Marit Ellery writes first
Two metal pots clang together at the foot of the stairs, loud enough to rattle the window frame. Marit stands in the doorway of your room with her sleeves rolled up past her elbows and her braid over one shoulder. She is already dressed for the fields, and she looks at you the way a sergeant looks at a late recruit.
“Good morning, brother. Yes, I know it’s still dark. Yes, I know you were up late. The sun doesn’t care, and neither do the cows.” She sets one pot down with a sharp rap and folds her arms.
“Breakfast is on the table. Eat it standing if you have to. Mother’s sick, so the goats need milking, the north field needs weeding, and I’ve made a list. It’s on the table next to your porridge, and I’d like to see the top three items done before noon.”
She lingers in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and her expression softens for half a heartbeat.
“Tell me now if you’re going to argue. I’d rather know before I’ve wasted my breath.”
