Broken Wings (4 page)

“Rye!”

Rye’s mind blanked. The need to flee took over. She ran and ran.

Rye unlocked the front door. Luckily, Holly had not left the chain on. Rye crept
inside and slumped on the couch. Her alarm clock showed that it was after three
o’clock. In the dark, she couldn’t see her hands. They hurt. She must have hit
something. She didn’t know what.

Rye clenched her fists against the pain and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t
remember what she had done between leaving the bar with Flora and coming to her
senses an hour ago sitting on a bench in the dark on the river bank. If she had
hurt Flora, she would never forgive herself. In fact, it might be the end of her
if Flora went to the police. She would deserve it this time. Unlike the last
time, she knew that she was capable of doing something destructive in her panic.

Fuck.

Holly would get her wings in a year or two at most. Then she’d be safe. Eleven
years, Rye had managed to keep her life together. Why couldn’t she have
continued for just a little longer?

Her world had unravelled with her willing aid.

She had not been prepared to meet anyone like Flora Withe. Flora had somehow cut
through all Rye’s protective layers. Rye had very much wanted to have sex with
her. Everything else had vanished in a surge of lust. Had they done it? Was that
what caused her panic? Had Flora discovered she was a fairy? Or had sex with
Flora triggered memories of what had happened after the last time Rye had had
sex?

Rye slumped back full length on the sofa and put an arm across her eyes. She
didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about any of it, but
whatever she’d done in that gaping hole in this evening might have put her and
Holly in serious danger. What was she going to do?

When the alarm sounded, Rye roused herself. She changed into work clothes and
mechanically went through her morning routine. She felt so numb from worry and
lack of sleep that her workmate’s cheerful reminder that today was a
half-holiday failed to make any impact.

The hours before the morning break whistle crawled by. In her worst moments, Rye
imagined Flora’s broken body and police carpets, sirens wailing, heading for the
building site.

The whistle sounded. Rye dropped her tools and raced down ten flights of stairs.
She paused to regain her breath at the pay phone pod. Mercifully, the video
screen was still inoperative.

Beep-beep.

“Please get the machine to answer,” Rye said.

Beep-beep.

“Please be the machine.”

“Hello. Flora here.”

Rye winced.
Shit
.

“Hello?” Flora said.

Rye stared in anguish at the phone. At least Flora sounded fine. She wasn’t dead
or in the infirmary.

“Hello?” Flora said. “Is anyone there?”

Rye hung up. She sagged against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. “Why
couldn’t I say something to her?”

Miserable and tired, Rye trudged back to work. When the building site closed at
lunchtime, Rye began walking home with thoughts of falling onto her couch and
catching up on some sleep. After she crossed the bridge to the Eastside, though,
she stopped to look upriver. Flora had said that she worked at home most days at
her loom.

Rye turned north and kept a lookout for a pay phone pod. At the cost of a
quarter of a piece, she entered Flora’s phone number and received her address.
Newbud was the very trendy north-eastern suburb. Rye had been there once a
couple of years ago when Holly had pestered her to take her to the Art Museum.

Rye passed cafés, galleries, rare book shops, boutiques, and gourmet parlours.
She felt horribly out of place in her work boots and patched clothes.

She had to ask three times for directions to Whiterow Gardens. At about the time
she saw the street sign, she noticed a flower shop. She stopped to frown at the
bewildering profusion of blooms. She had not the faintest idea what Flora might
like. In reality, she knew very little about Flora. Yet they might have had sex
together.

“Hello.” A smiling sprite woman with yellow hair waved her feathery antennae in
greeting at Rye. “Those orchids are perfectly wonderful, aren’t they? So regal.”

Rye picked some flowers at random. They cost a lot more than she expected. She
carried the small bunch up the street and turned into Whiterow Gardens. Rye
stopped and stared at the tall, stately trees. If she had had antennae, they
would have drooped. She might work at and live in the cheapest and shoddiest of
apartments, but that didn’t prevent her from recognising the other end of the
scale. Flora had downplayed her success. She lived in the housing equivalent of
her expensive, late-model flying carpet. The whole short, exclusive street oozed
money. You could practically smell it.

“Crap.”

She had no business being here. Someone who couldn’t afford the fare on public
transit to get here did not belong in this street.

Rye turned around and trudged back toward the main flyway. She dropped her
pitiful bunch of flowers in the first rubbish bin that she passed.

When Rye returned home after her evening shift at Pansy’s, she had to knock for
a couple of minutes to get Holly out of the bathroom.

Holly emerged rubbing her wet hair and wandered off toward her room.

“Ms. Withe phoned,” Holly said.

Startled, Rye jerked her head around. “She did? What did she want?”

Holly paused in her doorway to shrug. “You can use a phone, can’t you? You talk
to her.”

“It’s too late for me to call anyone. Just tell me what she wanted. Did she
leave a message?”

“No. She asked if you were home. That’s all.”

Rye scowled. She could not have done anything terrible to Flora last night.
Flora had not set the police on her. Nor had the immigration officers swooped to
apprehend the illegal aliens. Flora could not have guessed that she had wings.
Which meant they probably had not had sex. Or, if they had, Flora hadn’t told
the authorities about Rye.

For some reason, Rye felt even worse. She glanced at the clock. It really was
too late to call. She was too tired to think straight. She would get in touch
with Flora tomorrow.

Rye slept through the alarm and arrived late for work. Grub, with a malicious
glint in his yellow eyes, gave her the filthy job of burning the rubbish. She
coughed and her eyes streamed all day from the smoke. She stank before the first
break whistle. Still, no one could smell you on the other end of the phone.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Click.

“Hi. Flora here. Well, Flora’s machine, actually. I’d love to hear from you, so
please leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Bleep.

“Um,” Rye said. “Flora? It’s me. Rye. Rye Woods. Um. Holly said you called. Um.
About Fifth Night.”

“Rye?” Flora said. “I’m here.”

Rye started and bit her lip. “Um. Hi.”

“Do you usually fuck and run? You know, that was the shittiest thing anyone has
ever done to me.”

Rye grimaced. “I… um. Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“It was a casual act of abandonment? Or a thoughtless screw? You have no idea
how much better that makes me feel.”

Rye winced and banged her forehead against the pod wall. “I’m sorry.”

Rye hung up. “Fey!”

She thought she heard the pod phone ringing as she crossed the flyway, but that
seemed unlikely.

Rye could not get her head into her lesson at night class. She might have been
better skipping it and going to bed early. The stink of smoke from her clothes
and hair gave her a splitting headache.

She trudged out into the night and buttoned her jacket against a light drizzle.
Just to make her day perfect, it was possible that Holly would be a sulky pain
when she got home. Surely life was supposed to be better than this.

A horn honked. Rye looked around and saw Flora’s carpet parked on the other side
of the flyway. Rye’s heart gave an odd thump. She hesitated, chewing her lip,
before jamming her fists into her pockets and crossing the street. Flora looked
stiff and unhappy. Rye braced herself for another stream of angry abuse. She
probably deserved it.

“Do you want to talk?” Flora asked.

Rye got into the passenger seat.

Flora stared at her. Rye thought she looked gorgeous but quickly directed her
frown at her own lap.

“I have had two of the worst days thanks to you,” Flora said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I get so angry when –” Flora wrinkled her nose. “Is the school on fire?”

“You smell smoke? Um. That’s me. Sorry.”

“Oh. Do you mind if I put the air cleaner on?”

“No, go ahead.”

Flora pressed a button on the instrument panel. She really was marvellous to
look at.

“Where was I?” Flora asked.

“Um. Angry with me.”

“Oh, yes. I get furious every time I think about you running out on me. Then
I’ll blame myself for causing it. Then I’ll get angry with you all over again
and cry a little.”

Rye scowled at her hands. This was worse than being shouted at. And she still
didn’t know exactly what she’d done. “I’m sorry.”

Flora sighed and leaned back in her seat. “The worst part is that you have done
– are doing this to me. I shouldn’t be so strongly emotional about a casual fuck
and a disastrous date. Elm knows I’ve had both before.”

Rye squirmed.

“When I walked into that bathroom at the school and saw you,” Flora said, “my
whole body thought sex. But later, when we talked, something else happened. I
had to get to know you. I’ve never chased anyone before. Maybe I’m not cut out
for it. But you went out with me. I thought the evening went amazingly well in
the bar. We talked. We danced. Elm’s sake, we fucked! It doesn’t get much better
than that, does it?”

“We did? In the bar?”

Flora’s head snapped around. She looked livid.

“I can’t remember,” Rye said. And the Almighty King and Queen of the Fey knew
she would have wanted to remember that if she could.

“You can’t remember?” Flora said stonily. “I made that little impression on
you?”

“No. I mean yes. Shit. I don’t know what I mean. I remember leaving the bar with
you. And wanting to – wanting you. Then I don’t know what happened for the next
four or five hours. It’s blank.”

Flora glared at her.

“It happens to me sometimes.” Rye made a hopeless gesture. “It’s not your fault.
It’s me. Um. Oh, fey. I don’t know what happens to me. My brain stops working. I
wish I could remember. I really do. I’m sorry.”

The air was tense enough to walk on.

“I’m sorry,” Rye said. “I’m glad I didn’t hurt you. Physically, I mean. Um. I
think you’re wonderful. And sexy. And beautiful. And fun. And I can’t believe
you looked twice at me. Um. I’m sorry for whatever I did. It was probably the
stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll always regret it. And I’ll always wish I
could remember having sex with you. Bye.”

Rye reached for the door handle.

Flora grabbed Rye’s jacket sleeve. “Wait.”

Rye remained tense as she stared at Flora. Flora didn’t look angry anymore.

“Why is it that nothing goes as I expect when I’m with you?” Flora sighed and
sank back into her seat. “If a thousand women told me they couldn’t remember
having sex with me, I’d never forgive any one of them. And think they lied out
of spite. But I believe you, Rye Woods. I don’t even feel any enthusiasm for
finishing the rant I’d practised to deliver to you. Holy Elm, help me. I must
have dry rot.”

Rye was slow to realise what was happening. It didn’t seem real that Flora might
be granting her a reprieve. She turned to stare incredulously.

“Do you really think I’m wonderful?” Flora asked.

“Yes.”

Flora smiled. “Do you still want to get out?”

“No. And… um. For what it’s worth, I can’t believe that I really wanted to leave
you on Fifth Night either.”

“Oh, no. You were most emphatic.”

Rye scowled. “What… what did I do?”

“You developed this highly unflattering look on your face and bolted without a
backward glance. Is this a medical condition? Is it something I have to look out
for in the future?”

“Um. It doesn’t happen often,” Rye said. “Future? You mean-?”

Flora reached forward to turn on the carpet’s magic. “I’m not making any more
plans where you’re concerned. I’ve given that up as a waste of time. Let’s just
see where things take us, yes?”

Rye grinned. “Um. Yeah. Please.”

“You’d better strap in.”

“Oh. Right. Um. Before I do… Can I kiss you?”

Flora turned to her. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Rye leaned across and met Flora’s lips halfway. Almighty King and Queen of the
Fey, that felt good!

Flora smiled and stroked Rye’s face.

“Um,” Rye said. “When we had sex did we undress?”

Flora smiled self-consciously. “No. We barely made it into the carpet. We didn’t
take the time to remove a single piece of clothing.”

Rye mentally sighed with relief and patted Flora’s hand.

Flora looked thoughtful. “Do you have a problem with-? Never mind. I’d better
get you home.”

Holly leaned against the kitchen door post. “That smells good. A zillion times
better than your singing sounds. I thought you were putting a weasel through a
cheese grater.”

Rye stopped singing and reached for the shaker to sprinkle pollen on the grilled
sparrow’s wings. “Knowing what you consider good music, I’m flattered.”

Holly poked her tongue out then dropped into a chair. “Wow. This looks great.
You don’t usually do your special cooking during the week. What’s the occasion?
Did you do so well at school that they had to invent a new letter better than A
for you?”

“You’ve got that school trip on Fifth Day morning, haven’t you?” Rye asked.

“What a waste of a day off! Staring at stupid ruins. Who cares about them? If
the limping old tree is so important, how come they let it rot? And a bunch of
boulders. It’s not fair that they’re making me go and stare at the stupid things
for hours.”

Rye smiled. Fifth Day. Flora Day.

Rye had never shopped so fast. She set her bags down near the intersection of
Dandelion Avenue and the Citrus Flyway. She was a quarter of an hour early. She
nervously fidgeted. She wished she could tell if her armpits smelled. Not that
they were going to have sex. No. Definitely not. She dare not risk that again.
And it seemed highly unlikely that Flora would want to do it again if last time
had been so awful. Not that Rye didn’t think about sex and Flora about every
five seconds. The gods seemed cruel beyond imagining that they’d let her forget
having sex with Flora.

Rye turned around to check her appearance in the window of a large broom
salesroom. She stepped closer and peered inside. They had all the latest shiny
models displayed to excite the greatest envy in potential shoppers. The price of
a second-hand broom was going to be difficult enough to find. No point looking
at new ones.

Rye sighed and turned back to watching for Flora’s carpet. This last week had
been exhausting. Still, her body would get used to walking to the building site
every day. She wouldn’t have minded so much if it didn’t take a good two hours
out of her already short days. Realistically, she would only be able to see
Flora on Fifth Days. How many school trips would Holly be taking this semester?

Rye had not been on a second date before, so she wasn’t sure what happened. But
it wouldn’t be sex. Too much depended on Rye’s continued concealment. Holly
could not be more than a year or two away from getting her wings. That would
signal her transition from child to adult. Had they still been in Fairyland, it
would mean the commune council would give Holly her own piece of land to work,
she could legally own possessions, and she would take her place on the benches
at the front of the temple. Most importantly for her continued residence in the
United Forestlands, getting her wings meant, under fairy law, that she became
legally responsible for herself. So none of their aunts or cousins back in
Fairyland could get her deported by claiming guardianship over her. And since
she had been a wingless child when Rye took her out of Fairyland, Holly could
not be held accountable for her departure or any laws she had violated in
leaving. So they couldn’t get her back on those grounds either. Once she
developed her wings, she would be safe.

In breaking her strict celibate habit of the last eleven years, Rye courted
danger for them both. Flora might guess that she was a fairy. But Rye couldn’t
help herself. Flora was so good to be with. Rye had not experienced much
friendship before. Surely this couldn’t hurt?

Flora’s carpet pulled up. Rye put her bags in the boot and climbed inside. Flora
smiled at her. Rye’s return smile was just the outward show of the tingling
warmth and pleasure Flora’s proximity sparked inside her.

Flora steered her carpet to the end tree in Whiterow Gardens and zoomed up the
ascending lane to the very top. She lived in the penthouse. Rye glimpsed a
swimming pool in the groin of a branch before the carpet descended into a
garage. The deep unease that Rye had felt when she walked to Whiterow Gardens
failed to materialise. Whenever she was with Flora, something strange happened
to the tiny speck of Infinity around Rye. It bent into a more optimistic shape
that centred around Flora Withe and feeling good.

“Do you have anything that needs to be put in the cooler?” Flora asked.

“Um. Yeah. Do you mind?”

Flora grabbed a couple of Rye’s shopping bags from the boot before leading the
way inside. Rye’s first impression was of tidiness, tasteful and pristine
hard-to-keep-clean colours, light, and space. Flora’s living room alone was
larger than Rye’s whole apartment. A wall of windows looked out onto a private
deck containing the swimming pool. The pale carpet looked like the only foot
traffic it received was when someone walked over it behind a vacuum cleaner. Rye
grimaced down at her boots.

Flora led Rye through into the kitchen. Rye stopped and stared. It was as if she
had walked into her dream: enormous stove with plenty of burners, acres of bench
space, a vast table, a chopping block, and shiny rows of pots and pans hanging
within convenient reach. You could really cook in this kitchen.

“Cooler’s here,” Flora said. “I’ll make tea.”

When they returned to the lounge, Rye slipped her boots off. To her horror, both
her socks had holes. She tried to keep her feet tucked out of sight when she sat
on one of the sofas. Flora sat on the other end of the same sofa. Close but not
dangerously so. She looked very good in a tight top and little skirt. Rye sipped
her tea and imagined immigration officials beating down her door to come and
arrest Holly and herself. No sex.

“How is Holly?” Flora asked. “Shopping this morning?”

“On a school trip. And hating every moment. Not that I can blame her this time.
It sounds very boring. History. It’s not Holls’ favourite subject.”

“What does she like?”

“To hear her, nothing,” Rye said. “She’s bursting for the day she can leave
school. I had hoped she’d go to university, but she doesn’t seem at all keen.
Maybe she’ll change her mind. She does that as often as she changes her
clothes.”

“You’d like her to take a degree?”

“No one can take your education away from you, no matter what else they do.”

Flora frowned and cocked her head.

“I want Holls to get a good job,” Rye said. “A degree is her ticket to that. But
I’m not sure she hears me over the noise of her crash music.”

Flora smiled. “I’m surprised that she doesn’t like art. She has natural talent.”

“She gets average grades in most subjects, but I know she could do better if she
tried. She used to when she was younger. She was more interested in school then.
If they had classes on giggling about boys, gossiping with her friends on the
phone for hours and hours, and playing loud music, she’d be a straight-A
student.”

“We all go through that, don’t we? It’s that dreaded adolescence. There isn’t a
creature of any species which doesn’t suffer it, is there?”

Rye turned away and drank to hide her frown. Her own adolescence had been very
different from Holly’s. But then, that was what Rye worked hard for.

Rye’s gaze snagged on a pair of wall hangings with patterns that almost matched,
but didn’t quite. They made her feel that they should and that it was her eyes
that were wrong, not the symmetry.

“Did you make those?” Rye asked.

Flora turned to look. “Magnificent, aren’t they? A friend wove them. They’re the
best things she has ever done by a wide margin in my opinion, though I don’t
tell her so in quite that way. But it’s nice of you to think they might have
been mine.”

Rye took another look around the room. She hadn’t noticed the paintings and pots
before.

“Would you like to see what I do?” Flora asked.

“Yeah, I would.”

Flora smiled warmly. Rye’s heart gave an odd flutter.

Rye slipped her hand into Flora’s and let her lead her through the apartment.
They entered a room alive with light and colour. The windows started partway up
the walls and curved around to cover half the ceiling. Rye could see green
leaves, blue sky, and white clouds. Balls, skeins, and hanks of threads of every
material and hue spilled out of baskets on the floor and formed rainbows on the
shelves.

“Sad to say,” Flora said, “but this is my closest companion.”

Rye stared at the loom which dominated the room. It looked large enough to make
a good-sized rug on, though it was only partly threaded now.

“If I worked out how many hours I’ve spent with this,” Flora said, “compared to
the time I communicate with people, the answer would be thoroughly depressing to
any normal being.”

Rye looked around at the colourful bits of cloth and rough watercolour sketches
tacked to the walls. She stepped across to peer at a circular piece of cloth.

Flora moved closer. She glanced between the cloth and Rye. “Well? Or would I be
better not asking?”

“Art and stuff usually makes me feel very stupid,” Rye said. “As though my brain
is missing the bit that other people have which lets them make sense of shapes
and colours.”

“This doesn’t?”

“Not as much. I don’t understand what it’s supposed to be. But it feels okay to
look at.”

Flora smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say anything. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“You gave me your honest reaction. I can’t ask for better.” Flora gently stroked
Rye’s sleeve. “I don’t know many people who are unafraid enough to be as honest
as you are. I don’t just mean this. I was thinking about in the carpet the other
night.”

Rye frowned down at the floor. Honest. That was the last thing she could be.

“I’ve upset you,” Flora said. “I’m sorry.”

Rye shook her head. She discovered that she was holding Flora’s hand. She lifted
it to her lips to lightly kiss it. She was suddenly aware of Flora’s body so
close and the musky smell of Flora’s perfume. Flora took a deep breath and her
fingers curled around Rye’s. Her eyes looked dark and intense. That elusive hint
of pine sap diffused up into Rye’s brain again. She pulled Flora against her to
kiss.

“Oh, Elm,” Flora whispered.

Their lips parted and their tongues joined eagerly. Flora pressed warm and
pliable all against Rye’s front. Her chest rubbed against Rye as her breasts
firmed with her arousal. Rye groaned and buried her face in Flora’s neck.

Flora stiffened and pulled away. She put her hands against Rye’s ribs. Her
hardened chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Is this a good idea?” Flora said.

Rye swallowed and tried to get her brain working again. She stumbled back. Her
wing buds pressed against the wall. Rye used the discomfort to help bring
herself back to sanity.

“Fey,” Rye said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – Shit.”

“You’re not going to run out on me?”

“No.”

“Let’s go and sit down.”

As Rye trailed Flora back into the living room, she wriggled her errant wing
buds back into place.

“Look,” Flora said, “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know when I
say that I am very attracted to you. But I’ve been burned. I don’t want that to
happen again. You came on like a falling tree. I wouldn’t have minded, but I
think I need you to tell me when you’re ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind. If you say today, I’ll be more than happy to pick up where we
left off. If we have to wait, I shall. There’s more to a relationship than sex.
Or should be, to make it worthwhile. But you have to tell me.”

Even though Holly was not due home for another hour, Rye felt nervous about
Flora flying her all the way up to the apartment’s parking pad. She should’ve
asked Flora to drop her off at the corner of the street, just to be safe.

“When can I see you again?” Flora said. “Second Night is your night class, isn’t
it? How about Third Night?”

“Um. I can’t. I’ll be working.”

Flora frowned. “You work nights, too?”

“On First and Third Nights. Second Night and every second Fourth Night is night
class.”

“You have two jobs?”

“How about next Fifth Day?” Rye said. “I’m sure I can work something out with
Holly.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Call me.”

“Of course.”

Late on Fourth Day afternoon, Rye stood in the line at the pay hut door.

“You coming to the bar, Rye?” Knot said.

“Nah,” Rye said.

“You got a hot date?” Blackie asked.

“Real hot,” Rye said. “I’ve got to fix the bloody table leg.”

“If it’s stiff legs you want to play with, Rye,” Budge called from farther down
the line, “reckon we could find someone at the pub for you, eh, Knot?”

Most of the blokes within earshot laughed. Rye made an obscene gesture
suggestive of Budge’s inability to hold an erection.

“Woods!” Grub called. “Wake up.”

Rye stepped inside to stand at the table.

“Full week,” Grub said. “No deductions. Sign here.”

Rye signed her name beneath all the X’s, thumbprints, and claw indentations of
her fellow workers. She took the pay packet outside and opened it to count.
Three hundred and twenty pieces. One hundred and sixty-five for rent. Ninety for
food. Twenty-five for lights and fuel. Eight for water. Twenty for that new pair
of shoes Holly needed. Twelve for unexpected stuff that always came up.

Rye tucked the packet in her back pocket, hefted her bag, and strode through the
gates. She waved to Knot and the boys, then turned the opposite way for the long
walk to the Hollowberry Municipal School for her night class.

A low-flying carpet passed Rye, an old song trailing from its speakers. Rye
picked up the tune with a whistle. She was smiling to herself as she trotted
down the Rootway underpass. A shower of fat raindrops did nothing to dampen her
high spirits. Life wasn’t so bad.