Nettle & Bone(65)

The silence from the other side of the room was suddenly deeper and more textured. Marra bit her lip. “Besides,” she said, after a moment, “someone has to chop all my firewood. I’ve gotten spoiled.”

“Hmm.”

She rolled over again. She could not seem to get comfortable.

If I ask, he’ll think I’m propositioning him.

… Am I?

No. Definitely not. Not while all this is going on. It’ll just make things terrible and complicated, and they’re already terrible and complicated enough.

I might never get another chance.

But if I do and it’s awkward and weird, then we’ll probably die with things being awkward and weird and I cannot handle that.

Marra thumped the pillow and then gave up. “Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how to ask this without giving you completely the wrong idea.”

“All right?”

“Do you remember on the road, when we slept back-to-back?”

He did not answer, but she heard the bed creak, and then the indignant snuffle of Bonedog being nudged out of the way. Her own bed sagged as Fenris sat on the edge of it. Marra scooted up against the wall to give him room.

His back was as solid and warm as she remembered. She sighed and felt something unclench, although whether it was in her jaw or her gut or her soul, she couldn’t say.

“You’re a saint,” she mumbled, tugging the blanket up around her shoulder.

“You have no idea,” muttered Fenris.



* * *



They slept as late as they could, and then got up and stared at the walls. They ate. Marra threw the nettle cloak over her clothes, watching the owlcloth break up the outlines. Fenris went out for an hour and came back with his pack full of food. “God knows how long it’ll take us down there,” he said. “I’d rather we didn’t starve.”

Marra had been doing frantic math in her head. If the child had been born before midnight, they had two days to the christening. If the child had been born after midnight, they had three days. Neither of these options were good.

The only kindness was that darkness fell early. The moment the shadows began to stretch, she was up and pacing.

“For the love of the gods,” said the dust-wife. “Let’s go. I’d rather fight with the dead than watch Marra wear holes in the floor.”

“Will we have to fight the dead?”

“Anything’s possible.”

Marra paused. “There are stories about graverobbers having their souls ripped out and haunting the catacombs.”

“These things happen.” The dust-wife stood up, held out her staff, and let the chicken settle herself. Agnes tucked Finder under her scarf.

They made their way down the stairs in a grand procession, only to encounter the innkeeper in the hallway.

“Miss Margaret,” said the dust-wife. “We thank you for your hospitality.” Her words rolled out with the air of a dread pronouncement, as if she were sentencing the innkeeper to be thanked, perhaps for all eternity.

Miss Margaret looked bewildered, then dropped a curtsy. The puppet glared from her shoulder.

Quick as a striking snake, the dust-wife reached out and grabbed the puppet’s head. As soon as her fingers locked around it, it went limp. The cord at the woman’s throat went slack and she gasped, clutching at her neck. Raw furrows had been etched against the sides of her throat, the skin abraded so many times that it had left patches as red and scaled as a dragon.

“It cannot hurt you now,” said the dust-wife.

“Don’t hurt him!” cried Miss Margaret, voice suddenly loud. “Don’t!”

“I have not hurt … him. If I release him, everything will be exactly as it was. But you have been kind to us, so I offer you a choice.” She loomed over the innkeeper, a tall, rattle-bone creature of deserts and dust, shockingly out of place in the little hallway. “Say the word and you can be free. He will be destroyed and never trouble you again.”

The choice was so obvious that Marra never doubted, and so the innkeeper’s words were doubly shocking.

“Put him back!” she shrieked, tugging on the dust-wife’s wrist. “Let him go! He never hurt you; he never hurt anybody!”

… What?

“You are certain?” asked the dust-wife, implacable as death.

“Let him go! Don’t hurt him!”

“Very well.” The dust-wife released the puppet and stepped back.

The gnarled wooden face gave her a savage glare, and then the innkeeper gathered the puppet to her like a child, holding him against her breast. “It’s all right,” she crooned. “It’s all right.” And to the dust-wife, furious, “You’d better go.”

“Very well,” said the dust-wife again, and the four of them walked out of the boardinghouse forever, with Bonedog hushed and silent at their heels.



* * *



“What just happened?” hissed Marra. “What— Why didn’t she— Was it still controlling her?”

The dust-wife shrugged. “She didn’t want to lose it. People get to choose.”

“But she’s choosing wrong! I don’t understand! And … and…” Marra ran out of words and waved her hands.