Thornhedge

by T. Kingfisher

A wall like that invited curiosity and with curiosity came axes,

She was neither beautiful nor made of malice, as many of the Fair Folk are said to be. Mostly she was fretful and often tired.

She was up at dawn, fretting, waiting for him to move on, and he had the unmitigated gall to sleep in.

“I was born human,” she said, “but things happened.”

“It doesn’t do any good. She’s like a cat playing. They’re not real to her; they’re just … things that move and flutter and squeak.

No. I have many mothers. If I am hideous, then we are hideous together. And that made it easier, because in her heart of hearts, she could not believe that her mothers were anything but beautiful.

The greenteeth had not told her. They had not cared. It was of no more import than Fadeweed’s paleness or Reedbones’s speed. She was theirs; they were hers. The love of monsters was uncomplicated.

“It should have mattered. All that love and all that trying should have changed … something…”