The Page of Frozen Waters popped up in front of her like a Jack from his box, a smile on her face and a needle in one hand. There was a black feather in her other hand, held tightly between her thumb and forefinger.
“Give me your arm,” she said.
Zib, who was more sensible than Avery gave her credit for being, shrank back against the bars. “No.”
“Give me your arm, or I will take it, and little as you think you’ll like what’s coming, you’ll like that even less.”
Reluctantly, Zib extended her arm, until the Page could lean into the cage, just enough to prick her with the needle. It was very sharp. A bead of blood welled immediately to the surface of the skin, and the Page wiped it away with the black feather, leaving no visible wound at all.
“There,” she said, sounding quite satisfied. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Everything is easier when you cooperate.” Then she was gone, bounding away to whatever odd errands occupied a girl like her, in a place like this.
Zib huddled against the bars and shivered. It felt like things were shifting beneath her skin, like pieces of her that were meant to be perfectly still were finding the power to move around. She thought of the Crow Girl bursting into birds. She thought of her blood on the black feather, and she blinked back hot tears, and she wondered whether it would hurt when she came apart, when she stopped being one and started being many.
The King of Cups closed his eyes. Ice settled over him like a shroud. Zib held her breath, counting the seconds until she was sure he was asleep. Then she pulled the slingshot from her pocket, and one of the acorns she had been carrying for all this time, and pulled back the strap, taking careful aim at the crow girl with the sharpest chin. She had been told, more than once, that a chin that was too sharp was a thing boys would find unattractive when she got older, and she had seen nothing to indicate that she had been lied to. It stood to reason, then, that the King of Cups might find the sharpest chin the least attractive, and might spend the smallest amount of his attention on that particular crow girl.
Girls who are ignored can learn to be impossible, can learn to listen, and look, and learn more than they were ever meant to know. If she was going to find an ally here, she would find it in the crow girl with the least to lose.
She released the strap of her slingshot, and the acorn flew straight and true, hitting the crow girl in the shoulder, where there were no feathers to muffle the impact. The crow girl flinched but didn’t make a sound, simply turned to regard Zib with curious avian eyes, the feathers in her hair standing very slightly on end. Zib made a come-closer gesture, beckoning her. The crow girl cocked her head to the side, considering. Then she looked to the King of Cups, as if measuring the depth of his slumber. Finally, she rose, and padded toward the cage where Zib was waiting.
Her feet were bare, her toes like talons. All their feet were bare, and unlike Zib, they didn’t seem to feel the cold.
“Hello,” she said, once she was close enough. Her voice was low, but she made no effort to whisper. “Are you going to join our flock? There were four of us once before, until the first one left. It would be nice to be four again. Four is a good number. Can’t have a boy without four. But you’re not a boy, are you? You move like a girl to me.”
“Don’t you mean I look like a girl?” asked Zib, curiosity briefly winning over panic.
“No. Why would I mean that? That’s silly. No one looks like a girl, or a boy, or an elm tree, or anything else. Someone either is or isn’t a thing, and the world can put as many layers on top of the thing as it likes; won’t change what’s underneath.” The crow girl shrugged. “People say I look like a girl, but that won’t ever make me one.”
Zib blinked. “You’re not? But I thought—”
“Oh, I’m a crow girl, but I’m not a girl girl.” The crow girl’s smile was swift, there and gone in an instant. “I’m a murder. The skin’s only for the outside people. The real me is all feathers and thorns, and not a girl at all. Are you going to be a part of our flock?”
“I don’t want to be,” whispered Zib.
“Oh,” said the crow girl, face falling. “That doesn’t mean you won’t be.”
“Please.” Zib grabbed the bars of the cage, ignoring the way they bit into her palms. “Can you let me out of here? Is there a key you can bring me?”
“There’s no key,” said the crow girl. “The door opens when the Page wants it to open, and it closes when the Page wants it to close. It’s like us, you see. It belongs to her. The King makes everything possible, and most of the time all he wants is for us to sit at his feet and smile and tell him how very clever he is, but
