Page 26 of Bound

Bread. She’d set that to rising. Bottle the milk and set it in the springhouse until she’d need of it. Unless Braum would like a cup of fresh milk after his labours?

She rubbed at her forehead, refusing to look out the window.

This was intolerable.

The not knowing. The guessing. The apology that had lodged in her throat, unspoken. Twisting at her insides as she hoped he’d come back long enough that she could tell him she appreciated his efforts, truly, and she would... attempt... to worry less about what she might owe him at the end of it.

He was back. There was no call made to her in order to alert her to his presence. Just the sound of wood against wood, as old posts were pulled all too easily from the ground and into a neat pile.

She rubbed at her forehead. Forgot that flour covered her hands as she’d set about the kneading, and went to wash them at the kitchen pump.

???

She had the right to ensure things were proceeding properly. It was her fence, after all. And it was her hesperthat were crowded at the open entrance, hassling the man trying to work.

He did not ask her for help. Did not call out to her to fetch them. Merely nudged them back to the field with a low word she could not catch.

Guilt niggled. Resentment, too, but she huffed out a long breath and insisted it move along just as quickly as it had appeared.

She ducked back into the barn and pulled out a bucket of grains, returning to her nosey hesper. “Come along,” she called, the grains rattling in their confines, promising a welcome treat to get them moving.

He did not thank her, but she did not begrudge him that. She had been the one to give offense, and he was the one that was working, regardless.

She sighed. Walked them toward Thorn’s field. He did not particularly care for the large beasts to mingle amongst his flock, but he knew better than to protest.

She shut the gate firmly, pouring the contents of the bucket onto the ground so they would not fight one another for access. Some grimbles raised their heads in interest, but she doubted Temperance or Calliope would share anything but the most meagre dregs.

That done, she went back toward the house. Did he ascribe to the same mealtimes as she did? Or perhaps since he rose earlier, he needed to eat sooner?

She could ask. Should ask. It was the one thing thus far he’d allowed her to contribute to his repayment scheme. She talked with people at the market easily enough, when there was a counter and a purpose behind it that was simple and straightforward.

She glanced at him. How quickly he worked, and it seemed like she merely blinked and half the fence line was in a pile at his feet.

He might leave it like that. Take some sort of revenge by disassembling it all and then leaving—taking his tools and his lumber with him.

She sighed. Tugged at her braid.

Approached him with all the enthusiasm that Thorn had for her hesper in his pasture.

When she was little, her mother would sit her at the table. Teach her how to hold her spoon, to use a napkin. Prepare little treats that were to make company feel welcome.

“For later,” she’d say. “When you’ve friends to entertain.”

Wren hadn’t asked when her mother got to use those skills. When it was her turn for friends to come and sit at the big kitchen table and appreciate those little efforts toward hospitality.

They’d only talk about her mother’s past at bedtime. When Wren was tucked beneath quilts her mother had made for her. When the only light came from the dying fire in the hearth below the loft. When she did not have so worry so much if her mother would get that sad, wistful look because it was too dim to see much of anything at all.

“Do you wish you hadn’t met Da?” Wren had asked, throat tight, heart heavy. After he’d... after he’d left, and the crying had given way to a bone-deep sadness that hadn’t been able to leave either of them.

Her mother had reached out, grasping hold of Wren’s chin so she could better make out her features in the dark. “Why would you ask me that?”

Wren tried to shrug, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “Because then you could have gone with the people from the ship. And then maybe you could have married one of them and then maybe you’d be happy. Have friends. People to sit at the table with you, that’s not... not just me.”

Her mother did not answer her right away. But when she did, her hug was fierce and her words were firm, and Wren wondered now if perhaps she had to battle down her own emotions first. “I do not regret your father. And more than anything, I do not regret you. Do you understand me?”

Wren nodded. Hugged her back just as tightly.

Those lessons in table manners had grown more scarce, but Wren could conjure them even now. “If you’ve a flask, I’ll fill it at the pump.”