Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

It was the dogs she wanted. Perhaps she might have built a man out of bones, but she had no great love of men any longer. Dogs, though … dogs were always true.

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

Hate, like love, was apparently complicated.

The goats watched her suspiciously, but that did not mean anything, because goats watched everyone suspiciously.

Shovels were good for burying dead bodies, and also for making bodies dead in the first place.

Then again, peasants and princesses all shit the same and have their courses the same, so I suppose it’s no surprise that babies all come out the same way, too. Having thus accidentally anticipated a few centuries’ worth of revolutionary political thought, Marra got down to the business of boiling water and making tea.

the history of the world was written in women’s wombs and women’s blood and she would never be allowed to change it.

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

“I didn’t want to do this,” said the dust-wife. “That’s why I gave you the impossible tasks, so you’d fail and go away and not ask any more. I don’t like travel and I don’t like going places and I’m going to have to find someone to watch the chickens. And also this is a fool’s errand and we’ll probably all die.”

The old woman had not struck her as religious. But I could easily imagine someone making a saint out of her, a hundred years hence. Maybe some of the saints were like that, too—cranky, old women with strange gifts.

Of course it would be teeth, her mind said, while her skin tried to crawl off her body and run away screaming. It was never not going to be horrible. Teeth. Yes.

“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.”

“But don’t get any ideas. We’re here for a straightforward regicide, not to level the city.”

maybe the weakness of being good was that evil didn’t occur to you.

“Why do gods always want you to walk to them? You’d think they’d do more good if they were near where most of the people live.” “I suppose it depends on what people want in a god,” said Marra. “But the abbess always said that most people want gods to be close enough to get them if you want them, but not have them breathing down your neck all the time.”

“I can fret,” snapped Marra. “And I intend to!” “And I won’t stop you.” Agnes patted her arm. “A good fret is balm for the soul. Just don’t overdo it.”

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

“They were very disobedient dead.” “Bad dead. No treat,” said Fenris, not quite under his breath.

“You need to train him to sit somewhere else,” said the dust-wife disapprovingly. “Otherwise you’ll have a rooster who thinks he should dive headfirst into your cleavage when he wants to roost.” “It’s been a while since any man wanted to dive into my cleavage,” said Agnes. “It might be a nice change.”