She dropped the stake that she had been trying, without success, to slide into the already rampant tomatoes. She was round and flushed and there were sweat drops on her forehead. As Marra watched the woman push to her feet, wiping at her face and leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek, it was hard not to compare her to the ancient aquiline majesty of Prince Vorling’s godmother. It was not a kind comparison. Marra felt a pang of something like despair.
“I can always tell,” said the godmother happily. “I’m Agnes!” She reached out to take Marra’s hand with her own. There was dirt on her fingers and a dead tomato leaf adhered to her hair. “It’s so good to see one of mine all grown up!”
She hasn’t got the faintest idea who I am, does she?
“I’m Marra.” The dust-wife stepped through the garden gate, with Bonedog and Fenris hard on her heels. “Princess Marra.”
The dust-wife walked forward. There was a run in the corner of the garden with a half dozen hens. The brown hen looked down at them imperiously, then away, profoundly uninterested in her fellows.
Agnes’s mouth fell open. “Oh,” she said in a much different voice. “Oh. You’re … oh.” She looked down at Bonedog, and her eyes widened. “Oh.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, leaving stains. “I see. You … ah. You should come in. Maybe tea?”
“Tea would be a kindness,” said the dust-wife, inclining her head.
They all followed the godmother into the cottage. It was cluttered but not dirty, the windows large and streaming with light. Agnes hurried to put the kettle on.
The uselessness of it all struck Marra like a blow. This was the woman who had given them all a gift of health and said that Damia would marry a prince. And meanwhile Vorling’s godmother kept the entire kingdom wrapped in immortal magic, warding off enemy curses and usurpers to the throne. “We should go,” said Marra in an undertone. “She won’t be able to help us.”
The dust-wife gave her a quelling look. Agnes, who must have heard, continued making tea. “It’s good tea,” she said. “The horse trader brings it, you know, when he’s gone to sell a string of yearlings. I blessed his youngest and he brings me tea every time. I tell him he doesn’t need to, but it’s such good tea, and he’s such a sweet man to do it.”
“What did you bless her with?” asked the dust-wife.
“Health, of course. I always give them—”
“Health!” exploded Marra. She had not thought that she could feel rage toward this small, foolish woman but there it was, coiled around her heart, and suddenly it had found an outlet. “You gave Damia health and marriage to a prince and she was healthy enough, yes, right up until the day the prince killed her! And Kania is healthy now, too, and so she survives the beatings he gives her and the pregnancies she’s forced to bear one after another. Health! What were you thinking?”
The fairy godmother stopped moving. Her hands locked over the edge of the little washbasin and her back sagged. After a moment she reached slowly for the tea.
The cottage was utterly silent as she made the tea and brought the teapot slowly to the table. She put out mismatched mugs. Her eyes were full of tears, and Marra began to feel ashamed of herself, as angry as she still was. Agnes’s hands were shaking. The dust-wife took the teapot away from her and poured it.
“I always give them health,” said Agnes, wrapping her fingers around her mug. “It’s a good gift. You lose so many children to fevers, you know, every year. Not one of mine ever died of fever.”
A suspicion began to form in Marra’s mind, but the dust-wife got there first. “Health is the only gift you can give, isn’t it?”
Agnes nodded. “The only one that anyone would want.”
“But you said that Damia would marry a prince…” Marra let her voice trail off.
“It seemed like a safe bet,” said Agnes, gazing into her mug. “She was the oldest daughter of the king and queen. I thought it was likely she would.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Her voice shook. “Health’s a good gift.”
“It is a very good gift,” said the dust-wife in a voice that left no room for doubt. “You have saved many lives.”
The godmother smiled a little, and another tear fell and landed, unheeded, on the table.
Marra began to feel like a monster.
This isn’t some great power who could have saved you. She did her best. And you’ve never been really ill in your life, have you? You recovered from that fever. And if it weren’t for her, perhaps Kania would not still be alive to save.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was still angry, at the universe if not at Agnes, and it came out clipped. She tried again. “I shouldn’t blame you. I didn’t realize…” She gestured aimlessly.
“It’s all right,” said Agnes. She reached out and patted the air near Marra. “I didn’t know that your sisters…” Another tear slid down her face. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I wish I could have given them something better. I would have, if I could.” She smiled, though her lips were trembling.
“I mean no offense,” said Fenris, speaking for the first time. His voice sounded like a growl of thunder in the small space, after the voices of the women. “But why would a godmother with such a specific talent—however useful—be chosen to stand for the royal family of the kingdom?”
Marra admired his diplomacy. When he had said that he was a warrior and a diplomat, she’d given more weight to the part with swords than words.
“Ah,” said Agnes. She wiped at her eyes again. “Did no one tell you, Marra?”
“Tell me what?”
“The reason I’m the royal godmother.” Her smile this time was stronger, if self-deprecating. “I’m your great-aunt Agnes.”
* * *
Of course we would be related, thought Marra wearily. Of course the godmother who is terribly outmatched would be family. All of us are small and in too far over our heads. Perhaps it’s simply in our blood. It did make a kind of sense, though. Why the Harbor Kingdom would have a fairy godmother at all. Power calls to power, the dust-wife had said. And we have so little power that all we could call up was a relative, and not even a powerful one.
“I didn’t think there was any magic in the royal family,” said Marra.
“Oh, there isn’t. And my father—your great-grandfather—the king,” said Agnes, “for the most part was very faithful. That’s what made it so odd, you see. He was out hunting one day and met a woman and she enchanted him. They’d made love twice already before he realized that she had cow hooves and tore himself away. Eleven months later, she came to the palace. It was … oh, not a scandal, exactly. She was very discreet.”
Unprompted, the dust-wife poured more tea into Agnes’s mug, who took another swallow, her voice growing stronger. “Obviously your grandmother knew. But the woman came with the cow’s hooves obvious, so she didn’t blame the king for it, because she knew he had to have been enchanted. I think he would probably have had me killed, to try and make it up to her somehow, but she said that I was part of the family, even if I was a bastard, and nobody was killing anybody.” Agnes took another sip of tea. “Not at the palace, of course. The king’s old nurse had retired in comfort, and I was sent to her. I don’t have cow hooves myself.” She grinned, a brief flash across her round face. “I’m sure all of you are suddenly wondering what’s inside my shoes! No hooves. But there’s enough fairy blood in me that I was a godmother.” She sighed, the grin fading. “I’ve always wondered if my mother would have kept me, if I was more powerful. I suspect she had a plan, and probably I wasn’t right for it after all. But I don’t want you to think anyone was ever unkind to me! Not at all. And of course when I could be a godmother, the queen insisted I come out and do the blessings. I think it was her way of trying to acknowledge me as part of the family, you know. She was very gracious. She didn’t have to be, but she was.”
Marra looked at the earnest, hopeful face of the godmother and felt as if she had been unspeakably cruel.