Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

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

she’d think that a decent person would stop and admire the craftsmanship before they screamed and ran away.

the Sister told the infant, and handed the child to Marra, who stared at it with intense horror. It was bloody and wrinkly and reddish gray and looked like the sort of thing you would drive back to hell with holy water.

They buried the strange, muscleless piece of birth meat

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

Did you approach people, or did they approach you, and how did you start a conversation that ended in money for sex? Was there an etiquette? This was not the sort of thing one was taught at convents.

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

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.”

“You’re bringing the hen?” “She’s got a demon in her,” said the dust-wife. “It’d be rude to leave her for the neighbors to deal with.”

Bonedog, bored, sat down and began trying to lick his nether regions. Since he had neither tongue nor anything to lick, this accomplished nothing but seemed to please him.

“How did you get a demon in your chicken?” “The usual way. Couldn’t put it in the rooster. That’s how you get basilisks.”

“Shame!” she said to the hen. The hen looked unrepentant.

Jewels? Ivory? Shells? Teeth. Of course it would be teeth, her mind said, while her skin tried to crawl off her body and run away screaming.

“She had six litters and every kitten was a tom. The barn was overrun. Nothing but fighting and pissing everywhere, and yowling when they weren’t pissing.” “Just like the barracks,” said Fenris nostalgically.

We’re here for a straightforward regicide, not to level the city.”

“Are you all right?” asked Fenris. “Horrible puppet,” she said, “demon chicken, fairy godmother.”

“And he’s quite a gentleman, too.” “He’s wanted for murder in his home country.”

I don’t want to find out how many healthy baby mice it takes to make me drop dead of exhaustion.”

“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.” “Not when the spurs grow in.” “Oh, well, probably not.”