The woodpile behind the kitchen was down to three split logs and a handful of wet bark, and the sky had been gray since dawn.
Philia adjusted his stance on the damp dirt, wiped a streak of grease from his cheek with the back of his hand, and brought the hatchet down. The blade split the grain with a clean, dull thwack, sending two pale halves falling into the mud. He didn't pause to catch his breath. He picked up another log, set it on the chopping block, and swung again.
It had been four years since Lord Antel's regular aid last reached Havenwood's front gate.
At first, Livya had tried to hide it. She'd cut the bread portions slightly thinner, stretched the vegetable broth with extra water, and told the younger kids that the butcher was just running late with their usual order. But you can only hide an empty pantry for so long. By the time winter rolled around that first year, everyone knew the truth: Lord Antel's death meant Havenwood was entirely on its own.
