PRINCESS OF THIEVES ▹ post-six of crows ✓

i. the sins of the father

Jordie felt a blush creep up her neck and then strode faster towards the house.

No harm done. No harm in friendly smiles, she tried hard to reassure herself, but... still.

People were unpredictable, and Jordie didn't like unpredictable things.

She was far too unpredictable herself.

Most farmhands were out in the east field today, clearing the land for the upcoming planting season. Her da oversaw everything that went on at the farm, though he hardly ever ventured into the fields himself and often forbade Jordie from doing so at all. He was always touchy around the ploughs, and even worse when his daughter was close.

In any case, she didn't often see the people who tended to their property. They stayed as far from the main house as possible, though she was out earlier than usual which could explain why they were crossing paths.

Jordie had always been an early riser, like her da, but sometimes even she beat him out of the house in the mornings. Sometimes she couldn't sleep, and she liked to see the sun rise over the wide plains that separated the farm from the canals that led out to the sea. Kerch was infinitely flat and she felt she could see all the way to the True Sea if she just looked hard enough.

The thought filled her with ice cold dread as much as it did with longing.

A heavy presence settled on her chest, or rather the absence of it. Even more than ten years later, she still felt the loss of her mother keenly. She remembered those earliest days of being nearly one with her parents. Of existing in their orbit, in their perfect gravity that ensured safety.

In her first home, Jordie did not have her own bed. There was no need.

Her mother had no concept of privacy between parents and children, and her father had very little memory of what a childhood looked like. She remembered laying in a pile on the big bed, each on top of the other, entangled and as one. On his bad days, her father would push himself against the wall and her mother would pull Jordie onto herself. But these days were never often, and neither of her parents were ever far away. Always within reach.

Then her mother died. They moved to the farm. Jordie got her own bed and her own room to match.

The double doors were her entry point for her da's sake, but they were not her exit. Most often, she found herself climbing down the trellis from her bedroom before running off on whatever adventure awaited. It was pretty much a habit at this point, and good practice besides. Her da had long ago acquired a high wire and swings, ensured she learned to juggle, to tumble. It always seemed very important to him; Jordie never dared to refuse.

The top stair of the porch creaked and the door squeaked closed, the warning system of someone's arrival.

The doorway had lines carved into it, alongside small charcoal writing. They had marked her height on this door frame every year, from six to sixteen. A whole decade's worth of leaps and bounds of gap—teeth, nightmares, and small barefeet racing across the floor as a man with a limp tried to keep up.

Her fingers trailed along the walls of the farmhouse, humming some nonsensical tune under her breath. Her voice echoed a little, in the wide open spaces. There were too many rooms in this house, and most of them were empty.

The warm scent of food drew her into the kitchen.

This room, too, was empty.

A kettle of coffee spiced with caraway seeds had been left on the stove, along with a pot of hutspot. Jordie smiled to herself. It was made with the smoked sausage she liked. Her da must have ordered some from town for her. While she did prefer waffles with apple syrup, he had much less of a sweet—tooth than she did. The new housekeeper was clearly catering to him, determined to keep her job. Not many of the house staff were ever kept around for long.