Wynflaed is not sick

Wynflaed was too weary to kneel as she scrubbed the floor. She sat instead, and she leaned on one arm as she worked with the other, switching the brush between hands when the arm tired. It was not an efficient way to work, but it was the most she could do.

She told herself it was her own fault she was tired, since she had been out to see Sigefrith the night before. She should have known she would feel this way in the morning. It was her own fault. It was all her own fault. She should have known.

Mouse came into the kitchen singing.

Wynflaed sat up, relieved to have a distraction. “What’s that song?” she asked.

“Oh! It’s another one from the Duke that Sigefrith taught me. Isn’t it funny that we sing his songs, even though we have never met him? But Sigefrith says he would like that if he knew it. Say, Wyn – you don’t mind if I sing, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“You look not quite pleased about it.”

“I’m only tired.”

“Well, Os likes it. He says it makes it seem like home still, if Mouse is singing. Say – Os said we can kill Tatter-​​tail today. She quit laying. That will be a nice Sunday dinner, won’t it? We can have Heaf. And perhaps Sigefrith will come.”

“I should rather have had the eggs,” Wynflaed sighed.

“You didn’t seem so fond of eggs this morning!” Mouse scolded playfully. “I had to threaten to throw your egg to the pigs only to get you to eat it.”

“We can’t afford to throw food away this winter. So many people are hungry.”

“A pig would have eaten it, and we would have eaten the pig. But I should rather see you eat it. You look a little pale all the time ever since our little mother died.”

“I’m only tired.”

“Then you should tell Sigefrith to come less often,” she scolded and continued up the stairs, singing again.

Wynflaed dipped her brush in the water again and sighed. It didn’t matter how often she saw Sigefrith now. It didn’t matter.

She had only just begun her scrubbing. She had started in the far corner near the window, and now she had cleaned only as far as the hearth. The hearth would be very dirty from the ashes, and she would be obliged to fetch new water in her bucket after she had washed it. But it would give her a chance to stand and stretch her legs. Her head was so light and her stomach so queasy as she sat that it seemed it would be a relief to stand.

Then she slapped the wet brush against the stones of the hearth. The water brought the odor of ashes to her nose, and then the smell of the wet stone beneath it. The smells were strong and clear in the damp morning air, and they seemed to fill her nose, and then fill her mouth. She felt as if she had a mouth full of ashes, and a tongue made of wet stone. She could taste wet stone, and she felt as if she had a belly full of ashes. She began to whimper in panic, just as Mouse came singing down the stairs.

“Wyn?”

Fortunately she had a bucket beside her, though it was a bucket of dirty water. It was the thought of the dirty water that did her in. She could taste ashes, and she felt as if her stomach were churning dirty water. She hung her head over the bucket and vomited into it.

“Wyn!”

Mouse fell to her knees beside her but hopped up immediately and returned with a wet cloth to wipe her sister’s face. Wynflaed was already sobbing by this time. She was too weak to stop her own sobs.

“But, Wyn, what is this nonsense? There’s nothing to cry over.”

“But… but my egg!” she wailed. And at the thought of the half-​​digested egg swimming in the bucket of dirty water, she threw up again.

“Oh, your egg, your egg, what nonsense!” Mouse scolded and hugged her, clucking over her like old Tatter-​​tail herself, when Tatter-​​tail had been allowed to hatch a brood of chicks. “You should have told me you were sick, and I wouldn’t have made you eat an egg, honey! What nonsense!”

“But I’m not sick!” Wynflaed sobbed.

“It doesn’t make you better to deny it. But it’s just like you to try!” she sighed. “Now let’s get you up to bed and I shall wash your floor for you.”

Mouse stood and dragged Wynflaed to her feet.

“It won’t help, Mouse,” Wynflaed sniffled. Now that she was standing, she felt more in control of herself and her sobs, though no more in control of her stomach. “I’m not sick.”

“It won’t help to deny it, either! If you would simply – ”

Mouse’s eyes went wide. Wynflaed knew she had understood.