Sleepwalker

Chapter Three: The Sleepwalker

It was dark out. The temperature was mild. Only a few loose strands of hair had escaped my braid. The laundry hung to the left of me, a vague reminder to finish it. Even though everything seemed in place, I checked that the lake was not frozen and more importantly that the inn was still behind me. So it was. The inn was there in its entirety. Not that there was much of it. The light breeze startled me. Nervously, I wiped the film of perspiration from my forehead. After I folded the dry laundry, I carried it inside by the vague light of the moon and the lights from inside the inn. I returned it to each respective room, even taking the time to make the beds and hang the clothing. Finally, I scurried into the kitchen to help Papa.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You fell asleep.” Then carelessly, he focused on his chopping. “Jenny…” He started. “I know we may joke often, but I worry that your tendencies will appeal little to suitors. You are intelligent, which will only intimidate men. You are dreadful and, I mean terribly dreadful, with all domestic chores. And you’ve got a dreamer’s head. Jenny, you need to learn to settle. There isn’t always going to be some great adventure like in those novels you read.”

Ashamed, I hung my head. “Of course, Papa. I’ll start on the bread,” I said somberly reaching for the flour. As I kneaded it, I begged some unknown force that for once, it would bake decently. I knew Papa was right, of course. As a little girl, I would jabber about the changes I would make to this world; he would humor me with a laugh or a smile. It all seemed so stupid. Through the kitchen window, I watched the professors chatting and awaiting dinner.

Professor Lester sat alone. Reading spectacles rested on her nose as her eyes scanned the page before her. She did not seem angry or lonely. The words before her stole most of her attention. In that moment, I wanted so desperately to be a professor. To be able to travel and study and listen and read would’ve brought me no greater pleasure.

Instead, my father tethered me to his dream, to his hard work with the knowledge that it would’ve crushed me to allow it to die. Soon, he’ll bind me to a husband too, I thought glumly. With that thought, came others, dreadful ones of deceit and dishonesty. Before I could control myself, tears rolled down my cheeks.

It didn’t take long for Papa to spot my sadness. “Jenny, I did not mean to upset you,” Papa cooed tenderly. “I needed to inform you of reality. It is not always perfect.”

Silently, I sliced the dough and shaped it. I dropped the little mounds into the oven. Then I set myself on the wooden chair by the stove to watch them roast.

“Jenny, talk to me, please.” His voice strained in desperation. “I love you, sweet. I know you want more from life, but Jenny, you have to understand. Look around. This inn belongs to you.” When I didn’t react, he sighed heavily. “Talk when you’re ready.”

Soon after, I pulled out the bread. Cautiously, I ripped off a small piece. I munched it and shrugged. “Not bad,” I murmured.

Papa tested the meat he cooked, then his assorted vegetables. “Jenny, grab the herb jar,” He ordered. His voice was emotionless and icy.

On my toes, I reached up for the jar full of green flakes. Without meeting his gaze, I placed the jar in his hands. I sawed through the bread. In my rage, I wasn’t very alert. There was the shock and sting of pain. Blood gushed from my fingertip. Providing heavy pressure with a dishcloth, I searched around for the cloth we kept around for treating wounds. When they were no where to be found, I spoke, “Papa, could you…please?” Unsurely, I displayed my bleeding finger.

Papa cursed. He fumbled around for the cloth. When he had it in his hand, he tightly wrapped my finger. Gingerly, he sealed it a pin. Towering a foot over me, he grinned down on me. After tilting up my chin, he lightly kissed my forehead. He spoke words he once did when I hurt myself as a little girl. “All better.”