ladle. Rachel never used it. Opening it, he popped one of the nectar and pollen balls into his mouth, then grabbed another for Jumoke. The kid had a lot to learn about maintaining his sugar level. Unless he was snacking in the garden. How long did it take to look through the shed, anyway?
Angling his wings, Jenks dropped to the dark windowsill and pocketed the second sweet. Hands on his hips, he stared out into the dark garden and watched the bands of colored light sift from the oak tree. Jumoke wasn’t among them. The individual trails of dust slipping down were as pixy-specific as voices, and he knew them all. There’d been no new patterns to learn in years.
No more newlings
, he thought, more melancholy than he thought he’d be. He’d done it to save Mattie’s life, and it had seemed to have worked. A healthy pixy woman gave birth to more sons than daughters by almost two to one. The size of the brood, too, was telling, which was why only two children were born that first season, none the next, then eight, eleven, ten, twelve…then seven—four of them girls. That was the year he panicked, going to work for Inderland Security. Matalina had borne only three children the year he’d met Rachel, two of them girls. None had survived to naming. His wish for sterility had saved her life. Another birth of newlings might have killed her.
What he hadn’t anticipated was with the absence of newlings, both he and Matalina had time to spare on other things. He’d gone from side jobs to a full-time career outside the garden, gaining enough money to buy the church and the security that went with it. Matalina had been able to help their eldest daughter take land before taking a spouse, something that only pixy bucks traditionally managed. Not to mention Matalina pursuing her desire to learn how to read, and then teaching the rest of the children—all impossible if caring for a set of newlings. Children were precious, each one a hope for the future. How could they be detrimental?
Frowning, Jenks tried to figure it out, failing. Perhaps he wasn’t old enough yet, because it didn’t make sense to him. Maybe Mattie could help him. She was the smart one. As soon he got her to take the Tink-damned curse, he’d rest easier. They’d live in the garden for another twenty years, then, watching their children grow, take their places…
The sharp taps of Bis on the keyboard stopped, and the gargoyle ruffled his wings. “Listen to this,” he said, his high, gravelly voice pulling Jenks’s attention from the window. “‘Dryads declined with the deforestation, and many ghosts have been blamed on them as they learned to live in statues placed on ley lines.’”
Jenks flitted close, thinking he looked nothing like Ivy. “Kind of like pixies adapting to city gardens. Humans. Learn to live with them, or die trying.”
Bis blinked his red eyes at him. “We’ve always lived with humans. I can’t imagine living in the woods. What would I eat? Iron ore and sparrows?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Jenks moved closer to the screen. Now that he thought about it, gargoyles were dependent on people. The picture of the dryad on the monitor was his size, and he tapped it. “Look at that. It looks like the statues in the park, doesn’t it?” He turned, starting when he found Bis unexpectedly inches from him.
Holy crap, didn’t the kid breathe?
“Yeah…” Bis said softly, not noticing he had jumped.
Trying to cover his surprise, Jenks walked across the keyboard to the “down” arrow, scrolling for the rest of the article. “‘Because they declined before the Turn,’” he read aloud, proud that he could, “‘little is written about them without the trappings of fairy tale, but it’s commonly accepted that they live as long as the tree they frequent does, perhaps even hundreds of years. Though generally thought of as meek and gentle, Grimm has placed them several times in the position of wildly savage.’”
Chuckling, Jenks put
Angling his wings, Jenks dropped to the dark windowsill and pocketed the second sweet. Hands on his hips, he stared out into the dark garden and watched the bands of colored light sift from the oak tree. Jumoke wasn’t among them. The individual trails of dust slipping down were as pixy-specific as voices, and he knew them all. There’d been no new patterns to learn in years.
No more newlings
, he thought, more melancholy than he thought he’d be. He’d done it to save Mattie’s life, and it had seemed to have worked. A healthy pixy woman gave birth to more sons than daughters by almost two to one. The size of the brood, too, was telling, which was why only two children were born that first season, none the next, then eight, eleven, ten, twelve…then seven—four of them girls. That was the year he panicked, going to work for Inderland Security. Matalina had borne only three children the year he’d met Rachel, two of them girls. None had survived to naming. His wish for sterility had saved her life. Another birth of newlings might have killed her.
What he hadn’t anticipated was with the absence of newlings, both he and Matalina had time to spare on other things. He’d gone from side jobs to a full-time career outside the garden, gaining enough money to buy the church and the security that went with it. Matalina had been able to help their eldest daughter take land before taking a spouse, something that only pixy bucks traditionally managed. Not to mention Matalina pursuing her desire to learn how to read, and then teaching the rest of the children—all impossible if caring for a set of newlings. Children were precious, each one a hope for the future. How could they be detrimental?
Frowning, Jenks tried to figure it out, failing. Perhaps he wasn’t old enough yet, because it didn’t make sense to him. Maybe Mattie could help him. She was the smart one. As soon he got her to take the Tink-damned curse, he’d rest easier. They’d live in the garden for another twenty years, then, watching their children grow, take their places…
The sharp taps of Bis on the keyboard stopped, and the gargoyle ruffled his wings. “Listen to this,” he said, his high, gravelly voice pulling Jenks’s attention from the window. “‘Dryads declined with the deforestation, and many ghosts have been blamed on them as they learned to live in statues placed on ley lines.’”
Jenks flitted close, thinking he looked nothing like Ivy. “Kind of like pixies adapting to city gardens. Humans. Learn to live with them, or die trying.”
Bis blinked his red eyes at him. “We’ve always lived with humans. I can’t imagine living in the woods. What would I eat? Iron ore and sparrows?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Jenks moved closer to the screen. Now that he thought about it, gargoyles were dependent on people. The picture of the dryad on the monitor was his size, and he tapped it. “Look at that. It looks like the statues in the park, doesn’t it?” He turned, starting when he found Bis unexpectedly inches from him.
Holy crap, didn’t the kid breathe?
“Yeah…” Bis said softly, not noticing he had jumped.
Trying to cover his surprise, Jenks walked across the keyboard to the “down” arrow, scrolling for the rest of the article. “‘Because they declined before the Turn,’” he read aloud, proud that he could, “‘little is written about them without the trappings of fairy tale, but it’s commonly accepted that they live as long as the tree they frequent does, perhaps even hundreds of years. Though generally thought of as meek and gentle, Grimm has placed them several times in the position of wildly savage.’”
Chuckling, Jenks put
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