Chaos Choreography
Page 65
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We found some lye. And some bleach, and some saltpeter, and an assortment of rare spices being sold as attractive ground cover. We also found a lot of knives, many of which found their way into my bag. Only some of them would be suitable for the kind of combat I prefer—the kind where I throw knives at people, and they stay as far away from me as possible—but there’s no such thing as too many knives. There’s only more knives than you have room to hide under your mattress, and I was planning to solve that by sending the bulk of the new armory back to the Be-Well with Dominic.
A stall at the end of one of the last rows crammed into the lot boasted a sign reading “TAROT AND TAXIDERMY.” I exchanged a look with Dominic, who seemed nonplussed.
“Well, there’s definitely taxidermy,” I said, indicating a mounted bison head that looked like the cousin of the deer we’d seen on our way in. It was next to one of those faux jackalopes that used to be popular in certain kinds of novelty shop.
(Faux jackalopes were popular even when jackalopes were more common, back when there were so many of them that people had to admit they existed. It’s just that real jackalopes look sort of like jackrabbits on steroids, with sharp claws and muzzles too long to fit most people’s ideas of what a rabbit looks like. It was much more profitable to slap horns on some innocent bunny and claim it was the real deal, especially when you were selling to people who’d never seen a prairie in their lives. People are weird, and there’s nothing new about that.)
Or wait . . . I narrowed my eyes, taking a closer look. The jackalope had a long muzzle and what looked like tiny daggers set into its digging paws. It wasn’t a fake. It had just been a baby when it died, which was why it was so much smaller than I expected a jackalope to be. And based on the condition of the fur and the quality of the glass eyes set into its fur-covered skull, it had been preserved within the last twenty years.
“Come on,” I said, and stepped into the stall.
California is flea market heaven. It rains rarely enough that it’s safe to have a remarkable variety of open air goods, and the vendors tend to become comfortable enough in their positions that they really nestle into a space, decorating and customizing it to their heart’s content. The front of the tarot and taxidermy stall looked like any other, with long, uncovered folding tables heavily laden with wares. But the back half was taken up by a gauzy tent that looked like something out of a Renaissance Faire, complete with rainbow streamers and multiple layers of netting. Someone was inside, their shadow moving against the net.
I stopped without reaching for the curtain. If the stall’s owner was in the middle of a tarot reading, they wouldn’t take kindly to being interrupted. Instead, I cleared my throat to let them know I was there before turning to study a stuffed and mounted furred trout. Like the jackalope, it appeared to be the real deal.
Dominic stepped up next to me, apparently reaching the same conclusion, as he said, in a low voice, “I thought these were extinct.”
“Not extinct, just mostly being preserved in private fisheries until science is ready for them,” I said. “The last time there was a wild spawning, some assholes poisoned the river to stop whatever weird disease they thought was making the fish all moldy.”
“There will always be things people aren’t prepared for, which must be covered in mirrors and greasepaint, until they seem believable enough to be borne,” said an Irish-accented voice behind us. It was light, female, and amused, like the speaker was the only one who knew the punchline to the world’s best joke.
I turned.
She was taller than me—who isn’t taller than me? In a world of giants, I’ve learned to treasure my high-heeled shoes—and about my mother’s age, with a smile that matched her voice for warmth and amusement. Her hair was black, with streaks of lilac gray. It looked dyed, rather than natural; everything about her looked carefully designed. I couldn’t be sure without a blood sample and an X-ray, but I was willing to bet she was human.
“So you recognize a furred trout,” she said, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The silver foil printing on her T-shirt was so faded that I couldn’t make out the name of the band it had been intended to promote; the graphic was nothing but the ghosts of gothic type and heavy metal guitars. “Short, blonde, and holding yourself like you think you might have to kill me—are you Alice Healy’s girl?”
“Is there no one who does not know your family?” asked Dominic. I glanced at him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle in his cheek was twitching.
A stall at the end of one of the last rows crammed into the lot boasted a sign reading “TAROT AND TAXIDERMY.” I exchanged a look with Dominic, who seemed nonplussed.
“Well, there’s definitely taxidermy,” I said, indicating a mounted bison head that looked like the cousin of the deer we’d seen on our way in. It was next to one of those faux jackalopes that used to be popular in certain kinds of novelty shop.
(Faux jackalopes were popular even when jackalopes were more common, back when there were so many of them that people had to admit they existed. It’s just that real jackalopes look sort of like jackrabbits on steroids, with sharp claws and muzzles too long to fit most people’s ideas of what a rabbit looks like. It was much more profitable to slap horns on some innocent bunny and claim it was the real deal, especially when you were selling to people who’d never seen a prairie in their lives. People are weird, and there’s nothing new about that.)
Or wait . . . I narrowed my eyes, taking a closer look. The jackalope had a long muzzle and what looked like tiny daggers set into its digging paws. It wasn’t a fake. It had just been a baby when it died, which was why it was so much smaller than I expected a jackalope to be. And based on the condition of the fur and the quality of the glass eyes set into its fur-covered skull, it had been preserved within the last twenty years.
“Come on,” I said, and stepped into the stall.
California is flea market heaven. It rains rarely enough that it’s safe to have a remarkable variety of open air goods, and the vendors tend to become comfortable enough in their positions that they really nestle into a space, decorating and customizing it to their heart’s content. The front of the tarot and taxidermy stall looked like any other, with long, uncovered folding tables heavily laden with wares. But the back half was taken up by a gauzy tent that looked like something out of a Renaissance Faire, complete with rainbow streamers and multiple layers of netting. Someone was inside, their shadow moving against the net.
I stopped without reaching for the curtain. If the stall’s owner was in the middle of a tarot reading, they wouldn’t take kindly to being interrupted. Instead, I cleared my throat to let them know I was there before turning to study a stuffed and mounted furred trout. Like the jackalope, it appeared to be the real deal.
Dominic stepped up next to me, apparently reaching the same conclusion, as he said, in a low voice, “I thought these were extinct.”
“Not extinct, just mostly being preserved in private fisheries until science is ready for them,” I said. “The last time there was a wild spawning, some assholes poisoned the river to stop whatever weird disease they thought was making the fish all moldy.”
“There will always be things people aren’t prepared for, which must be covered in mirrors and greasepaint, until they seem believable enough to be borne,” said an Irish-accented voice behind us. It was light, female, and amused, like the speaker was the only one who knew the punchline to the world’s best joke.
I turned.
She was taller than me—who isn’t taller than me? In a world of giants, I’ve learned to treasure my high-heeled shoes—and about my mother’s age, with a smile that matched her voice for warmth and amusement. Her hair was black, with streaks of lilac gray. It looked dyed, rather than natural; everything about her looked carefully designed. I couldn’t be sure without a blood sample and an X-ray, but I was willing to bet she was human.
“So you recognize a furred trout,” she said, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The silver foil printing on her T-shirt was so faded that I couldn’t make out the name of the band it had been intended to promote; the graphic was nothing but the ghosts of gothic type and heavy metal guitars. “Short, blonde, and holding yourself like you think you might have to kill me—are you Alice Healy’s girl?”
“Is there no one who does not know your family?” asked Dominic. I glanced at him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle in his cheek was twitching.
