Page 3 of Mischief Maker
Fortunately, it’s not my job to make sure she has food to eat. I don’t need physical sustenance—being immortal and all. I’m only here for ninety-nine more tasks, and once that’s through, I’ll return to my temple and wait for the world to continue passing me by.
The sun is setting by the time I finish bringing the two dozen cows and the sheep inside.
I’ve done what Faela asked for today—and fairly well, I might add.
Better than she deserves. I shouldn’t have put so much thought into what she wanted me to do.
That won’t teach her a lesson about using her tasks so broadly.
As the dog chases the last of the livestock into the pen, I throw her some dried meat I found in the storeroom.
Unfortunately, the gate is rickety and old, and it really should have been fixed a long time ago.
Irritated at my new master’s broad directive, I intentionally leave the gate open and return to the house, kicking over a bucket of grain as I go for good measure.
Faela is out in one of the fields, tearing out dead plants and tossing them into a big pile. Everything is withered and yellow, and some stalks have even turned black at the base. There are streaks of red down her face, like she cried for some time and then finally ran out of tears.
What has she done so terribly wrong as to kill off all her crops this way? They look like they’ve been neglected for months without water or nutrients.
While she works, I lean down and scoop some soil into my hand. It’s strangely dark—almost black, as if a deep mold has sunk into it. But how could that be?
There’s something odd here, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.
When I look up, Faela is standing nearby, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her hazel eyes connect with mine, and the hint of a smile sits at the edge of her mouth, a contrast to the sadness in her eyes.
“Kireth.” No one has said my name in many hundreds of years, and it feels strange to hear it fall from her pink lips. “You’re finished?”
I stand up and cross my arms, trying my best to look annoyed. One task should not have taken me the whole day. I will be stuck here for many months at this rate, doing this mortal’s bidding. Hopefully my punishments will teach her a lesson.
“I’m finished.” I gesture to the pen where the sheep are eating. “See for yourself.”
Faela’s mouth falls open when she takes in the sight of what I’ve done. “Oh. You’ve sheared the sheep.”
I have sheared them, all right—leaving their heads and feet fluffy so they look wonderfully comical. It will be a chore for her to fix it.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says after a long moment.
Anger flashes through me. “You told me to complete the livestock chores,” I say cooly. “I did.”
“Of course.” She just sighs and shakes her head. “I hadn’t meant to do the shearing yet to let in more growth, but at least it’s done now.” She bows in front of me. “Thank you.”
I don’t need her thanks. This is what I am bound to do by the laws of my existence. Though I expected a bit more of a reaction from her. If I sheared them early, surely it’s cut into her future profits.
“Are there any other tasks you require of me today?” I ask, feeling huffy. I lace the words with as much sarcasm as possible. “How else may I serve you?”
“That’s all for today.” Faela shuffles past me toward the house. “I have to cook something for us to eat.”
I don’t really need to eat, but I don’t correct her.
Inside, I hear a gasp. “So much milk!” When I join her, she’s staring down at the many buckets of cow and sheep milk I acquired today. “I can make a lot of cheese with this.”
Again she bows, twice this time, and her eyes are gleaming like raw ambers. They are so plain in color, but big and deep with emotion. And her bright, optimistic smile? It makes me oddly giddy.
“It’s of no concern to me,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. But she remains grinning as she returns to fawning over the milk.
After getting a pot boiling, Faela mixes in the rennet. Dinner is all but forgotten as she busies herself around the kitchen, so I sit at the table and watch. Her hands don’t move fast, but they are sure and steady, completing each step with precision.
She makes quick work of it, and soon the cheese is ready to be strained.
Afterward, she moves much of it to the cellar.
When she returns, she’s carrying a few tiny carrots, a bundle of wilted greens, and half of a loaf of bread.
As she sets to cooking, I watch her careful movements, wondering again how this one girl managed to destroy all her crops.
Faela doesn’t appear incompetent. The fix on the door is perfect, and it barely even squeaks when I test it.
“I cut a piece from an old pail and hammered it into a hinge,” she says as I examine her handiwork. “It came out all right.”
She also repaired the front steps with a piece of wood she sawed and nailed in herself, and now the steps are sturdy and passable. I’m having a harder and harder time believing that she could have caused all this devastation on her own.
“You said your mother died.” I return to the table to continue watching Faela over the frying pan with her meager vegetables. “What did she die from?”
Her small shoulders tense up around her neck. She doesn’t turn around, but her hands have stopped stirring the food.
“I don’t know.” She looks as if she’s curling into herself.
“One day, Mother just... got sick. We have a healer in town, a woman who knows a little about common illnesses and can make a few remedies. She had no idea what was wrong. One day Mother was fine, and then the next day she couldn’t get out of bed.
Something was growing up her hands, up her feet. It spread and spread and?—”
“What sort of thing?” I interrupt. This does not sound like any ordinary illness to me.
Faela shivers. “It was black, and every part of her it touched, died.”
The soil outside, turning dark and useless. The dead grass. The house falling apart at the seams.
There is something wrong with this farm, and whatever it is, it isn’t the fault of this young woman in front of me.