A Surface of Pressure and Burden

Chapter 2: A Fight of Temper and Insults

It wasn't until much later that we were able to eat dinner that night. Elain and I finally got Feyre to help us drag the deer out to the woodshed, although she insisted on staying out there to cut off a roast, appearing back in the cottage just when we'd finished cleaning up the mess on the floor and table. I'd gotten the fire going again and Feyre pushed the soup to the side, impaled her deer meat slab on a sharp stick (no chance that was clean at all) and shoved the whole thing almost directly into the flames.

I'd been talking to the Widow Maykre earlier that week about the best way to prepare wild game, but I knew it was a fool's errand to give Feyre any cooking tips. It would probably just start the whole wood-chopping argument over again, and I already felt like I could barely keep my eyes open.

Finally she declared the meat done and we gathered around the table, sipping cold soup and pretending to be excited about the half-charred, half-still-frozen slab of deer meat before us. Not that we were in much of a position to be picky. Feyre took forever to cut each of us a portion and then watched us like a hawk as we choked it down. Elain, once again bafflingly dedicated to the Feyre Game, raved about how delicious it was and tried to take a small second helping, but Feyre shot her a death glare before her knife had touched the meat. "I don't know why you're so hungry, Elain, when you were just sitting around the house all day," Feyre said, pushing the platter away from her. "Isaac was talking the other day about these tiny, tiny faeries called Cal Ories that live in food and make you fat when you eat. That's stupid, of course, but if it were true I would have burned so many of them today in the forest. Actually, Nesta, my tunic and cloak are way too big for me, do you think you could take them down a size or two for me later tonight so I don't trip on all the extra fabric?"

"I...what?" I said. What was Feyre even talking about? "I don't have time for that." There was already a sizeable pile of actual mending that needed to be done on worn garments, let alone Feyre's vanity alterations. "Oh, that reminds me, Elain," I added, "if one of us goes to town tomorrow with Feyre we need to pick up some more thread so I can get started on that mending pile."

"Makes sense, but I will have to see if Mrs. Mandray has some in her shop, I cannot deal with Mrs. Brumhilda again," said Elain. "I hate to be negative about anyone, but seriously, what is wrong with that woman? She's so rude, last time I was there she actually had some coarse red flannel displayed in the window and insisted it was 'continental' chiffon! I thought it would make some really warm nightgowns but she wanted two coppers a yard. I said that price was ridiculous and she called me" - Elain lowered her voice and looked around the room, as if our mother was still here to be shocked and run for the bar of soap - "the B-word!"

"Truly psychotic," I laughed. "Actually, we should go to Mrs. Mandray's shop as often as we can. It's uh- well-" I wasn't sure how to begin.

Elain's eyebrows shot up. "No! Widow Maykre said she knew there was a vibe between you and Tomas Mandray, but I told her I totally didn't see it!"

"It's stupid, really," I said, my cheeks flushing. I'd always felt so uncomfortable around boys, and they had always seemed to feel the same way about me. Elain was a hopeless romantic, collecting unrequited crushes and devastating heartbreaks like wildflowers, and Feyre had her thing with Isaac, but I'd never known where to begin. When we were children, the boys our age in other rich families were spoiled little brats who would knock over my block towers and throw my dolls out the window "as a joke," and when we got older they still seemed like little boys to me, seeming to enjoy the sounds of their own voices discussing the news of the day and looking at me in utter shock whenever I tried to join the conversation. It didn't help, I suppose, that I physically towered over most of them. Tomas, though? He was a man's man, a woodsman through and through, and all six feet five inches of him was a solid rock that the sinking ship of our family could land safely on. I'd always known I would have to marry - it was crucial to make alliances with other wealthy families when we'd been one, and now that we were dirt-poor I knew it was the only path we could reliably follow to a better life. The son of a local woodcutter father and an exotic Spanish mother he'd brought home from a brief stint in the army (hence the name "Tomas,") Tomas Mandray and his brothers were full partners in their father's woodcutting business and he even had a small herd of sheep and goats on the side. I knew he'd want a woman who would work as hard as he did, but if I could pull off a marriage to someone like him, it would mean, if not luxury, at least real security for us. Did I love him? Well, what did that matter?