Heartstrings of a Mercenary

1. Claire

Claire

If anyone had told me this morning that I would be locked in a standoff with a rooster, I would have chosen to stay in bed.

I have always believed I was destined for a life of comfort and beauty. Unfortunately, destiny had placed me in a battle of wills against Lord Peckington the Third—a rooster with a massive superiority complex who had deliberately stationed himself between me and the chicken coop.

“I’m not asking for much,” I whispered under my breath, fingers tightening around the woven handle of my basket. “I just need a few eggs—not your entire legacy.”

Across the yard, Lord Peckington loomed like a general surveying his battlefield—his chest puffed, his feathers burnished in shades of copper and rust that caught the morning light like gleaming armor.

His tail fanned behind him in an arrogant sweep of dark iridescence, and his crimson comb sat atop his head like a crooked crown.

We had not moved. But neither of us dared look away.

To make matters worse, it had rained all night in Thistlebrook.

What started as a gentle drizzle turned into a heavy downpour that completely soaked everything in sight.

Our home rested at the base of the mountains, where a creek cut through town.

After a heavy storm like that, the waters breached the banks and turned the entire valley into a treacherous mire of thick mud.

In other words, mud clung to everything.

At least I’d had the foresight to borrow my elder sister Maribel’s scuffed boots that had likely survived worse than this particular battlefield. I, however, already dreaded the cleanup; I loathed mud with a passion, specifically the way it dried into a stubborn crust that refused to wash away.

Lord Peckington tilted his head. Then, he ruffled his feathers.

I inhaled sharply.

“Oh, no—”

There was a blur of feathers and fury as he hurled himself across the clearing with a screech that could only be described as a war cry. I shrieked and sprinted for the fence behind me, dignity be damned.

Freedom was so close. I leaped, but my foot slipped, and in a deeply unfortunate, entirely predictable turn of events, I crashed face-first into the mud.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, Maribel’s voice drifted from above, laced with long-suffering disappointment.

“Good news is the mud matches your dress. Bad news is, that’s what you get for wearing my boots without asking.”

Mud coated me from head to toe, clinging to my dress, my hair, and my pride. When I swiped at my cheek, I only managed to smear it across my jaw and right onto my lips. Ugh. I might cry. In fact, my throat tightened, and my eyes burned. This was a situation that warranted tears.

“He’s just a rooster,” Maribel chided.

Just.

A.

Rooster.

I lifted my head enough to glower at Maribel through the mud as she stepped into the coop with the unbothered composure of someone who had never once been personally victimized by poultry.

Lord Peckington turned to face Maribel. He did not charge.

I see how it is.

Three years my senior, and far more inclined toward mischief than grace, Maribel had spent her childhood scaling trees only to call for help getting down, her pants so frequently scuffed that Mama had taken to mending them nearly every night.

Just as Maribel met every challenge with a steady will, I always preferred to avoid them entirely.

I attempted to push myself up, only for my hands to slip on the slick mud beneath me. “Help me!” I called to Maribel.

“You can get yourself up,” Maribel replied, already moving past the nesting boxes. “I’m going to finish what you were supposed to be doing.”

“I’m trying,” I grabbed onto the fence rail and hauled myself upward. “He’s evil. Can we return him to the sender?”

I shot a withering glare toward the beast which he swiftly met, unrepentant. I swore for a brief, horrifying moment that he stared directly into my soul.

My stomach dropped.

Meanwhile, Maribel retrieved the eggs from our hens as if this were a perfectly normal, entirely non-life-threatening activity.

As she stepped back out, double-checking the state of the eggs she collected, she stated, “Go wash up. Papa needs to speak with you.”

That did not sound promising. I hesitated, then swung open the gate, still eyeing Lord Peckington with deep and abiding mistrust. If he so much as made a move, I’d stand my ground this time.

Maybe.

Probably not.

“I’m telling you, he’s plotting something,” I muttered, closing the gate quickly behind me.

“If he is,” Maribel retorted mildly, “I imagine he’ll have you conquered by midday.”

Our house sat nestled beneath the sweeping branches of an old willow. The afternoon sun filtered through its trailing green curtains, casting shifting patterns across the yard and garden below. I wished I could unfold a blanket, curl up under its shade, and enjoy a snack or read a book.

Spring had finally settled over Thistlebrook. Here, people learned to appreciate sunlight when it came because it was never guaranteed. Today, the sunlight lingered, bright and generous, warming the earth just enough to turn everything soft after the storm last night.

Soft and, unfortunately, muddy.

My boots squelched with every step as I passed the garden, the hem of my dress stiff.

I caught sight of my brother, Matthew, a few rows over, knee-deep in the soil, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he tugged stubborn weeds from the ground.

Two years older than me, he had always been quiet but never idle.

His hands were constantly occupied. His dark curls were a mess atop his head, and his skin glowed warm beneath the sun.

He was humming a vaguely familiar song Mama used to hum. It must be nice to go about one’s day without being personally targeted by an evil rooster.

Why was I the one sent to collect eggs? But then again, the alternative was spending hours on my knees waging war against weeds that refused to die. Perhaps my suffering was the lesser of two evils.

It had not always been this way. Mornings used to be simple, with quiet trips to the coop and eggs gathered without incident under the watch of our old rooster, who had possessed the decency to mind his own business.

But he had passed from old age, and we had acquired Lord Peckington only yesterday.

It seemed now, my mornings would be spent locked in a standoff with a rooster.

I slipped inside our small cottage long enough to drop my satchel with a soft thud near the door, then strolled right back toward the garden.

“Matthew,” I called, drawing closer, careful to avoid stepping directly into anything freshly tended.

He didn’t look up. “Claire.”

“I need your help.”

He sighed, still focused on the weeds. “You always do.”

I placed a hand over my arm and winced. “I’ve been injured.”

That made him pause. His gaze drifted to my arm, inspecting the injury with a critical squint before he looked up into the sunlight. “Injured,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes,” I said, lifting my arm just enough to imply serious injury without committing to specifics. “Terribly. It was so violent.”

His eyes dropped to the mud covering me from head to toe. “The rooster?” he guessed.

“He attacked me.”

Matthew stared at me for a long moment and nodded. “Mm.”

“I could have died.”

“You probably slipped.”

“I was ambushed.”

“You slipped,” he repeated, returning to his work.

I lowered my voice as if this were a matter of great urgency. “I need a bath.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“I can’t fetch water wounded like this,” I insisted, gesturing weakly with my injured arm.

“Your arm appears functional.”

“It’s internal. You can’t see it.”

Matthew sat back, resting his forearms over his knees, considering me with the expression of someone who knew me far too well. “You want me to haul water for you.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, already turning back to the weeds. “You have two arms. Use them.”

“One of them is compromised.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is internally compromised.”

He snorted.

“Matthew,” I pressed, stepping carefully around a row of herbs and lowering myself into a crouch beside him despite the mud that soaked into my dress. “Please. I cannot be expected to carry buckets in this condition.”

“That condition being… muddy?”

“Yes.”

“You got yourself into it.”

“I was pushed into it.”

“By a rooster.”

“He’s aggressive.”

“He’s a bird.”

“He’s a menace.”

Matthew pulled another weed free with a little more force than necessary. “Carry your own water, Claire.”

I gawked at him. “So, you would leave your younger sister to suffer?”

He didn’t even look at me this time. “Yes.”

I gasped, placing a hand over my heart. “When you’re old and gray and need my help to care for you, I will remember this.”

“I’m sure you will.”

I pushed myself back to my feet with as much dignity as I could manage. “This is cruelty.”

“This is life,” he retorted.

I turned, lifting my chin as I began the long, tragic walk toward the house and, apparently, my own bucket.

Behind me, Matthew’s humming resumed.

Huffing, I retrieved the wooden bucket from beside the front door and set off toward the well.

My boots squelched miserably with each step as I passed beneath the long, sweeping branches of the willow.

Its leaves brushed against my shoulder mockingly as I trudged by, branches dragging in the bucket just long enough to remind me how thoroughly unsuited I was for this sort of labor.

The well rope creaked as I lowered it, the pulley groaning in protest, and, when I hauled it back up, the weight nearly pulled me forward with it.

By the time I lugged the sloshing bucket back to the house, my skirts were soaked, my arms ached, and my patience was entirely gone.

I hauled the bucket inside, setting it near the hearth before carefully pouring it into the waiting pot over the fire and watching as the first faint curls of steam began to rise.

I brushed damp curls from my face and decided with quiet conviction that I would be delegating this task far more aggressively next time.

A quick sweep of the house revealed Papa was not in yet.

As I waited for the water to heat, I stopped by our kitchen to have a glass of milk.

Sun and warmth filled our small, open-concept cottage through the wide-open windows.

Beyond the fireplace, a narrow hallway led to Maribel’s room, and just beyond that, the staircase climbed to the loft Matthew and I shared.

There was no space left for Papa but the couch near the hearth.

I leaned against the counter, the cool clay cup pressed between my hands, and let my gaze drift toward the hearth. It would take time. Everything always took time. Which, I thought, was precisely the problem.

One day, I would not be standing in the kitchen waiting for water to heat. One day, I would lift my hand, and someone would appear.

I raised my fingers slightly, testing the motion. “Yes,” I murmured, as if addressing an invisible audience. “I would like a bath, please.”

And not in several trips with a bucket, not after slipping in mud, not after being attacked by poultry, but immediately, a servant would bow and say, “Of course, my lady.”

The bath would already be prepared by the time I undressed. It would be perfectly warm, perhaps with petals floating on the surface. Soft towels would be waiting with an arrangement of dresses for my choosing laid out.

I took a sip of milk, letting the image settle deeper.

“And a tray,” I added softly. “With something light and sweet—scones or biscuits. Oh, and tea.”

There would be no hesitation or discussion of whether I had two perfectly capable arms and certainly no expectation that I might, at any point, fetch anything myself.

I smiled to myself as I imagined reclining in a warm bath, steam swirling around me, someone else responsible for maintaining the temperature.

A sharp hiss snapped me from my thoughts.

I bristled.

The water! It was boiling.

“Oh!”

I rushed toward the hearth just as the water began to bubble over the edge. I grabbed the handle with a cloth, nearly dropping it as the heat bit through, and yanked the pot back from the flames.

As I carefully lowered it from the hearth and set it on the floor to cool, the front door clanked open.

“Claire?” Papa called, his voice carrying easily through the house. “Oh, there you are.”

I straightened quickly, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, and turned toward him with what I hoped was a composed expression. Papa was a man of medium height with a balding head of dark hair and dark skin, his chocolate-brown eyes soft with familiar crinkles at the corners.

“Papa,” I said, softening my voice, as if that alone might improve the situation. “I’ve just finished with the hens and was about to wash up.”

“That’s quite—” he began, stepping fully into the room.

Then he stopped.

His eyes traced across the floorboards—over the damp, uneven streaks of mud I had tracked in earlier, smeared in unfortunate patterns that suggested both panic and poor decision-making.

I held very still. Perhaps if I did not acknowledge the mess, it might cease to exist.

Papa lifted his gaze back to me. “Claire,” he said, in that tone that suggested my name alone contained a lecture.

“Yes?”

“What happened to the floor?”

I followed his line of sight, as though I was seeing it for the first time. “Oh,” I said. “Well, there was an accident that involved a rooster and mud. Lots and lots of mud.”

Papa stepped farther into the room, boots stopping just short of the worst of the mess as he looked from the floor, to me, and back again, as if trying to determine which was the greater offense.

“You tracked this through the entire house.”

“I was under duress.”

“You were careless.”

“I was pursued.”

“Maribel told me, by a rooster.”

“Yes, he is particularly aggressive.”

Papa closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose in a long, practiced breath that suggested this was not, in fact, the first time I had tested his patience. “You will clean this.”

“I was about to bathe,” I countered, gesturing vaguely toward the pot.

“You will clean this,” he repeated, opening his eyes again, entirely unmoved. “Before you bathe.”

I glanced toward the pot, then back to the floor, then back at him. “Surely the mud won’t go anywhere.”

Papa watched me for another moment, the sharpness in his gaze dulling as his attention seemed to drift just a fraction. “I needed to speak with you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

I perked up immediately. “About what?”

“Hmm…”

He looked at me, then at the pot, then at the floor again, as if the answer might be written somewhere between the three. “It was important,” he added.

“I’m sure it was.”

He shook his head once, dismissing the thought with a small, distracted huff. “It will come back to me.”

“Of course it will.”

He pointed toward the floor as he turned away. “Clean it up, Claire. I mean it.”

“Yes, Papa,” I said sweetly, already calculating how quickly I could do the absolute minimum before soaking in my bath.