Broken Wings (17 page)

“I thought you were over at your friend’s house,” Rye said. “Have you been here
alone since after school?”

“Not exactly.”

Daisy Bark appeared in Holly’s bedroom doorway. “Hello, Ms. Woods.”

“Hi, Daisy,” Rye said.

Holly followed Rye into the kitchen. “Can Daisy stay for tea? She’s a political
refugee. She wants asylum.”

“Escaping from the explosion zone, more like,” Daisy said.

Rye resigned herself to not being able to take off her shirt and settled for
rolling up her sleeves. “Sure, you can stay, Daisy.”

“Thank you so much,” Daisy said. “You’re such a better cook than my mother.”

“Not that your mother will be cooking much tonight,” Holly said with a smirk.

Daisy grimaced. “The only thing the poor relic will be grabbing from the kitchen
will be the cooking wine. Or a sharp knife for her wrist.”

Holly and Daisy giggled.

Rye straightened from grabbing some thistle roots from her vegetable bin. “Do
your parents know where you are? Give them a call. Holly, you can wash and peel
these.”

Daisy pulled out a garishly coloured mobile phone that looked like a beetle. Rye
saw the flash of envy on Holly’s face.

“There.” Daisy plonked her mobile on the table. “Dad is slick about me being
here, Ms. Woods. I heard my mother in the background. She was crying.”

“No shame?” Holly said.

“Hey, is that how Verbena Caraway likes her nettles prepared?” Daisy said. “I
still shrivel when I think of you at Ms. Elmwood’s dinner. So scathing!”

As she prepared dinner, Rye listened to Holly recounting snippets about the
people she’d served at Letty Elmwood’s dinner. Rye didn’t understand all Daisy’s
comments, but she did recognise a trace of awe.

Daisy Bark’s family lived a couple of streets over, closer to the river. Daisy
was probably the only other girl in this neighbourhood who went to the same
upmarket school as Holly. As friends went, Holly could have done a lot worse.
There wouldn’t be many of her classmates who would be comfortable in this dump
of an apartment. Their shared interest in art proved a bonus. Clearly, the
balance there lay in Holly’s favour. Holly made considerable mileage out of
their past acquaintance with Flora. Every mention was like a knife prick in Rye.

“Do you think you’ll need any help when you cook another of your dinners?” Daisy
asked. “I’m sure my relics would be slick with me doing it.”

“Yeah,” Holly said. “Daisy would be astronomical at it. You will hire her, won’t
you?”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” Rye said. “But I don’t think it’s likely I’ll be
cooking again like that.”

“Why not?” Holly said. “You’re so good at it. Everyone raved. I bet Flora will
tell all her friends about you and get more people to hire you.”

Rye shrugged and stood to gather the empty plates. “Do you need me to walk you
home, Daisy?”

Daisy and Holly exchanged a look.

“Daisy can stay the night, can’t she?” Holly asked.

“We don’t really have room,” Rye said.

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” Daisy said.

“She could sleep on my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor,” Holly said.

Rye turned the taps on in the sink. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

“It’s ghastly,” Daisy said.

“Her brother Campion got caught at school with some dreamweed,” Holly said. “Her
relics exploded.”

“It was Moss who bought the stuff,” Daisy said. “He’s Campion’s –”

Rye, standing at the sink with her back to the table, heard Daisy’s sharp intake
of breath. She guessed Holly had kicked her. Moss?

“Dreamweed?” Rye said.

“Yeah,” Daisy said. “If you’d heard my parents, you wouldn’t think it was just
something limping like that. You’d think it was slake crystals. Trust Campion to
do something so inadequate and get caught. He is such a seedhead.”

Rye frowned to herself. Moss? Wasn’t that the boy Holly said she talked to on
the phone? So, he was familiar with dreamweed, was he?

In the morning, Rye made breakfast for three. She found herself grilling
buttercup petals and pollen on honey and oat bread slices.

“Crunchy sunshine!” Holly dropped into a chair and grabbed a hot piece of the
toast. “This is so scathing. Try some. Rye used to make this all the time when I
was a little kid.”

Daisy looked tentative at the idea of children’s comfort food, but her first
bite converted her. “Nummy.”

Rye poured three mugs of tea. Halfway through her first piece of crunchy
sunshine, she realised that she’d made the special treat for herself. Fifth Day
used to be Flora day.

“What are your plans for today?” Rye asked.

“We can go to my place to see the blood patterns on the walls,” Daisy said.

“Look, I think your parents will want you back,” Rye said, “but not too many
spare bodies around. Why don’t you come with me, Holls?”

Holly’s lip curled with disdain. “Grocery shopping? Limping.”

“Actually, I’m going to Noonpine. To Ms. Elmwood’s gallery.”

Holly sat up straight. “No shame?”

“I have to visit Ms. Elmwood about that credit note. Then I’m going to buy a
broom. I’ve got enough for one that Knot’s brother-in-law has in my price range.
I’m going to go over there and give it a test fly. Want to come?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Rye and Holly walked Daisy back to her street. At the nearest transit node, they
scoured the timetables for a route to Noonpine. Rye would have walked had she
been on her own, but she could afford the fare. Holly bubbled at the prospect of
visiting the Lightning Tree Gallery.

“Flora has some pieces there, doesn’t she?” Holly said.

“Um. I think so.”

On the transit carpet, Holly sat beside the window. She commented on shops they
passed, flying carpets, and what people were wearing. Rye let it flow past her.
They had not done this sort of thing together for too long.

“Oh, astronomical,” Holly said in an oddly hushed voice.

Rye peered past her. The carpet was stopped at an intersection. She didn’t see
anything outside to warrant the awe. “What?”

“Him.”

Holly stared at a young bogle man standing outside a shop talking on his mobile.
He had slicked down the dark hair that covered his face and neck with some oil
that made it look shiny and very odd. Rye failed utterly to see any attraction,
but it was clear that Holly was captivated. Her tastes and Holly’s were so
vastly different. Flora.

This time last week – just five days ago – Rye was anticipating spending her
morning with Flora. It was supposed to have been a warm, enjoyable, sexually
active few hours. Instead, it had turned into blackest disaster which left Rye
with more wounds than a cut on the face and a few bruises.

“Are your ribs still hurting you?” Holly said. “You’re looking like misery on
legs again. You should’ve at least let Mother Puddle examine you, if you didn’t
want to go to an apothecary or doctor.”

“The old gremlin woman from the third floor? The one who used to tell you why
you’re sick from the way thyme seeds stuck in the creases of your hand? I
haven’t seen her around for ages.”

“You took me to her when I was a little kid and I had a really bad earache,”
Holly said. “I’ll never forget it. It’s burned into my brain. She smelled of
beer and made these horrible snuffling noises. She made you stuff a bit of
boiled radish in my ear. Which only made it worse. You had to take me to the
apothecary in the middle of the night and pay twice as much as a regular
consultation because I was hurting so much and crying all the time. I bet Mother
Puddle would have given you sparrow’s feet to wear on your head to heal your
ribs.”

Rye smiled. “Probably. Or made me suck a goblin’s toenail.”

“Ew! Puke.”

Rye laughed, which did make her ribs ache.

At Noonpine, Holly led the way down through the root mall. Rye followed Holly’s
flitting from shop window to boutique door.

“I’m going to own a place like this,” Holly said of a very poncy clothes shop.
“Actually, I’m going to own a string of them. Here in Noonpine. One in Newbud,
and one in Onionfield. And in other forests, of course.”

Rye frowned at the ultra-fashionable dresses and skirts on display inside. “I
hope you do. What would you call it? Holly’s?”

Holly grimaced. “Fey, no. That sounds like a little kid’s shop. I’m going to
call them Imagic.”

Rye looked at Holly’s profile. That name had not been scraped out of nowhere.
The kid had given this some thought.

“I’m serious,” Holly said. “I know you still think I’m some limping little brat.
But I know what I’m doing. I’ve written that stupid essay for the scholarship
applications. My teachers made some corrections. Which is slick. I’ll write
anything if it means I get out of school. I need you to fill in those bits about
our family and stuff. Then I can send them in.”

“Um. Right.”

“Once I have a scholarship, I can virtually pick where I want to do my
apprenticeship. Flora said so.”

“Yeah?”

“Flora said she would help me approach teachers. I’m so glad. Even if I do get
to be Holly Woods Scathing Scholarship Girl, it would be a zillion times better
with Flora helping.”

“Oh.” Rye turned away to scowl along the mall. “I’m not sure… um… Flora is a
busy lady.”

“There it is!” Holly pointed. “The gallery. Come on.”

Rye frowned and followed.

Holly opened the door and strode inside. Rye trailed with less certainty. The
gallery was a cocoon of hushed calm and a comfortable temperature. The air
smelled faintly of sandalwood and money.

“Wow,” Holly said in an awed whisper. She walked over as if drawn by magic to a
tortured lump of glass. “My mind is melting. This is a Flax Burdock.”

Rye glanced at it. “Yeah?”

Holly shot her a disgusted look.

Rye looked around. She wondered where Ms. Elmwood might be. There was a tiny
little desk at the back and a set of stairs leading up to a mezzanine level.
Rye’s gaze snagged on a wall-hanging near the stairs. She frowned. Improbably,
the hanging seemed familiar. Rye wandered across to stand staring at it. She
recognised parts of the abstract design.

“What’s that green bit?”

“That?” Flora said. “I told you that this is about my feelings for you? Well,
this is your wing.”

“Oh. Right. And that blobby purple thing?”

“Your bum.”

“I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“Walked right into it.”

Rye grinned. Flora had tried to jab her with a loom needle. They then had sex.

“Mesmerising, isn’t it?” a female voice said in a husky whisper.

Rye jumped. The speaker was a dangerously thin, older sylph woman with long,
wispy white hair, translucent grey skin, and huge, liquid green-black eyes. She
stood too close.

“Mesmerising,” the woman whispered. “It draws me to it. And draws me from
myself. Do you feel that?”

“Um.” Rye inched away. “It’s Flora’s, isn’t it?”

“A Withe. Yes. It’s called
You In Me
. You
in
me. And now you feel it, don’t
you? In you.”

Rye frowned at the faded, shadowy face still too close to her own.

“Sex,” the sylph whispered. “It vibrates with sexual verve. You can feel the
erotic energy in every fibre. The sensual power. Intoxicating.”

Rye scowled.

“Doesn’t it make you want to rip your clothes off?” The sylph’s eyelids drooped
and her nasal breathing grew unnervingly audible. “Can’t you feel the tiniest,
squirmy thrill of an incipient orgasm?”

Rye backed up a pace. “Look –”

“Is that Flora’s?” Holly said.

Rye spun around. Crap! How could she keep Holly away from the weird woman?

“I thought I recognised those deliciously brusque tones.” Letty Elmwood
descended from the mezzanine. “Rye Woods. Flora’s handsome chef.”

“Ms. Elmwood,” Rye said. “Good morning.”

“That will be all, Celadine,” Letty said to the sylph.

“Hello, Ms. Elmwood,” Holly said. “Is that one of Flora’s hangings?”

“Yes, dear child, it is.” Letty turned to look at the weaving. “I have always
had the highest regard for our Flora’s talent. But the divine little creature
has surpassed even my expectations with this. Can you believe that she was going
to destroy it?”

Rye scowled. “She was?”

“Couldn’t bear the sight of it,” Letty said. “Didn’t want it in her home a
moment longer. Fortunately, I was on the spot. Just yesterday morning. I went
over to see why the poor creature cancelled on our dinner. She does look under
the weather, doesn’t she? Pale beyond the merely interesting.”

Rye flicked her frown back to the hanging. Flora unwell? “She… she’s going to
sell it?”

“If you could persuade her to, I’d be in your debt, darling,” Letty said. “It
belongs on a bedroom wall. Between us, that wall would be mine if she’d sell.”

“What’s it called?” Holly asked.

“
You In Me
,” Letty said. “Most heterosexuals, I expect, will think it alludes
to a man. To the penetrative act. I suppose the frankly sexual nature encourages
that egotistical misconception. But it’s clearly about lesbian love.”

Rye jerked her head around to stare at Letty and Holly. Both studied the
hanging. Rye didn’t want Holly to hear this – even though she had no idea that
it was about Rye and Flora. There was no telling what Ms. Elmwood had guessed
about her and Flora – and what she might say in front of the kid.

“It’s so searingly honest,” Letty said. “You wouldn’t expect a sophisticated
woman like Flora to be able to produce such a powerful representation of so
fresh – almost naïve – love. There’s the feeling of falling in love for the
first time, and yet it’s treated with an experienced passion. A maturity that an
innocent does not possess.”

“What do you mean?” Holly asked.