. “My father’s line comes from a fallen city, my mother’s has been carried on by two sisters. If I choose not to have children of my own, but to call a swept-away or two my sons and daughters, it will cost the river nothing, and I can still be happy with my contributions.”