She was always wiping her hands. If it wasn’t because of just having washed them, it was because of the blood. If some soul hadn’t oozed their life’s juices across her dress and down her shoes, it was one of several meals she was cooking. Seemed she was always dealing with fluids of some kind. Hot, and wet, Xavier chose that exact moment in thought to piss on the wooden floor, having ripped off his nappy and thrown it across the room. She bit back a laugh and put on her stern face in effort to dissuade him from doing it in the future. The attempt failed miserably when he put up his chubby little finger pointing at her and laughed hysterically.
At eleven pounds and a few thigh rolls, it was clear to see that Xavier hadn’t missed many, in fact not one, meal. He was a far cry from the children of Britain. It was a fact she had intentionally created. He would never want for food, never feel the rumble in his belly from starvation of three days or more. Walking over, she picked him up pee and all, and carried him to the tub.
Last eve, she could count the ribs on both Mother and baby as they passed the Blue Boar, avoiding the eyes of the patrons in an effort to stay anonymous. But it was too late, Gillian had seen them and so many of their counterparts. Purchasing a loaf of bread, milk, a wheel of cheese, and a bit of chicken she had rushed out to the young Mother. Fear, and uncertainty laced her eyes and it took a good 45 minutes for Gillian to convince her she meant only to help. Like dogs that had been hit on too many times, she was afraid of the hand that reached thinking it would only smack her on the ears.
Xavier giggled and laughed when she pulled him from the bath water. She dried him off, set him in his play area and cleaned up the mess on the floor before letting him roam once more at her feet. Britain was much the same, Dramora’s mess to clean up and Gillian would assist and act as mop. Smiling to her son, she picked up parchment from the end table and penned a letter.
At eleven pounds and a few thigh rolls, it was clear to see that Xavier hadn’t missed many, in fact not one, meal. He was a far cry from the children of Britain. It was a fact she had intentionally created. He would never want for food, never feel the rumble in his belly from starvation of three days or more. Walking over, she picked him up pee and all, and carried him to the tub.
Last eve, she could count the ribs on both Mother and baby as they passed the Blue Boar, avoiding the eyes of the patrons in an effort to stay anonymous. But it was too late, Gillian had seen them and so many of their counterparts. Purchasing a loaf of bread, milk, a wheel of cheese, and a bit of chicken she had rushed out to the young Mother. Fear, and uncertainty laced her eyes and it took a good 45 minutes for Gillian to convince her she meant only to help. Like dogs that had been hit on too many times, she was afraid of the hand that reached thinking it would only smack her on the ears.
Xavier giggled and laughed when she pulled him from the bath water. She dried him off, set him in his play area and cleaned up the mess on the floor before letting him roam once more at her feet. Britain was much the same, Dramora’s mess to clean up and Gillian would assist and act as mop. Smiling to her son, she picked up parchment from the end table and penned a letter.