Coyote Rising by Allen Steele

moment, she didn’t know what Sissy was talking about. “Well . . . no, it wasn’t, but . . .”
    “That was Beatrice. She was very old and couldn’t lay eggs anymore, and she’d bully the other hens, so I had to . . .” Her hands came together, made a throttling motion. “Very sad, very sad . . . I hope at least that you did something good with her.”
    “I took her to work,” Allegra said. “At the community kitchen. We . . .”
    “The grange.”
    “Yes, the grange hall. A friend of mine cleaned her and we had it—I mean, we had her—for lunch.” She wondered if she should be saying this; Beatrice had apparently meant something to Sissy.
    “Good. At least you didn’t throw her away. That would’ve been . . . cruel. She laid good eggs, and it would have been disrespectful. You haven’t thrown those away, I hope.”
    “Oh, no!” Allegra shook her head. “I’ve eaten every one. They’re delicious. Thank you very much for—”
    “Did you make this?” Sissy darted forward, snatched the flute from her hands. Afraid that she’d damage it, Allegra started to reach for her instrument, but stopped herself when she saw how carefully Sissy handled it. She closely studied the patterns carved along the shaft, then before Allegra could object she blew into the mouthpiece. A harsh piping note came out, and she winced. “You do this much better. Can you make me one?”
    “I . . . I’d be happy to.” Allegra thought of the half dozen inferior flutes in her shack, and briefly considered giving one to her neighbor. But no . . . she’d want one that sounded just like Allegra’s. “I’m already planning to make more, so I’ll give you the first one I . . .”
    “You’re going to make more? Why?”
    “Well, I was thinking about selling them. To earn a little more . . .”
    “No.” Sissy didn’t raise her voice, yet her tone was uncompromising. “No no no no. I won’t allow you to sell anything out here. It’ll bring the others, the . . .” She glanced in the direction of the ale-soaked laughter that brayed from the bonfires. “I don’t want them around. If they come, they’ll bring Rigil Kent.”
    “Oh, no. I don’t intend to sell them here.” Allegra had recently struck up tentative friendships with various kiosk owners in Shuttlefield, and there was even a shop owner in Liberty who’d expressed interest in her work. Like Sissy, she had no wish to have strangers appearing at her front door. Yet something else she said raised her attention. “Who . . . who’s Rigil Kent?”
    Sissy’s face darkened, and for a moment Allegra was afraid that she’d said the wrong thing. But Sissy simply handed the flute back to her, then thrust her hands into the pocket of her threadbare apron.
    “If he comes back,” she said quietly, “you’ll know.”
    She started to turn away, heading back toward her shack. Then she stopped and looked back at Allegra. “I’ll give you more eggs if you teach me how to play. Can you do that?”
    “I’d be delighted, Sissy.”
    Her brow raised in astonishment. “How do you know my name?”
    “Chris told me.”
    “Chris.” She scowled. “My son. Fat worthless . . .” She stopped herself, rubbed her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
    “Allegra. Allegra DiSilvio.”
    She considered this. “Nice name. Sounds like music. The movie I saw, it was called . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’m Cecelia . . . my friends call me Sissy.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Sissy,” Allegra said. “Drop by anytime.”
    “No more chickens. I promise.” And then she walked away. Allegra watched until she disappeared inside her shack, and only then she let out her breath.
    At least Sissy was speaking to her.
     
    Three nights later, she met Rigil Kent.
    Allegra had no desire to participate in the First Landing Day festivities, but it was hard to avoid them; when she reported to work that morning, the kitchen staff