Day Thirty

 

     Smith’s place. Sometime in the morning, while it’s too early for Myr to barge in and most (if not all) of town is still in church. Coming from Smith, this whole arrangement may as well have come complete with an engraved invitation and fanfare. Casper should be happy. Hell, he should be ecstatic, skipping his merry way down the hill at first light.

     He’s not. If anything, he feels sick thinking about it. He’s been dragging his feet all the way through his morning routine, but he can’t put it off forever. There’s no point in staying at the house anyhow, with Balor cooped up in his attic, busy doing whatever, and Casper too afraid to set foot onto the second floor to follow. He’s only making matters harder for himself, unnecessarily so.

     But, hey. That’s the story of his life, isn’t it?

Days Twenty-Seven to Twenty-Nine

 

     With the glasshouse harvest having reached its culmination, there’s been progressively less and less to do every day except wait and eat. Consequently, Balor’s spending less time in their garden. He seems occupied with something, but god knows what, least of all because he outright refuses to tell Casper what’s going on. Whatever it is, Casper doesn’t like it. It can’t possibly be Casper’s impending departure (ten days, nine, eight…); both Balor and Smith have both amply assured him everything is well in hand in that regard, so what’s going on? When people start moving around Casper without telling him what they’re doing, it generally means bad new for him. It’s only fair he’s getting a little bit (extremely) nervous.

     Myr’s up and about during the day now, though that may be because the daylight hours are getting longer, the evening stretching onwards and outwards through what was once the night. Casper’s making good use of the strange shadows that line the manor halls, cast by the interminable afternoons that blur into a summer long haze. But he needs to keep his head clear, needs to stay on his toes.

Day Twenty-Six

  

     Casper finishes off the espinac with Balor’s blessings. The stuff’s about to go to seed, so it needs to be eaten soon. There’s the one crime Casper would be loath to commit: wasting perfectly good food. As for what counts as ‘perfectly good food’… It varies on the circumstance and range of alternatives, be it bitter greens or the days old bread rolls that’ve been sitting in his pockets. He had his reservations about using up the last bit of pub fare he’ll likely ever get, but it’s not like it was getting any fresher. He ate the last crumbs yesterday for dinner while Balor turned up his nose at them and stalked off muttering about getting him something decent to eat.

     Between a full meal yesterday and another this morning, Casper’s has the rare pleasure of being sated. The sheer amount of bare earth he’s left behind, however, is disconcerting.