Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(74)

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of smothering her with a pillow or drowning her in the bath.”

I can’t deny it.

The hag’s fingers roam over Chick.

“She’s a fair payment. She has what my other fledglings don’t. A wishbone.”

“I’ve been wishing on it for years,” I laugh. “It’s useless.”

The hag’s quick as a whip. Chick’s across her knee, squirming and crying to be set free. “Wishbones must be broken if the wishes are to work.”

Chick’s cry rises as the hag presses on her collarbone.

“Stop!”

? 229 ?

? Egg ?

“Really? I suppose you’re right. Wishing shouldn’t be an impulsive thing. And it’s strongest when the bone’s clean. I’ll boil her in a barrel.

Don’t look put out. I’ll be a sport. You can pull one end. That’s a fifty-fifty chance on the greatest wish ever made. And Chick’s hands and feet will make the finest divining bones.”

“No.”

“No?” The hag cocks her head on one side. “You could wish for a child. One that runs to you, arms out, when you call.”

“Let her go.”

“Ah, I see. You want it for yourself. Snap it and you could have a whole brood to comfort you in your dotage. Who’ll hold your hand on your deathbed and bear your genes into the future. Children to praise your name and make you proud.”

“I said let her go. Nothing of hers will be broken.”

“Really?”

“You’re hurting my daughter.” I climb onto the nest.

“But you don’t want her.” She holds Chick out of reach.

“I do. Every inch of her is mine. I’ve paid in pain and sacrifice.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you made her pay too. She’s suffering and you can stop it.”

“I can’t make Chick different.”

“That doesn’t matter.” I wouldn’t tamper with a single cell of her.

“I don’t know what she’s sickening for. You do.”

“I can’t tell you what she needs.” The hag’s stroking Chick now.

Quieting her. “Do you know?”

The hag’s white eyes stare through me. She’s waiting.

I look at Chick. Here it is, mother’s intuition, twelve years too late.

“Yes, I know.”

When the hag stands she’s eight feet tall, most of her length is spindly legs. She looks less haggard now. She leans down and passes Chick to me, then shakes herself out. The white tatters look like ruffled feathers. There’s a sudden soft gloss about her.

“Up here.”

I follow the hag up the rickety steps to the hayloft. She stoops to ? 230 ?

? Priya Sharma ?

fit. A hole in the roof reveals clouds racing overhead. The birds have gathered up here, a panoply of breeds to bear witness to the glory of this morning. I can feel every thudding heartbeat.

Here it is. The biggest sacrifice.

There’s no end of hurt.

I pull off Chick’s jumper and nightdress. Her nappy. Her feathers have come in overnight. I’d be restless too if I had pinions pushing through my skin. Soft plumes cover her abdomen.

Her shoulder blades peel away from her back and unfold. Her wingspan is mighty considering she’s so slight. No wonder Chick’s clumsy on the ground. She’s designed for flight.

Click, click, click.

Chick leaps up, her feet curling like claws around my forearm. I hold her up. She’s heavy, held like this.

Click, click, click.

I’m fixed by my daughter’s gaze. She’s ferocious. Dignified. I bow my head. She doesn’t need my limited definitions. She has her own possibilities and perfections.

Clickclickclick.

I launch my precious girl. She takes flight through the hole in the roof, going where I can’t follow. She tilts and tips until she catches the wind and spirals upwards, a shadow on the sky.

How high she soars.

??

Priya Sharma lives in the UK where she works as a doctor. Her short stories have been published by Interzone, Black Static, Albedo One, and on Tor.com, among others. Her work has been reprinted in Paula Guran’s The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror: 2012 and 2013

and Ellen Datlow’s The Best Horror of the Year 2012 and 2013. She is writing a novel set in Wales, which is taking a long time as she writes in longhand with a fountain pen and then types it up very slowly.