Of the Blood | ✔️

Six

When Honor and I get home, I'm ready to peel off my coat and warm my hands by the fire, but the unexpected aroma of yeast hits me in the face.

Papa's sliding a pan onto the stovetop, the dough riddled with lumps and pits from not kneading it long enough. The sight of him in the kitchen is almost enough to make me forget about the sick deer and our encounter with Mrs. Lloyd, whose hateful accusation will most likely stay with me for the rest of the evening.

"You're just in time. I have a job for you." Papa grabs something from the counter before crossing the room, the floor planks creaking beneath his boots.

"A job for me?" Honor asks, reaching to hang his coat on a nail next to the door.

"I have a different job for you. This one is for your sister."

"What's the job for me?" Honor sniffles and rubs the heel of his hand over his nose.

"First, I need you to wash your hands. Then you can wipe down the table and set it for supper. Faith," Papa turns to me as his imposing shadow stretches across the floor, "You may as well stay bundled up." His brows slant inward as he studies my expression. "Is everything all right?"

The urge to confess my run-in with Mrs. Lloyd lingers at the back of my throat, but I push it down, packing it on top of all of the other things I keep to myself.  "Everything's fine, Papa." It's not exactly the truth, but if it spares him from worry, I won't consider it a lie.

Still frowning, he closes the gap between us and presses a cross into my hands, the wood still warm from where he sanded down the rough edges. "I'd like you to deliver this."

I look past him into the kitchen and try not to cringe. "Do you want me to finish supper first?"

The last time Papa made a meal, the broth evaporated and the meat and potatoes stuck together in the bottom of the pot.

He smiles at my question. "I'll take care of it tonight." When my eyebrows raise, his head tips back in laughter. "Don't look so skeptical. My cooking hasn't killed anyone yet."

"That's only because I don't let you do it," I tease.

He squeezes my shoulder and smiles. "I promise, you can have your job back tomorrow. I'll stick to trapping the meat. Do you mind?"

My gaze sweeps over the gift. It's a simple cross carved from walnut, the edges chiseled and sharp. Though it's much smaller, it resembles the one he made for Mama's birthday a few years back. She loved it so much, she hung it in their bedroom across from her side of the bed so it would be the first thing she saw when she woke up in the morning, and her final image before falling asleep. Now, it's planted in the ground next to her grave.

I hold back a sigh and lift my eyes to his. "Where do you want me to take it?"

Papa moves back to the kitchen and tosses a small log into the stove, making the flames crackle and pop. "Someone has moved into the old Fournier house next door. I hear he's from another country—France, I believe," he says. "I hope he's ambitious. That property has been neglected for so long and could really use a—"

But I've stopped listening. Although the fire burns bright in our kitchen, a sudden chill settles over me.

The Fournier house is the abandoned mansion Mrs. Lloyd was talking about. Something about that place has never sat right with me. It's so bleak and unwelcoming, filling the sea air with a stifling tension. As if the stone exterior has eyes that glare down on us, scrutinizing the town's every move.

"You know what your mother would say: 'A kindness to our neighbor is a kindness to the Lord,'" he continues, pulling me from my thoughts. "She'd want him to have a proper welcome."

"But I want to deliver the gift! Faith can set the table," Honor pouts, already reaching for his coat.

His offer snaps me out of my stupor. "I'll take care of it. You stay here and keep warm. We don't need you catching a cold." Honor groans as I ruffle his hair and steer him toward the wash basin.

"Thank you," Papa says, blowing out a slow breath. "I'd go myself but I'm not feeling up for it today. I think the early winter has finally caught up with me." He kisses the top of my head then sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. His calloused fingers slide over his chin, the brown and gray stubble days longer than it should be.

He's tired. I can tell. These past several months have been hard on all of us, but Honor and Papa have caught the brunt of it. I'm exhausted too, but not as beaten down. I don't have the time.

Going to that old house is the last thing I want to do, especially in the cold, but one glance out the window tells me if I don't leave now I won't make it back before dark.

Papa reads my mind. "We'll hold off eating until you return."

I tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear and nod. "Yes, sir."

As I step onto the porch, an icy breeze surges past me and whips around the living room, making the flames jump in the stove. It's the last thing I see before closing the door behind me.