Story: Fellyans (part twelve)

Fellyans

(part twelve)

Alma remarked, “Your husband seems not a bad sort.”

No answer came.

She unhooked the pot, backed from the fire, elbow-high in heavy gloves, and decided the floor was the place. Jorinda’s stew bubbled on. “Shh! Creep on in, love. Watch you don’t get too near with your pretty skirt.”

“Is there a lid?” Coral asked. She had gone up the stairs, down a likely passage, down two others less likely; she had almost met her husband nose-to-nose, as Bede ushered him through the kitchen.

“Ah, is there? Look, and see if you spot one.”

Finch eased in. “He’s on the backend of the shed, and I told him to wait for you.”

“And will he?” said Alma.

“With a face like sour milk, but he swore his oath.”

Coral crouched over the pot, gingerly placing a disk of cold metal. It sank. She rose through a cloud of steam. “Has my hair gone springy? Oh, well! Let him see I’m not changed. I think I’ve ruined lunch, by the way.”

“Then I’d say carry on with your plan,” said Alma. “Accidents are never accidents.”

“I can hardly endorse that.” Coral licked a fingertip and tried the pot’s handle. “If only I had something like that article of Bede’s. The broth bowl.”

She was no longer in the kitchen, but behind the shed with Vincent. A table came into being between them, two chairs banging both in the knees. Both fell sitting. Plates popped, flagons, spoons, and a wide, shallow bowl of broth—a loaf of bread centered, soaking.

“Have some,” said Coral. “Eat before you leave.”

“No. Not conjured food. There’s bound to be wickedness woven in.”

“From Finch? Never! I will eat some.”

Scooping at the soft, brothy bread, she kicked Vincent in the shin.

“Here, ma’am. Give me first go. Coral…” He pressed her fingers, taking the plate. “I can’t say you’ve gone fancy, for setting up in the Pocketlands. That dress, though.”

She waited, telling herself, take it as a compliment.

“It’s becoming,” Vincent finished. “The color’s strong. I suppose Langham’s got you help in the house?”

“I have never asked him to. And the dress isn’t mine. No… In fact, Jorinda told me it was.”

The lips pursed. “We do not take charity.”

“Hutterers? In our pride, do you mean? It happens I’ve taken scads of charity from Bede and Jorinda.”

13

Fellyans

Fellyans (part thirteen)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)