Marta didn’t own a bone comb. But her late grandmother had left her a trunk of stuff : dried herbs, crucifixes with broken loops, a fox skull wrapped in red thread. And yes, at the very bottom, wrapped in a scrap of black velvet: a comb carved from a single piece of what looked like human femur. The teeth were sharp. The handle was shaped like a woman with her mouth sewn shut.
Marta carried them up the stairs one by one. The last one—the girl in the communion dress—woke in Marta’s arms and said, “Is it still hungry?” m3zatka
“No,” Marta lied. “Not anymore.” Marta didn’t own a bone comb