Broken Wings (16 page)

Flora shook her head. “I’ve never looked at us like that. Never!”

“It’s taken me months working three jobs to be able to save up for a cheap,
second-hand broom. You just went out on a whim and got a new one.”

“Branch! Forget the stupid broom. We –”

“Forget it? I can’t forget it! You –”

“Don’t shout at me!” Flora shouted.

Rye stood panting with her heart pounding. Flora put a hand to her forehead.

“You’re making me angry,” Flora said. “You make it sound like I’m trying to buy
you.”

“I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be the sort of person who doesn’t
notice their stares. Or ignore that bitch down there. I work hard. I don’t have
to take that shit. And I’m not going to let your parents laugh at me.”

Flora drew in a sharp breath. “Is that what you think I’d do to you?”

“I can’t go to that party. Look at me! This is me. This is all I’ll ever be! No
amount of stuff you buy me will change that!”

“Why would I want to change you? I love you. Do you think so little of me that
–”

“I work my guts out! And still it’s not good enough. Do you know how that feels?
She’s doing drugs because her life is so crappy. Because I got it wrong!”

“Holly?” Flora frowned. “What –”

“I can’t cope with all this.” Rye dug the key card out of her pocket and offered
it to Flora. “You don’t need me. Maybe I can still help her.”

Flora frowned at the key. She made no move to take it. “Rye? You can’t mean –”

“I can’t do this any more. I can’t. I have to go back to what I can do.”

Rye dropped the card at Flora’s feet and strode to the front door.

“No,” Flora said. “Rye! You can’t just –”

Rye slammed the door behind her and hurtled down the ten flights of stairs two
and three at a time.

“Rye!” Flora’s shout carried from high above.

Rye slapped her hand to the security panel and yanked open the gates.

“Rye!”

Rye ran. Darkness tightened around her. Panic snapped into place and drove her
body. Blindly.

A carpet slammed into Rye’s side and knocked her off her feet. Pain erupted in
her ribs. Horns screamed. Rye hit the ground.

“Hey!” A strange sprite knelt beside her. “You okay?”

Rye blinked up at him. Her ribs and her face hurt.

“She ran right in front of me!” a pixie woman shouted. “You saw it! It wasn’t my
fault.”

“Be quiet, lady,” a gremlin man said.

Rye looked around. She was lying in the road with traffic stopped around her.
People were staring. She had no idea where she was.

“Take it easy,” the sprite man said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” the pixie woman shouted. “You’re my witness. She ran in
front of me. I tried to stop.”

“All right, lady,” the gremlin man said. “Calm down. The police will sort it
out. Okay?”

Rye stared at him. Police? She scrambled to her feet, staggered through a ring
of spectators, and ran.

When Rye stumbled past the massive roots of the busy Oak Heights Mall, she knew
where she was. She felt the stares as she waited for a transit carpet, but she
didn’t think she could walk all the way home. In her own neighbourhood, nobody
blinked at her lurching along with blood on her face and her hand clamped to her
side.

Rye dragged herself up the seven flights of stairs. She fumbled her key and
limped inside. Holly’s room was open and empty. Rye collapsed on the sofa.

“Rye? Rye, wake up. Please don’t be dead.” Rye peeled open her eyes to see Holly
leaning over her. “Fey,” Holly said. “You had me worried. You look like shit.
Who beat you up?”

“I fell over.” Rye winced as she sat up.

“Fell from the fourth floor, more like. Do you want me to fetch an apothecary?”

“No.” Rye eased her legs over the side of the sofa. Her ribs screamed in
protest. “I’ll be all right.”

Holly scowled. “If you die, I’ll be an orphan. Is that what you want?”

“I’m not going to die. And I don’t want any apothecary seeing my wings.”

“But you look really crappy.”

“It’ll pass.”

Holly looked unhappy as she strode out of the living room.

Rye leaned back and closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember the accident. She’d
panicked again. At least she had hurt herself, this time, and no one else.

Rye!

She’d been fleeing from breaking up with Flora. She hadn’t planned that. It had
just boiled up from nowhere. That naiad bitch. The brand new broom. Flora had
looked so shocked and disbelieving. But it was better this way. Rye would have
more time at home with Holly. These last few months, she’d been too busy with
her own pleasure. She’d forgotten Holly.

I have to see more of you.

It was never going anywhere. The sex had been great, but their relationship only
existed within the walls of Flora’s apartment. None of Flora’s friends or family
would regard Rye as a suitable partner for her.

I’ve never looked at us like that.

Well, it was probably time that Flora did see them for what they really were.
Rye could never meet Flora on equal terms. She had spent as many years as she
was ever going to as a piece of property. She wasn’t going there again.

“Here, let me stick this on you.” Holly held a roll of sticking plaster and a
pair of scissors. “That cut looks obscene.”

Holly’s ministrations were well meant but not gentle. Rye didn’t mind. A little
extra pain made no difference.

Holly made tea. She put honey in Rye’s.

“Hot and sweet is what they said in First Aid class,” Holly said. “And some
other stuff I can’t remember. I only got a C. Still, a pass should be good
enough to keep you alive.”

“Thanks.”

“I think you should sit there and not do too much. Are you sure you’re okay? You
look weird.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Holly shrugged and retreated to her bedroom. Unusually, she left her door open
and kept her music volume well below the pain threshold.

Rye finished her tea and eased herself down on her back. She felt empty enough
to echo.

Rye jolted awake. The phone rang.

“Hello?” Holly said. “This is Holly Woods. Oh, Ms. Elmwood. Yes. I’m Rye’s
sister. Rye isn’t in right now. May I take a message? Sure. Yes. I’ll tell her.
Thank you.”

Holly poked her head around the door. “You’re awake. That was Ms. Elmwood
wanting to make sure you hadn’t forgotten her. I said you weren’t here. She’d
like you to call her some time this evening.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Rye had wanted it to be Flora, but Flora wasn’t going to call. Not after what
Rye had said.

“Can you come to the table?” Holly said. “Or should I bring you a tray?”

“What?”

“I made dinner. It’s just some soup. I don’t think it’s very good. It turned out
greener than I expected, but we should be able to gag it down. There’s nothing
poisonous in it.”

“You made dinner?” Rye asked.

“You needn’t sound so shocked. If you did leave me an orphan, I could feed
myself. I’m not completely useless, you know.”

“I’ve never thought you were useless, Holls.”

The soup tasted pretty good. Rye said so. Holly shrugged it off, but seemed
pleased with the compliment. She wasn’t a bad kid. Certainly not irretrievable,
like some around this neighbourhood. Rye just needed to put in a little more
effort. That was the right decision.

“How are you getting on with those scholarship forms?” Rye asked.

“Stupid essays. Still, I figure I can write one and just change it a bit for
each form. I’m going to ask my art teacher and my lit teacher to have a look at
it before I send it in.”

“Good idea.”

“I need to get my art teacher to write some stuff. You know, saying how
brilliant I am and how much they should shower cash on me.”

Rye smiled and mopped up soup with a hunk of bread.

“I have to get my principal to endorse most of them, too.” Holly grunted
unhappily. “And some of them ask for any other supporting endorsements. I was
thinking of asking Flora. What do you think?”

Rye froze with her mouth full of soggy bread.

“Everyone who is anyone knows Flora,” Holly said. “I’m sure these scholarship
people will believe her if she says I swing from the top branches. That would
really help, don’t you think?”

Rye swallowed with difficulty. “Um. I dunno.”

“I know that if I were some relic at the Funding Council, I’d put more
importance on what Flora said than some stupid, limping essay that some kid
wrote.”

Holly leaped to her feet, whipped the empty bowls into the sink, and raced into
her bedroom. Rye sat staring at the chipped table top. Shit. Her timing could
not be any worse, could it? How was she going to explain to Holly that Flora
might not be very approachable right now?

Holly bounced back in carrying a sheaf of papers, a pad, and pencil. “There’s
some stuff that you have to fill in for me.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Legal guardian’s approval and all that snail slime. Oh, and I need my
citizen ident number. What is it?”

The gash in Rye’s face hurt when she frowned. “You need that?”

“Yeah.” Holly pulled out a form and unfolded it. “There. See? Section B.
Amongst all that obscenely personal stuff I have to fill in. It’s a wonder they
don’t ask my shoe size and how often I go to the toilet.”

Rye went cold as she read. Mother’s name. Father’s name. Date of birth. Place of
birth. Citizen identification number.

“What’s Flora’s phone number?” Holly asked.

“Um. Look, I don’t think calling her now is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t remember the number. Okay? Now, leave it alone.”

“Wow. Who bit your tit? No need to get knotted! Go back to being half dead.”

Holly swept back into her bedroom and shut the door.

Rye ran her fingers across her scalp and swore. She retrieved a beer from the
cooler and sank onto the sofa. This was not how today was supposed to have
ended.

After her beer, she called Ms. Elmwood and confirmed everything for Third Night.
Rye stared at the phone. She could call Flora and apologise.

Rye crawled into her bedding. Flora appeared behind her lids when she closed her
eyes.

Don’t shout at me!

Flora had looked so distraught. And Rye had just banged on.

I’d pay ten times as much if it meant a few extra hours a week with you.

That was it, wasn’t it? Flora thought she could buy Rye. That brand new broom.
Rye should never have accepted those other presents.

“Crap.”

Rye grunted with discomfort as she wriggled to find a position which didn’t
hurt. She had to concentrate on Holly. The drug thing. And now this citizen
ident number. Could she ask her not to apply for a scholarship? Rye had
supported Holly through school, so she should be able to manage for the duration
of an apprenticeship.

Rye groped beneath the sofa and found a slim book. She opened
Contemporary
Artists
to page forty-two. Flora stood against a wall on which one of her
weavings hung. She was smiling.

Rye let the book drop to the floor and blinked back tears.

Don’t just leave that there.” Rye snatched up Holly’s used breakfast bowl and
dumped it in the sink with a crash. “It won’t break your arm to be tidy. And you
needn’t leave that on the table, either.”

Holly scooped up her jacket. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m trying to earn some money so that we can keep eating,” Rye said. “I need
this kitchen clean for cooking in. If you’re not at the school gates by three
thirty, I’m not waiting for you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I have to be at Ms. Elmwood’s by four. Do you hear me, Holly?”

Holly emerged from her bedroom carrying her schoolbag. “Half the forest heard.
You’ve been in the crappiest mood since Fifth Day. Terminal grumpiness. No, much
worse. The shitties.”

“Language! If you talk like that at Ms. Elmwood’s, I’ll –”

“Unknot!” Holly shouted. “And that black dress is hanging on the back of my
bedroom door. Okay? When you fell, you must’ve broken your teeny tiny little
good humour bone. Fey, it’s not often it’s a pleasure to leave for school.”

Rye glared at Holly’s retreating back.

Holly pulled the front door open. “You need to get laid.”

“What!” Rye shouted. “What did you say?”

Holly slammed the door.

Rye stormed out of the kitchen and along the hall. She grabbed the door handle,
but stopped herself. Having a shouting match with Holly for all the neighbours
to hear was probably not her best move.

Rye sighed and leaned against the door. She had too much to do today to fall
apart now. First stop, Blackie’s brother’s place to hire the carpet. Second, the
library for books on dealing with teenagers and drugs. Then she needed to go to
the market, the butcher, and the specialty shops.

Rye felt nervous taking five hundred pieces from her stash. That was a large
portion of her savings. Nor did she feel entirely comfortable with having called
in sick today, though all her workmates knew she’d been stiff and sore from her
accident. It went against the grain to miss a day’s work, and so a day’s wages,
even though she was going to earn more doing the dinner than she did in a month
at the building site.

She felt strange flying around in a small rented delivery carpet during the day
when she should be at work.

In the library, there were so many elderly folk that it looked like the anteroom
at a funeral parlour. In the section ominously called Social Dysfunctions, she
discovered a whole shelf full of advice books and information on drugs, alcohol,
sex, truancy, gambling, and suicide. She idly flipped through one of the sex
books for parents. This would’ve been handy a couple of years ago. It might have
saved her and Holly considerable embarrassment.

Rye carried half a dozen books out to the flying carpet and flew off to the
market.

“Hey, Rye, what you doing here this morning?”

Rye looked up from examining tussock roots in a box to see Chive, the long-nosed
imp, walking around his stall to her. He wiped two of his hands on the grubby
apron that covered most of his shiny brown carapace.

“Ain’t Fifth Day already, is it?” Chive said.

“I’m doing some special shopping,” Rye said. “Are these fresh?”

Chive spread his four hands. “When does Honest Chive ever sell anything that
ain’t fresh? How many you after today?”

“That tray should do.”

Chive’s long, looping antennae quivered. “The whole tray?”

“Yeah.” Rye checked her list. “And these dandelion heads. Hmm. They don’t smell
as fresh as they could.”

“You’re a sticky customer. Okay, they’re left over from yesterday. Just for you,
I’ll knock twenty percent off the price.”

“No thanks. I need fresh.” Rye broke off a piece of cress to taste. “Not much
zing.”

Chive’s antennae drooped. “Stickier than a stick insect. Too many customers like
you and my larvae will starve. Half price for the dandelion heads and the
cress.”

Rye shook her head. “The price isn’t the issue. I really do need them as fresh
as I can get. How is your rimu bark?”

“Peeled from the top of the tree this morning. I swear on my mother’s carapace.
Try a piece.”

Rye nibbled some. “Yeah. That’s nice. Good texture. Plenty of taste. Give me one
of those big bags full of it.”

Chive’s antennae jerked erect. “What’s the occasion? You throwing a pupating
party?”

“I’m cooking a dinner. For eight posh people. I have to get everything right.”
She looked across to another stall. “Looks like I can get cress there.”

Chive wrote the price on the bag of bark. “Gravel’s? You don’t want to go there.
He’s the sort who buys the cheap stuff off the bottom pallets at the
wholesaler.”

“Wholesaler?”

“Farmers, orchardists, and market gardeners take their stuff there. Blokes like
me and shops all buy there. Auction or by ballot lots. Look, I’m cutting my own
throat, but you ought to go there if’n you’re going to do this again. On Bog
Street. Past the insect market. I’m sure you could get away with amounts like
this. But you have to be early. Business gets done in the first hour after
dawn.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.”

Rye loaded her purchases in the back of the rented carpet. She made a note about
the address and hours of the wholesaler beside the costs she recorded on her
list. If she could buy produce fresher and cheaper, that would make future
cooking ventures even more profitable. She flew off toward the Westside.

Rye patronised the butcher in Noonpine where she’d bought the meat for Flora’s
dinner. It was uncomfortably expensive, but the meat and beetles were the
highest quality. The butcher cut exactly the joint she wanted and packed it all
in a fancy little cooler bag of moss for her at no extra charge. If she were to
ever do this again, though, she would have to take the time to discover another,
cheaper meat source. Perhaps there was some form of meat wholesaler in the
forest, just like for produce.

Rye carried her bags past the boutiques toward her carpet. She knew the
Lightning Tree Gallery was close. She walked past her carpet to look in the
window. She didn’t see anyone inside. Had she really expected Flora to be here?
And if she were, would Rye want to say anything to her? Tonight was going to be
awkward enough, even though Rye would be in the kitchen and Flora out mingling
with the other guests.

Almighty King and Queen of the Fey, it would have been nice just to see Flora
again. Even if they didn’t speak. Rye missed her. Badly. When it had just been
them, together, she had never felt more comfortable and happy. But that was a
bubble of unreality. Flora was the sort of person whose work figured in poncy
galleries like this one, and Rye was the grunt who couldn’t afford to step
through the door.

Rye sighed and strode back to her hired carpet. She had too much to do today to
waste time in regrets and fanciful daydreams.

A traffic accident on the flyway slowed her to a hover in several places. The
carpet’s air blowers didn’t work, so Rye lowered the window and leaned her elbow
on the ledge. She saw a billboard of a dryad woman advertising the latest play
to open at the theatre. The thin face looked vaguely familiar. Rye scowled.
Frond Lovage. Yeah, she was the twiggy woman in the magazine photo with Flora.
Bigger, her face didn’t look any prettier. Flora clearly did not have an eye for
conventional beauty. Perhaps that skinny dryad was good in bed. Flora had
enjoyed sex with Rye. Did that stick-insect of a dryad toss Flora on a bed and
go down on her?

Rye banged her fist down on the horn. “Get a move on!”

The sprite in front used his antennae to give her an obscene gesture.

Rye’s kitchen burst to the seams. Her cooler could not hold everything she
really should keep chilled. Nor did she have enough containers and bench space
to do all the preparative work she would like to have completed in advance.

At midday, Rye forced herself to take a break. She took a sandwich and beer
outside to sit on the landing. What great weather. The warm sunlight even made
her view of Hollowberry look a little brighter and more pleasant than it really
was. Down past the gnarled tree roots, a few parents sat on benches talking
while their children played in the tiny grass area. Happy squeals and chirps
carried up to where Rye sat. She smiled. It seemed only yesterday that she used
to take Holly to play on climbing webs and in burrowing tunnels. She had always
had the idea that she would return to those sort of places one day with her own
kids. Kids who called “Mum!” to attract her attention to how high they had
climbed or who wailed out to her when they fell and skinned a knee. Kids who
would grow up free and happy, and who would not know that life could be any
other way.

Rye sighed and drank a long swallow of beer. Not that she could even begin to
think of starting a family before Holly grew up. And with Rye’s record, she
wouldn’t bet any good money on her chances of finding someone to be her
children’s other mother. Eleven years of celibacy followed by dropping swiftly
and completely in love with the wrong woman did not bode well for a stable,
partnered future.

Flora.

Rye lost her appetite. She hurled the uneaten half of her sandwich away and
stomped back into her apartment.

Rye packed all the containers and food into the hired carpet. She fetched
Holly’s borrowed black dress and carefully laid it where it would not get
stained or leaked on. In the kitchen, she made a final check of the cooler and
cupboards. She picked up the knife block with a sense of guilt and shame. She
should not use these. By rights, she should have returned them to Flora. After
all, it was hypocritical of her to keep and use gifts after she had slammed
Flora for buying her things.

Rye agonised even longer over the pristine, unused chef’s white top. She changed
into clean clothes and put on one of her normal shirts. Even so, she stood
fingering the white top. Flora was probably correct in believing that wearing it
would make the right impression. But what would Flora say if she saw Rye wearing
it?

Rye strode to the door without picking up the chef’s top.

Rye didn’t have much time to brood about Flora once she arrived at Letty
Elmwood’s house. There was just too much to do. Any doubts she had about hiring
a second helper vanished quickly. Briony threw herself into every dirty job and
her previous experience proved invaluable. She got on with things without Rye
needing to tell her every little detail. Briony managed Holly very nicely and
endeared herself to Holly by lending her some cosmetics when they changed into
their serving dresses.

Rye was putting the finishing touches on trays of pre-dinner nibbles when
Salvia, Letty’s personal assistant, came into the kitchen.

“Ms. Woods?” Salvia said. “There’s been a cancellation. One of the guests can’t
make it.”

“Um. Okay.” Rye put her piping bag aside and picked up a pollen shaker. “One of
the vegetarians or the insectivore?”

“No. Not one of the special dietary needs guests.”

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

Rye should not have been surprised when, about an hour later, Holly returned for
a fresh tray and announced that Flora wasn’t there.

“I was hoping to ask her about my scholarship forms,” Holly said. “Why wouldn’t
she be here? You don’t think she’s sick? Or had an accident?”

No, Rye did not think that was why Flora kept away.

“My sister Aloe works for Ms. Withe,” Briony said. “She said she’s not been
herself this week.”

“Is something wrong with her?” Holly said.

“Don’t just stand there!” Rye said. “You’re not here to gossip! Take that food
out.”

Rye saw the look between Holly and Briony but chose to ignore it. She had enough
trouble fighting against her own disappointment to worry about what other people
thought.

Rye hurled the last shovel load of scrap metal into the dumpster. The crash
suited her mood. She trudged back inside the pot boutique workshop and clanged
the door closed. Mr. Nuttal had come back downstairs. He beckoned her over to
the workbench. Rye didn’t feel much like a chat tonight, but her problems
weren’t his doing. She shouldn’t take it out on him.

“I’ve got tea,” Mr. Nuttal said. “But I’m thinking this might be an evening for
a wee tipple of dew. Your little sister still giving you grief?”

Rye frowned as she popped the stopper from the jar and drank a long pull of
fermented dew. “I got some books out of the library. About kids and drugs. They
have a lot of ideas about what I can do. She’s not a bad kid. I just need to
handle it carefully.”

“Well, I wish you luck.” Mr. Nuttal shoved a muffin closer to Rye. “Mrs. Nuttal
sometimes gets these ideas in her head. She’s quite the expert on affairs of the
heart, as she would say. She thought you might have other things on your mind,
apart from your sister. And need an older person to talk to.”

“Look –”

Mr. Nuttal held up his claws. “Say no more. I’ll keep my lips together and my
scalp ridges as smooth as can be.”

Rye ran a hand through her sweaty hair. “Um. I appreciate the thought. But –
Look, there is something I wanted to ask you.”

Rye dug out of her pocket the shiny credit note that Letty Elmwood had given her
last night. “I need this cashed. Is there any chance you could do it?”

Mr. Nuttal accepted the card. His scalp ridges drew close together. “Sixteen
hundred? I’m sorry, Rye, I don’t have that much cash on the premises even before
afternoon banking. You can deposit that in your bank, you know.”

“Yeah.”

When Rye strode around the back of the root strip of shops, she stopped to look
along the darkened fronts. No carpet waited under the street lamp.

“I miss you,” Rye whispered.

She jammed her fists into her pockets and strode away.

Rye opened the apartment door to a burst of female laughter above Holly’s crash
music. She kicked off her boots and ducked into the bathroom. When she emerged,
Holly stood in the hall.