Within a second it was back on its feet, squaring up to her, saliva dripping from its mouth.
“Are you scared of me?” she screamed at her mother’s house. “You’d have the dog kill me instead of doing it yourself?”
There was no answer. The dog crouched, ready to spring. Kestrel felt sick to the pit of her stomach.
“Don’t even think about it,” she growled.
The dog came toward her in a blur of teeth and claws. Kestrel flung herself out of the way, but its teeth caught her leg. She screamed and lashed out, knocking it to the side. She backed away, crawling through the dirt. The eyes of the whole village were on her, but nobody moved.
The dog leaped again, aiming for her throat. She flung her arm at it and caught it on the side of the mouth, knocking it away. A piece of her sleeve ripped off, and the dog fell over with the material snagged between its teeth. Kestrel put her hand on her spoon, waiting for it to strike again.
But the dog didn’t jump right away. It got to its feet, struggling to get its balance. The piece of Kestrel’s red-stained sleeve dropped from its mouth, and it wiped its muzzle on the ground as though trying to get a bad taste off its tongue.
Kestrel stared at the dog, her heart hammering.
Before the dog could get its bearings again, she quickly dug the second squashed bloodberry from her pocket. She clutched it in her fist, praying that her instinct was right. The dog looked up and licked its lips. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.
The dog twitched, and Kestrel flung herself toward it. They met midair, teeth and fingers and black fur tangling together. Kestrel hit the ground with a rib-shaking thump. The dog was on top of her, its front paws pressed into her stomach, its colossal weight squashing her into the floor so hard she struggled to breathe. It snapped its teeth at her neck. She twisted her head out of the way just in time. With all her strength, she grabbed the dog’s muzzle with her free hand.
The dog growled and tried to snap at her fingers. Kestrel brought her other hand, the one with the bloodberry, to its teeth. She forced the berry into its mouth a second before her grip gave way and the dog snapped its jaws down on her fingers.
It felt like her hand had been put into a mincer. Kestrel screamed and pulled it away. She pushed the dog off her, expecting it to lunge for her throat again.
The dog growled, but its paws slipped from her stomach, and it staggered to the side. It swung its muzzle toward her again, but now Kestrel was on her feet. She flung all her weight at the dog from above, pushing it to the ground. She held it down with all her strength as it bucked and twisted.
Finally, the dog’s struggle began to fade. It snarled, kicking its legs. Another minute and it was completely still.
Hardly daring to believe it, Kestrel lifted her hands. She touched the dog’s side. The bloodberry had killed it.
Kestrel rose to her feet, her eyes fixed nervously on the house.
The door didn’t open. It was silent. The whole village watched, shocked that the dog was dead, knowing that there would be some kind of retribution. Then something began to move inside.
Maybe it was the glimpse of her mother’s long, pale fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. Maybe it was the whiff of something sickly sweet. Maybe it was because the answer had been staring her in the face for days. Whatever it was, Kestrel knew exactly what was going to step out of the house. It made her whole body go cold with dread.
She slowly climbed to her feet and walked toward the door.
She thought about all the teeth her mother had trapped in the weave. She thought of the way her mother bossed Kestrel and the whole village around, getting them to bring her food while she sat and lapped it all up. The lies she’d told, and the memories Kestrel had lost. The bones hidden in the cellar.
I could wear his face all day long if I wanted, the face painter had said about her dad. All I need is a body part, and I’d have his looks forever. You’re lucky I only borrowed his coat. Bones are much better.
Kestrel watched as the face painter stepped out of the house, dressed in her dead mother’s clothes.
17
MOTHER
The face painter staggered to the door, leaning to one side as though the ground was tilting beneath her feet. Her head was bowed. She caught hold of the wall for support, wheezing, her hands damp with sweat.
Kestrel backed away as the creature—her mother—put a foot on the doorstep. Then another. Her body was shaking from the effort. She let go of the door frame, head still bowed to the floor, and staggered into Kestrel, trailing the weave behind her in great clumps attached to her arms and legs.
Kestrel caught her instinctively and she sagged into her arms. Then her mother looked up and Kestrel screamed.
“You clever little witch,” her mother said, and fell to the floor. Her dusty hair drifted away from her scalp and formed in a ring around her. Her eyes were white all the way through, and her skin was sallow. All her facial features were trying to get away from one another, sliding around like eggs in a frying pan.
She stared at the villagers behind Kestrel. Then she snorted with weak laughter, kicking her thin, milky-white legs like a newborn child. Kestrel heard someone slump to the ground behind her.
“You’re . . . not my mother,” Kestrel said, as though saying it would make the truth smaller and easier to swallow.
“That’s only a technicality,” her mother said. She had the same unthinkable, unseeable features as the face painter in the forest, but her mother’s creaky voice. “I made you strong. I took care of you.”
Kestrel stared at her. She didn’t know what to feel. Then she thought of all the times her mother had hurt her, bending her arm, grabbing her by the throat, pushing her around, lying to her.
“How long have you been in my house?” Kestrel asked, finding her anger. She grabbed her mother by the collar and held her up. “Tell me, or I’ll throw you into the forest!”
“You won’t,” her mother said. “You’re too scared.”
Kestrel tightened her grip. The creature in her hands was small and frail, and Kestrel knew that it would be like throwing an egg to the ground.
“Don’t try me,” she said angrily, ashamed of her weakness.
“I didn’t bring you up to be rude,” her mother said, as though they were doing nothing more than drinking tea.
Kestrel dropped her, disgusted. Her mother started to get up, but her legs were as thin and weak as blades of grass, and Kestrel held her down with her foot. She knew that the things she’d been remembering were true. And her mother—this face painter—had kept them from her.
“I know you stole my memories,” Kestrel snarled. “You didn’t think I’d meet another face painter. It reversed some of your magic.”
But something was still stuck in the back of her head like an itch. “Unblock the rest of them,” Kestrel said angrily. “Tell me what you’ve been hiding.”
“Oh, sweetie,” her mother said, shaking her head as though she were saddened by Kestrel’s delusions.
“Do it!” Kestrel screamed, so loud it was like a blow. Her mother twitched, but she didn’t respond.
“You wanted people to die,” Kestrel choked. “You wanted the grabbers to keep picking everyone off, so we’d always be scared. So we’d keep looking after you. You sent me out to hunt, knowing I was making it worse. You turned us all into your slaves.”