Harold lay in bed, drowsing in the late Spring morning. The bed was warm and it felt like he was floating in a cloud, with a warm, naked Leila snuggled up to his equally naked back as he rested on his left side. Morning light was filtering through the closed curtains and the sounds of the morning were drifting in through the open window, which was protected by a mesh screen made of fine wires to keep the bugs out. He heard the bedroom door open quietly and quickly closed his eyes, knowing who it was. Padding feet quietly approached his side of the bed.
"Papa! Papa! It's time to get up!" whispered the voice of his daughter Marcie.
"Mmph. Go away," he muttered, suppressing a smile. She gave him a little push.
"It's Sunday morning, Papa. Time to make breakfast for us! I'm hungry! It's 7:00!"
"But it's so warm and snuggly in here," he whispered plaintively.
"Do you want some cheese with that whine?" Marcie whispered back. His eyes popped open.
"You little imp! Where did you hear that one?"
"You said it to me last time you were home," she replied with a big grin, dancing just out of reach of his clutching hand. "I remembered! You also like to say 'Turnabout is fair play'!"
"Not when it's your beloved child sassing you," Harold grumbled with a fake ferocious scowl, making her have to stifle a giggle. He thought that he heard a giggle from behind him, but chose to ignore it. "Fine, I'll get up. Let me get dressed and I'll go make breakfast." Marcie happily skipped out, mission accomplished, and he eased his way out of bed and stood on the wooden floor. "All good things must come to an end," he thought somewhat grumpily as he got dressed in his traveling clothes, which had been brought into the bedroom before Tom and Helen had come for Tom's reconstructive surgery yesterday afternoon. Leila had turned over in bed to face him as he stood in the middle of the room, and though her eyes appeared closed, he made sure to flaunt his ass, well-muscled from hundreds of miles of walking from village to village on his rounds, and to waggle his genitals at her as he dressed. He borrowed a pair of her fuzzy pink slippers to protect his feet from the cold floors, as their feet were nearly the same size. He then left the room, quietly left the door a bit open, and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, where Marcie was waiting for him. All of the ingredients for breakfast were carefully laid out on the counter next to the wood stove, which had been cleaned and stocked, ready for action.
"Nicely done!" he praised, starting the fire with a couple of words and a gesture with his left hand and fingers. "No excuses for delays from me," he added ironically.
"I'm hungry!" she replied with a gap-toothed grin, her eyes, which were a similar shade of blue to her father's, sparkling. "And so are you," she added as his stomach growled.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, sticking his tongue out at her. He went out the kitchen door and walked down the short, paved path to the privy, which was about five feet square and painted pleasing shades of green and brown. Halfway there, he paused and farted loudly. "When, in my illustrious career, did morning wood become morning wind?" he grumbled, continuing on. After using it and washing his hands with the small sink and pump that were included in the building, he returned to the kitchen and set to work. At four-foot-nine, Marcie was more than tall enough to help, and she had her past shoulder-length auburn hair carefully tied back to keep it out of the way. Under his direction, which she barely needed anyway ("Papa, I'm almost eleven! I know how to make pancakes!"), she was mixing the batter as the two frying pans and kettle were heating on the stove. He quickly went to the guest bedroom, where his large backpack had been left yesterday, rummaged around in its depths, and returned to the kitchen with a bag the size of two clenched fists that was carefully wrapped in waterproof oilskin.
"What's that, Papa?" she asked as he spooned four blobs of batter into the large frypan.
"It's a surprise for your Mama," he replied with a conspiratorial wink. "Watch as I flip the pancake." He carefully pushed the flipper under a pancake and turned it over with a small splat. "Are you ready to try?" She took the flipper and expertly flipped the other three. "Hey! Have you been practising?" he demanded with almost mock surprise, hands on his hips.
"Yes, I have!" she replied proudly. "Mama makes us pancakes sometimes and she showed me how." He moved the kettle to the cooler corner of the stove because the water had started to boil. He then poked the contents of the stove to rearrange the burning wood. The first batch of pancakes was moved to the warming rack and the next batch plopped in.
Far too many times, her bladder had forced Leila Parsons to leave a warm, snuggly bed and this was one of them. Many other times had been because of the adorable stomach with legs that is her daughter, but Harold had fielded, albeit involuntarily, this occasion. She had definitely appreciated his flaunting his goods at her as she was pretending to sleep, as the warmth between her legs attested. It was all part of the ritual when he came for a visit on a weekend or in the summer when Marcie didn't have school. On weekdays when she was in school, the ritual started a little earlier, but it was always pancakes, eggs, and milk for breakfast, and sausages if they happened to have any, and she'd made sure that they did today. Sounds of quiet conversation and cooking, along with some delicious smells, drifted down from the kitchen as she got out of bed, stretched and yawned, and stood in front of her full-length mirror for the daily inspection.
She had been born and raised here in the village of Magwitch and had the same farmer's body build that nearly everyone else had, large bones, hands and feet. Her almost D-sized breasts had medium-sized pink areolas with nipples the diameter of a pencil eraser that stuck out about a quarter inch due to the coolness of the bedroom. There was still little sag to them, and only the amount of extra padding one could expect on the body of a mother approaching 50. Her hair, which was long enough to cover her breasts, had been a coppery red, but was now well on its way to becoming silver. The hair of her bush, which she had carefully trimmed yesterday morning in preparation for Harold's arrival, was still its original glorious copper colour.
As always, she paused to pick up and hold the two wooden rings connected by a long leather strap that rested on top of her dresser. Harold was from a distant corner of the northeastern part of the Kingdom, but he had adopted the local tradition of carving engagement rings for them. He had presented them to her one year, one month, and one day after their first meeting at the Cashman's farm when he had repaired Tim Witherspoon's broken femur so well that she could not tell it had been broken. He had made them from an unfamiliar wood, which he had called mahogany, which was from the tropics, and had been stained to a colour almost the same as her hair had been. They were heavier than they looked, but felt warm and comforting in her palm.
"Did you really make these yourself?" she had asked, looking into his shining eyes as Marcie, then two months old, slept in her crib in her room.
"I did," he had replied. "I didn't even cheat and use Magic. I asked a woodworking friend of a friend how to do it. He gave a quick outline on the tools and methods, and after some trial-and-error practising, I made these for us in the downtime during my rounds on the road. Our situation is unusual because I can't stay here with you as your husband because I have to keep moving as part of my work."
