The Raven and the Reindeer

by T. Kingfisher

Feeling bad about feeling bad was not significantly better than feeling bad in the first place.

“Are you a he-raven or a she-raven?” “I am a raven,” said Mousebones, “and the rest is none of your business, as we’ll not be having eggs together.”

“You may call me he,” said Mousebones, “for ‘it’ is an ugly word. I may feel differently later, but I will inform you first.”

“It is a certainty that you are going to die,” said Mousebones. “All living things die. Then we eat their eyes.” “How nice,” said Gerta. “Are you going to eat my eyes?” “Well, obviously. You’d want a friend to do it, wouldn’t you?” Mousebones groomed a snowflake off her hair. “And it’s not like you’d be using them.”

The old woman cackled, a really good cackle, the sort that you can only get if you are over the age of eighty and know how to drink.

“This is why you don’t mate with your nestmates,” said Mousebones pragmatically. “It’s always ‘Oh, yes, and remember the time you ate that cricket that I was supposed to get?’ for the rest of your life.” He paused, and then added, “Well, that and the inbreeding.”