Page 8 of Mischief Maker
When I go outside to start the milking, though, I find there are just a small handful of sheep in the pen and only one cow. Off in the distance, the dog barks, and panic snakes through me.
I take off at a run.
The gate is hanging wide open. A few of the sheep mill about outside the pen, just eating. I sprint through the swinging gate and into the field.
The sound of buzzing flies draws me to the body. They are swarming a ripe, bloody corpse, with the head and legs of a sheep, and everything in the middle gone.
Bile pools in my mouth. It’s one thing to butcher a sheep myself, and another to see one mutilated by a bear or some wolves. My dog has seen me and runs over, barking, to let me know what’s happened. There’s another body further off, also swarming with flies.
“I know, Petal,” I tell her, rubbing her head. “There wasn’t anything you could do.” I’m just glad that Petal didn’t get hurt, too. I wouldn’t survive without her.
I send her off to gather up the rest of the sheep and make my way back to the gate.
“Damn it!” I sit down in the grass and pound the ground with a fist, biting back tears. I needed those two sheep. Who knew how many I’ll have to butcher over the winter to survive? Will I still have a herd left next year?
Nearby I hear a poof! and Kireth appears, certainly by magic. I didn’t know he could do that.
“So angry so early,” he says with a yawn. “You’re making a lot of noise out here.”
I get to my feet slowly. “The gate was open, and I found two of the sheep dead.” I gesture out at the field. “That’s two fewer sheep for the winter.”
His tail lashes back and forth, faster than before, but his face remains impassive. I wipe at my cheeks, wishing he wasn’t seeing me cry like this. I just have to hope that these seeds today take, and maybe I’ll get by long enough to see them grow tall and strong.
“What will you have me do today, mistress?” Kireth asks, and there’s an edge to his voice.
“Planting,” I say. I get back up to my feet, trying to shake off my grief so I can focus on what still needs doing. “Everything is marked out and ready to be sown.” I know I should be more specific. “The carrots go first, then the onions, and the wheat in the smaller field.”
His eyebrows twitch, but there’s no lightness to him like there was yesterday.
“Of course.” He makes a tally gesture. “Ninety-eight left.”
Kireth
I do not like how it felt to see her cry, hunched in the grass, her shoulders shivering with the force of her grief. It made me want to crouch beside her and comfort her, to try to stop her tears. It is irrational, but I can’t remember a time when I made someone cry.
I hadn’t intended to kill her sheep. They were supposed to run around a little, enjoy their freedom, and give that greedy human an extra chore to do to pay her back for yesterday’s task. My plan had been for her to chase them to round them up, forcing her to fix her broken gate.
This is what I do. It’s who I am.
As she dusts herself off and stands up with a grim determination, though, I restrain my urge to assure her that she’ll survive without those two sheep. But how could I say such a thing with certainty? I won’t be here. It’s none of my concern whether she lives or dies once I’m finished with my obligation.
I do what I’m told and sow the seeds just how Faela has laid out. Her instructions are specific, giving me few opportunities to subvert her. Only because my body craves mischief do I switch the carrots with the onions, just to give her a little surprise when the stalks come up.
It’s past midday when I finish with my task and find my mistress still working with the livestock. She’s crouched by the gate, examining the latch. I say nothing as I stand there idly, watching.
“You’re finished?” She gets to her feet and smiles brightly. “You’re good.”
A part of me preens a little at the praise, but I endeavor not to let it show. Instead, I flick my hand with disinterest. “What else would you have me do today?”
“You can rest, if you like,” she says, getting to her feet and dusting off her filthy dress.
“I do not need rest.” And standing around while she works doesn’t sound very attractive, either. “Give me a task to do.”
Her brows draw together in worry. She is reluctant to use more tasks, but we both know there are plenty of things around the farm for me to help with.
Harried by her need to come up with something, she hastily says, “Can you work on the house, then?”
As if she needs my approval in order to give me a command.
