—GRANGES—
Claude leaned over the sheep enclosure, his fingers brushing through Belle’s thick wool. The sheep trotted in circles, content beneath his touch, her soft bleats echoing in the quiet. I approached him slowly, our elbows knocking gently together, and Claude turned to me with a smile, the warmth of it reaching his eyes.
“First the people, now the animals. How many wonders do you think you and your brothers can work?” His voice was low, as though he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled over the grange.
I glanced at the flock. The sheep’s coats shone brighter, the goats chewed their cud with a relaxed ease, and the hens pecked the dark soil, searching for hidden morsels of oats. Each animal bore the signs of health and vitality, their condition a testament to the care we’d given them. The children of the village had grown rosier, too, thanks to the rich milk and golden-yolked eggs we collected. Even the frail elders, once bent under the weight of age, now stood taller, lingering in the rare sunlight.
“They’ll need shearing soon, don’t you think?” Claude’s voice held a hint of excitement as he watched Belle, imagining her free of her heavy fleece.
“Probably,” I agreed, smiling at the thought of Belle prancing around, lighter and free. I chuckled. “I’m certain her wool will make excellent quilts, and maybe some fine clothes.” I leaned closer, our shoulders almost touching. “You’ve done good work with them, Claude. They seem happy.”
“Me?” Claude said, brows shot up.
“We merely improved upon the care you provided. Without you, she wouldn’t be so happy.”
He blinked, then smiled. He nodded, his gaze lingering on the flock. “Well, I’m glad they continued their happiness here. They look happier than they’ve been in a long time” He looked at the hens. “You know, they didn’t use to forage like this. They know that something about the land has changed. More than our farmland, at least.”
I murmured an incoherent response, the words soft. His fingers flexed against the fence, and for a moment, he was quiet. Then he smiled, a small, secret thing that made something tighten in my chest.
___
Belle looked over with anticipation at the shearing tools in Claude’s hands. He stood beside me, turning one of the shears in his hands, testing its weight.
“You ready?” He asked me. When I nodded, he opened the animal enclosure’s gates and called for Belle. As if knowing what to do, she laid on Claude’s lap as he gently stroked her, murmuring into her ear. He looked down, eyes bright, bringing his nose to the top of her head. “Beautiful Belle. Beautiful, beautiful thing you are. I’ve never seen your coat so thick.” Claude’s fingers curled in her soft wool.
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Claude demonstrated first, his hands confident as he guided the shears along the natural curve of Belle’s back. The fleece came away in clean, silvery strips, revealing the smooth undercoat beneath.
“It’s all in the rhythm,” he murmured, his fingers moving deftly. “Steady pressure, following the wool’s grain. Make sure you don't hurt them.” His voice was calm, patient, and I found myself watching not just his hands but his face: the concentration, the slight furrow of his brow, the softness in his eyes when Belle bleated softly.
“You try,” he said to me. I sat cross-legged facing Claude, Belle between us, as his hands guided me. Claude nodded with each shorn wool and I felt giddy at this simple task. Claude offered a steadying word if needed when I was straying from the proper procedure. I moved slowly, mirroring the technique he’d shown me, feeling the wool part under my hands. The shears clicked softly, stripping fleece that fell in a basket. Slowly, Belle’s tender skin was revealed beneath.
“Good,” Claude said quietly, approval in his tone. “You’re doing well, Ryne.”
There was pride in his voice, and I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. Each stroke grew more confident, the wool coming away in neat, unbroken sheets. With every pass of the shears, I felt a shared sense of accomplishment and we passed the noon away staying like that.
When we were finished, Belle bleated her thanks and went back inside the sheep enclosure, resting. Claude admired the wool we gathered with a firm look. He said, “The Bahrams are unworthy of Belle’s wool. I won’t let their grubby hands soil these.” I wanted to know what he planned to do with Belle’s wool, but he smiled and clapped me on the back as he whistled for more of the sheep to be shorn.
When the shearing was done with the rest of the sheep, the wool gathered in soft piles, Claude and I leaned against the pen, breath misting in the cool air. The sheep, now free of their heavy coats, trotted about, nibbling at the grass. Claude’s gaze was on them, but his shoulder pressed lightly against mine.
“They look good, don’t they?” he murmured.
I glanced at him. “Because of you. You’ve cared for them as if they were your own.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “It’s all of us. Wilbur’s medicines, your watchful eye, even Woodrow’s protections. It’s been a joint effort.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, but my gaze lingered on him. “But it wouldn’t have been possible without your dedication.”
His lips twitched into a smile, and for a moment, we stood there. He scratched his chin. "I actually missed doing that. I thought it was such a bore to do. I'm just glad that we have wool to shear." I did not respond. We looked over the fields stretching out, the wool stacked high.
“You know,” Claude continued softly, “it’s strange to think that just a few seasons ago, these fields were bare, the sheep so thin.” He paused, looking at me, his expression serious. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You and your brothers gave me a chance to be more than just a simple herdsman. You made me feel like I could be part of something greater.”
“Claude,” I began, the words stumbling before I could form them. Instead, I reached out, laying a hand on his arm. “I’d do anything to see you happy and thriving.”
For a moment, he said nothing, then he turned his hand so it brushed against mine. Shoulder to shoulder, we watched the sheep playing together inside the fence.