"I'll trouble you no further," you say, affecting a bow. "Let us embrace the dignity of work in parallel, each tending to our own chore."

"I've yet to see you and dignity under the same roof," she snorts. But she doesn't turn down your offer to help with the ever-abundant work available in the barn. "If you're in a cheery mood, might as well get a lick of work out of you before your mercury turns."

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As she continues pouring, you note that the woodpile in the corner of the barn is down to its last few logs. Between fires for cauldrons and kettles and charcoal for the smoking-room, there's a good bit of fuel required for the barn. You remember noting a haphazard pile of chopped logs just outside the barn door, dumped in the grass. It's likely that your father made a trade to one of the nearby families for their extra wood and a bored farmhand simply dumped it at your door rather than doing a proper stack of it.

I can handle this, you think, stretching out your fingers.

Onward