Hungering Teeth.

VIII.

APRIL 10th, 1791

𓇼

Sunday. Sunday. Sunday. The very word seemed to echo with a dreary monotony, each repetition a tolling bell that marked the passage of yet another week in this unchanging existence. Sunday—the day of rest, reverence, and for Agnus, a day of insufferable ritual.

But the excuse, the reason to stay abed, eluded him. What could he say?

He needed something, anything to free him from the relentless march of Sundays.

Then it came to him. He would feign illness, become the pitiable creature confined to bed. Yes, that would do! A cough, a sniffle, a weak protest—these would be his tools, his escape from the suffocating piety of the day.

He rehearsed it in his mind, the way his voice would falter, the way he would clutch the sheets as though they were his only lifeline to the world. It would have to be convincing, enough to fool even Mabel's discerning eye.

As the knock sounded the door, Agnus took a deep breath, preparing for the performance of a lifetime.

He lay in bed, a pitiable figure, sniffling, coughing. The air around him seemed heavy with the weight of this "illness", each breath a labor, each cough a desperate escape from his aching chest. Poor dearest, Agnus.

"Angus, are you awake? We're going to be late for Church this morning," Mabel's voice, warm with concern, floated through the door.

He responded with a forced cough, loud enough for her to hear and understand. The door opened.

"Are you feeling alright, child?"

The ruse would have to be natural, fluid. He coughed, his hands found the cool softness of the pillow and squeezed it tight. "P-Please, Mama. I... I feel so f-faint." He whimpered. Her brow furrowed, the corners of her mouth pursed in worry.

"Lawrence, come in here," Mabel ordered her husband. He entered almost immediately, his face a mask of concern.

He felt the trickles of perspiration break through his skin. "Oh, Grandfather, please tell me this isn't the end." His words shook, his voice faltered, cracking on the last phrase.

Mabel looked at her husband, an unspoken plea passing between them. Lawrence's face softened.

"Nonsense, boy," he reassured him, a pat of comfort on Agnus's arm. "You'll sleep it off."

"You got a fever? I told you and Larry not to be out on that farm all night. Oh, Jesus." Her hand pressed against his forehead.

"Well, you're not running any fever. Just... stay home, and I'll make you some soup when I come back. Don't get out of bed," she commanded. "Wait just a second."

"Here, drink this, it should help." A sip of the concoction barely swallowed sent a brief shudder down his spine, the foul taste momentarily choking him.

He sipped again, using it as an excuse to breathe heavily. After all, the medicine had to work hard just to be swallowed.

"Thank you, Mama," He whispered.

Mabel turned sharply toward the door, her voice rising as she called, "Larry! Let's go!" A muffled argument ensued, the details lost of his ears.

He had done it, freed himself of the Sunday curse. It felt strange, lying idly, without prayer or the creak of the farm. Agnus, ever the devout, tried to say a prayer but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

As the house settled into silence, a shadow emerged from the corner. Nori stepped forward and sits on the bed.

"Let's go. Up." He commanded.