Word got around. But no one said “magic.” They didn’t dare.
Then there was the herb garden. And the vegetable patch. (Both, of course, were fed with the manure from the chicken coops—now providing the plants with more than simply nitrogen.)
And then it was the cow. Her butter could remove scars, regrow hair, whiten teeth, and cure arthritis. Her cream cured gout. No one mentioned this—they just bought Marla’s wares without making eye contact, and hurried home like the devil was after them.
And Marla worried.
Meanwhile, the junk man, with the help of his daughter, was finding more and more curious things in the rubbish heaps. A pair of eyeglasses that allowed the wearer to see in the dark. A pen that never ran out of ink. A picture frame that would show the face of the person the holder missed most. The Sparrow helped the junk man to identify these curious objects, and then connect them to the person who needed them most. The Sparrow had a keen eye for people. She could read them like stories. They didn’t see her—not usually, anyway—but she could see them from the inside out. And she loved them.
These objects were few and far between—often they would find only one during the space of a month, and some months would come up empty. Still, as the years passed and as the girl grew, the objects began to proliferate.
Shoes that would allow the wearer to run and run and never tire.
A pot that was always filled with soup.
A blanket that would calm even the fussiest baby.
When the Sparrow was nine, Marla stood in her stall at the market, selling her eggs by the basketful. She saw the Sparrow and the junk man perched on the cart, selling god-knows-what to god-knows-who. She saw the church pastor examining a small, leather-bound volume. She saw how his eyes lit up. He stuffed some money in the junk man’s hands, tipped his hat to the Sparrow, and hurried away.
The pastor tipped his hat. To the Sparrow. He saw her, noticed her, greeted her. Not good, Marla thought. Not good at all.
And then a little boy waved at her.
And a matron looked the girl up and down, crinkled her nose, gave her a harumph.
Marla sold her last egg, wrapped up a bundle of cookies, and walked across the square.
The Constable sat on a folding chair, under a banner that said, “See Lest Ye Be Seen.” It was highly produced and shiny. Made in the capital.
“Hello, Henry,” the egg woman said.
The Constable started. No one had used his name since he became the Constable. He had almost forgotten that he had one to begin with.
“Marla,” he said. He gritted his teeth. He remembered the punch. He hoped Marla wasn’t mad at him. “Do you have an observation to share?”
“No. An invitation. There is something that I would like you to see. And something that I feel that you should understand. Can you find your way to my house?”
“I do believe I can.” He gazed at the egg woman under the shade of his regulation hat. Her arms were crossed over her ample bosom, and her face was set. Of course he knew where she lived. He also had a history with Marla. And not a happy one.
“Be there at sundown. Bring a toothbrush.”
And she walked away.
The Constable could have made his way blindfolded.
There was a trick, he had learned, to the constable business. An eye that fluctuated between the blind and the keen. A show of fairness, with an open hand toward those who were able to come and go between the province and the capital with ease—factory owners, bureaucrats, and the like (he never had to worry about over-expectations; aside from the Inquisitor, none of them lasted very long). And a gruff presence, which gave the impression of a stricter fist than he actually possessed. (There was, he grudgingly allowed, something to be said for maintaining order in a population so weighted by worry and work and weariness that they didn’t have time to fool with crime or sedition or independent thinking. The Minister, when it came down to it, knew what he was doing. All hail the Minister.)
The Constable loved his home. And he hated the capital. And so he stayed, protected his own. (Not like he had much choice in the matter. There weren’t a lot of retired constables around. They had a tendency to disappear. No one had ever lasted as long as he did. He wasn’t going anywhere. He had decided as much.)
He arrived at Marla’s tiny farm shortly before sunset. The chickens were just settling into their coops. And there were so many of them. Hen after hen after identical hen, all murmuring their goodnights to one another. He pulled a cheroot from his pocket and chewed on it thoughtfully. He didn’t turn when Marla approached from behind.
“I wouldn’t want to have to report an illegal breeding operation, Marla,” he said.
“Fortunately, you won’t have to,” Marla said.
“Marla, I turn a blind eye to a lot, but this? The Ag Czar is going to—”
“These are not bred birds,” Marla said. “They’re made.”
“What’s the difference?”
“They’re all the same hen. Midge. They’re all Midge.”
The Constable peered into the coop. The chickens all turned their beaks in unison toward the left. They shivered as one. They blinked as one. He looked carefully from hen to hen, and couldn’t find a speck of difference. They weren’t just the same breed. They were the same.
His mouth went dry. “What are they looking at?”
“I’m getting to that in a minute. First I want to tell you a story. About a baby.”
23. Now.
Jonah kneels in the backyard with his spyscope, gazing up. The ground is damp and the wet soaks the knees of his trousers. He doesn’t care. The sky is darkening by degrees, but it still isn’t dark enough for good stargazing. He doesn’t care about that either. The night, after all, is long. There is
