Nettle & Bone(76)

Agnes rushed forward and poured the tea with trembling hands. She tried to press it into the godmother’s hands, but they were only bone, folded politely in a pile of dust. “Oh no,” she said softly. “Oh dear.” She knelt, held the teacup to the ancient lips and tipped it up.

“Thank you,” said the godmother against the rim of the teacup, and then she fell apart. Marra took a step back but there was something oddly peaceful about it, about bones sinking down into the robes and the dust pattering down around them. There had been very little flesh left to the godmother, only skin and skeleton and iron will. Her robes stayed in their perfect triangle, stiff with gold brocade.

Agnes wiped her eyes. “Dammit,” she whispered. “I have to go be impressive. I have to go be the wicked godmother. I can’t cry.”

“She’s at peace now,” said Fenris.

Agnes gave him an ironic glance. “She’s been at peace for centuries, I think. I still get to cry about it.”

She rose and wiped her hands on her dress. She looked small and bedraggled in her shapeless dress, scarf around her neck with a sleeping chicken in it. Her hair was in flyaway wisps and there were lines around her eyes from worried smiling.

And then she took a deep breath and shook herself and her eyes flickered green as poison. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”



* * *



The front door of the godmother’s temple was locked from the inside, but Marra could hear frantic pounding. The guard. Yes, of course there was a guard. A merely human guard seemed so banal now. The metal door rang like a gong, and when Fenris opened it, the guard was so shocked that he fell back a step, his mouth hanging open. “The godmother,” he said. “They’ve summoned the godmother and she was supposed to come and she always does but she didn’t. Where is she? She’s going to be late!” His voice cracked on the word late, panic rendering him much younger than his years.

Agnes patted his hand kindly. Marra stayed well back in the shadow of the door, wondering if they were going to have to hit the guard over the head, but Agnes said, “She’s coming. Don’t worry.”

“Yes,” said the dust-wife. “We apologize. We were consulting her on a matter of wizardly importance.”

The guard blinked at her, then at the staff and the chicken. “Oh. Uh. I … Is she ready?”

“Yes. You should go in. She’s very tired, though.”

He bolted past them, not even glancing in Marra’s direction. They closed the door behind them and the dust wife took out a little jar from her pocket and dabbed something on her finger. She smeared it down the seam of the door and the metal knit together from either side, as high as she could reach, soft and malleable as clay.

“What is that?” asked Fenris.

“Slip from the potter’s wheel of a great saint. He preached to statues and they came to life to praise the gods.” She shrugged. “He’s dead now, of course.”

“He is?”

“You can’t keep bringing statues to life for religion. Sooner or later they figure out they don’t have souls, and then things go very badly for everyone.” She tried to turn, then sat down heavily on the steps. “Oh hell.”

“Lady Fox!”

“No, no,” the dust-wife said. The hen clucked warily. “I’m done. Go on. I’ll make sure our friend here doesn’t bother anyone.”

“Are you going to kill him?” asked Agnes, not sounding particularly appalled.

“No, losing his memory for a few days should be plenty. Hopefully he hasn’t accepted any surprise offers of marriage or anything.” She made shooing gestures. “Go, go. You heard him. The christening is about to start.”



* * *



Marra had very little memory of the panicked rush through the streets. Bonedog galloped beside her. Just before they reached the palace gates, Fenris caught the dog’s leash and Agnes waved Marra forward. “Go,” she said. “I’ll make my grand entrance just behind you.”

She had no time to question. She ran to the guards. “My sister,” she gasped. “My sister. The queen. I’m her sister. The nun.” She lifted her necklace with the grackle feather. She was gasping for breath, but hopefully that made her story more plausible. She waved frantically toward the lower city. “My carriage. Horse. Threw a shoe. Please. My mother’s already there. I have to be there!”

She didn’t expect it to work. It probably shouldn’t have worked. But the guards blinked at her and then at each other and she moved between them. Both of them clearly waited for the other one to say something but neither one did and by the time they had realized it, she had pushed past them.

Thank the Lady of Grackles, there was a footman that she recognized just beyond the guards. “Please!” she gasped to him. “Please, I’m late, I’m so late. Where is the christening?”

“Princess Marra?”

“Yes! My carriage— The horse—” She couldn’t remember if she’d said the wheel broke or the horse threw a shoe, so she just waved her hands.

“You know her?” asked one of the guards. “She’s the princess?”

“Yes, of course. But where is the godmother?” He peered over her shoulder. “She always comes.” He sounded a bit lost.