Above the Snowline by Steph Swainston Page A

her?’
     
    ‘Zoysia, you daft mare! Look after it. Give it dinner or something, but get it out of the hall, instant!’
     
    I bobbed down on my high heels - to put myself on her level - saw her cat eyes and recoiled in surprise. A Rhydanne! Really a Rhydanne! And, judging by her get-up, she was a wild one. But of course Comet would be with another Rhydanne, I thought. Maybe she was his girlfriend.
     
    I spoke to her, but she gave a deep sigh and muttered in her language. I guessed she’d never even been in the country before. So Comet was happy to leave a foreigner who didn’t speak Plainslands, and who was dragging the most frightening spear, alone in a knocking shop?
     
    Spelt cried out behind me, ‘Go on, lazy! Take it down to the kitchen! I don’t want the pub party tripping over it! Comet said to watch it well till tomorrow, and tell him immediate if it gives you the slip.’
     
    I beckoned her and she sprang to her feet. As I led her down the hall she flapped her arms, pointed at the door where Comet had gone and conveyed amazement with an expansive shrug.
     
    ‘Yes, he can fly. Were you shocked? I’m not surprised.’
     
    She pointed at the winged girls, out at the night sky and flapped again, questioningly.
     
    ‘No. Only Comet can fly,’ I said, fluttering my hands in appropriate gestures. ‘Is your name Dellin?’
     
    ‘Dellin,’ she agreed quietly. Then, by god, she took some horrible, old crawling piece of meat from her pocket and started chewing on it. I led her down to the kitchen, my heels clacking on the greasy stone, and she began to scurry - no, I mean, zoom - about, investigating everything. I wrapped myself in a spare dressing gown hanging on the door for the purpose, sat down at the table, slopped some gin into a tin mug, lit a cigarette and watched.
     
    She moved like a man, directly, always purposefully with an object in mind. She pulled open all the drawers, cupboard doors and the oven hatch. I wished she could carve up her energy and give us all a slice.
     
    I drew on my cigarette and she stared in horror. ‘Want one?’ I asked, and threw the box on the table, but she ignored me and laid her spear and kit on the floor in front of the range. She dragged the table and chairs around them to build a sort of lair. I blew out smoke and thought she would actually be quite pretty if she was made up and if she had some less disgusting clothes. It was true, y’ see: in a good light or with pressed powder her face would be elegant. Her skin was very clear. I bet she hadn’t had so much as a grain of sugar in her life. Her colour was somewhat pallid, but with a little foundation she’d look like a normal woman. Her chest was flat, but if she put on some weight and wore the right neckline that wouldn’t matter too much. And if I taught her not to move in such a masculine way but how to loiter a little, I could make her extremely sexy.
     
    She seated herself triumphantly inside the den, opened her mouth and pointed into it.
     
    ‘Food? Yes, there’s some left over. There has to be,’ I said conversationally. ‘Cook leaves at six but we work all hours.’ I used a towel to grab the handle of the oven compartment, pulled open the heavy door, and brought out a risotto all burnt onto the baking dish. I ladled some of the raisiny, mushroomy rice onto a plate, dolloped a generous helping of cauliflower cheese next to it and spooned on beans from a pan on the cooker top. Dellin crawled out from behind her barricade, knelt on the floor with her elbows on the table, sniffed at it and shuddered.
     
    ‘This is good Fescue fare,’ I told her and fetched her a fork, but when I turned back she was already wolfing it with her fingers. She ate two platters full in front of my very eyes, then opened her rucksack and produced horrible, gross bits of meat, ate most of them and dumped the rest in the corner. She slurped wine from some sort of smelly bag. Wine from the Castle itself, I guessed,