Her hand ached. How many owls had she written? Must have been about six and from the summer of goofing around and avoiding pretty much all forms of studying her hand wasn't used to the exercise. Even after six years with a quill in hand.

But six were done. Placing the seventh piece of parchment down she flexed her hand in and out before wetting the ( Read more... )

"I'm coming, stop yelling." She said entering the kitchen. Her mother was already dressed and looked like she was heading out, her short black hair surrounding her face in a most stylish fashion.
"I'd like you to clean the kitchen and go ask Mr. Samson if he needs help packing." Frowning Angie picked up an apple, turning it over in her hand.
"Old ( Read more... )