Morrys frowned, and twisted his knife further into the wood, upsetting a chip of wood. Alys smacked his hand away from her new kitchen table. He sighed, leaving the knife and stared frankly into his sister's face. "Should I?"
"And doesn't care," Morrys replied flatly. "He forced me to come along-"
"You said you were okay with coming-"
"But he didn't ask me to stay when I said I'd go. He didn't say goodbye either, Alys. He didn't offer to come along, and he should have. That farm won't let him survive, it'll kill him just like it did father."
Morrys pushed himself away from the table. "Don't make me feel guilty for wanting him back, Alys. I have had enough of that from Alex, but I expect that from him. As the eldest, his time had come. He knew what to do, but that left nothing for me."
"Don't raise your voice to me, brother," Alys hissed softly. "I miss papa as much as you do, but that won't bring him back." Alys bit her lip and cringed as the words left her. It was too late though, and Morrys slammed the door on his way out.
Alys sighed, and retreated to the bedroom. Her head was aching, and it was time to lay down.
Fortunately, their mother had intervened and Joseph was allowed to step aside. He returned to his task, but placed himself out of eyesight of anyone else who might interrupt his alone time.
It felt odd to think about, but the actions reminded him of his deceased father. Joseph the Elder often would refuse to be pulled into any fights or petty squabbles. Instead he preferred to sit alone, often in the evenings. Sometimes a young Joseph was allowed to join him, if he was quiet.
It was then that Joseph the Elder might speak. He would tell Young Joseph what had transpired in the guard's office. What man had been foolish enough to drink too much on duty, or which man had slept with too many of the city's women of pleasure and spoken too loudly about it.
It was there, sitting at his father's feet, that Joseph learned to sit quiet and listen. To be seen but not heard. How to keep a secret and when to. When to not pry into another's business.
Joseph shut his eyes and laid down the thatch he was weaving. Meditation was something his father had passed on, to calm the rowdy spirits inside, he had said. He would draw his breath in for eight beats, hold, then release, imagining the troubles flowing out of him.
Now sitting, watching his breathing, Joseph would imagine the irritation of the day, against his sisters, against Beatrix's shouting, against Matilda's prying, and gently pushing them out of his mind as he breathed.