Threads

1, Herbs and Herbivores

Britta knelt over the pot, the steam bathing her face and calming her troubled breathing. She groped to the side, not daring to take her face away from it. Her fingers fell upon the thin ribbons of herbs her sister, with the help of Mistress Layla, had prepared. She gripped them tightly, crushing them together and adding them in, relishing the fresh wave of sweet scent, and the relief it brought her. Her breathing smoothed out and her grip on the edges of the range loosened, blood rushing back to her fingertips. Then, the flames in the old metal range began to stutter, and she knew that her twelve minutes were up.

Leaning back, she breathed in deep gulps of cool air. Feeling Slightly dizzy, she rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt. A door slammed open, and some of the lingering smoke and heat was pulled outside. A girl with auburn hair pulled tightly into a braid had already crossed the room, and was dusting Britta off herself.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her brown eyes glimmering with compassion.

Britta just nodded, glad of the girl – her sisters – comfort, but knowing she was neglecting her job. "I'm fine, Diana." She said, quietly. "It's just all the dust and pollen around here."

"Mistress Core shouldn't have set you in the garden this time of year." Said Diana, her eyes flashing as she gestured to the spring sky outside.

Britta shrugged. "She has to get jobs done somehow." She pointed out, straightening her old, patched skirt. She spoke in a confident tone now her breathing had returned to normal, but her sister always knew how she really felt. Maybe it was because they were twins.

Sending her a sad smile, Diana dampened down the fire and Britta cleared away the herbs, chopping new ones as she had seen the woman in charge of their kitchen do many times before. She didn't practise patience as Mistress Layla did, and her herbs were uneven by the time she had finished. Stowing them away in one of the rough, wooden cupboards, she turned and followed her sister back outside.

The grounds of their home, Weatherston Abbey, were teeming with life. Plants poked out of the melting snow and the sun shone longer, brighter and hotter as each day passed. With its sprawling grounds and roughly cobbled paths, it was easy to get lost in the abbey, but Britta, having lived there her whole life, knew it well. At this time of year, when the trees in the expansive orchard were just beginning to throw out leaves or blossoms, there was much to do. The gardens had to be weeded, the sheep had to be herded from their winter pen and the left-over preserves from the winter had to be brought out from the cold, stone storerooms and counted so that the Dedicates of the Abbey knew they were earning their keep.

Britta returned to her task of weeding the garden, smiling at some of the other orphans which were working there also. In spring, everyone turned out to the gardens to help, but usually, Britta was one of those who worked inside the kitchen, finding and preparing food for the guests and travelers which stopped by to take advantage of the Abbey's famed hospitality. On quiet days, she helped in the stables, although Diana insisted the dust would just make her breathing worse.

The murmur of the orphan's conversation engulfed her. She listened carefully but said nothing. Many of the girls working in the garden were usually in charge of the laundry or looking after guests. She wasn't used to talking with them, and she had long since learned that it was best not to want to. They would pick her up with compliments and smiles but cut her down with sharp words just as quickly. Bitterness could do that to a person, and for those who wished themselves a better life, the orphan's working quarters were a breeding ground for bitterness.

Picking up a handful of weeds which she had coaxed from the ground, she picked out the inedible ones and kept the rest. If she cooked them well enough, then they would be the first taste of spring greens. She knew that nothing should be wasted. Diana had come outside to work next to her. She was kneeling on the ground, the damp earth not showing against her brown skirts, although strangely, dirt and grime never seemed to soil their clothing as much as it did for the others.