Cuckoo Song

But scissors are really intended for one job alone - snipping things in two. Dividing by force. Everything on one side or the other, and nothing in between.

But easier, she reminded herself, was not the same as better.

I don’t know. How can you know? I…I’m a monster. When I’m hungry, I might do anything." "Oh no, of course I couldn’t possibly understand you." Violet’s shadowed face seemed to be wearing a grim and serious smile. "I know, you woke up one day and found out that you couldn’t be the person you remembered being, the little girl everybody expected you to be. You just weren’t her any more, and there was nothing you could do about it. So your family decided you were a monster and turned on you." Violet sighed, staring out into the darkness. "Believe me, I do understand that. And let me tell you - from one monster to another - that just because somebody tells you you’re a monster, it doesn’t mean you are. "just now you told me what you did because you want me to stop you from eating Pen. If you were a real monster, you wouldn’t have done that, would you?" Trista’s eyes stung, and she wiped strands of cobweb away with her sleeve. "Idiot," added Violet, for good measure.

There was a reek in her nose, a slick dark green smell of water that was old enough to be clever and dangerous.

She realized now that she had been expecting old-fashioned instruments – pipes, fifes, fiddles and tinny drums. Instead there came the cocksure, brassy warble of a saxophone, the blare of a cornet and the squeak and trill of a clarinet being made to work for its living. Not-Triss had heard jazz with neatly wiped shoes and jazz with gritty soles and a grin. And this too was jazz, but barefoot on the grass and blank-eyed with bliss, its musical strands irregular as wind gusts and unending as ivy vines.

I’m a monster too. And they probably can’t help it either.

What’s a little maiming and treachery between friends?

Oh, why don’t we blame it on Pen?” not-Triss heard herself snap, in a voice that sounded harsher and more brutal than her own. something had burst, and the words welled up in spite of all her attempts to dam them. “That’s what we always do, isn’t it? That’s what she’s for, isn’t it? We blame everything on Pen and then we change the subject. And nothing matters as long as we don’t talk about it.

Then why couldn’t Father see that?” not-Triss felt despair and hurt welling up inside her again, and it was all she could do to stop her teeth from sharpening. “Why couldn’t Mother see it?” “Because they’re stupid,” growled Pen, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. “They can’t tell when real Triss is fake-crying, so of course they can’t tell when fake Triss is real-crying.

No,’ answered Pen sullenly. ‘We’re not rowing. I was just . . . telling Triss something I thought she ought to do. Loudly.

It’s as if they’re wearing a lie, but it doesn’t fit them.’ Trista tried to straighten her thoughts. ‘They haven’t buttoned it the right way, so it’s baggy in some places and coming away in others.

There was an invisible necklace of nows, stretching out in front of her along the crazy, twisting road, each bead a golden second.

Suddenly there were two strong arms around her, holding her tightly, more tightly than Triss's parents had ever dared to hug Triss. Violet smelt of oil, cigarettes, and some kind of perfume. Her coat was rough against Not-Triss's face. Not Triss could feel Pen there too, scrambling to be part of it, resting her head against Not-Triss's back. "You're all thorny," whispered Pen, shifting position. "I'll hurt you both," whispered Not-Triss. "My thorns - they'll hurt you." "What, me?" answered Violet. "Don't be silly. I'm tough as nails. I've got a hide like a dreadnought." Violet did not feel cold or metallic lke nails or a battleship. She felt warm. Her voice was a bit shaky, but her hug was as firm as the hills or the horizons.

Just for a moment it reminded not-Triss of drawings she had seen in magazines and on book jackets, of pastel-colored parties where languid, fashionable women slunk and posed, slim and elegant as fish, and gentlemen passed them flutes of fat-bubbled champagne. The impression did not last long, however. The scene around her was too jarringly and robustly real. The accents were all too Ellchester, and some of the girls had knobbly ankles.

You need me,” Pen explained. “I’m your lookout. If I see the coppers coming, I’ll make a sound like an owl.

Over its waters the willows drooped their long hair, bucking in the gusts as if with sobs. Against the dark surface she could make out the white waterlily buds, like small hands reaching up from beneath the surface.

After the engine had faded away she did not dismount, but sat for a few minutes with her face in her hands, almost as if she was praying. If it was a prayer she was muttering, however, it was one full of all the swear words that Not-Triss had ever heard, and quite a few she had not.

But I’m afraid to sleep!” whispered Trista. “What if I fall to pieces before I wake up? What if tomorrow morning I’m just a pile of leaves and sticks tucked under a blanket? What if this is the last time I’ve got left, and I waste it all being asleep, then wake up dead?

It’s as if they’re wearing a lie, but it doesn’t fit them.” Trista tried to straighten her thoughts. “They haven’t buttoned it the right way, so it’s baggy in some places and coming away in others.

I hate you!” Pen’s would-be shout was muffled by breathlessness, and not-Triss realized that the younger girl was sobbing with exhaustion and rage. “I hate you! You stupid . . . Why did you have to happen? I never asked for a stupid . . . stupid . . . toothy . . . stupid . . . monster thing.