One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

work you’re doing, lads,” Owen sang, his words dripping with sarcasm.

His voice made the muscles in my neck tighten.

Sasanaigh murderer.

Suddenly I knew without a doubt that Patrick Owen had been at Blackwell’s hut the previous night. Was he the one who had flung the rock through the window?

“Be quiet, Patrick,” said Lottie. “We don’t need you making trouble for us. Some of us still got to answer to the lobsters.”

Owen chuckled, looking her up and down. “Who’s making trouble?”

Lottie looked back at him for a long second. A smile flickered in the corner of his lips. And in swanned Maggie, scooping up Owen’s arm and whisking him away from us in one smooth movement.

“Come on now, Patrick,” she crooned. “Let’s go, aye?”

For a moment, Owen kept his eyes on Lottie, despite Maggie’s fingers crawling up his arm. He gave her one last hint of a smile and marched away from the water.

I stayed at the river until Lottie had disappeared into the hut of the man she was lodging with. I knew it only a matter of time before she realised I was no longer sleeping on the street. Only a matter of time before she began to ask questions.

When I stepped into the hut, Blackwell was sitting in a chair beside the crackling fire, a worn book in his hand. The scent of woodsmoke and eucalyptus was thick in the air.

He looked up as I entered.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant to be here before you returned, but…” I trailed off.

A faint frown creased the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was debating whether or not to reprimand me. This infant colony’s idea of incarceration was hazy. Neither of us knew the rules.

 “There’s meat for soup,” he said finally, nodding to a bloodied paper package sitting on the table.

I nodded wordlessly, thankful he had not seen fit to punish me. I unwrapped the package, and stared blankly down at the meat. I’d never cooked a thing in my life, and had little thought of how I might magic this slab of flesh into supper.

I hacked the meat into pieces and placed it in the pot with water and some limp carrots I’d discovered at the back of the shelf. I hung the pot carefully over the flames.

Blackwell stayed in his chair, reading. After the drunken chatter at the river, the wordlessness felt thick and heavy. I stirred slowly, eyes fixed on the pot, watching the meat darken as the liquid bubbled steadily. I was pleased to find it vaguely resembled soup.

“It’s ready,” I ventured, when much of the colour had drained from both the meat and vegetables. “May I eat some too?”

Blackwell put down his book and shifted his chair to face the table. “Of course.”

I filled the bowls and set them on the table. Blackwell lowered his gaze and murmured a short prayer. I waited for him to begin eating before bringing my spoon to my lips.

The soup was watery and more than a little bland, but I felt my effort was admirable, given my complete lack of knowledge, and what I’d had to work with. I had no doubt I was eating an animal I had never even heard of.

Our wooden spoons tapped against the side of the bowls.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me,” Blackwell said finally.

“I’m not afraid of you.” My voice coming out softer than I had intended.

“Yes you are.” He looked up at me for the first time. “Why? Because you fear I will come to you in the night?”

I swallowed hard, the meat sticking in my throat. That was a part of it, of course. But perhaps it was unfair to have such a fear. For three nights, he had not asked anything more of me than sweeping his floors and cooking his supper. Of that I was grateful.

“You’re here as my housekeeper,” he said evenly. “Nothing more.”

It was the intimacy of this that frightened me, I realised then. For almost a year I had been crammed into jail cells and spinning rooms and the stinking convicts’ quarters of the Norfolk with women on every side. These sparsely worded nights when it was just he and I alone felt foreign and hard to navigate.

But I didn’t want to fear him. I wanted to believe Lottie’s warning was misplaced. How much more manageable this place would seem if I had a safe haven to return to each night.

A sudden burst of wind made the cloth window drum and the roof rustle loudly.

“I ought to fix that,” said Blackwell, as a triangle of bark glided down and landed in the middle of the table.

“Why do you not have convict workers?” I asked. “Men to tend to the garden and the like?”

“I prefer the solitude.”

“Then why take me in?”

“Because you were sleeping in the street.”

His answer made me feel strangely hollow. I didn’t want him to have taken me in merely out of pity. I wanted him to see more in me than just another wretched lag. The thought was an uncomfortable one, and I was unsure where it had come from.

“I’m sure I’m not the only woman to have found herself sleeping in the street,” I said.

He held my gaze. “I’m sure you’re not. But as unfortunate as that is, I don’t make a point of accommodating prisoners. I merely saw you as I passed by the church. You were clearly in need of shelter, and it seemed rather uncharitable not to offer it.”

“I see.” I hated being on the receiving end of his charity. Hated what I had been reduced to.

“If you are unhappy with this arrangement,” he said, “you’re free to leave anytime you wish.”

I turned back to my bowl. I regretted raising the issue.

Blackwell took another