Nettle & Bone(44)

“I mean no offense,” said Fenris, speaking for the first time. His voice sounded like a growl of thunder in the small space, after the voices of the women. “But why would a godmother with such a specific talent—however useful—be chosen to stand for the royal family of the kingdom?”

Marra admired his diplomacy. When he had said that he was a warrior and a diplomat, she’d given more weight to the part with swords than words.

“Ah,” said Agnes. She wiped at her eyes again. “Did no one tell you, Marra?”

“Tell me what?”

“The reason I’m the royal godmother.” Her smile this time was stronger, if self-deprecating. “I’m your great-aunt Agnes.”



* * *



Of course we would be related, thought Marra wearily. Of course the godmother who is terribly outmatched would be family. All of us are small and in too far over our heads. Perhaps it’s simply in our blood. It did make a kind of sense, though. Why the Harbor Kingdom would have a fairy godmother at all. Power calls to power, the dust-wife had said. And we have so little power that all we could call up was a relative, and not even a powerful one.

“I didn’t think there was any magic in the royal family,” said Marra.

“Oh, there isn’t. And my father—your great-grandfather—the king,” said Agnes, “for the most part was very faithful. That’s what made it so odd, you see. He was out hunting one day and met a woman and she enchanted him. They’d made love twice already before he realized that she had cow hooves and tore himself away. Eleven months later, she came to the palace. It was … oh, not a scandal, exactly. She was very discreet.”

Unprompted, the dust-wife poured more tea into Agnes’s mug, who took another swallow, her voice growing stronger. “Obviously your grandmother knew. But the woman came with the cow’s hooves obvious, so she didn’t blame the king for it, because she knew he had to have been enchanted. I think he would probably have had me killed, to try and make it up to her somehow, but she said that I was part of the family, even if I was a bastard, and nobody was killing anybody.” Agnes took another sip of tea. “Not at the palace, of course. The king’s old nurse had retired in comfort, and I was sent to her. I don’t have cow hooves myself.” She grinned, a brief flash across her round face. “I’m sure all of you are suddenly wondering what’s inside my shoes! No hooves. But there’s enough fairy blood in me that I was a godmother.” She sighed, the grin fading. “I’ve always wondered if my mother would have kept me, if I was more powerful. I suspect she had a plan, and probably I wasn’t right for it after all. But I don’t want you to think anyone was ever unkind to me! Not at all. And of course when I could be a godmother, the queen insisted I come out and do the blessings. I think it was her way of trying to acknowledge me as part of the family, you know. She was very gracious. She didn’t have to be, but she was.”

Marra looked at the earnest, hopeful face of the godmother and felt as if she had been unspeakably cruel.

Why did I think she must have slighted me? Why didn’t it occur to me that she might just be doing the best she could?

She answered her own question almost immediately. Because of Prince Vorling. Because the one godmother she had seen as an adult was a terrifying power, so she had assumed that all godmothers fit the same mold. Vorling and his kingdom get proof against malign magic, and we have a witch who is simply grateful that she wasn’t murdered by her own father and received the barest acknowledgment from her family. Saint’s teeth.

The anger that had simmered inside her shifted and found a different target. How dare they dump Agnes in the middle of nowhere? If she had not had so much else to deal with, she would have brought her great-aunt to the palace herself and demanded that she be treated like family.

Which means … what? That she is dragged off to live in a palace she does not know? That she is watched by courtiers every moment? That she has no privacy to herself?

That she gets married off to a monster to forge an alliance?

Marra put her head in her hands and heard herself give a brief, choking laugh. Over her head, she could hear the dust-wife quietly explaining what they planned to do to Vorling, and the godmother saying, “Oh. Oh my!”

Someone squeezed her shoulder. Fenris. His hand was warm and she leaned toward it a little, drawing strength from the grip. Perhaps she could ask him about how to help Agnes. He had experience with diplomacy the way that she did not. She was almost a nun and barely a princess and she had never felt the lack more keenly than these last few weeks.

Bonedog rolled over and wiggled on his back. Agnes looked at him thoughtfully. “He’s magic, isn’t he?” she asked. “I don’t mean like a familiar. I don’t quite know what I mean. But something.”

“There’s a glamour on him,” said the dust-wife. “Look sideways a bit.”

Agnes frowned. “I don’t … wait…” She turned her head and squinted, then said, “Oh! He’s all bones, poor thing!”

“I don’t think it bothers him much,” said Marra.

“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. Of course, there’s people like that, too.”