Nettle & Bone(50)

“Focus,” said the dust-wife.

“Oh yes, of course. I suppose we’ll have to keep it, won’t we? He won’t just let us borrow a chicken…”

The chicken seller did not look like a man who routinely let customers borrow chickens.

Marra shoved her hands in her pockets and tried to look like someone who was possibly a nun and definitely not the queen’s runaway sister. After a minute or two, though, it became obvious that she didn’t need to bother. The chicken seller gazed at Agnes, who was picking up each chick and whispering to it, then slowly turned to Fenris. He didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows were eloquent.

“She’s very particular about her chickens,” said Fenris. “Very particular.”

“It’s not taking,” Agnes whispered to the dust-wife, just loud enough for Marra to make out the words. “It won’t take. Oh, it was a silly idea. I don’t know why I thought it would ever work…”

“Keep trying,” ordered the dust-wife.

The chicken seller looked back at Agnes, then to Fenris again. His eyebrows inched higher up his skull.

Fenris remained absolutely deadpan, as if it were perfectly normal for women to whisper to chicks before buying them. Marra didn’t dare look at Agnes, because if she did, she was going to burst into hysterical laughter.

“Fine,” said Agnes in the tone of someone reaching her limits. Marra’s ears popped. “There!”

“That took,” observed the dust-wife dispassionately.

“Not well at all and I have to keep … I’m pushing it … It doesn’t want to stick; it’s like jelly sliding down a bowl!”

“Keep pushing,” said the dust-wife. “Keep blessing it over and over if you have to.”

“Oh dear…”

Marra darted a glance at the chick in question. It was a dark, fuzzy little lump with a bright yellow bill and, for a chicken, a remarkably phlegmatic expression.

The chicken seller’s eyebrows did a complex dance across his forehead. He named a price that was frankly ridiculous for a day-old chick.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Marra, stung out of her silence. “It’s a chicken, not a phoenix.”

The chicken seller’s eyes drifted back over to Agnes, followed by his eyebrows.

“The sooner we pay,” rumbled Fenris, “the sooner we will go away.”

The price mysteriously plummeted.

Agnes fumbled with her belt pouch and handed over a coin, cupping the chick against her bosom with one hand. “Who’s a good chicken?” she said, looking down.

They left the chicken seller and his dancing eyebrows behind and made it into a nearby courtyard without Marra losing her composure completely.

“What did you do?” asked the dust-wife. “There’s magic on it, but I can’t read it.”

“I told it that it would find us somewhere safe,” said Agnes. “Like the moth that found what you need. I don’t know if it’ll work. Maybe it could only take us someplace that it would feel safe or that was safe for chickens. But it’s there—I just have to keep pushing…”

“That’s a curse,” said the dust-wife. “That’s why it finally took.”

“No!” Agnes looked upset, cradling the chicken. “It’s not! It’s … Okay, it’s not exactly a blessing, but it’s not really a curse. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Well, let’s see if it works,” said the dust-wife. “Go on.”

“Okay,” said Agnes. “Go on, little chick! Find us a safe place!” She set the chick down on the ground and made flapping motions.

The chick looked around, then cheeped and began to run down the alley with Agnes and the dust-wife in hot pursuit.

“See, this would take much longer with a baby,” said Fenris.

Marra jammed her elbow into his side, which was rather like elbowing a stone wall. He grunted, possibly to be polite.

They followed the chick to a staircase, which it could not climb on its own. Agnes swooped it up in her hands. The chick cheeped.

“Magic’s fading again,” said the dust-wife.

“Oh … Well—” Agnes looked around as if she were doing something illicit, then something happened and Agnes looked at least a foot taller and the alley was suddenly full of shadows and her eyes flashed and she said, “You will find us a safe place to stay or…” in a voice like the tolling of a great bronze bell.

Cheep, said the chicken. The shadows fled. Marra’s ears popped again. Bonedog let out a threadlike whine and put his nose behind Marra’s knee.

Agnes started up the steps, holding the chick. It seemed content to ride until they reached the second landing, and then it began to struggle. Agnes set it down and chased after it again, followed by the dust-wife, Marra, and Fenris. Bonedog, who would ordinarily enjoy a good run after a small animal, did not seem inclined to leave Marra’s side.

The chick led them, after a few false starts, to a narrow alley that opened into a cul-de-sac. It reached the steps of the building at the farthest end and began to bounce determinedly against them.

“Well,” said Agnes, scooping up the chick in her hands. “Is this a rooming house, do you think?”

All four of them looked up at the house. It was small and shabby but very clean, with the kind of cleanliness that spoke of poverty. Marra had seen babies delivered in homes like these and could practically hear a voice saying, “We may be poor, but we’re not dirty!”