"Enough with the stories, Lile," Aislin says sternly, her pale eyes narrowing at me. "Go tend to the chickens now, ye hear? Check their feed bin an' give 'em more oats if it's runnin' low. An' mind ye bring any eggs back inside afore that wretched rooster tries hidin' 'em again!"

I pout my lips petulantly, crossing my arms over my chest. "But I don't wanna!" I whine in my best imitation of a petulant child. "The chickens are stupid an' the rooster's mean!"

Aislin snorts, shaking her head as she places her hands on her bony hips. "That rooster's just tryin' to be the boss, like any man should," she chides. "If ye show yer scared, he'll only torment ye more. Now git along afore I take a switch to them scrawny legs!"

Scowling down at the hard-packed dirt floor, I let out an exaggerated huff of annoyance. Mustn't let the mask slip, even for a moment. With a dramatic sigh, I trudge outside into the brilliant summer morning.

The stench of animal droppings and unwashed bodies hangs thick in the stifling air as I make my way around the crumbling rear of our pathetic hovel. A ramshackle fence of splintered logs encloses the pitiful excuse for a chicken pen - little more than a few scraggly birds pecking listlessly at the hard earth.

Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I peer through the gaps in the fence at the scrawny flock. Their dull feathers are ruffled and unkempt, no doubt infested with all manner of lice and mites. Revolting creatures.

"Mama!" I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth. "The feed bin's near empty! We need more oats fer the chickens!"

"There should be a sack left in the cellar still," she shouts back from inside the hovel. "I'll fetch it out fer ye, lass!"

A few moments later, Aislin emerges lugging a heavy burlap sack over one bony shoulder. She staggers over to the chicken pen entrance and deposits the load with a grunt of effort.

"That ought to last the week," she pants, brushing sweaty tendrils of lank hair from her sallow face. "Now get to it, an' mind ye don't dawdle!"

"Yes, mama," I reply dutifully, forcing a bright smile as I bob my head. No need to be an ungrateful cur, after all.

Once Aislin disappears back inside, my smile melts into a scowl of utter loathing. With a noise of disgust, I grasp the scratchy burlap and begin dragging the heavy sack into the chicken pen, my bare feet leaving dusty imprints on the hard-packed earth.

Panting from the exertion, I upend the burlap over the wooden feed trough with a grunt. The instant the first few oats spill forth, the scrawny flock descends upon the bin like a pack of ravenous jackals, squawking and flapping their wings in a frenzy.

"Ugh, revolting creatures," I mutter under my breath, grimacing as I watch their beaks stab greedily at the scattered grain. Soulless, feathered beasts, the lot of them.

Leaving the empty burlap sack crumpled by the entrance, I call out to Aislin once more. "I fed the chickens, mama! Come get this sack afore it rains on it!"

"Aye, I'll be out directly!" she shouts back, her voice muffled by the crumbling walls.

While I wait, I decide to refill the flock's water supply. Grasping the handle of the battered wooden pail, I lug the sloshing vessel over to the tiny creek that trickles through our pathetic excuse for a yard. Once full to the brim, I heft the pail back to the chicken pen, my arms trembling from the weight.

Panting with effort, I slosh the fresh water into the trough, sending the feathered fiends scattering with raucous squawks of alarm. Serves the brainless bastards right for mobbing their feed like that.

With the chores complete, I creep into the coop itself, ducking my head beneath the low entrance. The musty reek of stale straw and chicken droppings is nearly overpowering, making my nose wrinkle in revulsion. Ugh, how utterly revolting.

Ignoring the stench as best I can, I begin poking through the foul nesting boxes with nimble fingers. There - nestled amidst the soiled straw, eleven speckled ovals sit in a clutch. The hens' freshly laid bounty, just waiting to be snatched up.

"Well, well," I murmur with a sardonic grin. "What a delightful little treasure trove we have here."

I tuck up the hem of my tattered dress, creating a makeshift pouch to cradle the 11 speckled eggs nestled in the filthy straw. Ugh, I can already feel the lice and fleas crawling over my skin, no doubt drawn by the warmth and scent of the freshly laid bounty. Disgusting parasites!

Clutching the fragile cargo close to my chest, I creep towards the low entrance of the coop, ducking my head to avoid the dangling cobwebs. The rooster struts past, his beady eyes narrowing as he clocks my movements. I freeze, hardly daring to breathe as the feathered beast eyes me with obvious suspicion. For a tense moment, I'm certain he'll attack - those cruel spurs could easily eviscerate me in this stunted form. But the brainless fowl merely ruffles his crimson plumage and continues on his way, seemingly satisfied I pose no threat to his pitiful flock.

Stifling a sigh of relief, I scurry out of the coop and back towards the hovel, my bare feet leaving dusty imprints on the hard-packed earth. Aislin glances up as I duck through the warped wooden door, her pale eyes widening slightly at the sight of my makeshift egg basket.

"Well done, poppet," she murmurs, rising to fetch a battered wicker basket from the storage nook. I carefully deposit the speckled treasures inside as she holds it steady.

"I'll just nip out an' fetch the oats from the birds," Aislin says, already turning towards the door. "Mind ye don't wander too far whilst I'm gone."

I nod obediently, widening my eyes in an exaggerated look of childish innocence as she disappears outside. The instant the door thumps closed, I allow my face to settle into a scowl, my lip curling in distaste.

A pungent, acidic odor wafts from the direction of the pathetic excuse for a hearth, assaulting my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose, grimacing at the harsh, vinegary reek as I creep closer to investigate. There, suspended over the smoldering coals in a battered iron pot, sits the source - a bubbling cauldron of murky brown liquid that reeks of fermented apples.

Vinegar? What in the name of...? I lean in closer, unable to resist taking a cautious sniff despite the eye-watering fumes. Yes, definitely vinegar, no doubt about it. But why in God's name would anyone choose to boil such a foul, stinking brew in the middle of their home? This hovel already reeks of animal filth and human waste without adding insult to injury!

The warped door creaks open behind me as Aislin returns, lugging a heavy burlap sack over one bony shoulder. She grunts with effort, depositing the load beside the hearth before straightening with a weary sigh.

"What're ye boilin' that nasty stuff fer, mama?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer as I gesture towards the reeking pot. "It stinks awful!"

Aislin shoots me an exasperated look, shaking her head as she begins untying the scratchy burlap. "Why, 'tis fer cleanin' the floors an' such, lass," she replies in a tone suggesting I'm some hopeless half-wit. "Vinegar cuts through the grime right proper, it does."

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I blink at her owlishly for a moment, struggling to keep my face blank despite the utter absurdity of her words. Cleaning? With vinegar? This cramped, filthy hovel that reeks of animal droppings and human waste from every pore? The very notion is utterly laughable!

I can't help the derisive snort that escapes me at the thought. As if a few paltry splashes of fermented apple juice could even begin to scrub away the decades' worth of accumulated filth caked into every surface! This place is less a human dwelling and more a biohazard at this point. We'd need a full decontamination crew in hazmat suits armed with industrial-strength cleansers and flamethrowers to even make a dent!

"Why don't we jus' rebuild the hovel proper, mama?" I ask, widening my eyes in an expression of childish innocence despite the sarcasm dripping from my words. "Ain't no amount o' vinegar gonna clean this muck!"

Aislin pauses in her work, snorting indelicately as she shoots me an incredulous look. "An' where're we meant to get coin fer such fripperies, child?" she demands, one bony brow arching skyward. "We're naught but peasants, in case ye'd forgotten. This hovel ain't even ours - we pay rent to Lord Eamonn fer the privilege o' sleepin' under his leaky thatch!"

I open my mouth to respond, but Aislin barrels on, her voice taking on a bitter edge. "Aye, an' count yerself lucky we've got a roof at all, mind! There's plenty o' families in the village sleepin' out in the fields like animals this time o' year. At least we've got four walls an' a hearth, such as they are."

My shoulders slump in exaggerated dejection at her scolding tone. "I's just thought it'd be nice to have a proper home, is all," I mumble, sticking out my lower lip in an impressive pout as I shuffle my bare feet. "I didn't mean nothin' by it, mama."

Aislin's stern expression softens somewhat at my theatrics. "There now, poppet," she soothes, reaching out to pat my tangled curls. "Mebbe one day we'll have a proper cottage o' our own, aye? But fer now, we'd best make do with what little we got."

I nod obediently, peering up at her through my lashes. "Can...can I help ye clean, mama?" I ask in my best childish lilt. "I wanna be a good girl an' help!"

"Well, if ye insist," Aislin replies with a weary sigh, already turning towards the storage nook carved into the crumbling mud wall. She retrieves a tattered linen cloth, holding it out to me with a look of resignation. "Here, take this rag an' wait fer the vinegar to cool some afore dippin' it in. We'll start by wipin' down the table an' benches first."

I accept the filthy rag, grimacing at the stiff, crusty fabric as I pinch it between soiled fingers. Ugh, I can only imagine the kinds of unspeakable grime and detritus this thing has been used to mop up over the years. Probably soaked through with animal blood, human waste, you name it!

Still, I force a bright smile, bobbing my head in an enthusiastic nod as I clutch the rag to my chest. "Yes mama, I'll be good an' do jus' like ye say!" I chirp, putting on my best air of childish obedience. Can't let the mask slip for even a moment, after all.

The vinegar brew bubbles and hisses like an angry viper as it simmers over the crackling hearth. Aislin dips the tattered linen rag into the pungent liquid, wringing it out with a grimace.

"Here, Lile," she says, handing me the dripping cloth before taking the rag I have in my hands. "Best get to scrubbin' that floor afore the stink sets in."

I accept the rag, my lip curling at the acrid fumes wafting up from its sodden fibers. This is their idea of "cleaning"? Smearing more filth and bacteria around with a reeking mop? I bite back a scathing remark, reminding myself to play the role of the obedient peasant child.

"Yes mama," I reply with a dutiful nod, dropping to my hands and knees to begin scouring the hard-packed dirt floor. The rough fabric scratches my palms as I scrub, kicking up little puffs of dust that make me cough.

We work in silence for a time, the only sounds our labored breathing and the slosh of vinegar against the ground. Sweat beads on my brow from the exertion and the stifling heat of the cramped hovel. I pause to wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, grimacing at the fresh streaks of grime left behind.

"Why so quiet this mornin', poppet?" Aislin asks, glancing over with a furrowed brow. "Ye ain't still thinkin' on what yer da said earlier, are ye?"

I blink at her owlishly for a moment, my mind racing. What did that drunken lout say to provoke such concern? Then it hits me - the vile insinuation about peddling me to strange men like some back-alley whore.

The very notion makes my stomach churn with revulsion. To be treated as mere chattel, an object for others' depraved lusts and amusement? The injustice of it burns like dragonfire in my breast.

But I can't allow even a flicker of outrage to show on my face. Instead, I pout my lips in an exaggerated childish sulk, widening my eyes to appear appropriately cowed.

"I...I was just thinkin' 'bout what papa said," I mumble, scuffing my bare foot against the floor. "About...about renters an' such."

Aislin's face softens with a look of pained resignation. "Pay it no mind, bairn," she soothes, reaching out to pat my matted curls. "Yer da talks nonsense more oft than not. 'Tis just the ill humors what make him say such foolish things at times."

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the derisive snort that threatens to escape. Ill humors? This ignorant wretch actually believes her husband's vile depravity stems from some imbalance of bodily fluids? The utter insanity of medieval pseudoscience never ceases to astound!

"I'll not think on it no more, mama," I reply with an obedient nod, forcing a bright smile despite the sarcasm dripping from my words. "I'll be a good girl, I swears it!"

Aislin returns my smile, the worry lines around her eyes easing somewhat. "That's me leanbh," she murmurs, turning back to her scrubbing.

We continue working in companionable silence, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the occasional splash of vinegar against the floor. By the time we've finished, my arms and legs ache from the exertion, sweat pouring down my face in rivulets.

I sit back on my haunches, surveying our meager efforts with a critical eye. The hard-packed dirt appears...well, slightly less disgusting than before, I suppose. A few errant turnip peelings and dried animal droppings have been swept aside, leaving faint streaks in the grime.

But the overall effect is still one of abject, soul-crushing squalor. This pathetic hovel remains little more than a disease-ridden cesspit, wholly unfit for human habitation. I have to resist the urge to burst into derisive laughter at the utter futility of our "cleaning".

"There now, that floor almost looks habitable," Aislin says with a weary sigh, echoing my own thoughts. "Could still use more work, but 'twill suffice fer the tax collectors on the morrow."

I snort indelicately at that, unable to contain my mirth. As if splashing a bit of fermented piss-water about will somehow impress the king's men! This place is an affront to basic decency and hygiene. One whiff of the stench alone would likely send them running for the safety of their pavilions.

Aislin shoots me a reproachful look, but any rebuke is cut off as she claps her hands briskly. "Well, no sense lollygaggin' about inside," she declares, already turning towards the door. "We've still the garden to tend afore evenin' prayers. Come along, Lile!"

I heave an exaggerated sigh, my shoulders slumping in feigned childish petulance as I trail after her into the brilliant summer afternoon. Ah yes, can't wait to get my hands all muddied up yanking weeds from our pathetic little patch of struggling turnips.

Aislin thrusts a coarse burlap sack into my hands, the rough fibers scratching my palms. "Here, poppet," she says in that saccharine tone mothers use to placate children. "Start pullin' them nasty weeds from the garden whilst I check the cabbages fer beetles."

I accept the sack with an exaggerated sigh, puffing out my cheeks in a childish pout. "But I don't wanna, mama!" I whine, widening my eyes imploringly. "My dress'll get all dirty an' my hands'll get ouchies from the prickles!"

Aislin fixes me with a stern look, planting her bony hands on her hips. "Do as yer told, lass," she chides. "Ye must learn these things proper if ye aim to run a household one day."

I scuff the toe of my bare foot in the dirt, feigning petulance. "But why I gotta do this stuff, mama?" I ask with a sullen frown. "Seems like a lotta work fer nothin'."

"Mind that sassy tongue, Lile Ban!" Aislin snaps, wagging a finger at me. "Ye're a young woman now, not some wild creature runnin' loose! A good Christian wife must learn the proper skills fer managin' a household an' pleasin' her husband."

I nearly choke on my own spit at her words. A husband? For me? As if any man would take one look at the trail of lice and fleas in my wake before turning and fleeing in the opposite direction!

"Husband?" I echo, unable to keep the disgust from my voice. "Yuck!"

Aislin laughs softly, shaking her head in that infuriatingly patronizing way adults do when they think a child is being "cute." "Ye'll change yer tune soon enough once yer monthly blood starts flowin', sure as Domhnaigh," she says with a knowing look.

With that, she gestures impatiently at the scraggly vegetable patch with a flick of her wrist. "Well? Get to it then, lass! Them weeds won't pull themselves."

Stifling a sigh of annoyance, I slowly sink to my knees in the hard-packed dirt, gingerly grasping a woody stem between thumb and forefinger. Ugh, this is awful - like some twisted penitent's ritual, forced to grovel in the filth as penance for...for what, exactly? Being born female in this nightmarish, regressive society?

"Why's it only girls gotta do this stuff, mama?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer as I pluck the first weed. "Ain't it unfair that boys don't havta pull weeds an' cook an' clean like we do?"

Aislin blinks at me owlishly for a moment, as if I've just professed a belief in the Flat Earth theory. "Unfair?" she echoes, her brow furrowing. "Why, 'tis the natural order of things, child, plain as the nose on yer face!"[...]