“Dael,” Ma said. “Get out of bed and help Cerdic with the goats already.”
Dael opened his eyes, blinked up at the ceiling of the hut. Daub and wattle, same as every morning, infused with the scent of Ma’s stew over the fire and Da’s tobacco smoke. Da prodded Dael in the ribs with his toe.
“Move, son,” he said. He was smiling, so Dael knew he wasn’t too late.
It wasn’t difficult to haul himself off his pallet, scrub his face with water before heading for the door. It was time to make some crops grow, weather be damned.
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