Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

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.

The love of a bone dog, she thought, bending her head down over the paw again. All that I am worth these days.

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

If I were a man, I would fight him. If she were a man, no one would force Kania to try to bear child after child. If I were a man, I would not be the next in line to be married if he kills her. If we were men . . . She stared at her fingers curled in the dirt. 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.

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

“Mind the brown hen. There’s a demon in her.”

There was a run in the corner of the garden with a half dozen hens. The brown hen looked down at them imperiously, then away, profoundly uninterested in her fellows.

our own flaws infuriate us in other people?

“Put out that you want work as a stonemason,” said Agnes. “A stonemason?” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know the first thing about stone.” “Take off your shirt,” said the dust-wife, poking Fenris with her staff, “and I suspect you won’t have nearly as much trouble as you think.” * * * In the end, Fenris did not have to take off his shirt.

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.

You look as if you’re afraid the universe is ashamed of you.”

I would probably have done something foolish.” “So long as you take me with you.”

“We can only save people who want to be saved,”

Wait. Wait and see. The world is not always cruel.

Agnes rummaged around in her scarf and produced Finder, who was half asleep and clearly indignant at being awoken. “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.” “Not when the spurs grow in.” “Oh, well, probably not.”