Sisters Three (Completed)

6. Adair (2/2)

Three days into the arrangement at the shepherd's house and Adair never had such aching arms and back. She seemed constantly in some sort of sweat as she kept the house as clean as she could, cooked the meals, and even did a few of the outside chores when the children disappeared to play in the pastures and the cows needed milking and the eggs fetching. Silver tried to help when he could, but he was limited by having to stay hidden from many pairs of eyes, and he could really only do repairs during the cover of night.

On the evening of the third day, Adair bustled from a pot of soup to the toddler who was sick and taking every chance to vomit on the packed dirt floor. A slight rain had begun after noon, which meant the children had been cooped indoors for far too long. They jumped up on chests and the chairs, hollering and shouting, throwing things when they got in scrapes and knocking into Adair when she tried to set the table.

"Can't you go out and help your father?" she snapped, slamming a clay cup so hard on the table she was surprised it didn't shatter. She'd wanted it to shatter. Then maybe they'd stab their horrible feet and be forced to sit down.

"Mum don't like us out in the rain," the oldest boy sneered. "We could get sick like she is."

"I highly doubt that," Adair muttered, but she knew better than to argue. The shepherd's wife seemed meek and gentle at first, but anything to do with illness turned her into a raging dragoness. Adair steered clear of giving an opinion on colds and coughs. She didn't want to be the primary caretaker of the sick toddler as well, but the shepherd's wife had had a recent bad spell and lay curled in her bed.

"Dinner's ready in a minute and then we're going to bed," Adair shouted over the din. The children ignored her. She rolled her eyes and wrapped her hand in her skirt in order to haul the iron pot onto the table. The sound of her ladle hitting the tin plates brought the children when her voice did not. They tumbled into their seats around the table, shoving each other and snatching at the bread she'd set in the middle.

"Pigs," she muttered, serving herself last and replacing the pot over the fire.

She'd barely raised the wooden spoon to her mouth before the children fell upon their soup. The sounds coming from their mouths were wet and sloppy, and Adair closed her eyes and tried to remember what silence sounded like.

"I want more." The oldest boy. Adair opened her eyes to his defiant face.

"Too bad. The rest is for tomorrow, and besides your parents haven't eaten yet."

"We have mutton tomorrow," the boy said.

"No one told me that, so we're going to save the soup until someone does," Adair said, her teeth gritting.

The boy pushed his chair back and sauntered toward the fire. He leaned on the hearth and looked into the pot. "There's plenty. I'm having more."

"Hey," Adair said, dropping her spoon and turning in her chair. "Leave it alone."

He ignored her and grabbed the handle of the pot with a section of his shirt. The other children perked up at this disobedience. They edged toward their brother, knowing she had no real power. Punishments were only given by the shepherd, and Adair's word wasn't the one that their father believed first.

"Give me some," one of the middle ones said. Soon they were joined in a chorus.

"Back off," the boy said as they rushed him, holding out their plates. He knocked them away with one hand, leaving the pot only held up by his left hand. He staggered under its weight. Mostly likely he could have caught himself if the children hadn't begun to jostle him and whine, thinking he wanted to keep it to himself. One of the children caught him in the ribs with their elbow and sent him staggering sharply to the right. The pot tipped in his hand and then crashed to the ground with a heavy thump. The soup splashed in steaming waves onto the ground and across Adair's boots. She cursed loudly and jumped away as splatters of boiling soup spotted her skirt and apron.

"Look what you made me do!" the boy shouted, kicking the pot with his boot and glaring at Adair. She failed to see how it was her fault, but she didn't rise to the bait.

One breath in and one breath out. She bent to retrieve the pot. "Move or you'll get soup all over your clothes."

The children started to shuffle off, but as they picked their way through the slops they mixed the soup into the dirt floor to create a thick mud. The oldest boy suddenly stopped. Adair knew the smile that spread across his face. It never meant anything good.

Leaning at the waist, he scooped up a handful of the soupy mud and faced her. She barely had time to close her mouth before he slung it at her head, hitting the side of her face. She gasped as the hot mess smacked her ear through her hair and dripped down her collar. She swung to face her attacker, too shocked to move. He had another handful of mud which he slung onto her bodice.

The other children soon joined in the new game, all pelting Adair with the mud and pieces of chicken from the soup. The barrage was so constant that she stumbled backward under its force. Her heels hit the wall and she leaned into it, raising her arms to guard her face. Mud still made it through the cracks, getting in her mouth and nose. The children's laughter surrounded her and she sunk to her knees to try and make a smaller target.

"Stop!" she yelled, but no one paid her any heed.

Somehow a stone made it into one of their handfuls of mud. A sharp pain lanced through the side of Adair's head, forcing her eyes open. She almost toppled over but managed to catch herself with one arm while glaring at the oldest boy who placed his dirty hands on his hips with a smug grin.

"You little rats," she hissed, putting on the face that always used to quell Brenna when she was being particularly bratty. The children took one look at her burning eyes and bared teeth and took a step back, mud dripping back to the ground and mouths a little bit agape. It wouldn't last for very long. Brenna never gave up for long, and these children were at least as bad as she. So Adair pressed her advantage and climbed to her feet. She was at least a head taller than the oldest boy and he took another step back.

"You're worse than those smelly sheep your father looks after," she said, fists clenched. "You'd be more akin to pigs, except they aren't nearly as bad tempered as you lot. So I think you'd be best described as disgusting little brats that deserve a sound beating."

"You can't talk to us like that," the oldest boy said, but his voice was uncertain. He began to lean down, heading for some mud he might sling to keep himself safe, but Adair didn't let him get the chance. Her anger spiked viciously in her chest, and before she knew really what was happening, a feeling of energy flew from her fingertips and into the air. A blast of wind whipped their hair into their eyes, and when their vision came back the room was covered in a thin layer of frost. The mud at their feet was filled with ice crystals and the children shivered in the suddenly cold air.

"Adair." Her name pulled her attention to the door where the shepherd stood with his eyes stony and his hand white-knuckled on his crook. "I want to see you in the barn, please."

Adair's chest still heaved from emotions, but she reined herself in, wiping her hands on her skirt to rub off the fuzzy frost that coated her skin. The children scampered out of her way as she stalked toward the door, and she only barely heard the oldest ones run crying to their mother. The shepherd stepped back as she pulled level to him. She bit her tongue and started toward the small barn. She didn't have to look behind her to know that the shepherd kept a distance. He'd be a fool not to.