Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback (27 page)

me. I leaned down, eager to receive it, and got a mouthful of chewed spider instead. Her attempt at affection.

She never looks at me directly. Sometimes I want to shake her and

shout, just to make her meet my gaze.

I spoon the porridge into her small mouth, set in its receding jaw.

Chick’s face is narrow, her eyes large, ears low, and her nose beaked.

People find nothing endearing there. They either look away or simply stare.

I used to think,
Eloise will never be a business woman, a scientist,
or pilot. She’ll never paint or write. She’ll never be friend, lover, wife,
or mother.

Now I think,
Eloise will never feed herself, she’ll never take herself
to the toilet, or dress herself. She’ll always be at the mercy of others.

She’l always need me.

I try and imagine this life stretching out ahead of us. I’ll wring the hag’s neck if I ever see her again.

I wipe Chick’s face and hands, sponge porridge from her hair. She

hops around once freed from her chair.

Click, click, click.

The foil strip crackles as I pop out a tablet. I swal ow down my daily dose of synthetic happiness with coffee, sweetened with synthetic sugar.

Click, click, click.

Chick’s vocal this morning. She bumps against my legs. Her clicks

have risen to a series of chirps. She hunches her shoulders and bobs her head.

I turn away. Chick’s fed, watered, her nappy clean. I’ve met her needs.

I wonder what it would be like if I walked out. Nannies never last

longer than an afternoon.
Eloise gets too upset without you. She just
sits and cries. It’s not fair to her
.

I imagine myself walking down the street. The luxury of going

into a café to drink coffee and read a book.

• 226 •

• Priya Sharma •

Click click click click.

Even though I’ve folded back the kitchen’s huge glass doors there’s

no breeze to ease the stifling heat.

Clickclickclickclickclick.

I could be picking out a dress and deciding where to go for dinner

and with whom.

Chick’s clicks become a sudden high-pitched squeal. I turn to see

her cowering in the corner, a cat crouched before her. Scratch marks cross Chick’s face. Blood wells up where the claws scored her skin.

The cat bats at her again with its paw. This hunter must have crept

in while my back was turned. I shout and it looks over its shoulder, annoyed at being interrupted. It’s a big, sleek tom, all black with

white whiskers.

I shout again. It turns and stands its ground, back arched, spitting and hissing, unwilling to relinquish Chick. Her eyes bulge with fear, her mouth hangs open, bloodstained drool drips from her chin.

Chick’s hurt cuts through my shock. I pick up a pan and fly at the cat, hissing back. I’m almost on it, screeching and stamping, when the cat decides I’m too much to take on. Its paws scramble on the tiled floor for purchase as flees between the legs of the kitchen table and chairs.

I pick up quivering Chick. Blood stains my dress. The worst thing’s

the sound. Her shapeless keening.

How could you let this happen to me?

The hag was right. It hurts.

At twelve, Chick still has a young child’s body. There are no signs

of puberty and, in truth, I’m glad that I don’t have to deal with her having periods as well as everything else.

She
is
changing though.

Chick’s acting strangely. Social services would have a field day if

they could see her. I’ve delayed her hospital appointment for fear

that someone might examine her and see.

She’s taken to climbing onto worktops, bookcases, and tables.

She leaps and lands with a heavy thud, lying on the floor looking

• 227 •

• Egg •

stunned. Her bruises are a spectacular range of colors, which never

fail to make me wince. I’m exhausted from the constant vigilance

supervising her requires.

That’s not all. She’s stopped eating, just like she did as a baby, as though sickening for something. I’ve tried bugs and worms again but

she won’t take them from me. She’s listless. She won’t splash about in her shallow bath. She doesn’t click her tongue or follow me.

I undress her for bed. She’s lost more weight. I remember holding

her in my hands when she was born. I resolve to take her to the

doctor in the morning, regardless of her bruises.

But that’s not all.

There’s her skin. I slip her nightdress on, over the thick, ugly hairs on her back that are so tough that they take pruning shears to cut through them. The cotton slips down to cover the fine down on her bel y.

I lock the door and lie beside her on the mattress that I’ve put

on the floor. It’s the safest way, in case she gets up at night. There’s nothing left in here for her to climb.

I’m woken intermittently by Chick who spends her sleep in motion.

Her arms twitch and she wakes with a jerk as if falling, followed by a dialogue of clicks as if she’s telling me her dreams.

The gray light of morning comes in. There’s a sound at the window,

like a pebble being thrown by some lothario below. I once had a lover who did such things, imagining himself romantic. Oh, the memory

of sex. Chick used to get too upset if someone spent the night, or

even an hour, while she slept. Afterwards she’d shy away from me as

if I was tainted by a scent that ablutions couldn’t remove.

The noise comes again, a series of short, sharp raps. A pecking on

the glass that chills my skin. Something wanting to be let in.

I part the curtains. A shadow flutters against the pane, its wings a blur. Not a ghost but a sparrow.

The hag’s back.

I listen to Chick’s ragged breathing and I want to have it out with

the old bitch.

I put a coat over my pajamas and pull on boots. I put a sweater on

• 228 •

• Priya Sharma •

Chick and swaddle her in a quilt. She’s a featherweight when I pick

her up. Her eyelids flutter, then open and she looks through me with dead eyes before she closes them.

The barn’s cold. I can see the shape of my breath. The hag’s nest

has been reduced by time to a rotting pile that reeks. She doesn’t

seem concerned. It’s her throne.

“I want a word with you. You cheated me.”

The hag hasn’t aged, where I feel the weight of the last twelve

years. She still wears a riot of once-white rags.

“She’s unique, isn’t she?” The hag clucks and coos like a proud

parent. “You can’t remake her in your own image. She’s herself

entirely. That’s children for you.”

Chick’s awake now. Alert. She wriggles, wanting to be put down.

“Eloise,” the hag calls.

“She only answers to Chick.”

The hag smiles at that.

“Chick, come here.”

I hate that Chick goes to her without hesitation.

“She’ll do nicely.”

“For what?”

“Our bargain. You don’t want her. I’ll take her back as payment.”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of smothering her with a

pillow or drowning her in the bath.”

I can’t deny it.

The hag’s fingers roam over Chick.

“She’s a fair payment. She has what my other fledglings don’t. A

wishbone.”

“I’ve been wishing on it for years,” I laugh. “It’s useless.”

The hag’s quick as a whip. Chick’s across her knee, squirming and

crying to be set free. “Wishbones must be broken if the wishes are to work.”

Chick’s cry rises as the hag presses on her collarbone.

“Stop!”

• 229 •

• Egg •

“Really? I suppose you’re right. Wishing shouldn’t be an impulsive

thing. And it’s strongest when the bone’s clean. I’ll boil her in a barrel.

Don’t look put out. I’ll be a sport. You can pull one end. That’s a fifty-fifty chance on the greatest wish ever made. And Chick’s hands and

feet will make the finest divining bones.”

“No.”

“No?” The hag cocks her head on one side. “You could wish for a

child. One that runs to you, arms out, when you call.”

“Let her go.”

“Ah, I see. You want it for yourself. Snap it and you could have a

whole brood to comfort you in your dotage. Who’ll hold your hand

on your deathbed and bear your genes into the future. Children to

praise your name and make you proud.”

“I said let her go. Nothing of hers will be broken.”

“Really?”

“You’re hurting my daughter.” I climb onto the nest.

“But you don’t want her.” She holds Chick out of reach.

“I do. Every inch of her is mine. I’ve paid in pain and sacrifice.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you made her pay too. She’s suffering and you can stop it.”

“I can’t make Chick different.”

“That doesn’t matter.” I wouldn’t tamper with a single cell of her.

“I don’t know what she’s sickening for. You do.”

“I can’t tell you what she needs.” The hag’s stroking Chick now.

Quieting her. “Do
you
know?”

The hag’s white eyes stare through me. She’s waiting.

I look at Chick. Here it is, mother’s intuition, twelve years too late.

“Yes, I know.”

When the hag stands she’s eight feet tall, most of her length is

spindly legs. She looks less haggard now. She leans down and passes

Chick to me, then shakes herself out. The white tatters look like

ruffled feathers. There’s a sudden soft gloss about her.

“Up here.”

I follow the hag up the rickety steps to the hayloft. She stoops to

• 230 •

• Priya Sharma •

fit. A hole in the roof reveals clouds racing overhead. The birds have gathered up here, a panoply of breeds to bear witness to the glory of this morning. I can feel every thudding heartbeat.

Here it is. The biggest sacrifice.

There’s no end of hurt.

I pull off Chick’s jumper and nightdress. Her nappy. Her feathers

have come in overnight. I’d be restless too if I had pinions pushing through my skin. Soft plumes cover her abdomen.

Her shoulder blades peel away from her back and unfold. Her

wingspan is mighty considering she’s so slight. No wonder Chick’s

clumsy on the ground. She’s designed for flight.

Click, click, click.

Chick leaps up, her feet curling like claws around my forearm. I

hold her up. She’s heavy, held like this.

Click, click, click.

I’m fixed by my daughter’s gaze. She’s ferocious. Dignified. I bow

my head. She doesn’t need my limited definitions. She has her own

possibilities and perfections.

Clickclickclick.

I launch my precious girl. She takes flight through the hole in the

roof, going where I can’t follow. She tilts and tips until she catches the wind and spirals upwards, a shadow on the sky.

How high she soars.

••

Priya Sharma
lives in the UK where she works as a doctor. Her short stories have been published by
Interzone
,
Black Static
,
Albedo One,
and on Tor.com, among others. Her work has been reprinted in Paula

Guran’s
The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror: 2012
and
2013

and Ellen Datlow’s
The Best Horror of the Year 2012
and
2013
. She is writing a novel set in Wales, which is taking a long time as she writes in longhand with a fountain pen and then types it up very slowly.

••

• 231 •

•

I had this idea for an epic, bad-ass scene I wanted to illustrate, but as soon as I started to sketch the hero’s corset, I knew he deserved a whole story. “Castle of Masks” is his story.

Cory Skerry

•

• 235 •

•

It wasn’t difficult for Justus to take the place of the yearly sacrifice.

“Go home,” he said, and when Ingrid opened her mouth to

argue, he lifted his skirts to show her the stolen cutlass dangling

beneath. “I’ve hunted fox, deer, wolf, and bear—a beast in a castle is nothing to me.”

Her face was a wet moon in the chill starlight, her eyes so red

that even the colorless night couldn’t hide them. Her name had been

drawn in the village lottery, and she’d spent the last week thinking she must die.

“Good luck, brave fool,” she whispered. As Ingrid’s footsteps faded

behind him, the sounds of the approaching carriage grew louder.

Justus smoothed his skirts and tried to pretend he was a woman.

Once in a while, when it came time for one of Justus’s neighbors

to give up his own daughter to the Greve, the man suddenly wanted

everyone to charge the castle and slay the monster instead of sending his child to be devoured. No matter that the Greve supposedly