Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

dedicated to Strong Independent Chicken, a bird in a million

The trees were full of crows and the woods were full of madmen. The pit was full of bones and her hands were full of wires.

As a girl, she would not have understood that, but Marra was not the girl that she had been. She was thirty years old, and all that was left of that girl now were the bones.

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

Marra had grown up sullen,

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.

The man was carrying a shovel. Marra eyed it warily. Shovels were good for burying dead bodies, and also for making bodies dead in the first place.

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

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.”

“Magic said that you needed me?” He was smiling now, but it was a smile like his laugh, not so much humorous as incredulous at the shape of the world. “Don’t get any ideas,” said the dust-wife. “Might turn out that our fate is sealed inside a jar and we need someone to loosen the lid.”

“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.”