A Hunger of Thorns

Other books by Lili WilkinsonThe Erasure InitiativeAfter the Lights Go OutThe Boundless SublimeGreen ValentineThe Zigzag EffectLove-shyA Pocketful of EyesPinkAngel FishThe (Not Quite) Perfect BoyfriendScatterheartJoan of Arc This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through theAustralia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.This project has been supported by the City of Melbourne.This project is an outcome of a State Library Victoria fellowship.First published by Allen & Unwin in 2023Copyright © Lili Wilkinson 2023All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act. Allen & UnwinCammeraygal Country83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065AustraliaPhone:(61 2) 8425 0100Email:[email protected]: www.allenandunwin.com Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.ISBN 978 1 76052 694 8eISBN 978 1 76118 641 7For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachersCover design by Imogene OhText design by Sandra Nobes‘Girls of the Wild’ from Wild Embers © Nikita Gill, published by Trapeze, reproduced by kind permission by David Higham AssociatesSet by Midland Typesetters, Australiawww.liliwilkinson.com.au For every good girlwho has a wild girl inside CONTENTSONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREEEPILOGUEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSABOUT THE AUTHOR They won’t tell you fairytalesof how girls can be dangerous and still win.They will only tell you storieswhere girls are sweet and kindand reject all sin.I guess to themit’s a terrifying thought,a red riding hoodwho knew exactlywhat she was doingwhen she invited the wild in.– NIKITA GILL ONENan is very particular about tea.She orders a personalised blend from an under-the-counter botanica on the wrong side of town, and it gets shipped to her in bulk, a large wooden crate filled with vacuum-sealed packages. Nan decants them one by one into a floral tin with creaking hinges.Halmoni bought her an electric kettle years ago, but Nan refuses to use it. She fills an ancient cast-iron kettle with rainwater from the tank outside the back door and lights the gas burner with a match.Nan doesn’t ask if I want tea. The kettle is already on, with curls of steam and faint whistles escaping from the spout. I have made the journey downstairs from my bedroom, now there will be tea. Tea is non-negotiable.I push aside five cross-stitched cushions, Nan’s knitting basket, and two cats to make a space on the couch, and sit down. Princess Bari stalks away, offended, her tail twitching, but Gwion Bach clambers into my lap and starts kneading my thighs. His claws sink through the thin layers of my dress and the brand-new stockings that Halmoni bought me just for today. I imagine the pinprick holes widening and splitting into ladders, and I feel a brief surge of wicked satisfaction. But these stockings are fancy enchanted ones and will not ladder, so I will remain neat and respectable. Put together is how Dr Slater would phrase it. Today, I have to be put together, even though I’m falling apart.Nan takes a pinch of tea from the floral tin and leans out the back door to sprinkle it on the doorstep, over the deep engraved marks of overlapping circles and daisy wheels that keep our house free of mischief. She opens another tin and fishes out a handful of thrupenny biscuits, which she plunks onto a china plate without ceremony.‘Orright, Miss Maude?’ she says to me.Gwion Bach finally deems my lap sufficiently moulded to his requirements and settles himself into a furry brown puddle. I rub behind his ears, and he purrs.Nan reaches up to an open shelf cluttered with canisters, vases and ugly little figurines of big-headed shepherdesses and frogs playing musical instruments, and takes down cups and saucers, painted with pink and yellow roses. A reading, then. When it’s just tea, Nan uses Halmoni’s Buncheong stoneware cups, but white porcelain provides better contrast for reading tea leaves.The kettle on the stove begins to whistle in earnest, a plume of steam billowing to the ceiling. Nan briefly holds each cup over the steam – to cleanse them of any deceit – then lifts the kettle and splashes boiling water into the teapot.Nan’s teapot is the stuff of family legend. It’s large enough to hold up to ten cups, and it is truly the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen. It’s pastelpink china, in the shape of a soppy-looking cat’s face. Huge baby-blue cat eyes stare unblinking, fringed with curled painted lashes. An open grinning mouth leers beneath feverishly rosy cheeks.She replaces the kettle, where it resumes its shrill whistling, then swirls the water in the teapot to warm it before emptying it over the sink. After that she takes her tarnished silver caddy spoon, its handle engraved with entwined pennywort and milk thistle, and measures out four spoons of tea leaves – one for her, one for me, one for Halmoni, and one for luck. She fills the pot halfway with boiling water – it’s too big to fill all the way, unless we have company. Then she pops on the lid and leaves it to steep.‘Now, then,’ she says, smoothing the front of her tweed skirt, which flows neat and sombre over outrageously pink Lycra leggings. ‘How you feeling, love?’Her crinkled, watery eyes see too much, so I look away, over towards her workbench, where bunches of drying rosemary and sea holly hang over row upon row of little jars – crushed eggshell, salt, rusty pins, feathers, bits of bone, rowan ash. There’s a half-finished poppet there, button-eyed and bound with red and silver thread. A love charm, probably, for some moonsick