The stew proved more onion and gravy than beef, yet settled in the stomach warmly and filling the belly after barely a half bowl. The bread, too, was thick and coarse. In sharp contrast, the cider was light and bubbling, expertly made by a soldier experienced enough to ferment nearly anything in a pinch. It cut through the grease and left the tongue clear and clean.

The master bedroom conceded to Kijani had a wooden slat floor covered by a thick rag-woven rug. No artwork or decor graced its walls. Its bed was a massive affair that would have taken several sturdy men to even try and lift, much less actually move; its wooden canopy was surrounded on all sides by thick woolen curtains that were perfect for keeping out the chill, as were the heavy quilts and comforters that had been piled high upon the hay-filled mattress. The whole ensemble smelled of cedar and sweet heather, tainted only by the faint scent of ancient dust. A single dresser without mirror or decoration sat by the bed while a matching home hewed wardrobe took up the opposite wall. The furnishings were all stout and sturdy, broadcasting the message clearly: 'Here we are. Here we will stay.' A washstand in the far corner held a simple home-kilned pitcher and bowl. The low ceiling kept most of the heat from escaping too far from human use while a single window gave her a spectacular view of the orchard. From here, the boughs of a massive tree towering above all the others could be seen against the dying sun.

Feather's room was smaller by a half, containing but a single narrow bed and small dresser. It, too, had been piled high with down filled comforters.

the rooms may not have been used in some time, but Feather had chased away the ghosts of neglect and brought in a cozy feeling that was much needed with the cleaning. Or perhaps it was her simple cheerfulness that turned the unused bedrooms into homey retreats.

Once Kijani was full of food and drink, she retired upstairs to see her new lodgings. “Oh... it's so... lovely.” Other people would have used the word quaint, but Kijani had always thought there was a bit of an insult in the connotation of that word. While the furniture was simple, it was also very functional. Not a bit of wood was wasted. The scent of the wood was appealing, as well. Now all it needed was a touch of decoration. A vase of flowers, perhaps, or a nice picture to hang on the wall. She didn't know where she would get either of these things.

“You did a wonderful job tidying the place, Feather.” She smiled at the girl before settling on the bed, looking at the window at the setting sun. “What an incredible view.” She wished that there were trees outside her window at home. Instead there were buildings. It wasn't as cozy a morning, waking up to the view of the middle of a skyscraper.

“Please help me get this corset off...” The buttons were in the back, and awkward to get to on her own. “And tell me more about this boy you're so fond of.” Even if she promised herself not to give advice, she still wanted to hear it.

Feather nodded happily, another "Yes, Mistress" coming lightly off of her lips. The girl seemed quite content serving and even though she had no experience with the fancy clothes of the wealthy she deftly helped Kijani out of the corset and prepare for bed. All the while, she chatted excitedly about her heart's desire.

Even from the girl's simple way of speaking and limited vocabulary, it was obvious she was very much in love with Stone. Tall, strong, handsome, and he carved little wooden animals from scrap lumber to give her as presents. Feather even paused to run to her one small bag and produce a finely crafted wren for Kijani's inspection, the bird's image so perfectly captured in wood that it looked like an actual fledgling about to take flight. Feather also had the grace to blush when she swooned over how well he kissed. Sadly, it was also obvious that Stone was not a suitable suitor for an Alderman's daughter from anyone else's point of view, even an Alderman of such a tiny hamlet! As caring and devoted as she made Stone out to be, he was the youngest son of three with no land or business to inherit; Stone would end up being dependent upon his eldest brother for his living his entire life. Any children from such a union would have even less chance of inheritance later on in life. Too old to apprentice (not there was anyone in the village for him to apprentice himself to), Stone's only other choices were factory work in the city or joining the army, neither of which would endear him to Feather's farmer father. Feather, however, was oblivious to this blatant stumbling block.

As she finished assisting her new mistress for bed, Feather frowned slightly as she paused in thought. Something from earlier had finally worked its way through her head and was now bothering her. "I never thought of Master Vinegar in that way before. I mean... as a husband. I guess it's good he was a soldier, right? Defending us? And my folks both say it's a shame he's living here all alone. Maybe if he wasn't so old. And lame. And dour." She made a face. "It's odd how he's always willing to lend a hand but never wants thanking for it! Just before last harvest, he came to my brother Rye's barn raising without even being asked, brought cider for everyone to drink, put in a good share of work himself... but when Rye when to thank him for it, you'd have thought Rye had spit in his eye!"

Cocking her head to one side, the teenager blinked rapidly. "What do you think, Mistress Kijani? Would Master Vinegar be a good match? And are all men from the city like him?"

Kijani rather happily listened to Feather ramble blissfully on about Stone. It was sweet, how free she was with her feelings. She tried to think of a time that she'd been that way, but... nothing came to mind. It had been drilled deep into her that she wasn't going to marry just 'anyone'. The words were on her lips, as well, to tell Feather that it would never work out. The class difference, even here, would be too much. They would always be scraping and wanting and never having enough, and who wanted that? It wasn't like Stone could make a living from carvings, no matter how beautiful and real they were. It was a shame, really. She'd never heard people truly in love before, and it was... well, it made her feel sort of warm and fuzzy in the core of her chest. Even though the love wasn't hers. Funny, that.

When Feather brought things back around to what they'd been talking about previously, Kijani took several moments to think. "While the match would bring your family some fortune, and you some security... from the way you speak about him, it's clearly obvious it's nothing you want. Even though it will make a stable life for you, if the mere thought of a man causes you to make such a face of disgust? You'd live a cold, empty life, in a big house and plenty of property, with children you never wanted." She stopped suddenly, realizing that Feather's question had dug a bit close to home for her. She wound a dreadlock around her finger and quickly switched topics, knowing it would be easy enough to distract the girl.

"City men are nothing like what you're describing Mr. Croil as. They wouldn't want a verbal thanks for work, they would expect coin and plenty of it. Even if they are asked to do a task, they will not accept without something being in it for them. And they certainly wouldn't share the wealth, as it were." She let out a distant seeming sigh. "Profit makes the city gears turn, Feather. I don't think Mr. Croil is from the city at all- not in full." Which begged the question of where he was truly from.

"Form on me! Form on me!" Victor leaned heavily on the flag's pole, the banner of Verrun hanging limping from it as though the enemy's bullets had torn the life from it. In many respects, it was no different from the hundreds of corpses that littered the glacis below. The sergeant tried to pull himself up again, slipping on the bloody mud beneath his boots. His one leg no longer obeyed like it should have. He suspected the spray of grapeshot and the accompanying pain had something to do with it. All the same, he gripped the slick wood with both hands while roaring to what survivors might hear him above the din of the battle. "Reform! To me! Onward!"

Only a handful of soldiers rallied to his cries. The rest of the Forlorn Hope were little more than bloody chunks of meat scattered along the glacis and up to the breach in the fortress walls, the luckiest of them blasted into unrecognizable lumps covered in blood and earth. The unlucky screamed and weep where they had fallen. Despite torn bellies and ripped limbs, those men still lived... for a while longer. The army's engineer's had judged the breach practical, telling the Verrun generals that they should be able to take and hold the opening long enough to force their way inside their opponents walls. They had been... wrong. The besieged had mined the glacis leading up to the walls and then mined the breach itself, moving some of their steam cannons from above the walls to behind them so that the Verrun soldier's first view of the fortress's interior would the muzzles of the cannon. There were no officers now. As far as Victor knew, he was the only non-com still standing as well. It was a disaster, a bloody fucking disaster, and nearly all of the Hope had paid the price for the city educated engineers' mistake.

Victor was not going down without one last effort, one last push to try and get into the fortress. Sheltered within the shadow of the wall's exterior, he could count less than a score of men still able and willing to answer his call and rally beneath the banner. They all looked to him now, frightened faces splattered with brown, black and red... oh so much red... Did they all have to look so damned young? Had any of them even learned to shave yet? Or had their wicks dipped by a whore? And why did they look to him now so eagerly with expressions that all said the same thing: 'We're not dead, are we, Sarge? We're going back now, right? You'll see us safe?' Those faces so desperate with hope twisted his guts, especially at the sight of them falling to despair as he spoke his next words.

"One more push, lads. We give it one more go. If we can secure it, the Sixth and Seventh of Foot and Twenty-Third Sharpshooters are right over that ridge. If they can see the banner in the breach, they'll come to reinforce us. Ten minutes, lads. We just have to hold ten minutes." It was ten minutes Victor was sure they would never get to see the end of.

"Sarge," some earnest young voice spoke up, "What about the cannons?"

Victor wanted to throttle that earnest young voice. "I'll take care of the cannon," he reassured them. "I've still got a few fuses left for the grenades. We charge in on my say-so. Form two ranks, front rank kneeling and just. Keep. Firing. Don't worry about aiming, just fire straight ahead." Sparing a hand to adjust the black leather kepi on his head, Victor then pulled out one of the canister grenades before edging himself to the very edge of the wall. The men followed close, hunched over but with rifles at the ready. They were the Forlorn Hope, the 'forgotten heap'. In Verrun's army, they were the first onto the field and the last off of it; it was unsaid that the second half of that statement was correct because the dead were always the last to be cleared away after a battle. Victor's heart was in this throat, sweat making his bloody grip upon the battle standard all the more tenuous.

Before he could change his mind, Vincent gave a roar born of fear, defiance and pain. The flag pole's butt end was shoved into the rubble at an angle, then used to lever himself around into the middle of the opening where he was clearly exposed to both the enemy and the reinforcements hidden below. Grimacing in agony, he reared back his one arm to throw the grenade forward even as his men swarmed around him and forward. *Ten minutes* he thought in desperate panic. *How long is ten minutes? A good beer can last ten minutes, can't it? A quick tumble with a camp follower could take ten minutes. Coffee takes around ten minutes to boil, right? That isn't long, is it, to wait for a good cup of coffee?"

As the steam and smoke cleared in the late morning air, Victor realized that ten minutes was just the right amount of time for a score of men and a torn up sergeant to die as the cannons opened fire on them.

Victor woke up with a scream that was cut off as though he was struck by a sudden seizure. He was in his bed. In his home. In the orchard. Abordale. He panted these facts over and over to himself as he sought to banish the memory. Ten minutes. Ten minutes had cost him eighteen men... boys... Two others had lived, although the definition of 'life' was going to be questionable for one of them. His leg throbbed. Each twinge and twang inside of knee reminded him that he could have suffered far worse. They had taken the breach, taken the fortress... because it had all been a feint. The fortress had finally fallen not to the reinforcements that had never been behind the Forlorn Hope at all, but to an ariel bombardment that had come a few minutes later. Victor still had not idea how many of his men had died by friendly bombs. The Hope had been used as part of a ruse, a distraction. To make it all the more credible, they hadn't even been told.

Betrayed by his own leaders. Betrayed by his own duty to complete the job. Betrayed by the City of Verrun.

Staring into the dark shadows of his home, Victor let silent tears fall.

Kijani woke, the morning sun warming her body beneath the covers. Even though she was conscious, her eyes were closed and she had an overwhelming feeling of fear, deep in her stomach like ice. She could feel her skin reacting, too, going clammy and cold. Hands on her. On her breasts. Digging into her thigh. On her... She started to tremble, feeling her stomach ready to relieve itself of last night's stew and alcohol. "No, no..." Even though she couldn't remember the nightmare, she was still feeling the effects. She pushed a hand through her dreadlocks, feeling the beading sweat on her forehead. She was gone, she was away, it couldn't happen here...

She needed a distraction. Quickly rising, she threw on some appropriate morning clothes, and crossed the hall to Feather's room. "Feather? Feather, dear, please, I need your help..." She tried to keep the shake out of her voice, but her palms were slick with sweat. She could feel it as she knocked.

Feather answered quickly although from an unexpected direction: the stairs. She was already washed and dressed for the day, a simple blue country dress and white apron about her slender body. Bright eyes and smiling, it was clear the farm girl had been up for some time already and was ready to do whatever was asked of her. "Yes, mistress?"

Only at the sight of Kijani's distress, her mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise. "Why, Mistress Kijani! You look all done in! Was your sleep not restful? Mother told me that sometimes sleeping in a new place can be hard at first, but I think I slept better than I ever might have before! It was a little colder than sleeping with someone else in the bed, but it was nice not to have Granny's snoring in my ears all night long! I have breakfast laid out for you below if that's to your liking? Bacon, sausage, sour bread and apple butter, a nice thick porridge, hashed tubers fried in salted lard. And there's tea and juice for the drinking, an it please you. Master Vinegar was already up when I arose. He did some chores outside and then laid down again. I did some cleaning and other chores while you both rested." Feather paused in thought, her staccato way of speaking halting as a notion came to her. "Come to think of it, he looked rather done in as well. I hope you both aren't coming down ill. But if you are coming down ill, I know lots of remedies for almost anything thanks to my Granny."

At hearing Feather's voice, Kijani whirled. Of course the girl would be awake already. She would have been up from dawn, likely as not. As Feather started to speak, and express her worry, Kijani slowly went down the stairs. Her hands shook on the banister.

"Food sounds..." Like something she couldn't handle. Her stomach was ice on the inside, and she was certain anything she put on it would come back up. "Well, perhaps I'll have some tea. A nice cup of hot tea sounds wonderful about now." She tried to put a smile on her face, for propriety's sake. "You're lovely, you know that? So lively, and so hardworking. Could you prepare me some tea and bread?" Maybe if she could get a handle on her stomach, she could manage a walk outside. Anything to get out of her mind. Inwardly, she wondered about what Feather had said last. Had Mr. Croil had a bad night as well? She wondered why, but quashed the question. It wasn't her business. She was certain that the last thing he'd want was some spoiled city girl prying into his business.

Feather shook her head in protest at Kijani's compliment. The fair skinned girl did her best to help guide her mistress down the narrow stairway and towards the table, filled with food and drink. "Oh, I'm not lovely," she replied in her start-stop manner. In many ways, Feather's way of speaking was much akin to the automatons in the great city: fully intelligent and capable of doing their duties as directed but having to pause and search their tightly wound magnetic coils for proper responses to any given situation. "Stone says I am pretty. So does my Da and Mum. Only pretty isn't beautiful, Mistress. You're beautiful. I am pretty." Her maid stopped for a second to cock her head to one side in thought before boldly declaring, "I wish I had dark hair like yours, Mistress, all nice and tightly wound in strands like that. Only my Mum said that's for city girls, and I should stick to simple braids and buns like everyone else here."

Bringing forth a kettle held with the hem of her skirt, Feather poured a dark cup of tea out for Kijani. A plate of toasted bread and a pot of honey to sweet both quickly followed. "I could not find any butter," she admitted simply. "There is some bacon fat if you'd like that on your bread, though!"

At this, Victor entered from the porch, a broad axe hefted over one shoulder while his other hand gripped his cane tightly. The orchard's owner was dressed more simply than the day before, in worn leather trews and plain work short that might once have been some shade of white. Still, there were the boots. Sturdy, black, well cared for if older. His hair was slicked back with sweat despite the morning coolness, and smell of fresh cut wood followed him into the room. For a moment, there was the look of surprise on his face at seeing the two women in the house, as though he had forgotten about them. The look was quickly replaced by a grim settling and nod of acknowledgement as he turned to hang the axe upon the wall by the door. "Hope you slept well," he grumped as he sat across from her at the table. The expression on his face was clearly that of a man glad to be off of his feet as he stretched his one leg out to the side.

Before any reply could be made, Victor then did something quite unexpected for a man of his seeming nature. Bowing his head and closing his eyes, the ex-soldier grasped his hands before his face. Fingers interlocked, he muttered a short prayer of thanks in a hushed voice.

After his obligations done, he proceeded to load a well worn wooden trencher with food. Without looking up, he address the younger girl. "Feather?" he said gently, "A little easier on the food, eh? There's three of us here, not thirteen. Thanks for the cooking, by the by. And the baking. And the dusting. And the sweeping. And the scrubbing. And the washing up." Victor shot Kijani a look as though to convey something to her by listing all the Feather had done that morning, and then he looked back to his plate. "I was out cutting wood in the back lots. Hauled it back just now. After breakfast, I'll stow it proper in the bins."

He looked a hefty swig of his own tea before glancing back at Kijani. "So, your ladyship. What plans did you have for the morning?"

Kijani had the grace to blush as Feather called her beautiful. She'd heard those words before, but never had they been said with such gentleness. Feather said it like beautiful was a good thing.

"Thank you, Feather.." She settled at the table, trying to ignore the churn in her belly at the sight and scent of so much food. The food was set in front of her, and she smiled warmly. "You're so... prompt." She would have said more, but Mr. Croil entered. For a long moment, the three of them simply looked at each other. He carried a scent of wood and sweat, both of those pleasing, oddly enough. She nodded politely to him, not trusting her mouth to say anything.

His prayer stunned her, for lack of a better word. She'd gone to church before, in the city, but it was a social gathering rather than any sort of religious meeting. Honestly, she had never really thought any sort of god existed. Evidently, Mr. Croil thought differently. She found herself dropping her gaze and bowing her head in imitation of him. Once he was done, she peeked up.

At Mr. Croil's listing of Feather's chores, Kijani's eyebrows rose more and more. The girl had done all that since dawn? Impressive. Or, was it? Perhaps she worked that hard all the time, and this was simply another day's work. She couldn't have missed Mr. Croil's meaningful glance, and wondered what he meant by it.

Finally, she had the chance to speak. What was she going to do today? "I..." She found her voice weaker than it should have been. She cleared her throat slightly and tried again. "I thought I might take a walk in the orchard. Perhaps eat an apple or two." She meant to smile, but couldn't make her mouth follow her command. "I... I just need some fresh air." She hoped she didn't look as awful as she felt.

Victor shoveled a forkful of hashed root into his mouth and ate with gusto, hastily swallowing before speaking to her again. "You look it," he commented without heat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his work stained sleeve and took another hefty draught from his tankard. "It's probably the city smoke getting out of your lungs. It always puts up a fight 'cause it don't want to leave. Damn stuff's poison. You'll be right enough after a few days here."

She did look pretty worn, he had to admit. There were bags under his eyes when he had awoken, darken folds that he had chased away with cold water and hard work even as Feather handled all the domestic affairs. Victor also had to admit that the girl was a pretty good cook. She could obviously run a household as well. Whatever her limitations, it was clear as day that her mother and her grandmother had taught her well. It almost gave him pause about the whole idea of her family attempting to set up a marriage between them. Almost. No matter what coat of paint you threw on the wall, Feather was still a girl to him. Far too young and far too innocent to have to deal with the likes of him! No, Victor knew that if he and Feather joined, she would have a meek and miserable life as his wife; anyone he married would have to have far more steel in their spine than poor Feather if they were to survive being married to the ex-soldier.

Tearing his mind away from idiotic notions of weddings (and wedding beds, too, if he were honest), Victor glanced back up at his lodger. She really did not look well. Kijani had the all the markings of a person who had not slept much and what sleep there had been not being the sort anyone would want. Victor had a many nights like that himself in the army. Some few now that he was a civilian, too. Last night's flashback left him with a peculiar sympathy for whatever plight was afflicting the young lady. Her food was barely touched, too.

"Tell you what," he added after swallowing a mouthful of eggs, "You got take yourself a stroll this morning in the back lots. About an hour's walk due south'll bring you to Grandfather Apple, biggest tree for miles around. Apple trees aren't supposed to get that big. Thing damn near rivals most oaks! But you hie yourself there. Get Feather to pack you a lunch, you can take it out of my larder for today." Another helping of breakfast was quickly polished off. "Grandfather Apple's a good place to rest. Clear your head and lungs, if you like. No one to bother you, either."

Kijani let out a low, weak chuckle. "Yes. The air. That must be it." She tried to meet his eyes, but failed at that too. Honestly, she just felt worn out. The nightmares had yet to leave her, though the... incident had happened three weeks ago already. She should have been over it,, but she obviously wasn't. Sometimes it felt like it had happened just hours ago, or was still happening. Those nights were the worst...

She picked up her head somewhat, as Mr. Croil suggested she take a walk. Perhaps he was trying to get her out of his house for as long as possible. Then again, was that a note of sympathy she heard in his voice? A faint, wobbly smile came to her face, fighting for life. "Ah... that sounds like a very nice idea, actually. Just to... get outside. That is what I'm here for, isn't it?" Another weak, half formed laugh. She pushed back a loose dreadlock and tried to look lively. "I'll do just that." Reading always made her feel better, and she had plenty of books. "Feather, if you could just... pack a light lunch out of what's left for breakfast?" They could be eating breakfast for days with what was on the table.

It hit her a bit after the fact that she should thank Mr. Croil. "Ah, sir... Mr. Croil?" Her voice came out a bit higher and girlish than she meant it to. "I... thank you. For putting up with all of this. And..." She managed to meet his eyes, and was surprised to find them as weary as hers felt. For a moment, she forgot what she wanted to say. "...I... thank you for your concern."

Victor didn't like being thanked. For anything. Thanks were but empty words, an acknowledgement that you had done something for someone. Verbal gratitude held no more value to him than the small pile of medals and awards he'd been granted for bravery and action upon the field of battle, than any of the citations and praises of his commanders who then took home that credit for themselves to parade before their peers. He still recalled how expressive Captain Messer had been many years ago when Victor had lead the remnant of the Forlorn Hope to capture a calvary unit's standard. To think of it! Light infantry in skirmish formation taking on heavy cavalry and winning! Not only winning, but shaming the foe by claiming their flag. Yes, Captain Messer had been very thankful. And Victor had discovered why many months later while on leave in Verrun: Captain Messer was being hailed as a hero for a feat that he hadn't even been present for. Captain Messer's name was in all the broadsheets, he had received quite the honors and prize money from the city and was in line for a promotion. What had Victor gotten? A pat on the back. That was life in the army. Thanks were short lived words that should die stillborn upon their owners' tongues as far as he was concerned.

Only looking at Kijani, Victor couldn't find it within himself to sneer at her gratitude. Looking into those soft eyes, he felt his heart skip a beat as though in sudden recognition. She was no soldier, of that he was sure. But in that instant he was just as sure that she had seen something of struggle in her life, some horror whose memory would never be truly expunged away but only lessened with time. He didn't question what might have happened to her. After all, in Verrun anything could happen, it just happened to the poor far more often than to the rich. Instead, for the first time in years he found his mind following a different track altogether: What if he had met her under some other circumstances? Would he be attracted to the richness of her skin and brightness of her eyes if he met her at some country dance or festival? Would he feel the urge to attempt courting if he didn't know she was some wealthy lady from the city, with her fine gowns and golden rings? The cynic within him warning him off such thoughts. She was a city woman, for all her beauty, and Victor could not see what use she would have for a lame ex-soldier who dirtied his hands with honest labour.

"You're welcome," he finally grunted much to Feather's surprise. The maid servant's eyebrows shot up at hearing him utter the words no one thought he could ever say, and if that were not enough what followed caused her jaw to gape. "Just remember to help the next fellow out," he added, "There's always a next fellow, of course. Trick is figuring out which ones are picking your pocket and which are actually in a pickle barrel."

A final mouthful of food and he rose stiffly to his feet. His plate remained half full, as though he had suddenly lost appetite. "Time to be getting on with the other chores," he grumped, "I'll be back by the woodshed sharpening the ax heads if you need anything."

A sharp nod, and Victor stumped out with his cane thumping heavily on the floor.

Feather continued to stare after him as though she had never seen the man before at all, then turned to her mistress to exclaim, "He LIKES you!"

Kijani was stunned to silence. Something about his eyes- there was a story within them. She could feel it. She'd made a lifetime of learning to read people's intentions, to read the subtlety within a gesture or a glance. In Mr. Croil's gaze, she read more than she'd ever read from anyone else, ever. Distrust, pain, weariness... and yet again, hope, contentment... and confusion. She wasn't sure what that last one was about.

She was lost in discerning his emotions, and had no response to his advice, but to nod and smile. As he left the room, she felt the odd spell that had come over her break. There was a warmth in her chest that she didn't recognize.

And then Feather confused her. The girl's excitement and shock was obvious, but Kijani had no idea what she was going on about.

“What in the world do you mean, Feather? He was being a gentleman. It's only right to accept someone's honest thanks.” She milled about the kitchen, wondering what she would ask Feather to pack up for her walk. Somehow she was looking forward to it. “That doesn't mean he feels any particular way toward me.”

Feather shook her head stubbornly. "Master Vinegar doesn't like being thanked, mistress. He never likes being thanked. Just as I told you about my own brother and the barn raising and the cider and everything. But he liked being thanked by you, mistress." The girl paused to look down at the floor, her eyes flickering back and forth as they followed her own internal thoughts. Whatever thoughts she was trying to express were clearly taxing both her vocabulary and her intelligence. Looking up again, she added simply, "He said 'you're welcome.' Master Vinegar never says that to anyone. And... and... and when he was looking at you, he saw how beautiful you are. Like when I look at Stone and see how kind he is." Biting her lower lip, Feather tried again. "Just now, Master Vinegar looked like Stone, mistress. He never looked like Stone before."

Then, as though the conversation had never happened, Feather began clearing the table. "I will clean up now, mistress. I know how to save leftovers for another day. Leftover should never be left over for too long, though. That's what my Ma always says. Then I will get you washing water for you to wash in."

***

Victor continuously pumped the foot treadle on the grind stone, the rasping wheel squeaking on its axel as it went round and round speedily. Sparks flew up from the broad ax head as he moved it smoothly back and forth. Three axes down, five more to go. There were a lot of different types of axes and hatchets used in an orchard, not to mention the assorted saws and clippers. With all the care he had given to his weapons over the years, he liked to ensure blade was keenly sharp and ready to serve. Many of the villagers liked bringing him their farming tools for sharpening as only Victor could make them so sharp as to near last the entire season! A small payment, a little coin or a bit of trade, was all that he ever asked. Only now there was an additional aspect to the chore he hadn't ever considered: it gave him time to think. There wasn't much brain power involved in honing axes. Usually he thought about the next chore to be done or what he needed to buy next time he went out or which of his neighbors he might barter with. Now, he thought about a pair of eyes looking up at him from the table.

Why had he told her to go out to Grandfather Apple? It was his own sanctuary, his own little place to rest and relax. When working the back lots, the many-times great-grandfather of the orchard's trees served as his half way point. Sometime in the distance past, someone had erected stone benches in a semi-circle about the ancient fruit tree as though to make it a meeting place. No one in town seemed to know anything about it. The benches (low tables almost) had always been there as far the townsfolk of Arbordale were concerned and there was nothing strange or unusual about them because... well, because they had always been there. Victor, on the other hand, could only wonder at who might have erected the ancient stones around the tree. And his imagination did not only extend as to what purpose the benches might have served, but to the foresight the planners must have had to put the structures so far out from the trunk in its infancy. It was as though in their plans they had expected the tree to grow as large as it had.

He had no business that he could think of in the furthest rows of the orchard today, no trees back there that needed additional pruning or doctoring. Yet he found himself thinking that perhaps... just perhaps... he might load up the cart and head out that way. Just in case Mistress Kijani got herself lost. Yes, that was it. In case she got lost and needed assistance. She was a city woman, after all, unused to the openness of the outside world without its confiding skyscrapers and smog filled streets and skies. It could be disorientating. Victor set down the ax in hand to pick up another, resolving that as soon as he finished with the ax heads (just before lunch time or so) he would head out to check on her. Riding in the cart pulled by his newly acquired gelding would be far fast than walking, and she might be too tired to walk back anyway...

And maybe... maybe she'd like an apple for lunch...

As Feather packed away the food for later, Kijani deftly set about making herself a basket for lunch. She chose the thick bread and apple butter, a rasher of bacon and a jug of tea. Once that was settled, she headed back upstairs, to put on a sturdier pair of walking boots and a skirt that she wouldn't mind getting dust on. She donned her least fancy hat, and only put her loose dreadlocks into a simple, thick braid on her shoulder. While dressing, she could hear her mother's voice, as well as her childhood nanny's, telling her that she was wearing far too common clothing. Even though a good part of her wanted to obey those voices, she realized she wouldn't impress these people with her best clothing. In fact, she would alienate them even more.

She picked up one of her favorite books, a volume of poetry that she'd had to have one of the maids smuggle into the house for her. Her mother didn't approve of Kijani reading such 'frivolous' things as poetry. Now she had the freedom to read what she liked, and she was going to enjoy it.

Once she was prepared, she headed back down the stairs with the book tucked under her arm. Taking the basket in her free hand, she smiled warmly at Feather. “Well, I'm off to Grandfather Apple. Don't work yourself too hard, dear Feather.” With that, she exited and started strolling down the road.

Before long, she was alone. Only the trees and the chirping morning birds were there for company. The scent of the apples and the leaves was rich in the air, and the light breeze carried the wonderful, far-away smells of bread baking, meat cooking. There were distant noises that she didn't recognize, but she figured them to be animals of some kind.

Halfway to her destination, Kijani stopped, removing her hat to fan her face. Even though it wasn't particularly warm, she was getting tired. Her legs were getting sore, and her boots made her feet ache. Maybe Mr. Croil was right about the city air- she hadn't realized her body was this weak. Perhaps some time here would strengthen her. There was no carriage to carry her about. It was up to her own power to get her from place to place. She wouldn't let herself down.

The massive tree came into view after the next half of the walk, and Kijani had to work to keep her jaw from dropping. “Ohh...” It was beautiful, with branches as thick as a man's arm, and utterly tall. She couldn't even see around the trunk. The benches took her by surprise. She wondered if the previous owners had put them there? Or maybe even before that? Someone had seen the beauty of this place, that was for sure. She gratefully settled onto a bench, uncorking the jar of tea and taking grateful mouthfuls. Once she wasn't parched, she pulled out her book, and tugged off a piece of thick bacon. Popping it into her mouth, she chewed on it. She opened her book, and within moments was lost in a poem.

The cart rumbled beneath him as he sat upon its driver's bench, the bay gelding young enough to easily pull the orchard's flatbed along while being just old enough to not be frisky about it. The bed behind Victor was empty. His bad leg he kept propped up on the wagon's splashboard at an angle to keep the joint from being jostled too much; while serviceable and sturdy, the wagon's banded suspension springs needed to be replaced soon. Still, the access road through the orchard had been kept smooth enough over the years that Victor wasn't bounced out of his seat. In fact, the ruts were worn so completely into the path that he didn't even really need to guide the horse with the reigns! It would have taken a great deal of effort even for the three year old gelding to pull the wheels of course. He didn't really even think about that though. His mind was far too busy on other matters.

Why am I doing this?? he berated himself internally. Am I really neglecting work to go look at a pretty girl?? There are things that have to be done! I need to hire folks to help harvest the apples, remember? That's what this guest's money is paying for after all, for me to pay workers to help out! The cider press needs cleaning, too, a good pumice stone scrubbing. And the preserves, I have to get over to one of the larger towns and order jars and lids and wax for the preserves! And let's not forget cutting wood for winter! I should be marking which trees can be harvested. And these are just the things off the top of my head! Am I doing any of them? No!! i'm off to see some chit of girl from the city!!

Only as the cynic in him raged on with its tirade, Victor found a calmer and warmer flow of reasoning within him to answer. No. Not 'a pretty girl,' it said. A young woman. A beautiful young woman with thick, healthy hair and dusky dark skin and a soothing voice and eyes... those eyes... It was Kijani's eyes that drew him out of his work shed and into the orchard's rows. He could have allowed himself to be curious, of course, of that there was no doubt. Did she really come all the way out to the middle of nowhere for a vacation? To him it didn't matter. Victor had his own secrets and he wasn't about to begrudge Kijani hers. All he wanted in that moment was to see her.

Victor spied her sitting beneath the great tree, reading. He knew how to read himself, enough to get by at any rate. Much like sums, he knew what he needed to know and didn't get much farther than that as there had far more important things to learn while growing up. The idea of books, that there could be so much worth reading as to bind it all between two covers, escaped him. Ledgers, charts, maps, inventories... these things he could understand. The rest? It was outside his realm of experience.

The road did not go up the hill to Grandfather Apple, only by it. There were indications that at some point it might have, old stone markers half sunk into the earth that might once have outlines a path up to the tree and its ancient semi-circle of benches. Whatever importance the tree once had faded long ago as maintaining the orchard became more important, and so that road to the hill's crest was long abandoned. If it had ever truly been. Victor stopped the cart and set the break, leaving the horse in its harness to munch on whatever nearby grass it desired. Grabbing his cane, he stumped upwards to where Kijani sat with her book. He had no idea of what to say to her, how to approach her. Three years he had played the hermit and played it well enough that what little social graces he might have known were now faded like the hill's road.

He stopped a little way from her, leaning on his stout cane for support as he looked upon her from the side. Had she heard or seen him come up the side towards her? Victor had no way of knowing, and as much as a part of him wanted to just stand there and take in the sight of her, he feared what the city woman's reaction might be if she found him hovering and staring in silence. Finally he gave a little rumbling cough. And the words that then came out of his mouth were words he would never have expected himself to say.

"Would you... read to me? From your book there? Please?"

Kijani startled as she heard the cough behind her. She whirled, her braid whipping and her eyes wide. She relaxed, but only slightly, as she saw Mr. Croil standing nearby. How long had he been standing there? She'd been so absorbed in her poem that she hadn't even noticed. The question on her lips was 'what are you doing here?' but she caught herself just in time. This was his orchard and his home, and she should be asking herself what she was doing there. Instead of that, she managed to hear his next question.

“Read to you? I... yes.” She was surprised to find herself nodding. “I haven't recited anything in quite a while, but I certainly don't mind.” A faint smile came to her lips, and she stood a bit, stretching herself. Even after sitting for a good while, she didn't notice the mild stiffness in her legs. Moving to the edge of the bench, she made sure the page was made visible to him as she cleared her throat. Without waiting for nervousness to truly set in, she began.

“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.”

Her voice came out strong and carefully articulated every word with practiced eloquence. Rising and falling, seeming to give proper attention to each word, every syllable. It was clear that she'd done this before. Even beyond the elegance of her speech, there was the life in her voice. She wasn't just reciting. There was something brewing just underneath her voice as she read, and it would probably go unheard if she were reciting for some school or event. But with Mr. Croil as her private audience, the hidden anger beneath Kijani's words was easier to detect. Something within the words or the meaning of this poem made her very upset. But... what could that be?

“For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So He loves the bow that is stable.”

Kijani let the last word hang in the air, as she slowly pulled her eyes from the page, and looked to Mr. Croil. “Ah... what did you think?” A flutter of nervousness whispered through her stomach. For some reason, she truly wanted to impress him. No. Impress was not the word, was it, because that would mean he would think she was better than he. That wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him to see that she, too, had just as many feelings and passions beneath her jewels and finery.

Victor could make little sense of the words. They were... jumbled about. He was a simple and straightforward man, disliking it when words had more than one meaning. Yet while he could make little understanding of the poem, Kijani's voice carried the emotions beneath it all in such a manner as to ensnare his soul and captivate his attention. There was anger there, resentment, too. After having lived the life of an orphaned soldier, one betrayed at every turn by the state which had reared him and which he in turn had tried to serve faithfully, he knew those feelings right well. Standing there while he leaned on his cane, Victor was frozen to the spot as her voice rang out clear and melodious to him. His body was as still as stone while his soul was lost in her speech.

When she had finished and lowered the book, he cast down his eyes as though in embarrassment. Her next words were not the words of the poet, but struck his heart all the same. What did he think? How was he to answer?! Victor was a man who had given up much on life's passions, happy just to have survived his ordeals relatively intact! No one had ever asked him what he thought before!

"I think..." His voice faltered a bit as he tried to get the words in his head out. He glanced up at her as though wishing he could communicate all in his head and heart with but a single glance, that glance also containing the frustration over the fact that he couldn't and had to speak instead. "I think... you have a... a beautiful voice, miss."

Abruptly, Victor lowered his gaze. "The day's pressing on, miss. Best we'd head back now if we'll make it to supper. Cart's down the hill if you'd like to ride back. Not much of a carriage for a fancy lady like yourself, but.. it'll save your feet the ache later, I'm thinking." Victor could not remember when he had uttered so many words at once since he had left the army. It made him feel uncomfortable, the fear that he might sound as though he was rambling inanely and idiotically to this dark and comely young woman. Yet all the same, he couldn't keep from speaking to her!

"Would you... would you read to me some more later, miss? After supper or before we retire, maybe? I didn't understand all of the words or how they were... put together, but maybe if I listen to more...?"

When Mr. Croil looked up at her, Kijani read so many things in his brief gaze. Confusion, fustration, possibly admiration? Her heart was beating in her throat, and she could hardly breathe. How could one look do that to her, so easily? Maybe she was just warm, from being outside. Yes, that was all. She was likely tired from all that heat. That prognosis was thrown into sharp doubt as he spoke. A simple compliment, not even elegant, or showy, or seriously flattering. None of it mattered, though, because the hesitation in his voice as the words slowly let themselves out was such a strong indicator that he was nervous, and that he was not practiced in smooth speech. His compliment was so honest, and Kijani realized she'd never had a man say nice things to her in such a way.

She was wondering if he could tell how surprised she was, because her eyes had gone wide, and her face was starting to blaze with heat. Her lips moved, slightly, and she had no idea what would come out. Luckily he saved her from possible embarrassment when he offered a ride. She jumped on the topic gratefully.

“Oh, yes. I would like a ride.” She smiled, quite happy that he'd thought of that. “My legs are not as strong as they should be. Fancy or not, wheels are wheels. Though, I know it's strange.” Gathering her things and putting a bookmark in her book, she smoothed her skirt and rose up. “I've never been in a carriage with an actual horse. They still have them in the... er... lower parts of the city, but my family always uses the autohorses.” Stepping close to him, she toyed with the handle of the basket containing what little was left of her meal.

“I- I will read for you again, tonight if you wish it.” She felt flustered, and one hand lifted to twist a loose dreadlock around her finger. “I suppose I will pick something with less hidden meanings, and a bit more rhythm to it. I.. I would enjoy it, having someone to talk to about books. Even small books. Perhaps I will have to convert you and Feather into avid readers.”