He proceeded to wallop at the stumped rocks in front of his Aunt’s home. He had avoided any given chore provided by the three women, and yet feeling guilty for his lack of turn. His breeches had been dirtied due to resting on the hay beside the locked door leading to the cellar. Curious for days on end as to why Mother and Aunt pay visit into this small nook to the floor. No good will dwindle on asking Grandmother either, he learned the hard way after clenching his fingers to his little lips as if healing the process. “Emory! Have thy finished?” said Mother across the wooden frame on the other side of the way. Hurriedly, Emory answered vast as he stretched out his hand to a basket not yet full of their small harvest. Almost a grown boy, no more than 7 and he was a sloth when it came to picking up the yoke each morning. Playful and imaginative he was, he took to caring for this himself. Entering the cottage with his Mother already scolding and fiddling with his unwashed chestnut scalp. “Sorry” was all he could muster with a head peeked down into her apron pockets filled with unusual ingredients, as his mind was only on supper. Too bad he didn’t get any that evening, this seemed to be no surprise for him since he knew what to do. Night’s which required subtle walks down the corridor, eyes fixated on the dimness and he was good at that. The kitchen was apart of the living area and a back exit leading to their small garden. Eerily enough it was quiet, usually a clunk of a horse could be heard with a giggle of drunkard townspeople, no matter the hour. Emory decided to peer through the back door - a full moon. Surely with this at least one person would take a night’s doddle. Emory scratched the back of his neck and with the other took a bite of his proclaimed loaf. He faced the door and at the corner was the cellar, unlocked. 


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