Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

Then again, few humans were truly worth the love of a living dog. Some gifts you could never deserve.

The bone dog rested his muzzle on her forearm. He had neither ears nor eyebrows, and yet she could practically feel the look he was giving her, tragic and hopeful as dogs often were.

Marra carried the knowledge that her sister hated her snugged up under her ribs. It did not touch her heart, but it seemed to fill her lungs, and sometimes when she tried to take a deep breath, it caught on her sister’s words and left her breathless.

When she shut the door to her room, it stayed shut. In the royal palace, the doors were always opening, servants coming and going, nurses coming and going, ladies-in-waiting coming and going. Princesses were public property. She had not realized that a nun had more power than a princess, that she could close a door.

It did not matter. They were not and the history of the world was written in women’s wombs and women’s blood and she would never be allowed to change it.

She was used to being stubborn, but having people agree with her was off-putting and didn’t give her much to work with.

It was hard to be frightened of the unknown when the unknown kept chickens.

“Lots of people deserve to die,” said the dust-wife finally. “Not everybody deserves to be a killer.”

“Imagination is not your strong suit, is it?” asked the dust-wife. A smile cracked the planes of her face. “That’s not an insult, child—don’t look so surly. For this sort of work, you want feet on the ground, not castles in the air.”

Tell me if you get the urge to take a bite out of someone, though.” “There’s a long list of people I’d like to bite,” said Marra, a bit dryly. The dust-wife snorted. “Fair enough. Just tell me if you get the urge to chew afterward, then.”

Some things come into being once it’s inevitable that they will exist.”

“If it’s true, yes,” said the dust-wife. “You don’t believe him?” “Mm.” The dust-wife shrugged. “He doesn’t feel like a liar, but that only means he believes himself.

“It’s a fool’s errand and we’ll probably all die,” said the dust-wife. “Oh, well then,” said Fenris. “I always enjoy those.”

I do not fear retribution; I fear what sort of person I would become by doing it.”

One of her rare smiles crooked her lips. “You are still wrong, Hardishman,” she said. “But you are wrong in an interesting way.”

Her godmother had the kind but faintly anxious look of someone who was permanently in just a little over her head.

“Well, he’s a dog. They don’t have an idea how the world’s supposed to be, so it doesn’t bother them when it isn’t.” Agnes frowned. “Except herding dogs, I think. They have a pretty clear idea in their heads, so they’re always nipping and worrying and trying to get it to fit. Of course, there’s people like that, too.”

“And it’s a fool’s errand and we’re all going to die,” said Fenris. He patted her shoulder. “Still, I have to admit I didn’t see the chicken or the puppet coming.”

She took a deep breath, wondering if she was going to cry again. No, it seemed not. The pain had softened over the years, the edges worn down by time.

“And my mother was my mother, and I knew she loved me, so it took me a long time to realize that she would also move me as a game piece to save the kingdom.”

“Let it lie,” the godmother said. “We’ll find out soon enough. There’s nothing we can do either way.” “I can fret,” snapped Marra. “And I intend to!”

Nothing is fair, except that we try to make it so. That’s the point of humans, maybe, to fix things the gods haven’t managed.

Marra stifled a sigh. Magic never seemed to be much use at doing the things you wanted done in a reasonable time frame.

“So that bird really is a demon,” said Fenris, eyeing the shadow. “Of course she is. Why would I lie about something that ridiculous?”

He was very much alive—him and Bonedog, who wasn’t alive but didn’t know it.

“It’s all right,” she said automatically. She was going to be ill and she was being dragged backward along the length of a creature made of lost souls and glue and still she was trying to reassure someone. Of course she was. That was how she was going to die, telling someone it was all right for stabbing her, really, she didn’t mind …

“That,” said the dust-wife witheringly, “was a terrible analogy. Someone give me my staff so that I can beat her about the head and shoulders.” Agnes giggled.

The dust-wife stood looking down at her and her skirt full of bones. “It would never work on a human,” she said. “Humans know when they’re dead. It might work on a dog. Dogs are simpler.”

And then she would have kissed him or he would have kissed her, but Bonedog decided that they were wrestling and jumped up and barked soundlessly at them both.

I hope your dogs are all loyal and goofy and good-natured and that your chickens remain free of demons.