John stretched, his joints protesting. The tilled earth lay in neat rows, awaiting the seed. He wiped a hand across his brow, leaving a smudge of soil. The spring planting had been a struggle. The fields, sodden from the rains, clung to his boots. He stooped, scattering a handful of seed, then covered it. He moved down the row, his tunic clinging to his back. Sweat traced a path down his temple.


    He paused, the last bits of light clung to the trees that framed the fields, a world in a honey-glaze . The path towards home wound through the fallow fields, and he took it with relief. He was not alone; the entire town was returning from their labors like birds coming home to roost.


    He reached a high point on the path, and he was reminded this place was nearer to his heart than any other place on earth. At this moment, the cottages looked to John as if they were kittens sleeping in a pile, leaning against each other, nuzzled in the soft light. Beyond the road stretched a patchwork quilt of tilled earth and pasture, their boundaries stitched by ancient hedgerows and winding lanes.


    He reached his own door after a long walk of fractured meditations.


    John pushed open the door and stepped inside. Eleanor sat on a low stool by the fire, her spindle a blur of motion as she spun the raw wool into yarn. The rhythmic whirring of the spindle filled the small space, a soothing counterpoint to the wind that howled outside. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently as she counted the revolutions of the spindle.


    Mary, perched on a stool at her mother''s feet, patiently wound the newly spun thread onto a niddy-noddy, her small hands surprisingly deft. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, mimicking her mother''s expression. She paused occasionally to examine her work, her small fingers smoothing out any knots or tangles in the thread.


    "You''re back," Eleanor said.


    John nodded, settling onto a stool beside them. He watched Mary work, her small hands surprisingly deft. "You''re getting good at that, little mouse."


    Mary glanced up, her dark eyes serious. "It''s important work, Papa," she said earnestly. "Mama says we always need warm clothes."


    John smiled. "Aye, that we do. And you''re doing your part to keep us all warm."


    Mary nodded. She went back to winding the thread, her small fingers moving with a practiced rhythm.


    John leaned back, enjoying the quiet. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the shutters and whistling through the gaps in the thatch. But inside the cottage, all was warm and peaceful.


    "Did you see any dragons in the fields today, Papa?" Mary asked suddenly, looking up from her work.


    John chuckled. "No, little mouse. No dragons today. Just the usual crows and sparrows."


    "Maybe tomorrow," Mary said, with a sly grin. "Maybe tomorrow you''ll see a whole flock of dragons, breathing fire and stealing all the sheep."


    John laughed. "I hope not. Then we''d have no wool to spin, and you''d have no warm clothes for winter."


    Mary giggled. "Then I’d just tell them to fly over the river.”


    "Ha! You''d better get good at fighting then," John said, his eyes twinkling. "Because dragons don’t like doing what they’re told." He puffed out his chest and clawed at the air with his fingers. "I’m getting awful hungry!”Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Mary shrieked with laughter as John lunged at her, tickling her mercilessly. She wriggled and squirmed, trying to escape his grasp.


    "No, Papa! No!" she squealed. "I surrender! Mercy!"


    John finally relented, making a variety of old man noises as he tried to get up off the floor.


    Eleanor watched them with a smile.


    As their laughter subsided, a comfortable silence settled over the cottage. The fire crackled, and the wind howled outside, but inside, all was warm and peaceful.


    “Alright you both, let’s get set for supper.”


    John and Mary followed her to the small table, where she had laid out a simple meal of bread and lard. They sat down, and John bowed his head.


    "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."


    "Amen," Eleanor and Mary echoed.


    They ate in silence for a while, but Mary seemed unusually thoughtful, picking at her bread with a furrow in her brow. Finally, she looked up at John, her eyes wide and serious.


    "Papa," she began hesitantly, "I don''t think Robin''s with Jesus."


    John nearly choked on his bread.


    "Mary!" Eleanor exclaimed, "Don''t say such things!"


    "But it''s true," Mary insisted, unfazed by her mother''s outburst. "Remember how he used to steal apples from Farmer Giles'' orchard? And that time he took an extra sweetcake from the baker''s stall? God probably wouldn''t like that very much."


    John felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He fumbled for his ale, taking a long draught. "Mary, love," he began, his voice hoarse, "It''s not for us to judge where Robin is now. That''s God''s business."


    “But if you do things like steal, you won’t be with Jesus. Father Michael says so.”


    "No one is perfect on this Earth. Even the churchmen, they make mistakes too."


    "Even you and Mama?" Mary asked.


    "Even us. What you have to do is to ask God to forgive you, and mean it truly.”


    "But what if people do bad things without meaning to?" Mary pressed, still a hint of worry in her voice.


    "Then God will see that, Mary," John said, trying to project confidence he didn''t quite feel. "He sees everything. He knows our hearts."


    Mary seemed to accept this, finally taking a bite of her bread. John let out a breath he hadn''t realized he was holding.


    "If you''re worried about Robin," Eleanor said softly, "You can always pray for him."


    "That will help?"


    "Yes," Eleanor said. "Ask God to take care of him and help him get to Heaven."


    Mary nodded slowly. "I will, Mama."


    John smiled, relieved that the conversation seemed to be drawing to a close. He reached out and ruffled Mary''s hair. "That''s my girl."


    Mary scurried to the washbasin. As she splashed her face and hands, Eleanor moved to the embers, carefully banking them for the night with a practiced hand. John secured the shutters, the small room growing quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the splash of water.


    Eleanor leaned closer to John, her voice a mere rustle of air, pitched for his ears alone. "Peter stopped by today while you were in the north field," she said, her hands busy plumping a straw-filled mattress. "Seemed a bit under the weather."


    "Long few days for everyone, I''d say," John replied, running a hand over his stubbled chin. He unlaced his worn leather jerkin, hanging it carefully on a peg near the door.


    "Mentioned his stores were running a little low.”


    "Makes good sense," John said. We''re all in a bit of a lean season." He stretched his back with a groan as the words came out.


    "Think you might head down there tomorrow," Eleanor continued. "He mentioned something about having some guests from Raleigh. Should see what''s going on."


    John raised his eyebrows, paused in the act of pulling a clean linen shirt over his head, and then nodded slowly.


    As Mary climbed onto the shared sleeping platform, snuggling under the blanket, Eleanor continued, her voice barely a whisper, "Folks are starting to talk about the weather turning, you know. Said they felt a change coming."


    "People always predict the weather," John replied, moving to the small table and taking the last sip of watered ale from a wooden cup. He grimaced at the sour taste. "More often wrong than right, aren''t they?"


    "Need to make sure we''re prepared, all the same," she said, her eyes meeting his across the room. "For whatever comes."


    She sat down heavily on the stool, her hands clasped in her lap. John crossed the room to her. He looked down at her, then leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder.