Broken Wings (14 page)

Flora frowned but didn’t interrupt.

“The women got pregnant and had babies, of course,” Rye said. “But I didn’t know
anything about sex. I don’t think any of us girls did.

It was never talked about. The priestesses said it was what the gods made us
women for. And women who had lots of children became the matriarchs. But I had
no clue how they got pregnant.”

Rye put both her hands on Flora’s solid warmth as if to anchor herself against
the past.

“Temperance was just a little older than me. Which meant we ended up doing lots
of chores and stuff together. All of a sudden, it seemed, she became very
pretty. I wanted to be with her. I started doing stupid stuff like spending all
my free time helping her weed and dig her mother’s garden, which didn’t please
my mother. But I so wanted to be with Temperance that it was worth having my
mother mad at me.”

“How old were you?”

“Um. It was three years before I got my wings. I suppose that would’ve made me
about fourteen or fifteen. Temperance got her wings young. She persuaded one of
the blokes to get permission to leave the commune, and they went together to
live in a city. I doubt she gave me another thought.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rye shrugged. “It was probably better that she left, or the priestess might’ve
put her on penance, too.”

Flora frowned. “Penance?”

Rye reached for the glass of wine and drained it.

“I didn’t know what was happening with me and Temperance,” Rye said. “My mother
guessed. One day I was taken off normal chores and put with the kitchen women.
None of them were young and pretty. I think the idea was that I’d be safe away
from the temptation of girls my own age. Not that I knew that the feelings I had
for Temperance might apply to some other girl. Or that they were evil.”

“Evil?” Flora said.

“Oh, yeah. The gods made us to have babies. Sex is for having babies, not for
fun. So, two girls are acting against the will of the gods by tinkering with
each other. Two blokes, too, I suppose, but I never had much to do with the
men’s compound.”

“Oh, Holy Elm. I knew it was bad, but that’s… that’s incredible.”

Rye shrugged. “You ought to have seen the priestess when I told her that I’d
seen two women touching each other and that’s what I’d wanted to do with
Temperance.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“I was ignorant, not guilty. I had to be cured before I did more than just think
about it. I was given extra chores and prayers to recite as I worked. Most days
I’d be so tired that I’d fall asleep. Which would earn me a few strokes of the
stick. And I’d have to fast for days, to help purge the evil out of me. Not that
it worked. Obviously.”

Flora clasped Rye’s hand. “Oh, Holy Elm. That’s barbaric.”

Rye shrugged. “Did you really like the way I did those mint roots? You didn’t
think they were too salty?”

Flora opened her mouth and closed it again. She took a deep breath before
accepting the change of topic. Rye loved her all the more for it and felt
justified in risking telling Flora what she had not divulged to anyone else.

Rye tapped on Holly’s bedroom door. “Holls?”

Holly did not answer. Rye frowned. Holly had said that her friend’s mother would
drop her home by ten thirty.

Rye pushed open the door. Holly’s room was a chaos of clothes and magazines. Rye
picked her way to the desk. She set down the stack of booklets and forms that
Flora had given her. Holly should be pleased to get them. If she could get a
scholarship, that would not only save Rye a lot of money, but it would make for
a fantastic start to her career.

Rye surveyed the mess and sighed. If this was how Holly wished to live, that was
her business. Rye sniffed and frowned. That oddly sweet smell could not be what
she thought it was. It must be something lingering on one of the bits of
clothing from the Goodcause Charity Shop. Some of that second-hand stuff smelled
very funny.

Rye stepped over the discarded clothes and shoes. She paused at the door. The
smell was stronger here. Not the second-hand shop.

Rye stood chewing her lip. If she rummaged through Holly’s things, that would be
a violation of Holly’s privacy. But if Holly was smoking dreamweed, then she had
shattered their trust anyway. And violated a lot more than her right to privacy.

“Crap.”

If Holly got caught with drugs, that would involve the police. That wouldn’t be
just a minor misdemeanour and slap on the hands. The police would find out that
Holly Woods was not a legal citizen. And neither was her sister. The next step
would be deportation.

Rye knelt and found a top which reeked of dreamweed smoke. She slumped on the
floor. “Shit. What did I do wrong?”

How long had it been going on? Right under her nose. And how could the kid
afford it? Dreamweed was easily available around here – you could probably buy
the stuff in every second apartment in this tree – but it would cost.

“No, she wouldn’t.”

Rye scrambled to her feet and strode into the lounge. She tugged out the loose
knot and pulled out her savings. Rye counted it. Every piece was there. Holly
must be spending her wages from Cloudnut’s on it.

“What am I going to do?”

When Holly came home at ten fifty, she didn’t exude the telltale smell of
dreamweed nor act out of the ordinary. Rye decided not to act hastily, much as
she’d like to grab her and shake some sense into her.

“Fey!” Holly ran out of her bedroom. She brandished the stack of papers Rye had
left on her desk. “Did you put these in my room?”

“Flora got them for you.”

Holly dropped onto a chair at the kitchen table and started leafing through the
forms and brochures. “This is utterly, completely, totally, and wholly
astronomical. Mind melting. Brain bruising.”

Rye smiled. Okay, Holly had definitely not lost interest in her career plans.
That was a good sign.

“Oh, look.” Holly’s eyes widened as she lifted out a set of pink forms. “The
Borage-Twilight Scholarship. Not in this lifetime!”

“Something wrong?” Rye asked.

“Me? Holly Woods, applying for a Borage-Twilight? They only give one a year in
the whole country. And then they don’t award one every year unless they find
someone who’s so astronomically good that they leave a trail of brilliance
behind them wherever they walk.”

“There’s no harm in applying is there?”

“Do you want to see me rejected?”

“You won’t get it if you don’t apply,” Rye said. “Does it cost anything to send
the forms in?”

Holly levelled a disgusted look at Rye over some blue papers.

“You have no idea, do you?”

“No,” Rye conceded.

Rye watched Holly avidly reading.

“Holls? If there were something wrong,” Rye said, “something at school or
anything. You could talk to me about it, you know.”

Holly grunted. “Photographs or copies, not original artwork. How am I going to
arrange that?”

“Holls? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Talk to you, blah, blah. Urgh. Write an essay on what I would do with the
scholarship if I won it? That reeks! It’s not as though I want them to give me
money because I think I’m wonderful at writing.”

Rye decided not to press the matter of her discovery. The last thing she wanted
to do was handle this wrongly.

At work the next day, Rye found herself eyeing the blokes and wondering how many
of their kids were playing around with booze and drugs. She’d heard Blackie tell
how his missus sent their children to the pub to fetch him back. He boasted how
his son was strong enough to help him home when he got legless. So, he wasn’t
her best source of parental advice.

Through the haze of bubbling fat at Pansy’s Fried Sandwiches, Rye watched the
customers waiting at the counter. Some looked as young as Holly. The girls wore
a lot of makeup and tried to look much older than they were. Some were clearly
drunk. Some looked brain fried from smoking, snorting, slurping, or scamming.
Rye wondered if any of their parents knew, or cared.

“Here we go.” Mr. Nuttal set a tray of cake and tea on the workbench.

Rye accepted a mug of tea and a slice of cake with alarming blue-green icing.
“Thanks.”

“Now, I’m not the sort of fellow to pry,” Mr. Nuttal said, “but you don’t seem
your usual self today. Trouble in love?”

“What? Oh. No. Nothing like that.” Rye broke off a bit of cake and frowned at
the crumbs. “Your son ever get a bit wild when he was a teenager?”

“Hop? He crashed his new broom once. And got arrested for being drunk at a music
concert.” Mr. Nuttal smiled as he shrugged. “Usual stuff. Boys being boys, you
know. You having problems with that sister of yours?”

Rye forced herself to eat another bite of dry, sweet cake. “It’s not too bad.
Experimenting with drugs. Just soft stuff. Dreamweed.”

Mr. Nuttal nodded. “I caught our Hop with some of that once. Kept it with his
girlie magazines at the bottom of his wardrobe. Luckily, Mrs. Nuttal didn’t know
what it was. She was more distressed about the magazines.”

Rye frowned at him. “What did you do about it?”

“Had a word with him. When Mrs. Nuttal wasn’t around, of course. Man to man.”

“What did you say?”

Mr. Nuttal stroked his scalp ridges. “I think I asked him what he thought he was
doing. If he’d considered the long-term effects. What it might do to the rest of
his life. The risks involved, with the police and whatnot. It seemed to work
with him. Not that I’m sure it’s the best way. These days they have all sorts of
school advisors you can ask to help you out, don’t they? And community
counselling where you can get advice.”

Rye chewed her lip as she strode away from the back door of the pot boutique and
into the night. Perhaps she should check the library. They carried community
information.

She paused to look both ways before crossing the street. Back near the root
strip of shops, a distinctively shaped sporty carpet was parked under a street
light. Rye strode back and bent to peer in the window. Flora looked pensive and
started when Rye tapped on the glass, but she smiled when Rye climbed in and
claimed a kiss.

“I nearly walked home,” Rye said. “I came out the back. I didn’t expect you to
be here. I’d have washed more thoroughly if I’d known.”

“A little grime won’t kill me. I was on my way home. I needed to see you.”

Rye smiled. She shoved her work bag in the back and snapped the safety harness
into place. “You look fabulous. Been out?”

“Uh huh.” Flora steered up into the high, fast lane.

“With someone nice?”

Flora frowned. “My parents. Remember that I had to have lunch with Mother?”

“About us? The bud thing?”

“It mutated into dinner with both of them. Mother getting all diva on me about
this is wholly unsurprising. But it’s disconcerting that Daddy isn’t reining her
in. If only I’d worn a wretched hat.”

Rye felt acutely conscious of her dirty pants and the stink of sweat she must be
giving off. The contrast with Flora all dressed-up and perfectly groomed could
not have been greater.

“They’re not going to like me, are they?” Rye said.

Flora patted Rye’s thigh. “Panic not, lover. I would not subject us to a cosy
foursome with them for anything in Infinity. Especially not with the way Mother
is jabbing on about it all. Sometimes I can scarcely believe that I survived my
childhood without needing intensive therapy.”

Rye flicked her frown from Flora’s profile to the way street lamps raced past
the carpet. “I think you’re speeding, babe.”

“A traffic ticket would be the perfect end to my night.” Flora throttled back
the magic. “I’m nearly thirty-four years old! I have my own life. I’ve lived it
quite happily and successfully without their interference for many years. You
know, when I was a girl, I used to pray for a sister or brother. Now I thank the
Holy Elm and All the Trees of the Sacred Grove that no other child had to suffer
my parents.”

Rye frowned down at her calloused hands in her patched lap. Flora’s rich, snooty
parents were going to hate her.

“It was all highly unpleasant,” Flora said, “but I did get my own way in the
end.”

“Oh? Good for you. About what?”

“My birthday party. My parents throw a big one every year. It’s not just for me.
It’s more like the annual Withe family bash. I won’t know half the people there.
They’ll be Daddy’s business friends and people from Mother’s charity committees.
It’s normally held at their house. But I didn’t think you’d be the least speck
comfortable with that.”

Rye scowled at Flora’s profile. Her, at some big party thrown by Flora’s
parents? Shit. Flora couldn’t be serious?

“I suggested that thirty-four was too old for me to still be having my parents
throw me a party,” Flora said. “That proved to be as incendiary as I expected.
Anyway, to cut a long and ugly story short, they’ve agreed to hold it at the Top
of the Poplar restaurant. And I insisted on a buffet. That way Mother can’t make
seating plans that will put you right in her firing line.”

Rye scowled out at the night whizzing past. “Oh.”

Flora loosed a grunt of frustration from the back of her throat. She squeezed
Rye’s thigh. “I needed to see you. Needed it. Elm. How was your day? How is
Holly?”

“Um.” Rye ran a hand through her hair and tried to crawl out of her mental abyss
of doom. “She… she was bounced about those scholarship forms. Except she hates
having to write essays for them.”

Flora smiled. “I’m sure she’ll do fine. Are you ready for Letty’s dinner?”

“Um. Yeah. No. Maybe. As much as I can be. One of the blokes at work has a
brother in the carpet hire business. I can get one cheap for the day. To take
the stuff over to Ms. Elmwood’s place.”

“Isn’t it about time you had your own transportation?”

“I’m working on it. Hey! That’s my turning, babe.”

Flora swerved the carpet down into the parking lane and stopped well short of
Rye’s tree. She dimmed the interior lights, snapped her safety harness loose,
and turned to cling to Rye.