The Raven and the Reindeer

by T. Kingfisher

Gerta could feel herself getting mad, but surely it was all right to be mad now, surely this, of all things, one could be mad about.

“I am the Sound of Mouse Bones Crunching Under the Hooves of God.” Gerta blinked a few times. “That’s…quite a name.” “I made it myself,” said the raven, preening. “I stole the very shiniest words and hoarded them all up until they made something worth having. Sound and God were particularly well-guarded. Crunching I found in a squirrel nest, though.”

“When it’s that strong, being unmagical is a thing itself. Like being a white raven. White ravens aren’t really white, they’re just an absence of black. But they’re very good at it.”

She was old then and will be older now, but some women age like tree roots and last nearly forever.”

“You didn’t use a knife,” said Janna. “Get to be my age, girl, and your tongue will be as sharp as one. Then you can try cutting someone out of a skin with words alone. Until then, it’s the blade or nothing.”