Nettle & Bone

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.

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 into 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. Rage shivered through her, a rage that seemed like it could topple the halls of heaven, then vanished under the knowledge of her own helplessness. Rage was only useful if you were allowed to do anything with it.

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.

Rage was only useful if you were allowed to do anything with it.

Lots of people deserve to die,” said the dust-wife finally. “Not everybody deserves to be a killer.

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

It's because you're too much alike. What did the abbess used to say? That our own flaws infuriate us in other people?

Wait and see. The world is not always cruel.

Nothing is fair, except that we try to make it so. That’s the point of humans, maybe, to fix the things the gods haven’t managed.

She made dramatic plans in the darkness and discarded them in daylight.

Everybody makes up a story about their sins. Sometimes to make them less, sometimes to make them the worst thing a mortal’s ever done.

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.

Well, he’s a dog. They don’t have an idea how the world’s supposed to be, so it doesn’t bother them when it isn’t.” Agnes frowned. “Except herding dogs, I think. They have a pretty clear idea in their heads, so they’re always nipping and worrying and trying to get it to fit.

You cannot help people who do not want help,” rumbled Fenris. “You can’t force someone to do what you think is best for them.” He paused, then added, somewhat reluctantly, “Well, you can. But they don’t appreciate it and most of the time it turns out that you were wrong.” “But—” “We can only save people who want to be saved,” said the dust-wife. “If it’s still bothering you, we’ll come back afterward, assuming any of us are alive to do so.

It was the dogs she wanted. Perhaps she might have built a man out of bones, but she had no love of men any longer. Dogs, though…dogs were always true.

Everyone have their souls still? Shadows still attached? Then let's go before that changes.

Are you all right?" asked Fenris. "Horrible puppet," she said, "demon chicken, fairy godmother." "And it's a fool's errand and we're all going to die," said Fenris. He patted her shoulder. "Still, I have to admit I didn't see the chicken or the puppet coming.

Let it lie,” the godmother said. “We’ll find out soon enough. There’s nothing we can do either way.” “I can fret,” snapped Marra. “And I intend to!” “And I won’t stop you.” Agnes patted her arm. “A good fret is balm for the soul. Just don’t overdo it.

She should at least keep chickens,” said the dust-wife. “Or take up gardening. Immortality is wretched, but you can always make the best of it.

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

As a girl, she might 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.

Monster? And then she looked down and realized that her assailant had been talking about the skeleton of the dog. Oh. Right. I suppose … yes. She scowled. He was a good dog. He had excellent bones and even if she had used too much wire and gotten it a bit muddled around the toes and one of the bones of the tail, she’d think that a decent person would stop and admire the craftsmanship before they screamed and ran away.

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

She went to her room and curled into a ball of misery and decided that she would die of a broken heart. Minstrels would write songs about how she had turned her face to the wall and died of the false-heartedness of men. She could not quite make up her mind whether she wanted to be a ghost who would haunt the convent or not. It would be very satisfying to be a sad-eyed, beautiful ghost who drifted through the halls, gazing up at the moon and weeping silently, as a warning to other young women. On the other hand, she was still short and round-faced and sturdy, and there were very few ghost stories about short, sturdy women. Marra had not managed to be pale and willowy and consumptive at any point in eighteen years of life and did not think she could achieve it before she died. Possibly it would be better to just have songs made about her. The Sister Apothecary came to her, the nun who doctored all the residents of the convent for various ailments, and who compounded medicines and salves and treatments for the farmer’s wives who lived nearby. She studied Marra intensely for a few minutes. “It’s a man, is it?” she said finally. Marra grunted. It occurred to her about an hour earlier that she did not know how the minstrels would find out that she existed in order to write the sad songs in the first place, and her mind was somewhat occupied by this problem. Did you write them letters?

The dust-wife turned back to Fenris and Marra. “You two will be better off making your own way. By which I mean that all this poorly suppressed longing is giving me hives.” Fenris coughed. Marra put her hands over her face. “Come see us,” said Agnes. “Please. I’ll want someone to talk to who isn’t grumpy.” “I’m not grumpy.” “You are an absolute grump and so is your chicken.” The two old women climbed onto the wagon and drove away, still bickering.

I am Fenris,” said the man. He started to say something more, to add another name or a rank, perhaps, but cut himself short. “Fenris,” he repeated instead. “Marra.” “Fenris,” said the dust-wife. She snorted, looking over at Marra. “So you built yourself a dog and found yourself a wolf. If a fox shows up looking for you, we’ll have a proper fairy tale and I’ll start to worry.

Why do gods always want you to walk to them? You’d think they’d do more good if they were near where most of the people live.

Fenris was a good man and maybe the weakness of being good was that evil didn't occur to you.