Legacy of Seven: Darkness Falls by P. J. Flie

Author:P. J. Flie [Flie, P. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Book Forge
Published: 2023-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Birds sang a continuous melody while a rooster crowed in the day. Ondreeal’s eyes fluttered open, and she took in the old, grey wooden ceiling—prompting her to run through all the chores she must perform throughout the day for Otto. Then in a blink, the last several months came rushing back like the first rays of dawn, shining in. Her life with Otto was long gone.

Ondreeal’s stomach growled, making her slowly rub it with both hands in a vain attempt to satisfy such hunger. She hopped out of bed. Swallowing a yelp, she winced with pain. Yesterday’s fight would take time to recover from. Doyle slumbered, rolling over in a nearby bed and softly snored.

Ondreeal quickly dressed and quietly stepped outside with a basket in hand. The orange sky had already faded to yellow and pale blue, making the march over to the hen house awash with serenity. She quickly collected several eggs without a single beak pecking her hands. Years of practice on the farm had paid off. She swung back to the house, and her eyes fell on several rows of vegetables. She veered towards them, yanking several potatoes from the earth and plucking a bushel of tomatoes before marching back to the farmhouse.

Bradai lay remarkably quiet on the kitchen table. Ondreeal moved to his side, placing her hand to his nose to make sure he still breathed. At her approach, Bradai let out a loud snort and smacked his lips. She covered her mouth, stifling a laugh—Ondreeal didn’t want to wake him. His wounds looked dry and free from signs of infection.

With a soft sigh, Ondreeal turned to the kitchen. For a man who liked to eat, Bradai was a fantastic chef, although he couldn’t help her right now. She’d sooner eat dirt than the slop Doyle attempted to pass off as food, so she’d be cooking. Otto strikes again, she thought, grateful for the skill he’d forced her to acquire. Opening several cupboards that were better stocked with various dried goods than Otto’s had been, she pulled out a readymade loaf of bread.

Ondreeal plucked up a knife and cut into the loaf, gritting her teeth from the effort. Then, she put the knife down and tossed the loaf against a wall with a dull thud. They couldn’t eat anything that stale unless they wanted broken teeth.

So, Ondreeal pulled out several bags of dried ingredients, eyeballing amounts, and poured them into a bowl. Adding a bit of water, she mixed until the spoon became stuck in dough—perfect! She emptied the contents onto the kitchen counter and kneaded it.

Otto had loved her bread. She would take her frustrations out on a loaf—the more she worked the dough, the better it tasted. Ondreeal punched the dough repeatedly, now picturing Doyle’s face at the center instead of Otto’s sour mug. The bread went in the oven, and Ondreeal gave a low sigh, wiping sweat from her brow.

Doyle stepped into the kitchen, eyes wide at the sight of her, until the corners of his mouth curled up.

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