On the morrow, I rose early, watching as dawn's light stretched, beautiful shades of gold, rose, and pale violet, across the still sober sky. Little Ed is already awake, sqawling for breakfast. His hair is coming in thick, almost milky-white tufts, like a feathery thistle. Mama padded into the small parlor, motioning for me to bring the baby too her. As he nurses, I notice how pale my mother looks, exhausted despite having just awoke. I suppose she simply slept fitfully, bit I can't help but worry it's something more.
Later
In the early afternoon, I took a few of the other children from the adjoining room down to the front walk. The twins, Jane and Mary, are but five, not particularly rambunctious children, but their mother is heavily with child and has been instructed by the doctor to rest. Annabeth, a slight girl of ten trails behind. Others join our group as we shuffle down the narrow corridor. The little boy, Auggie from the floor below and a girl or two from this room or that. They follow me easily, like a row of fluffy ducklings, my self-anointed little helper, Annabeth, keeping them in line.
My father had given me some nubs of white chalk the prior evening, which I rationed out to the children. Auggie scribbles little heros, tiny bows and swords at ready. Annie, as I call her fondly, is sketching a castle working on an inscription below it. 'Finis vitae sed non amoris,' Auggie now stands over her shoulder. "Latin, 'The end of life, but not of love.' Seems quite fitting for a fairytale." I thought of that as I slid down into my pallet that night.
YOU ARE READING
The Jessa Hopkins Chronicles
RandomThe sea had been treacherous as Jessa and her family had journeyed, by way of the ship called the sparrow, to the shores of America. It had docked briefly in the Boston Harbor, before sailing off again for New York. It had meant only to gather suppl...
