Beastkeeper by Cat Hellisen Page A

parrot. Only, no. It was talking; it was having a conversation. And it was staring at her with one ice-blue eye, head twisted to get a better look. The tiny black pupil contracted as it stared at her.
    â€œWell met, princess,” said the raven. It clacked its pickax beak. “You have your mother’s look to you.”
    â€œMy mother?” Sarah’s heart bounced up, hope catching her by surprise. “You know her?” I’m talking to a bird.
    â€œI knew her once,” the white raven replied. “It has been long since last we looked upon each other. A thousand years have passed, and the forests have grown smaller. And outside the forests, your world has barely moved a decade. Or two—I can never keep track.”
    â€œEr, okay.” And now it didn’t seem strange to Sarah that she was having a conversation with a raven. Vaguely, she was aware that it should seem weird, but there was a dreamy quality to the dusk that made everything seem utterly reasonable, like her brain had given up trying to make sense of things and had instead just accepted defeat. Okay, world, you win . “I beg your pardon,” she said. “but I didn’t catch your name—”
    Nanna laughed. “And you won’t. ‘Raven’ will do.” She twitched her wrist and the bird took flight, an ungainly flapping of large wings beating against dragging air. The raven finally soared off, leaving only a fallen white feather on the ground to mark that it had been there.
    â€œNow,” said Nanna, “I’ve no servants to carry your luggage about, so you’ll have to do it yourself. This way.” She turned into the squat castle tower, and Sarah grabbed her bags and followed her in.
    It was gloomy. The stones were frozen slabs, and Sarah couldn’t help but shiver. Her grandmother wore a long, thick woolen dress, and over that a coat of thick fur, dusty and moth-eaten. Dirt and black decay lay over everything. The cold seeped up from the flagstones, chilling Sarah right through her feet, all the way up her legs, so that she was shaking hard enough to rattle her teeth together.
    She trod along in dejected silence, pausing only when her grandmother stopped to light sputtering candles along the walls. The candles made the air smell greasy, and they flickered and guttered in an unwelcoming way, casting leaping shadows that played out a grotesque puppet show on the stained walls. Sarah was half certain she could see actual figures choking each other, raking with their claws, could hear their screams and dying moans. She caught up quickly with Nanna, just about walking on the old woman’s heels so that she wouldn’t be left behind. Sarah held her bags closer.
    â€œThis will be your bedroom,” Nanna said, throwing open the door of a room near the apex of the castle tower. They had taken what felt like a million stairs to get there, and Sarah was sure that her legs were going to collapse out from under her and her arms were going to fall off. She’d tried switching the suitcase from left to right, but now her arms were rubbery and limp as half-cooked spaghetti.
    â€œIt’s very nice, thank you,” Sarah said without really looking. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a week, and hope that when she woke she would discover that all of this was just some awful nightmare.
    It had to be. She lifted her head. The room was one step up from a cell. There was a single plain bed covered with dull red blankets that looked like they’d been made out of rags, and a desk with a basin and a jug. Both were yellowed enamel, the edges rough with rust.
    â€œGood. You can clean yourself up and rest some before dinner,” Nanna said. “There’s an hour yet before I eat.”
    I, singular. Sarah cleared her throat. “Is—does my grandfather live here too?”
    Nanna snorted. “In a manner of speaking.” She smiled then, revealing teeth