Unsettled

She beamed at the mention of a drink, her eyes lighting up even more when she saw the drink was red wine. She was not a snob by any means but she had a healthy appreciation for vino.

"Yes, you are a brilliant man, Mr. Iliescu." She said in appreciation, leaning against the door frame for a moment, her exhaustion slowly creeping up on her though she fought it tooth and nail. She hadn't seen the downstairs after all.

Food, that was a good idea though she would have to own that she felt more than a little daunted by the prospect of food. She was an acceptable cook, she knew her way around a kitchen in a practical way though no one would call her gifted in that department. She was merely adequate. But that was with ingredients she knew, she wasn't sure how she'd fare with such foreign foods as might be found in a kitchen with spotty electricity.

It was all part of the grand adventure, she reminded herself. Leaving home, leaving all the casual comforts that reminded her of how wrong things had gone. If she was worried about what the hell she was eating or going to eat, she wasn't ripping herself apart to find out why Seth had left her. Or beating herself up for the intoxicated car wreck that cost her the baby. Or the sick pathetic hope that if she'd kept the baby she'd have at least had some hold on Seth. That last though never failed to make her sick at her own pathetic-ness.

No, distraction was a good thing. Exotic food, even if canned, was an adventure. So was farming, so was helping restore this old house even though she didn't know a thing about farming or much beyond which end of the hammer to hold. She would learn, she had a guide after all.

Flashing him a grateful, relieved smile that held none of the turmoil that bumped about in her skull she turned in a rolling motion away from the doorway and down the hall.

"I haven't see the kitchen yet." She said, pausing to let him catch up, gesturing for him to lead the way. "If it is anything like the bathroom I will owe you greatly."

This house was in much better shape than she'd been led to believe from the letters she'd received from the law-firm or the pictures she'd been sent. She was certain she knew who to thank. Their budget was tight, but if they managed to make anything like a profit from the farming end of things she vowed to give the man a raise.
 
Sadly, the kitchen was nothing like the bathroom. This became immediately apparent as they passed through the swinging door on the first floor. The original furnishings now gone, what was left in their place was a woefully inadequate folding table and four badly abused chairs. The refrigerator Ciprian spoke of early was a pathetic creature, little more than the kind of mini-fridge a college student might have in their dorm room. Long ruts ran along the wood floor. At least the counters seemed to be both original and in good condition.

Ciprian moved to the cabinets and pulled out two cheap but intact glasses. He then fished around in a drawer before finding a corkscrew with which to attack the wine bottle. He was no wine expert, so it took some effort to free the cork.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm not very good with this thing. I have to admit, I don't know if I'm supposed to let it breathe or not."

As if in surrender, he placed the bottle and both glasses on the table. He figured Margret might be more of a connoisseur than he was, so she could make the decision on whether to pour the wine or let it stand for a while.

Instead he moved back to the counter and started cutting generous slices of salami on a cutting board.

"So Ms. Ashford," he said, "I hope you do not think this to forward of me, but may I ask you why you decided to come to Romania? I suspect most people in your position would have said no to such a strange arrangement."

He did not stop his work to wait for her answer. Instead, he moved to the refrigerator and withdrew a monstrous wedge of cheese, no doubt removed from an even more monstrous wheel of the stuff. He cut a few slices, laying them almost decoratively alongside the already sliced salami.
 
The kitchen was a bummer, truth be told, but she reflected as she looked around that if she had to pick between luxurious bathroom and glorious kitchen she would choose the former in a heartbeat. She was never one to make masterpieces in the kitchen in any case and if they couldn't even keep things refrigerated, well then, a lovely bathroom suited her just fine.

She was just moving in towards the wine, ready for a glass whether or not the wine had breathed enough when he shot her his seemingly innocent question.

In an almost comic manner she froze, hand stretched out to lift the bottle, one foot lifted off the floor to help her counterbalance. She stood there, frozen in place while her mind ran over and over his words, what they had meant and how the hell she could reply.

Slowly her foot lowered to the floor and she cleared her throat in an embarrassed manner as she plastered on a smile. It was a bright one, spreading her generous mouth into a welcoming expression, if only her eyes weren't wild with just a little too much white around the edges.

What had he meant by "situation"? What kind of situation? Did he mean the baby? Did he mean the car crash? How had he even known? But sense told her panic to take a hike and she forced reason back into her whirl of thoughts. Perhaps he just meant why had she left her country and and family? Well she would answer as if he had and be content with that.

"Adventure?" she said in questioning voice. "I'm not really sure. I was at a point when I needed a change and this just happened to fall in my lap. Fate, or something, so I took it, simple as that. How about you? How did you land this gig, playing babysitter to the eccentric American woman who is likely out of her league? But more than how did you land it, why did you take it up? I could very well be a tyrant, a demanding virago and you'd be stuck with me. Don't get me wrong, I am so delighted to have you, your work has been a dream so far, far surpassing my expectations. But it seems like an odd set up. Or is this normal here? Get many crazy American women looking to re-locate?"

Her hand finally moved almost as if the pause button had been pressed and she lifted and began to pour the wine.
 
Too busy arranging slices of salami and cheese on the cutting board, Ciprian didn't notice Margret hesitate at his question, nor did he notice how she quickly deflected it. It was meant as such a casual inquiry that he had no reason to expect any odd behavior. Besides, he was the kind of man who could only really concentrate on one task at a time, and at this particular moment that task was food.

"Adventure… adventure… adventure…" he repeated, chewing on the word as if testing out its taste. Only after a moment did he realize she'd actually asked him a question in return. What to say to that?

"I guess I was uniquely qualified for the position," he said, reaching for a loaf of bread hidden behind the pile of salamis. "Most people from the countryside stay in the countryside. Most people from the city stay in the city. I, on the other hand, know a little about both worlds. I know something about farming, and I know quite a bit about the bureaucracy of Romania. It also helps that I am fluent in English. I can also speak Hungarian and a touch of German."

Unlike the rest of the food, Ciprian did not handle the bread with care. Rather than slicing it, he began to rip off large chunks and place them on the cutting board. Once finished, he admired his handy work before picking up the board and bringing it to the table.

"I suppose, I was one of the few people with those particular skills willing to work for such small wages," he continued, though there was no hint in his voice that he wanted or needed to be paid more. "I also have no family of my own, so committing to a job for a year out in the middle of nowhere didn't bother me very much."

Ciprian did not grab plates. Instead, he sat down on one of the unstable chairs and constructed what could only be described as the world's ugliest open-faced sandwich. He would have continued talking, probably over explaining himself without really getting to the truth of why he was here, but hunger got the better of him.

He reached for the glass of wine and was about to wash down his food when he realized they had not yet toasted.

"Oh," he said, holding up the glass, "We must toast. Please, you do the honors."
 
She set the bottle down and turned to face him when he mentioned wages. The glass she was filling considerably less full than the other, her attention clearly pulled away mid-pour. Her face had gone a bit crimson and her eyebrows were doing their best to vanish in her hair line. After a moment of staring at him with her mouth open like a gaping fish she closed it and instead began chewing on her lower lip, a long held nervous habit.

The law firm had suggested the wages. She'd bumped them a little, as much as she'd been able to manage, but clearly it wasn't enough. They'd assured her it was a living wage, acceptable for the work that was expected. Not really having a grasp on the economy or currency of Romania she'd let herself be guided by their advice. But now she felt a skin-crawling level of embarrassment that she wasn't paying him enough. He was critical, vital to this whole enterprise, she wanted him paid well. But what made it worse was that she wasn't going to be able to do anything about it for a bit, not until she had a few more funds loosened up.

He lifted a glass and asked for her to make a toast and she simply blinked at him, her gnawed on lip slipping out from under her teeth. She wet it with her tongue, nervously and then looked at him, long and hard.

"Am I not paying you enough?" she asked, bluntly, taking her cues from his speech. "I'm not asking defensively," she added. "But because I want to make sure you are being fairly compensated for your work. Which so far has been exemplary. I let the law-firm that hired you guide me in the wages set for this, if they were in error please speak up. So I ask this in all earnestness. Am I paying you enough?"
 
The wine glass hovered awkwardly in the air for a few moments before Ciprian set it back on the table. Now it was his turn to flush with embarrassment. He had not meant to insult the woman, nor was he unhappy with his wages. He was just trying to explain…. But it didn't matter. Whatever his reasoning, he had just put his foot in his mouth and felt shameful for it. Certainly, it wasn't the first time he'd done it in his life, and it most definately wouldn't be the last.

"No, no." he said, his words coming out in a stammering staccato, "You… you are paying me precisely the right amount. I would not pay a penny more for the position. It is quite fair. I was merely suggesting that the reason there were not more candidates was because people with the… needed skills, prefer to take positions in government or perhaps business. Very few of them would want to live in the country."

Had Ciprian been a more unscrupulous man, or at least a more calculating one, he might have taken the opportunity to get a raise from Margret. But honesty was a fault of his (or virtue depending on how you looked at it). He would not dream of taking advantage of this woman financially. To do so would reflect badly not only on himself but on his country. No, he would never do such a thing.

"I on the other hand do not mind a rural life," he continued, and as he became increasingly flustered his accent became more pronounced. "I like the city, yes, but the country suits me just fine. I am pleased to be here and pleased at what I am being paid. If I sounded like I was complaining, I apologize. I just--"

Desperately, he shoved a piece of cheese in his mouth to prevent himself from saying more.

He looked longingly at the wine glass, wondering what had happened to the toast. Just seconds before he was feeling so optimistic about the future, but now he felt like he'd muddled the whole thing.
 
A slow breath out that she hadn't realized she'd been holding and a relaxing of her shoulders softened her and made her look just as exhausted as she felt. Everything had a crisp, overly bright feel to it, with sharpened edges, even the shadows in the corners of the room. Her feelings too where sharpened, it seemed. Relief flooded her and she smiled at him, nodding.

"Alright." She said. "No need to apologize, I'm not upset."

She took her cue from him again and filled her mouth with a bit of salami to buy herself a second to think, to collect her thoughts and wits. She needed him, desperately. She was lost here without someone to translate, not to mention the work that needed was beyond her skills, laughably so. She was only able to do this venture because of him and his skill set. She was very cognizant of that and simply wanted to make sure he was being paid well enough to want to stay. It seemed he was. Which was good, because until profit came in, they were running on a tight budget.

"I just wanted to make sure I was being fair." She said as she swallowed her mouthful. "I wanted to make sure the Law Firm wasn't trying to save me a penny or two by cutting corners with the most important part of this whole venture." She tipped her glass towards him, highlighting just what she was talking about. She moved to the table to sit in one of the rickety chairs across from him. She wanted to see his face with its sharp features and dark eyes nearly hidden by overly long hair and heavy brows. She wanted to learn to read it better, so that misunderstandings like these would be fewer, for both their sakes. She lifted her glass un in a formal, universal gesture, trying to smile warmly at him though everything seemed sharp and her nerves were still settling.

"I owe you a toast, Mr. Iliescu. Let's make it to this venture. I'll toast that we make a success and come out the other side enriched in ways we hadn't anticipated."
 
Relieved the awkwardness had passed, Ciprian raised his glass again. "To our new venture," he toasted.

But the truth was that Ciprian now felt a little apprehensive, not because this particular misunderstanding occurred, but because it had happened so effortlessly. Who was he kidding? Despite his fluent English and Margret's willingness to be open to this new world, the fact remained that he was Romanian and she was American. There would always be a cultural gap between them, and these misunderstandings were bound to happen again and again.

He pushed away these thoughts with a few more bites of cheese. Generally speaking, Ciprian was an optimistic person, so these moments of self-doubt were fleeting. By the time he tilted his head back and drained the contents of his glass, his worries had dissipated. Instead, they were replaced by a sudden fatigue. As tired as he was, Margret must be ten times more exhausted.

"Ms. Ashford," he said. "Perhaps we should call it an early night. I'm sure the trip was exhausting. There is much to do tomorrow, so we should get an early start."
 
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She'd fallen into her own quiet reverie as he finished his wine and ate some cheese. She was famished but the thought of eating anything strangely made her a little queasy. It seemed to fit with the strange crispness to everything, her exhaustion putting her into a strange sort of fugue. She half-heartedly nibbled at bread just to put something in her gut besides the wine, which was very fine, if a little different than what she was used too. So was the bread for that matter. Similar but not the same. How many times would she think that thought while she was here? While she was here, that was a strange turn of phrase that told her that in her heart, for all that her plans said otherwise, this was a temporary stop. This was not home. It never would be.

She looked up almost guiltily as Mr. Iliescu spoke, tucking aside her unpleasant thoughts to smile gratefully at the man. She was exhausted, beyond exhausted really and the second wind that was floating her was starting to fizzle out. It was certainly not within his job description to have to carry her exhausted ass up the stairs and tuck her in.

"You are very right and very wise Mr. Iliescu." She said as she followed his lead and polished off the wine. There was nutrition in it, she told herself, antioxidants and tannins. Were tannins nutrients? It didn't matter, it was gone and she couldn't bear to put anything else in her belly.

So she set down the glass and stood, wobbling a little.

"I bid you goodnight then. Don't let me sleep too late please, I need to get myself on schedule."

She held out her hand for a shake, it seemed fitting that she perform some sort of formal gesture in her leave-taking.
 
"Goodnight, Ms. Ashford," he said, shaking her hand warmly. "I will make sure you are up with the roosters." He gave her a wink of sorts, hoping she understood he was just joking,.. if only barely.

Once she left the kitchen, he brought the cutting board back to the counter and wrapped up the uneaten food. He grabbed the wine glasses and gave them a quick rinse in the sink before putting them away. As he cleaned, he organized the next day's tasks in his head. This was something he did often. This ability to keep his mind occupied while performing menial chores had kept him sane on more than one occasion.

Cleanup complete, Ciprian headed up stairs. He expected to fall asleep immediately or to be kept awake by thoughts of the monumental undertaking ahead, but neither was the case. Oh he lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling alright, but it wasn't the job that was on his mind. To his great surprise, his thoughts kept drifting back to Margret Ashford. They weren't unpleasant thoughts. Actually, quite the contrary. He didn't know what that meant, but it unsettled him nonetheless.

Finally, he drifted off.

Ciprian did not sleep well; he rarely did. He dreamt of an axe, blood, and the sound of a crying child. In the middle of the night, he woke with a start. Sitting bolt upright in bed, he hoped he had not made enough noise to wake Margret down the hall. Skin gleaming with sweat, he struggled to catch his breath. The sound of crying still rang in his ears. After a moment or two, he realized those wails were not the residual effects of the dream. It was not the crying of a young girl, as he had become so accustomed to in his dreams. This was the sound of an infant, and it came from beyond the bedroom window. Probably just the distant sound of some village babe he told himself.

Sleep came again, and the memory of the crying baby was lost.

As was his custom, Ciprian woke just before dawn. He dressed quickly and stepped into the hall. The house was still this early. It was possible Margret was already awake, but based on her weary expression last night, he doubted that.

He was about to head down the stairs when something caught his eye. It was the wall at the end of the hallway (not the one with the arched glass doorway, a strange enough feature in its own right). Specifically, it was a crack in the far wall, a crack he didn't think was there before. It's hard to say why it caught his eye, and even harder to understand why he was compelled to look closer. As he approached, the crack appeared even more out of place. It was no random fissure in the wall, no zigzag pattern that could have been caused by age or weather damage. No, this three inch crack was perfectly straight as if someone had meticulously cut it into the wall. Could Margret have done it? He doubted that. If not her then who or what?

Ciprian shook his head and moved away. He'd come back later and investigate more. For now, there were things to do. He return to the kitchen, where he pulled out fresh bacon and some eggs. Within a few minutes, the kitchen (and no doubt the rest of the house) was filled with the smell of cooking breakfast.
 
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Margret dragged herself up the stairs slowly. It was as if the suggestion that she go to bed pulled the plug on her energy and it was only with a great force of will that she managed to propel herself. How long had she been on the plane? Days, hours, a lifetime it seemed. She had felt so restless as she'd sat in the car, listening to her guide unfold some of the details of her life here. She smiled sleepily to herself as she reached the top of the stairs to think of Mr. Iliescu and his somber, earnest way. She was going to have to look into the protocol of first names here in Romania. She couldn't keep calling her sole companion by his surname forever, could she? She knew she'd not want to be just Miss Ashford forever. Maggie, Meg, anything was better than that reminder of what she'd lost.

Or had she ever really had it?

Doubt crept into her as she looked back over her time with Seth and wondered. Stop it, she chided herself as she reached into her room and fumbled for the strangely placed light switch. Moving through the routine of putting on her pajamas, midnight blue dotted all over with stars, helped to clear her mind of all but her exhaustion. She half-heartedly hung her clothing over the back of chair, as if the several days she'd been in them hadn't wrinkled them beyond repair.

A short trip to the wonder of the bathroom and another fumble with the light switch there used up even the last dregs of her energy so that when she finally slipped into the strangely carved bed with it's strange sheets and pillows stuffed with actual down she was asleep almost before the sheets had warmed with the heat of her body.

Her sleep should have been the black oblivion of true exhaustion and for a time it was. But only for a time. Eventually, though the sleep was no less deep, it was not oblivion. Something pulled at her, some sense from the waking world tugged at her consciousness. It pulled at her and caught her and she found herself swimming towards wakefulness like the surface of a pond only to find herself caught on some weed at the murky bottom. After that initial tug it felt as though she was pinned down. Her limbs unresponsive, her chest felt heavy, it seemed like her eyelids were glued shut. She tried with all she had to shrug it off and when she could not she fought to scream as if the sound from her own lips could break this spell like a soap bubble. Only she didn't scream, some sound not of her making came to her, a high thing wail that cut through her, pinning her as thoroughly as whatever force held her in place.

Oblivion, when it came again, was a gift and she sank into it with unthinking gratefulness, tracks of tears drying on her cheeks.

Morning came to her borne on a bacon scented breeze and the skittering shadows in her mind vanished in the wake of such a miracle. She opened her eyes and felt an unease in her that she could not pinpoint. For a moment she lay there, trying to recall what had her so troubled but gave it up when her stomach reminded her that she'd had little but bread and wine the night before. Mr. Iliescu was making bacon. The man really did deserve a raise. She grinned and rubbed at her eyes, mistaking the salt of her tears which flaked off at her touch for sleep sand. In a few moments she'd slipped into a robe, midnight blue with stars around the trim, slippers and run her fingers through her black enough that she was as close as she was willing to get to presentable when breakfast was on the line. She padded down the stairs with more speed than the night before and in moments was peering into the kitchen with a delighted light in her eyes which were no longer ringed with black circles of exhaustion. The lack, or perhaps the faint sunlight streaming in through the strangely large windows lining the back wall of the kitchen took years off of her.

"Good morning!" she all but sang as she spied her companion at work. "How do you say that in Romanian?"
 
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"Bună dimineața," he said, looking up from his cooking. His gaze lingered on Margret a hair longer than was probably appropriate. He couldn't help it. She looked so different this morning. The weariness was gone from her eyes, replaced with a vibrancy that made her look eager and alive. When he'd first met her in the airport, there was no doubting her attractiveness, but this morning she looked downright beautiful. Clearly she'd only had a chance to run a hand threw her hair rather than a proper comb, but this only served to enhance the effect rather than detract from it.

Conscious he was staring, Ciprian looked back down at the pan of sizzling bacon. You idiot, he chided himself. Now she will think you are a wicked man. She will not trust you. She will ask for you to be replaced.

To cover the transgression of his lingering stare, Ciprian felt he needed to say something. He resisted the natural urge to ask how she'd slept. Such a question would inevitably lead to her asking him the same one in kind, and he did not want to have to lie to her about his nightmares.

So instead he said, "You appear well rested. That's good. I would like to show you the lands today and introduce you to the hands who will be working for you. We might also want to introduce you to some of the most important people in the village."

He set three pieces of bacon on a plate. Soon they were accompanied by two over easy eggs. It was by no means an extravagant breakfast, but the ingredients were fresh and Ciprian was a more than passable cook.

"You will need your energy," he said, laying the plate on the table. "Eat up."
 
"Bună dimineața," she said, trying out the words and bungling them just a little. She tried it again, slow and carefully trying to capture his accent and intonation. It wasn't all that successful but her attempt was in earnest. Her focus had been on the middle distance, looking towards him, but not quite seeing him as she formed the words. But when she did snap back into full focus and met his eyes she felt a strange urge to look away shyly. Why was that? He wasn't staring, he'd just been looking at her, probably her dress was scandalous or something. There was so much about this culture she was clueless about and in the wake of his intent glance she wondered if she'd ever master it.

He spoke and she realized she'd better well master it first. Mr. Iliescu was very cosmopolitan, accepting of her foreign ways, the villagers weren't likely to be so accepting.

"That is a grand idea." She said about the villagers and then swallowed hard, nerves prickling in her.

"I'll need some pointers so I don't make too many blunders." She asked in a pleading tone of voice, displaying her own nerves and misgivings. She really needed to get a run in, to burn off this nervous energy and the bacon she was about to consume.

"You are a saint, Mr. Ilesciu!" she crooned as she sat before his offering, her mouth watering.

"Oh heaven, I'm starved," she said and picked up a piece of bacon, hot and crisp with the right level of chew. It looked perfect. She took a good bite. With a carnal groan she let her head loll back as the salt and fat exploded in flavor on her tongue. Chewing with gustatory pleasure she smiled, licked her lips and beamed at him. It didn't taste exactly how America bacon did, there was something different about it, but that different was better. There was enough sameness to the flavor for her to identify it as bacon, but there was more that was different and the different made it wonderful.

"Good lord, that is wonderful." She said. "I don't know if I can call a man who made me such bacon something as Formal as Mr. Iliescu. Tell me, is it horribly improper if I ask to call you by your Christian name and ask the same of you? I'm going to get really tired of Miss Ashford and would much prefer Meg or Maggie or something. Is that something you are comfortable with?"
 
Ciprian's cheeks blushed with boyish embarrassment. It wasn't the compliment that made him suddenly shy. Instead, it was the level to which she took pleasure in the food… almost lascivious. He felt like he was watching something downright improper. It also awakened in him certain desires that had been dormant for some time. Shocked that he could think of his employer in such a way, he spun around and hurried back to the stove to retrieve his own plate of food.

By the time he returned to the table. He'd composed himself once more. Hopefully she interpreted his embarrassment as an inability to take a compliment instead of what it truly was, a much more primal and unwelcome desire.

"Certainly, you may call me Ciprian," he said, sitting down and cutting into one of the eggs. "I do not mind at all."

He took a few bites of egg and considered her request for advice. Of course he had advice to give, but how best to present it. He did not want to offend or scare her, but nor did he want to give her a watered-down version of things that might get her in trouble later. In the end, he decided the straightforward approach was best.

"Well, Ms.— Meg," he said, just barely catching himself. "I recommend you be quite firm with the farm hands. If you are too familiar with them, they will see it as weakness and take advantage of you. They are fine enough men, but they are not used to a woman being in charge. I can help by the way I translate your wishes to them.

"As for others in the village, I would recommend being courteous and perhaps overly flattering to the shopkeepers. Giving them gifts is an excellent way to get on their good side and ensure they give you the finest cuts of meat, the best cheeses, and so on. I've already tried to lay the ground work for this. So if anyone makes mention of any gifts they have already received from you, just nod and accept it.

"Now as for the mayor, I would suggest making him feel important. We may not run into him today. I believe he is out of town, but it's possible we will see his wife. It will help if you tell her how grateful you are that her husband allowed you to take up residence here. Of course, the decision had nothing to do with him. In fact, he was not consulted on the matter at all, but he, and especially his wife, like to think they have more sway over politics than they do."

And there he was again, rambling on as usual. With no cheese or bread to shut himself up with this morning, he resorted to crunching on a piece of bacon to silence himself.
 
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She liked that he went with Meg. Meg was cute, it was short and sweet and it wasn't what Seth had called her. She bit her lip, her eyes alight with a smile at the permission and use of her name.

"Ciprian," she said, trying it out and then taking another bite of bacon, the taste of which gave rise to another appreciative groan. She made an inroad into her breakfast while he spoke, nodding at the salient points and filing them away for later use. Flattery and bribery, it was a little more out in the open here but it was certainly something she could work it.

"Firm with the farm hands, soft with the townsfolk. Check." She said after she took the last bite of egg.

She was very appreciative of his efforts so far, he really had gone above and beyond his duties. The work with the shop keepers was brilliant and while it would also benefit him she was very cognizant of how thorough he'd been on her behalf.

She chewed the last bit of her bacon with a final, appreciative sound and then stood, moving towards the sink with its deep enameled basin and began to fill it with hot water from the tap. She spotted a cloth she assumed was meant for dishes. Just to the left of the rag was a plastic bottle of dish soap. She squirted a generous measure in and was pleased to see the bubbles as a result, satisfied she'd not squirted something other than soap into the wash. Humming she gathered up the dishes and began to wash them. When was the last time she'd hand washed a dish? She mused as she slid them into the water. Dishwashers were going to be a distant luxury, but for now washing by hand felt like an adventure. It wouldn't last but she would hold onto that fun for as long as she could.

"After I finish these I'll get dressed." She said. "Shall we start with the farm hands or a tour of the place? What time do things open in town?"
 
Ciprian was pleased to see Meg washing the dishes, not because he thought she might expect him to do it, but because it proved she wasn't one of those people who let them pile up meal after meal. Fastidious by nature, he believed you should clean up after yourself right away. It was little work, and just made life that much easier. It was yet another trait he inherited from his mother.

"Well, Meg," he said, the name didn't quite feel right rolling off his tonguue, but he assumed he'd get used to it eventually. "Most of the shops here don't keep regular hours. Things open when people get up and finish their morning Chores.

"However, the farm hands should have arrived by the time we are ready. We can visit them first." He hesitated a moment before adding, "While you are getting ready, I will take a quick shower."

Leaving the kitchen, he headed upstairs. Pausing on the second floor landing, he looked once more at the crack in the far wall and reminding himself to investigate that later. Whatever concerns he had about the house evaporated when he entered the bathroom. Usually a humble man, Ciprian couldn't help but feel pride at the work he'd done here. He smiled, remembering Meg's reactions the night before.

But the hard work was never meant for him. He spent as little time as possible in bathrooms. They were utilitarian places and nothing more. This was especially true when it came to showering. Never a man for baths, he believed that, while cleanliness was important, there was no point in dilly-dallying about it. To demonstrate that fact, it took him all of five minutes to brush his teeth, wash up, and even get in a quick shave.

Of course, none of this was necessary to talk to farm hands. They could care less if his teeth were clean or he smelled nice. While it was slightly more important to be presentable for the visit to town, even that wasn't the reason. It all came down to Meg. Oh he didn't realize it at the time, but something in him wanted to impress her.

Emerging from the bathroom dressed and ready to go, Ciprian stood in the hall and listened, trying to determine if Meg was in her room or still downstairs.
 
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Dishes done Margret hurried up the stairs in much the same manner she'd gone down, two steps at a time. She was excited and nervous and filled with a wild energy that made her limbs thrum. She wanted to run, to don her sneakers, plug in her music player and run until she was exhausted only to turn around and run back. But she didn't know the area yet, she didn't know the best routes for running and so it would have to wait. Perhaps Mr. Iliescu, Ciprian would have an opinion on the matter, some routes to suggest. She grinned to think of it, he was a wonder, really. She would be lost without him and it had only been less than a day.

She skidded into her room, dropping her robe before she even heard the door close behind her. Shirt and pants came next, pooled at her feet as she rifled through her suitcase. She made a note to unpack it when she got back, she'd been too tired the night before and was too wired up just then. Uncertain what the protocol was for visiting farmhands and Mayor's wives in Romania, or anywhere really, she slid into a pair of black slacks that were only not jeans by matter of fabric. A white cotton blouse in a man's style covered with a textured bright blue sweater that brought out her eyes seemed fitting and then for her feet a pair of comfortable black boots of the hiking variety. A moment spent on braiding her hair and then a quick application of makeup and she felt polished yet casual enough to see to both Mayor and farmhand.

Her dressing was fast but not fast or frantic enough to expend some of the energy that was coursing through her so when she emerged from the room with was with an exuberance that was a little out of place, bursting into the hall and skidding to a stop with a startled yelp when she caught sight of Ciprian out of the corner of her eye.

Laughing at her foolishness she put hand to mouth as her eyes danced merrily.

"Oh goodness, I startled myself." She said laughing behind her hand. "I didn't keep you waiting long, did I? I wasn't sure what was appropriate to wear so I guessed."

She looked him over for guidance but in the dimness of the hall she couldn't make out much of what he was wearing though she saw he'd saved and caught a scent of soap in the air.
 
Ciprian chuckled at Meg's exuberance. Her current state of boundless energy was a welcome change from her travel weary demeanor last night, and a bit contagious as well. He'd visited Heudin numerous times since getting this assignment. He'd become quite comfortable with the layout and the people, but it would be nice to experience it through the fresh eyes of someone seeing it for the first time.

"No, you did not keep me waiting, and yes, you are dressed very appropriately," he said, and it was true. While most of the village women would be dressed in knee length skirts and billowing white blouses at this time of year, they would not balk at the sight of a woman dressed in slacks. They may have held onto the old traditions and dress, but they still lived in a modern world.

For his part, Ciprian also looked more like a city dweller than a rural native, and this was entirely on purpose. To dress like the typical villager might have given them the impression he was making fun of them somehow or that he assumed he was one of them. The jeans he wore were clean, though there were some signs of fraying at the cuffs. In contrast, his button-down denim shirt looked to be newly purchased.

"As I mentioned," he said, leading them down the stairs and toward the back door. "We have three farm hands. Right now they're really not doing any farming. I didn't want to order the seed until I'd talked to you, and even then there is much to do before we are even close to ready to plant anything. At the moment, I've asked them to make repairs to the barn and get the tractor running. In Romania, tractors are not as common as you might think, and we tend to use them well past their prime. That said, I'm not convinced that our tractor can be revived. We will see."

Emerging from the back of the house, the most notable feature was the small, one-story cottage Ciprian mentioned the night before. If work had already been done to fix it up, then it had certainly been in terrible shape. The roof hardly looked like it could stand up to a heavy snow, and it desperately needed a fresh coat of paint.
While the servant's cottage was a bit of an eye soar, it had nothing on the incredibly out-of-place pile of filing cabinets and cardboard boxes nearby. Ciprian had mentioned the house had been filled with old documents and records. These were those offending items, not yet removed from the property.

"There's the barn," he said, pointing to a structure some distance off. It was close enough to be easily visible from the house, but far enough away that it didn't encroach on their privacy.
 
Margret followed him down the stairs and out the door, and attentive audience for what he had to say. She felt so lost there, not just in a foreign country, but in the work that needed to be done. She was a city girl at heart and hadn't ever even dreamed of being a farmer, and there she was in rural Romania, planning her farm. But she felt as excited as she felt lost and knew full well that the almost overwhelming amount of new material she had to learn and figure out would do much to keep her head well away from dangerous, unsettling topics.

She trotted alongside him as they moved across the field towards the back of the property, she didn't see the sheep, though she supposed they were on the other side of the house. How late did sheep sleep in exactly? She mused and then caught sight of the eyesore that was the pile of cabinets and cardboard boxes. Next to it was an even greater eyesore, the cottage he'd been planning on staying in. She didn't wrinkle her nose at it, but only just. She didn't want to insult him but she was doubly glad he'd capitulated and agreed to stay in the house with her. She'd have felt like a beast to have exiled him to the crooked little building while she rattled around in the large empty house all by herself. Waggling tongues could just bugger off, he was staying with her.

She realized she'd fallen out of step with him in her sideways inspection of the cottage and rubble pile and double timed it to his side, slipping her arm through his without thinking much about it. His strides were long and well-paced, strides she could appreciate and certainly keep up with it she weren't so busy looking around. So she took matters into her own hands, so to speak.

"So the seeds, do they need to be ordered soon? Rye was it? Well I officially approve it that was what you needed. And will we see the orchard today?"

She had vague, kindergarten memories of going to an orchard and picking apples, overlaid with the sound of hornets buzzing about drunkenly as they feasted on the fallen apples which had begun to ferment in the sun.

"Oh!" she said, her thoughts as energetic as she felt without a run in her to settle her down, "I didn't even ask, what are the names of the farmhands?"
 
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"Yes, Rye." he said. He hesitated momentarily as he realized her arm was entwined in his. Luckily, he recovered quickly. "There's no need to buy it yet. Rye is a winter crop, so we will not need to plant it until October or so. I will make arrangements for it in a few weeks. As for the orchard, we can most certainly visit it when we head into town. It's nearer the front of the property."

Part of him wanted to extract her arm, if only because it would give the hands the wrong impression. But there was another part that wanted to cherish the moment in case it never happened again. In the end, it was that second part that one. Damn the hands and what they might think. He was not going to dampen Meg's mood.

As the barn grew closer, what looked like a solid and almost imposing structure, turned out to be a frail relic of a bygone age. With boards half rotted and gaping holes in the walls, it clearly needed a lot of work. From inside came the sound of a hammer striking metal, shortly followed by a few choice Romanian curses.

"The three hands are Wadim, Necu and Stefan," he explained. "Necu is the baker's son. Wadim is actually the son of Mr. Dobre, the man whose sheep were grazing out front last night. Stefan is older. He's come upon hard times recently, but he's an excellent worker."

As if on cue, three men emerged from the barn. Stefan was easy enough to pick out with his leathery and deeply tanned face. By the look of the wrinkles etched into his skin, he appeared to be in his early fifties, but perhaps that was just the result of a hard life, so it was possible he was considerably younger. The other two looked to be in their early twenties, but that's where their similarities ended. One was a full head taller and barrel chested, while the other was short and wiry.

Ciprian exchanged a few words of greeting in Romanian, and then something rather odd happened. The largest of the three men said something that clearly displeased Ciprian. For an instant, his normally sullen looking face flashed with anger. It was short lived, but still there was a darkness in those eyes that only a handful of people had ever glimpsed. Then the moment was passed, and when he turned to Meg his expression was placid once more.

"This is Necu," Ciprian said, pointing to the large man, "and this is Wadim, and that's Stefan."

The three nodded to Margret, but none offered her a hand to shake.
 
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