Here’s the eighth chapter of my short story, Sorrel’s Story.
Thank you, dear reader, for your wonderful encouragement and feedback.
I’m one lucky kid 😉
If you haven’t read this story and would like to start it from the top, you can click on the link below.
Sorrel sat up, her face rigid, her eyes full of fear, and her breath coming in short gasps.
She was tangled in damp sheets, and her tangled hair clung limply to her flushed face. “It was just a dream,” she murmured, but immediately she got up and lit a candle.
She trembled. It had been so real. So lifelike.
Mrs. Wakefield had gasped for breath, with Sorrel at her bedside.
“Don’t die!” she had cried. “Please, don’t!” She had sobbed into her hands.
Mrs. Wakefield had taken her last, choking breath. Willie had walked in, but he stood there, watching Sorrel weep.
“Willie!” Sorrel had sobbed. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
She reached out to him, but Willie turned his back on her and left, locking the door behind him.
Sorrel shuddered again at the nightmare. The vivid emotions even found their way into her dreams. But was it a dream? Was Mrs. Wakefield going to get better?
Sorrel dreaded the answer. Of course she would, Sorrel assured herself.
“But what if she doesn’t?”
Sorrel wanted Mrs. Wakefield to live. She wanted it badly.
“God, let her live,” she breathed. “Please.”
She quivered, and turned back to go to bed. But light was already beginning to dawn.
Then she had an idea. The first unselfish idea she had had in a long while.
She blew out her candle, immediately in darkness. She scuttled to smooth her bedsheets and pulled on her wrinkled green dress.
Tying her hair up, she opened the door to her room, ever so softly. It creaked as if it were being wakened from a deep sleep.
She eased it open, and tiptoed into the hall. All was silent.
A thick, calm darkness surrounded her, and she heard nothing from the direction of the Hansom’s room.
So she creeped down the protesting stairs, and into the dark, cluttered kitchen.
Carefully, so as not to bang the pots and pans, she got out a large pot, and set it on the cooking range.
She began to start a fire, and blew it to life. Quietly, she got out the oats and poured water into the pot.
She was making breakfast, and doing it all by herself.
She stood over the hot stove and stirred until her arm was liable to fall off. Then she put the tiniest bit of brown sugar in the pot, and took a taste.
It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, she found it rather appetizing. She smiled in the dawning light, and set the littered table.
Mrs. Hansom came into the room with surprise etched on her lined face. “Now, dear, what have you gone and made breakfast for?” she asked, a smile on her face.
“For you,” Sorrel answered, and she hurried out to gather eggs. Mrs. Hansom stared after her, shaking her head in disbelief.
“That girl is a puzzle. A wonderful, perplexing sort of puzzle.”
She sat down to eat the breakfast she hadn’t needed to cook.
Mr. Hansom came down to find his Mrs. with a smile on her old face.
“Morning, dear. Sorrel fixed us some breakfast.”
Now they were both smiling. The girl who had given this blessing was completely oblivious. She was out filling a basket with warm eggs, and conversing with the chickens, her head thrown back to enjoy the warm July dawn.
What did you think of Chapter Eight?
Do you like the way the plot is turning?
Thanks for reading,