They say that, short of having somebody die, moving is the most stressful thing that you could do in your life. Eostre hadn't found it particularly stressful, but only because she'd spent the day in the kitchen with the girls and the air conditioning and let the boys do the majority of the heavy lifting
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And now he stands back a few yards and watches her with it. He's giving her space. He's built it, or at least part of it, but it's not his. He doesn't need to introduce himself to it.
He glances up; the trunk looks almost as though it's splitting the roof, moving up through the house and impaling it as it does so. But it's stable. Built to last. There's still work to do here and there, details to see to, the roof to finish and some carving over the door he wants to try, but the structure itself is there.
And now she and they are too. So he watches her and them in silence.
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She looked up at him as she said that last part, and, for a moment, there was no warmth at all in dark green eyes.
A promise made. A promise kept.
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He steps forward, slow, like he's ready for her to tell him that she needs more time. "Think we got everything," he says quietly. "You need anything else?"
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"He had a nightmare the other morning," he adds. "Peter did. In the kitchen." What his tone says without actually saying it is I'm worried.
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Her mouth tightened at the mention of Peter.
"It happens. Sometimes, he crawls into my bed in the middle of the night. We don't talk about it. Or we try not to."
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"Didn't seem like he wanted to," he says. "Said it was windows. Afraid of getting locked out. Poor kid." In his voice is obvious sympathy, though he's not usually one for showing it. Nightmares are things he understands, and he understands what it is to dread your own dreams. He feels less of that now, but it's still there.
"These windows don't lock. That's what I told him."
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She nodded.
"I tell him the same thing every time," she said. "No locks on my windows, no bars on my doors."
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"Maybe the new place will help," he says, looking it over again as he shifts his daughters in his arms. "What d'you think?" he asks Mack. "Does it... meet with your approval?"
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"Looks like the jury's still out on that one, love."
Eostre arched an eyebrow, her mouth tight around a smile.
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"Ungrateful child," he says with mock bitterness. "No Christmas for you this year."
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"Oh, goodness."
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"Came out well," he says. "Not sure if I should be proud or not, but... yeah. It's good." He's built enough huts by this point to have some notion of what he's doing, but this is the first place that he's essentially designed, and while his skills as an architect are a bit lacking...
It's definitely something.
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"Very good, very good." Flo laughed, and Eostre looked down at her. "I think you've got a fan-club for life, daddy."
She turned and looked up at the house.
"It'll do, love," she said, a small smile curling the corner of her mouth. "It'll definitely do."
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"You need to christen it," he murmurs.
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"I was just introducing ourselves instead."
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