A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,20

them such heroes to be talked about for the sake of morale? Did they ask to hear about the climate so they could imagine breathing different air? Did they ask about the soil so they could imagine a different feel beneath their weary feet?

Who gave a care about the lands beyond, when the land around us was in such turmoil?

I shook the greatness of my mental escapades from my mind, chiding myself for neglecting my own soil. I felt suddenly treasonous for glorifying other homesteads in my mind, for taking the time to flesh out these fantasies instead of focusing on the dire grounds under my own feet. This was my home. It deserved my loyalty. It needed my attention. Never mind if it was wretched. Who was I to disown what I had? It would be foolhardy. I knew this soil. I had roots in it.

Unaware of my little self-induced realignment, prompted by her own un-intending words, no less, Letta deposited her load on the kitchen counter for my attention and went to start the laundry off the lines. I set to work scrubbing the vegetables in the sink and chopping them into little bits for our daily supper stew. The knife thunked against the counter as I went, rhythmically mincing each entity until a bad spot caused a discord. I paused to cut it out, then resumed my chopping.

I don't know how long I stayed at the task. Whether I liked it or not, my mind took to wandering again as the blade in my hand seemed to do the work for me. I simply could not dedicate my full mind's capacity to slice after endless slice. The pot was half full before I realized it, but then I looked up as I noticed Letta's figure filling the door frame. The knife hovered quizzically over the anchored stub of carrot.

She did not look spooked, I decided – but she did look guarded.

“Minda,” she said uncertainly, casting her eyes over her shoulder into the other room. “There's a stranger at the door.”

The knife turned cold in my hand then. I couldn't have heard her correctly.

“Letta, what do you mean–” I began with the slightest hint of a skeptical scoff, just because I couldn't believe it.

“A stranger, minda. At the door.”

She had said it again.

Very carefully, I put the knife down. Then thought better of it and drew it back up. Slowly, I moved from the counter and followed her into the other room. At the window, I pushed back the curtain and peered out.

And, by the gods, it was true.

A young man stood just a ways beyond our bottom step, as if avoiding directness in his engagement but clearly there addressing Manor Dorn. I swept him with my eyes, wondering, suspicious. Letta peered out beside me.

“He knocked, minda.”

“Maybe he'll decide we aren't home,” I suggested, still uncertain what to make of him. Visitors were unheard of these days. They didn't exist.

“He looks decent,” Letta took the authority of judging.

“No one's decent,” I objected. “I wouldn't trust him past the edge of the porch.”

“At least see what he wants.”

“Why should I?”

“Don't you want to know what it means? A visitor like this? I don't think you could live with the itch of letting him just walk away, not when he has appeared so. This is most unorthodox.”

“Exactly why I don't like it.”

“Well you are not in charge, are you, minda?”

I cast her a brief look of irked resignation, and abandoned the curtain for the door. Stowing my knife where I could snick it out in a moment of need, I did the deed and opened the door.

A pair of dazzling paint-blue eyes looked up as I came out, and I treaded guardedly under their visage to the edge of the step. It was a comfort standing taller than this wayward newcomer, and I stopped there and refused to budge from that spot.

“Monvay,” he offered, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. I wished his hair, almost too dark to be called light brown but not quite, did not fall into his eye on one side, for I wished to look him straight in the eyes. It was short everywhere else, I noted in irritation, as if pointing that out to myself was challenge enough to convict its existence. “Are you the mistress of the house?”

“No,” I said. “I'm one of them.” Snicked my head slightly over my shoulder to indicate Letta where she stood like a dark ghost in the