The best sorts of recoveries
Sleepovers are always fun, and being the "cool mom" around school, they're frequently under Ali's watchful eye. (Not to say that Sasha isn't a cool mom, or doesn't help: being so quiet and demure, she doesn't draw the attention of the ten-and-under set the way a loud and playful Ali does.) Having found Morty safe haven at a friend's house for the weekend, it had been a girlie-girl time. Saturday morning began with the girls being picked up bright and early for a trip out to the farm, where a few hours were spent in the greenhouse learning how to plant seeds and tend seedlings before a big lunch at the farmhouse. Saturday afternoon was spent in the blissful raptures only millinery and a very fancy indeed afternoon tea on real china can inspire.
This is where Ali made her critical mistake: she forgot how exponentially the noise and mischief of little girls having had too much sugar grows for each extra girl in the group. It was well past midnight before the girls were settled downstairs, to keep mostly quiet if not to sleep; it was half past two when Ali finally fell into her own bed.
The morning brought only the relief of exhausted girls sleeping in. Brunch was a somewhat difficult affair, as nobody could decide what they wanted to eat, except for the repeated requests for the nasty sugary cereals Ali refuses to keep in the house. Fortunately, the guests were all ferried home soon thereafter, and the household returned to something akin to peace. All except for Ali, who was tired and rather cranky.
There was only one remedy: a good hunt. The exercise and fresh air would restore her in ways she could not find in the house, she knew, so she headed out for a few stolen hours on her own as soon as she could. Passing through the Nexus to one of the many uninhabited placed to which it connects, Ali was soon in her favorite hunting grounds, where she would have the quiet solitude necessary to improve her mood. (And if she didn't, she had plenty of pointy things with which to threaten whoever disturbed her.)
It was a successful hunt. The snow and cold didn't bother her as much anymore, and her fur-lined cloak kept her warm as she waited and worked while being easily shed for ease of movement. Better able to judge the tension of her bow with the limited feeling in her new right hand, Ali took a brace of rabbits, twice as many ducks, and a particularly fat pheasant with quiet efficiency. Whatever lingering frustrations she hadn't shed in the hunt were drained away as she focused on field dressing her kills. So intently did she work that she didn't notice the approaching herd of deer until they were surrounding her. Blissfully unaware of their conversation, she sat still and silent until the buck passed again into the trees, formulating a plan.
Soon as she could, Ali slung the smaller game over a tree limb and set off after the deer. It took an hour or more of slinking behind the herd, stepping carefully from place to place, before she found what she sought: a straggler. A young doe with no fawn would be the perfect target; Ali had no desire to orphan anything nor to tangle with antlers. Ali waited, holding her breath, until the doe presented a good shot at her side--and then pounced. What happened next was violent, bloody, even brutal; and, mercifully, short.
Ali's burden on the walk home was heavier than she'd anticipated, but she was in good spirits nonetheless. The field dressing went quickly, cold water was abundant, and nothing had stolen the rabbits and birds. Washing up in a stream halfway iced over made her blue only in color, and the walk home was restoring her rosy hue. She was even humming a little tune by the time she crossed the boundary between that world and the Nexus as she considered where to take the deer for butchering--to the better smoker, or for the better sausage? Decisions, decisions.
This is where Ali made her critical mistake: she forgot how exponentially the noise and mischief of little girls having had too much sugar grows for each extra girl in the group. It was well past midnight before the girls were settled downstairs, to keep mostly quiet if not to sleep; it was half past two when Ali finally fell into her own bed.
The morning brought only the relief of exhausted girls sleeping in. Brunch was a somewhat difficult affair, as nobody could decide what they wanted to eat, except for the repeated requests for the nasty sugary cereals Ali refuses to keep in the house. Fortunately, the guests were all ferried home soon thereafter, and the household returned to something akin to peace. All except for Ali, who was tired and rather cranky.
There was only one remedy: a good hunt. The exercise and fresh air would restore her in ways she could not find in the house, she knew, so she headed out for a few stolen hours on her own as soon as she could. Passing through the Nexus to one of the many uninhabited placed to which it connects, Ali was soon in her favorite hunting grounds, where she would have the quiet solitude necessary to improve her mood. (And if she didn't, she had plenty of pointy things with which to threaten whoever disturbed her.)
It was a successful hunt. The snow and cold didn't bother her as much anymore, and her fur-lined cloak kept her warm as she waited and worked while being easily shed for ease of movement. Better able to judge the tension of her bow with the limited feeling in her new right hand, Ali took a brace of rabbits, twice as many ducks, and a particularly fat pheasant with quiet efficiency. Whatever lingering frustrations she hadn't shed in the hunt were drained away as she focused on field dressing her kills. So intently did she work that she didn't notice the approaching herd of deer until they were surrounding her. Blissfully unaware of their conversation, she sat still and silent until the buck passed again into the trees, formulating a plan.
Soon as she could, Ali slung the smaller game over a tree limb and set off after the deer. It took an hour or more of slinking behind the herd, stepping carefully from place to place, before she found what she sought: a straggler. A young doe with no fawn would be the perfect target; Ali had no desire to orphan anything nor to tangle with antlers. Ali waited, holding her breath, until the doe presented a good shot at her side--and then pounced. What happened next was violent, bloody, even brutal; and, mercifully, short.
Ali's burden on the walk home was heavier than she'd anticipated, but she was in good spirits nonetheless. The field dressing went quickly, cold water was abundant, and nothing had stolen the rabbits and birds. Washing up in a stream halfway iced over made her blue only in color, and the walk home was restoring her rosy hue. She was even humming a little tune by the time she crossed the boundary between that world and the Nexus as she considered where to take the deer for butchering--to the better smoker, or for the better sausage? Decisions, decisions.