The Forest

-8-

The woman was writing a letter to her sister when her daughter fell down the stairs.

The rapid stomp of smaller feet suddenly broke into a cry, and the tremendous clattering that followed gave her enough of a fright to spill ink all over her hand.
"Fleur!" The woman gasped.
The girl had already tumbled the length of the staircase and hit the floor by that time. Fleur's dress had been tossed up over the top of her head and her feet were still caught on the bottom step, though the rest of her was very much on the floor. The muddy boots laced on each foot were clear for the whole room to see, a stark contrast against her otherwise smart clothes. Her mother might have said something had Fleur not then sprung up with more enthusiasm than a rabbit.
"I'm okay!"

The woman hardly had time to blink before the little girl went racing to the door, boots stomping all the way.
She stood up, "Wh- Fleur!"
"I have to go!" Fleur jumped until she managed to snatch her coat down from the hook. A purple mark was already forming on her cheek, but she didn't feel it; she knew that Lyn would be sitting at the wall by now, and she would be wondering where Fleur was. With only one arm through the baggy sleeves, she snatched the doorknob and twisted it unlocked. Cold air billowed through the kitchen and through her hair. Then her father's hand had appeared on the door and it was firmly shoved back into place.

She went to protest. His face said it wouldn't be a good idea.
"Your mother is talking to you."
Fleur could have groaned, but didn't, because that wasn't polite. "What, mummy?" She moaned instead. Which wasn't much better. She had already started buttoning her coat by the time her mother answered.
"Eat your food." She nodded to the bowl on the table.
"I'm not hungry!"
"Fleur." Rung the warning voice from beside her. It was a tone all children knew not to push further.

Fine. Fleur wouldn't waste time though. She hammered over to the table as fast as her legs would carry her and flung herself down in the chair, reaching for the bowl before she had actually sat down.
"Coat." Her mother said, barely looking up from the letter she was writing. A cup of some steaming green liquid was curling a mist around her dark eyes.
"Mummy." She complained.
Her mother scribbled away with the quill. "No outside clothes at the table."
She groaned loudly.
"Was that a thank you I heard?" Her father had gone back to the long stem he was cutting up, the chop chop only broken when he turned over his shoulder to give her a look.
Fleur smiled astutely as she shrugged off her coat, "Thank you, daddy." She knew very well that a smile and a sweet voice would keep her out of trouble.
The man rolled his eyes and chuckled. He also knew that she was aware of her charm.

There was no getting out of what her parents told her to do, so Fleur resolved to do it as quickly as possible. Her father had made them all some sort of soup with a hazel-brown complexion and a deeply earth-like aroma. It was still steaming in the bowl. Warm things on chilly mornings were simply divine, and anyone who had ever had hot chocolate in the snow or coffee on a bus would know that. Fleur had done neither of those things. But she did love her parents' cooking, usually. But she had no time for soup on this particular winter morning.

The spoon was of no use to her— she snatched the bowl by its wooden curves and slurped as fast as the heat would allow her to. It tasted like mushrooms and hazelnuts— under the sting, that was. Even after blowing on the silky liquid and exhaling a gasp of steam, it still scalded the roof of her mouth and made her eyes water. She drank anyway. Noisily.
Her mother glanced up from her work across the table, her face a look of disgust. "Fleur, really."
"What?" She said. She almost dribbled soup from her mouth as she did.
Her father spoke without turning, "Leave her be. She's in a hurry." She could hear the smile in his voice.
"You're going to drop food on your dress."
Fleur glared at her mother, "I would never." This was her blue dress with the green ribbon and the black tights, she would never get her favourite clothes dirty.