Chalkwitch looks at her critically for a moment. ‘You know the rules.’ She holds out her arms. ‘Hugs first.’
Crowkisser rolls her eyes, and lets out a groan. ‘Seriously, Chalk?’
‘Seriously, little Crow.’
Crowkisser throws up her hands. ‘Ugh! Fine!’
Chalkwitch pulls her close, her grip still strong after all these years. She smells of soap, and chalk, and burnt onions.
‘You’re crushing me,’ Crowkisser squawks.
‘Good,’ Chalkwitch says, kissing the top of her head. ‘Now, take a seat, and talk to me.’
She slings her legs over the lip of the quarry, so they hang over the blue water below. The braids in her hair shift slightly in the breeze coming up off the lake.
Crowkisser settles next to her, lifting the hem of her skirt and sliding in close.
‘Missed you,’ she says, leaning into Chalkwitch’s shoulder.
Chalkwitch ruffles her hair. ‘Missed you too little crow. You’ve been busy.’
This close, the ruin of Chalkwitch’s face is unmissable, the burn scar that eats up half her skull tracking across her cheek and jaw like a dried riverbed, pooling in the puckered ruin of her missing eye. The hair on that side is still patchy, burnt to ash in the fires of the south. Burnt to ash when her god tore itself out of her to die.
Crowkisser lifts a hand to her face. ‘How does it feel today, Chalk?’
Chalkwitch smiles, the scar stretching, now rough, now eerily smooth.
‘It aches. It always does, but I’ve made my peace with it, little crow.’ She frowns a little, ‘It’s only you that hasn’t.’
‘I never meant to hurt you. Only the gods, Chalk, only the gods.’
Chalkwitch’s face stiffens a little then. ‘Killing always hurts, child. You were old enough to know what you were doing. Don’t pretend otherwise.’
Crowkisser feels shame burn on her cheeks. She tries to turn away, but Chalkwitch’s fingers are suddenly sharp on her jaw, twisting her back to meet the gaze of that ravaged eye.
‘Don’t. Own your choices. Besides,’ she pats Crowkisser’s face. ‘I’ve mademypeace with it.’
‘Do you miss it?’ Crowkisser asks.
Chalkwitch tilts her head, thoughtfully. ‘Do I miss being a host? No.’
‘The powers the gods gave were wonderful, but’ – she waves a hand – ‘they were unrelenting.’
She turns until she’s facing Crowkisser squarely, and crosses her legs underneath her. ‘Never a night without dreams, never a daywithout someone battering down my door, asking why couldn’t I fix their broken leg, why couldn’t I make their fields grow, why couldn’t I stitch their husband’s limp cock.’
She laughs. ‘No, I don’t miss it.’
Crowkisser smiles in relief, before Chalkwitch interrupts her, with a raised finger. ‘But do I miss the god? Yes. I miss its voice on the cold nights. I missunderstanding. Or feeling like I understood. I miss knowing that there was a plan. I miss being able to share that plan, and to give comfort.’ She leans back, and squints at the sun. ‘I don’t know what the plan is now. I don’t even know how to cook.’
Her voice is flat. ‘So yes, I miss the god. It wasn’t a friend, but it was a constant.’
Crowkisser picks at her cuffs. ‘Do you think that Mum felt like that about her god?’
Chalkwitch thinks. ‘Your mother knew what she was getting into, which is more than you could say for a lot of hosts. And she took the god because she wanted to help people, I know that much. But she never told me that much about how she felt about it. Just called it the noisy cricket.’
They both smile sadly at that, and Crowkisser feels an ache like ice around her heart.
‘The noisy cricket is chirping, Chalk, fetch the wood. I can’t leave the temple today, Chalk, the cricket’s too loud. You’ll have to go to market.’
