Wilom slept in the next morning, late enough that Marc had already left for work, and when he finally emerged for breakfast, he found Cathlin sitting at a table with the morning mail, Jilli’s empty toast plate still sitting beside her. Continue reading
Wilom dropped his head back against the wall, just hard enough to sting. They’d taken the knife out of his bag, but left everything else. The doors were locked, and he couldn’t see who was in the cells opposite or beside him, though he doubted he was in anything more serious than a holding cell. Yet. Continue reading
For the next three weeks, Wilom fed chickens.
He hated chickens.
But it meant he was up earlier than his aunt and uncle, and it stopped them giving him too many jobs around the house. He didn’t need to wash dishes, or weed the garden with Jali. He’d already fed the chickens.