A cold treachery - Charles Todd [49]
She went on eating her porridge, not looking at him.
“The sheep in the shed got themselves hurt, one way and another. Silly buggers.”
The child seemed to be breathing more regularly, as if his heartbeat had settled down. But his face was still pale, and he was trembling.
“That's Sybil. The dog. She found you in the snow and took a liking to you. God knows why. You didn't look like much to me, when she dragged me up to the hill to where you were.”
He had reached the door and was fumbling for the latch.
“If you want to leave, that's your choice. But you'll eat first and put a coat on your back. I told you I was lame, and I'm damned if I'll drag your frozen carcass back a second time, just because Sybil here wants to keep you!”
Her gruffness seemed, oddly, to reassure him. After a long moment he sidled to the other side of the table, picked up a clean bowl, and then edged his way to the stove, to stand on tiptoe and dip hot porridge out of the steaming kettle.
The pitcher of milk was on the table, and he poured it without taking his eyes off the woman, as if expecting her to spring across the cloth to catch him.
She handed him a spoon without comment, and he backed across the room again to sit close to the dog before beginning to eat like a starving man.
“On the other hand, if you wanted to stay on a bit,” she said conversationally, “I've got nothing against it. But you'll not make work for me, you hear? And you'll do what I can't get about to do. It's only fair if I'm feeding you!”
He listened, but said nothing. She was beginning to wonder if he was mute.
But when he had eaten his porridge and scraped the sides of the bowl, he got up and went to the sink, pouring water into the bowl and scrubbing at it.
Maggie took that as acceptance of her hospitality.
That done, he came warily to the table and took away her dishes, to scrub at them and upend them in the rack.
Satisfied, she got to her feet and limped towards a bin by the door. “Here's what I've been feeding the sheep in the shed. There's a coat belonged to my father in the room you came from. The sheep get a measure each. You'll have to carry a pail with you, with enough to feed all of them. I'd take it as a favor if you'd see to them. I'm still done in from last night.”
She turned to find him staring at her injured leg. “I broke it once. It's stubborn and won't heal.”
He had the grace to blush.
“Well, go on! They're as hungry as you were!”
He found the coat, shrugged into it, and buttoned it snugly although it swallowed him, the cuffs well over his hands. The boots he found under the coat were twice his size, but he laced them up. When he came back to the kitchen, Maggie stared at him.
“That'll never do!” She moved towards him, expecting him to run, but he stood his ground. Still, his eyes widened anxiously as she reached out, lifted his arms, and roughly turned back the cuff on first one and then the other. Satisfied, she stepped back. “Go on, then!”
He filled the pail he found inside the bin, stuffed the measure in one pocket, and then with both hands gripping the handle lugged the heavy container out the door without asking for help. The boots slapped at the floor like a clown's.
He must have found the shed without difficulty, for he was back in a quarter of an hour, boots caked with snow, and his cheeks red from the cold. He came scuttling through the door as if afraid that out on the fells in the cloudy morning there was something ominous waiting for him. Maggie saw him surreptitiously bolt it.
She had tea waiting, hot and sweetened with honey. He drank it eagerly, and then washed up for both of them. After that he went to sit by Sybil, his hand smoothing her rough coat.
“Ever had a dog of your own?” Maggie asked, scrubbing at potatoes for the noon meal.
He shook his head.
“Well, Sybil's never had a boy of her own.”
It was not ten minutes later when Sybil growled deep in