The Girl Who Drank the Moon(62)

She walked over to Gherland. He squinted. Everything in this house was bright. Though the rest of the town was submerged in fog, this house was bathed in light. Sunlight streamed in the windows. The surfaces gleamed. Even Ethyne seemed to shine, like an enraged star.

“My dear—”

“YOU.” Ethyne’s voice was somewhere between a bellow and a hiss.

“I mean to say,” Gherland said, feeling himself crumple and burn, like paper.

“YOU SENT MY HUSBAND INTO THE WOODS TO DIE.” Her eyes were flames. Her hair was flame. Even her skin was on fire. Gherland felt his eyelashes begin to singe.

“What? Oh. What a silly thing to say. I mean—”

“YOUR OWN NEPHEW.” She spat on the ground—an uncouth gesture that seemed strangely lovely when she did it. And Gherland, for the first time in his life, felt ashamed. “YOU SENT A MURDERER AFTER HIM. THE FIRST SON OF YOUR ONLY SISTER AND YOUR BEST FRIEND. Oh, Uncle. How could you?”

“It isn’t what you think, my dear. Please. Sit. We’re family. Let’s discuss—” But Gherland felt himself crumble inside. His soul succumbed to a thousand cracks.

She strode past him and returned to the soldiers.

“Ladies,” she said. “If either of you have ever held me in any modicum of affection or respect, I must humbly ask for your assistance. I have things that I would like to accomplish before the Day of Sacrifice, which, as we all know”—she gave Gherland a poisonous look—“waits for no man.” She let that hang in the air for a moment. “I think I need to visit with my former Sisters. The cat’s away. And the mice shall play. And there is much that a mouse can do, after all.”

“Oh Ethyne,” the Sister named Mae said, linking arms with the young mother. “How I’ve missed you.” And the two women left, arm in arm, with the other soldier hesitating, glancing at the Elder, and then hurrying behind.

“I must say,” the Grand Elder said, “this is highly—” He looked around. “I mean. There are rules, you know.” He drew himself up and gave a haughty expression to no one at all. “Rules.”



The paper birds didn’t move. The crow didn’t move. Luna didn’t move, either.

The woman, though, stepped quietly closer. Luna couldn’t tell how old she was. One moment she looked very young. Another moment she looked impossibly old.

Luna said nothing. The woman’s gaze drifted up to the birds in the branches. Her eyes narrowed.

“I’ve seen that trick before,” she said. “Did you make them?”

She returned her gaze to Luna, who felt the woman’s vision pierce her, right through the middle. She cried out in pain.

The woman gave a broad smile. “No,” she said. “Not your magic.”

The word, said out loud, made Luna’s skull feel as though it was about to split in half. She pressed her hands to her forehead.

“Pain?” the woman said. “It’s a sorrowful thing, don’t you think?” There was an odd, hopeful note in her voice. Luna remained crouched on the ground.

“No,” she said, her voice tight and ready, like a set spring. “Not sorrow. It’s just annoying.”

The woman’s smile soured into a frown. She looked back up at the paper birds. She gave them a sidelong smile. “They’re lovely,” she said. “Those birds, are they yours? Were they a gift?”

Luna shrugged.

The woman tilted her head to the side. “Look how they hang on you, waiting for you to speak. Still. They’re not your magic.”

“Nothing’s my magic,” Luna said. The birds behind her rustled their wings. Luna would have turned to look, but she would have to break eye contact with the stranger, and something told her she didn’t want to do that. “I don’t have any magic. Why would I?”

The woman laughed, and not nicely. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, you silly thing.” Luna decided to hate this woman. “I’d say several things are your magic. And more things coming, if I’m not mistaken. Though it does look as though someone has attempted to hide your magic from you.” She leaned forward and squinted. “Interesting. That spellwork. I recognize it. But my, my, it has been years.”

The paper birds, as if by some signal, lifted in one great flutter of wings and roosted next to the girl. They kept their beaks faced toward the stranger, and Luna felt for sure that they had somehow become harder, sharper, and more dangerous than before. The woman gave a little start and took a step or two backward.

“Caw,” said the crow. “Keep walking.”

The rocks under Luna’s hands began to shimmy and shudder. They seemed to shake the very air. Even the ground shook.

“I wouldn’t trust them if I were you. They’ve been known to attack,” the woman said.

Luna gave her a skeptical expression.

“Oh, you don’t believe me? Well. The woman who made them is a wicked thing. And broken. She sorrowed until she could sorrow no more, and now she is quite mad.” She shrugged. “And useless.”

Luna didn’t know why the woman angered her so. But she had to resist everything in her that told her to leap to her feet and kick the woman as hard as she could in the shins.

“Ah.” The stranger gave her a wide smile. “Anger. Very nice. Useless to me, alas, but as it is so often a precursor to sorrow, I confess that I do like it.” She licked her lips. “I like it quite a bit.”