“It’s a girl,” said Eugenie, uncomplaining, but definite. “Not an animal.”
“Well there’s one opinion and another about that,” said Jandra, squeezing the end of her nose between her fingers as she did sometimes while puzzling out the ethics of a situation. “It doesn’t know its name. It can’t dress itself. It is potty trained, for which I’m more than grateful, so there’s one small thing making it better than a puppy, which I haven’t one of nor nobody else I know, so no matter. It’ll sit brushing at its hair for the better part of a day, and it has a good appetite for most anything you’d eat yourself and I’ve halfway taught it to eat with a spoon. Sometimes it makes a noise as if it was about to say something. Not often, mind you, and it surprises itself when it does.”
“You should say ‘she,’” corrected Eugenie. The pretty thing was as female as she herself was, and very much of her own size.
“Well, there’s one opinion and another about that, too. Still, I’d be inclined to agree with you, and I call her ‘she’ to myself, don’t you know. It’s a playful bit of a thing, too. Likes to roll a ball back and forth or play with a bobble on the end of a string.”
“Like a kitten,” purred Eugenie. “Do you suppose they’ll let me keep her?”
Well, and if they wouldn’t, it would be their problem, Jandra thought, not her own, which the Goosegirl had been up until now, her or it of the pretty hair and lovely little body and sweet face without two notions to jostle one another in her head. Last evening she’d seen Jelly looking at the girl in that certain way, and no time would be too quick to get rid of her, ethics or no. Still, if Eugenie had been someone else—Marjorie Westriding, say—Jandra would have felt uncomfortable giving her the Goosegirl as a pet. Someone like the Lady Westriding—Jandra had heard all about her from Roald Few, as had every other person with normal hearing—would dig and dig, puzzle and puzzle, making the poor creature’s life a misery. And one couldn’t give it to some man to use, though one would, rather than have Jelly doing the using.
Eugenie, though. Well, she wasn’t a debauchee and she didn’t look the type to go seeking causes or laying blame. She would not abuse the creature, nor wonder where the girl had come from or what brought her to Portside to be found under Ducky Johns’ clothesline. She would see only a girl-sized walking doll, something with pretty hair to arrange, something to clothe and play with. As for Jandra Jellico, it looked the best thing she would be able to do for the Goosegirl and far better than she had recently feared.
One of Roald Few’s workmen took Eugenie and her new pet back to Opal Hill, dropping them behind the Fading Vista from which Eugenie was able to reach her own little house without being observed. Eugenie already had a dozen plans for Goosegirl. One of them had to do with teaching her to dance, but first and second on the list had to do with the sewing of astonishing gowns and the selection of a new and utterly elegant name.
Marjorie tapped at the door of Rigo’s study and entered at the sound of his voice. “Am I too early?”
“Come on in,” he said, his voice fuzzy with fatigue. “Asmir’s not here yet, but I expect him momentarily.” He stacked some papers together, thrust them into a lockbox, keyed the box to hold, and turned off his node. In the corner of the room the tell-me swam with wavering bands of color, silent. “You look as weary as I feel.”
She laughed, unconvincingly. “I’m all right. Stella is on one of her usual tears. Some time ago I asked Persun to take her down to the village, thinking she could find someone there to share her time with. She’s been there once or twice and refuses to go back. She says they’re all provincials, ignorant as cabbages.”
“Well, that’s probably true.”
“Even so—“ she started to say, intending to make some comment about pride, realizing just in time that it would annoy Rigo, “Tony says not. He finds companionship there.”