Marra jammed her elbow into his side, which was rather like elbowing a stone wall. He grunted, possibly to be polite.
They followed the chick to a staircase, which it could not climb on its own. Agnes swooped it up in her hands. The chick cheeped.
“Magic’s fading again,” said the dust-wife.
“Oh … Well—” Agnes looked around as if she were doing something illicit, then something happened and Agnes looked at least a foot taller and the alley was suddenly full of shadows and her eyes flashed and she said, “You will find us a safe place to stay or…” in a voice like the tolling of a great bronze bell.
Cheep, said the chicken. The shadows fled. Marra’s ears popped again. Bonedog let out a threadlike whine and put his nose behind Marra’s knee.
Agnes started up the steps, holding the chick. It seemed content to ride until they reached the second landing, and then it began to struggle. Agnes set it down and chased after it again, followed by the dust-wife, Marra, and Fenris. Bonedog, who would ordinarily enjoy a good run after a small animal, did not seem inclined to leave Marra’s side.
The chick led them, after a few false starts, to a narrow alley that opened into a cul-de-sac. It reached the steps of the building at the farthest end and began to bounce determinedly against them.
“Well,” said Agnes, scooping up the chick in her hands. “Is this a rooming house, do you think?”
All four of them looked up at the house. It was small and shabby but very clean, with the kind of cleanliness that spoke of poverty. Marra had seen babies delivered in homes like these and could practically hear a voice saying, “We may be poor, but we’re not dirty!”
There was a girl sitting on the steps of one of the buildings nearby. She, too, was neat and clean, though her clothes were much too thin and so was she. She looked over at them solemnly. “Are you going to Miss Margaret’s?”
“Possibly,” said Agnes. “Does she own the house at the end?”
The girl nodded.
“Does she ever take boarders?”
Another, slower nod. The girl thought this over for a moment, then said, “Most people don’t stay, though. Only locals. There’s no harm in her, Da says, but people don’t like it.”
“What don’t they like?” asked Marra.
The girl frowned. The brown hen shifted her feet and let out a low, worried errrrk.
“Him,” said the girl, eyeing the hen doubtfully. “You’ll see him. It’s no secret. He can be awful. She’s nice, though, Miss Margaret. I run her errands sometimes.”
Fenris and Marra traded a brief glance. “A husband, do you think?” whispered Marra.
“Or a brother or a father. Hard to say.”
“Dangerous?”
Fenris shrugged. Marra remembered him handling the drunk at the well and felt a stab of envy for anyone who could go through life so unconcerned about possible physical violence.
“Thank you,” said Agnes to the girl. She put the chick under her arm and walked to the door of the boardinghouse.
Marra was close enough behind her to hear the godmother whisper to the chick. “Is this right? Are you sure?” The chick peeped. “Was that a yes?”
“That means your chicken is hungry,” said the dust-wife dryly.
“Oh dear…”
Fenris reached past her while Agnes tried to settle the chicken, and knocked on the door.
They waited for so long that Marra began to doubt whether anyone was coming, and then the door creaked open on darkness.
* * *
Miss Margaret was a tall, stoop-shouldered woman with bony hands and a bony face. She stood in the shadows, at right angles to the door, so that Marra could only make out her profile.
“May I … may I help you?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if she was forcing words out around a lump in her throat.
“We need somewhere to stay,” said Agnes cheerfully, holding up the chick. “And you’re safe. Well, supposed to be safe. The chicken said—”
“Do you have rooms to let?” asked Marra, hastily trying to stem the flow of words.
Miss Margaret looked at her sideways, like a bird. “Yes,” she rasped. “Two.”
“How much?”
She named a price so low that for a moment Marra thought that she must mean for each of them individually. She stopped herself just before she said That’s all? and said, “May we look at the rooms?” instead.
The woman nodded again, stepping back down the hall to let them inside the door. Then she shuddered and turned to face them full-on.
Marra’s first thought was that there was some kind of animal on her shoulder—a weasel, perhaps, or a particularly long-bodied cat. Then she got a clearer look and she put a hand to her mouth. Even Fenris took a step back.
Him. Of course.
He was a wooden puppet. Some kind of marionette, Marra thought, the kind that traveling performers used to entertain very young children. He had the carved hands and the clacking jaw, the articulated arms and legs. But the only string on him was a black cord that looped Miss Margaret’s throat, and the puppet held it in one hand.
He moved as they watched. It was a slow, considered movement, like a tortoise turning its head in the sun, and it set Marra’s nerves crawling.
“Oh, interesting,” said Agnes in a tone of professional curiosity. “That’s a curse-child, isn’t it?”
The puppet scowled. Bits of wood dragged down across his face. He yanked tightly on the string. The woman nodded, her eyes large and alarmed and clearly begging her visitors not to say more.
“Oh dear! I’m sorry,” said Agnes. “No offense meant. That was insensitive of me, wasn’t it?” She smiled gently at the woman, as if having a horrible piece of living wood on your shoulder was a perfectly normal sort of thing.
The puppet grudgingly loosened the string. Miss Margaret’s throat worked as she swallowed.
“Don’t worry,” said Agnes. “These things happen. I won’ttttt…”
Marra was close enough to see the color suddenly drain out of her face, as if she were a bottle that had been upended. Agnes blinked several times, looking very surprised. Then she said, eyes straight ahead, “Please take the chick, Marra. If I fall on it, I might hurt it.”
Marra snatched the handful of fluff out of Agnes’s hands, alarmed by the mortal calm in the godmother’s voice.
“Good,” said Agnes, and fainted.
She collapsed against the wall, rattling the boards, and then slid down into a neat heap. Fenris let out an oath and tried to grab her, but between Marra and Miss Margaret, there was no room in the hallway for another person, let alone one of his size. The chick peeped. Miss Margaret’s eyes were enormous.
“What did you do?!” cried Marra. “What did that thing do to her?”
“Nothing … nothing … I can’t … he can’t…” said the landlady, and then the cord at her throat was yanked tight and she choked.
“It’s not the curse-child,” said the dust-wife. “All of you, get out of the way! It’s the magic. She poured it right out to keep the blessing going and pushed herself right to fainting, the little fool.”
She looked up at Miss Margaret, ignoring the puppet entirely. “Take us to the rooms. She needs rest and tea and quiet.”
Miss Margaret nodded. The puppet’s eyes were fixed on the brown hen, whose red comb brushed the ceiling atop the staff. The hen glared down at the puppet and snapped her beak.
Their landlady turned slowly. The puppet shifted, keeping his balance. She led them up the stairs, the dust-wife following, Fenris behind her with Agnes in his arms, Bonedog at his heels, while Marra carried the chick and waited for the puppet to launch himself at someone’s face.
He didn’t. They climbed the stairs to a whitewashed hallway lined with doors. Miss Margaret stopped in front of one and gestured inside, eyes downcast. They crowded in.
“The next one, too,” rasped the landlady, opening another door. “There is one meal … one m-meal—” The puppet yanked on the cord. She stopped, putting a hand to her throat, and gave Marra a pleading look.