through the discarded piles, tossing the remotely edible bits into a slop bucket for the pigs.
“In the physical sense of the word only,” Joy said to Sunday. “His heart still belonged to your grandmother and hers to him. Had they not been truly in love, there would have been no saving him.”
Just as Sunday had not been able to save Grumble. Still, the words gave her hope, small and insignificant a shred as it was, and she clung to it.
“The Fairy Queen cannot give birth to her own children; instead, her powers are conveyed to those closest to her. Father was her favorite consort for a time, so his progeny were born fey-blessed.” Joy patted her black hair. “Albeit some more than others.”
“All except Mama,” corrected Sunday.
Mama froze at her bucket. Joy arched a perfect eyebrow. “Your mother,” said Joy, “is lazy.”
“I never wanted any part of it,” Mama said to the bucket.
“Only because you couldn’t be bothered to think before you spoke!”
Sunday sat in silence while her mother and her aunt stared each other down, much in the way she and Saturday often did. Speaking. Words. Mama always reminded her that words had power. How did the rhyme go?
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a gir1, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.
As soon as she thought it, Sunday knew: things Mama said came true. This was why she rarely opened her mouth save to bark orders she knew would be obeyed. This was why she constantly scolded Sunday about what she wrote. Words had power. Mama wasn’t being overbearing; she had been trying to keep her daughter from making huge mistakes.
Only, Sunday had made those mistakes anyway. Because Mama had eschewed her power, her daughter had no concept of the breadth and depth of her own. Thanks to Mama, Sunday had no choice but to learn everything she could from Aunt Joy. Sunday was furious. She wanted to write her own story, make her own choices, not exist as a result of someone else’s silly decisions and past transgressions.
Saturday’s early-morning tirade raced through her mind. If Sunday had the power to make things happen, then she would use it. She pulled the journal from her pocket and slammed it open on the table. In a heavy hand she wrote:
I AM NORMAL.
A tear escaped down Sunday’s cheek. No matter how many times she wrote those words, she knew they would never be true. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and she was anything but normal. The ugly words mocked her. For the first time in her life, Sunday tore a page from her magic journal. She crumpled it into a ball on the table.
Joy opened the paper, read what Sunday had written there, and wadded it back up again. “Sunday.”
Sunday bit the inside of her cheek. She might not have been able to stop the tears, but she refused to cry.
Joy blew softly on the paper ball and suddenly a white pigeon preened in her hand. It hopped onto the table in front of Sunday. Above the bird, her aunt smiled at her.
“Normal is all relative.”
***
Sunday’s first lesson was spinning wool into gold. They had brought the spinning wheel out into the garden so that Sunday could be close to her new pet; the bird cooed prettily in the tree beside her. Sunday wasn’t sure what the lesson had to do with her writing coming true, and she told Joy as much.
“You know how to write, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why would I waste my time teaching you something you already know?”
Somewhat less than satisfied, Sunday frowned at the bag of wool. “Isn’t it usually straw into gold? That’s what all the stories say.”
“Do you know where to get straw this time of year?”
“There might be some in the barn, but it’s for—”
“And if I had straw, would you have the first clue as to how to spin it?”
“No, but—”
“Then quit dwelling on other people’s stories and make up some of your own. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that, she turned
“In the physical sense of the word only,” Joy said to Sunday. “His heart still belonged to your grandmother and hers to him. Had they not been truly in love, there would have been no saving him.”
Just as Sunday had not been able to save Grumble. Still, the words gave her hope, small and insignificant a shred as it was, and she clung to it.
“The Fairy Queen cannot give birth to her own children; instead, her powers are conveyed to those closest to her. Father was her favorite consort for a time, so his progeny were born fey-blessed.” Joy patted her black hair. “Albeit some more than others.”
“All except Mama,” corrected Sunday.
Mama froze at her bucket. Joy arched a perfect eyebrow. “Your mother,” said Joy, “is lazy.”
“I never wanted any part of it,” Mama said to the bucket.
“Only because you couldn’t be bothered to think before you spoke!”
Sunday sat in silence while her mother and her aunt stared each other down, much in the way she and Saturday often did. Speaking. Words. Mama always reminded her that words had power. How did the rhyme go?
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a gir1, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.
As soon as she thought it, Sunday knew: things Mama said came true. This was why she rarely opened her mouth save to bark orders she knew would be obeyed. This was why she constantly scolded Sunday about what she wrote. Words had power. Mama wasn’t being overbearing; she had been trying to keep her daughter from making huge mistakes.
Only, Sunday had made those mistakes anyway. Because Mama had eschewed her power, her daughter had no concept of the breadth and depth of her own. Thanks to Mama, Sunday had no choice but to learn everything she could from Aunt Joy. Sunday was furious. She wanted to write her own story, make her own choices, not exist as a result of someone else’s silly decisions and past transgressions.
Saturday’s early-morning tirade raced through her mind. If Sunday had the power to make things happen, then she would use it. She pulled the journal from her pocket and slammed it open on the table. In a heavy hand she wrote:
I AM NORMAL.
A tear escaped down Sunday’s cheek. No matter how many times she wrote those words, she knew they would never be true. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and she was anything but normal. The ugly words mocked her. For the first time in her life, Sunday tore a page from her magic journal. She crumpled it into a ball on the table.
Joy opened the paper, read what Sunday had written there, and wadded it back up again. “Sunday.”
Sunday bit the inside of her cheek. She might not have been able to stop the tears, but she refused to cry.
Joy blew softly on the paper ball and suddenly a white pigeon preened in her hand. It hopped onto the table in front of Sunday. Above the bird, her aunt smiled at her.
“Normal is all relative.”
***
Sunday’s first lesson was spinning wool into gold. They had brought the spinning wheel out into the garden so that Sunday could be close to her new pet; the bird cooed prettily in the tree beside her. Sunday wasn’t sure what the lesson had to do with her writing coming true, and she told Joy as much.
“You know how to write, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why would I waste my time teaching you something you already know?”
Somewhat less than satisfied, Sunday frowned at the bag of wool. “Isn’t it usually straw into gold? That’s what all the stories say.”
“Do you know where to get straw this time of year?”
“There might be some in the barn, but it’s for—”
“And if I had straw, would you have the first clue as to how to spin it?”
“No, but—”
“Then quit dwelling on other people’s stories and make up some of your own. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that, she turned
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