41st Summer 514 AV
Every fibre of his being tensed. One more word out of that big oaf and his cords of restraint would snap. He never asked politely. Often, he would just sort of wave his hand about and leave Tim to decipher what he actually wanted. Sometimes, Tim just brought everything with him, hammer, nails, files and wax, just to be sure. But even then, he wouldn't be spared a cold stare or dismissive gesture. He'd liked his work much more when Jed had allowed him to actually help and learn. For some reason, his Master insisted on finishing this project alone, leaving him to stand by idly and bored out of his mind. As long as Jed didn't ask him to, he refused to clean up. Wasn't Sander supposed to do the cleaning and sweeping? All he ever saw of that boy was him dipping his nose in a book or shuffling around some furniture for the umpteenth time. Not that it really mattered, Jed's practical designs would never appeal the eye. Perhaps that was why a particularly fat, puffed figure, with fingers the size of sausages, had bought the poorest chair they had on offer. After all, it was impossible for the man to see much through the pig-like slits where his eyes should've been. And because the man was greedy with his coin, wishing to save as much as possible to spend on food instead, he hadn't bothered to inspect the stool's legs which were bound to give in under the weight of a feather. Boy, he would've paid to see the surprise and horror on the fat man's face when he would sit down and chop the chair into firewood by benefit of his weight alone. But he never got any money and even if he had some, he would sooner be suspected of thievery than be helped. It wasn't being kicked out of bed early that bothered him, nor did he mind the work itself. If only he wouldn't be treated as a punching bag. Whenever something was amiss, he would be called to scene immediately and asked to explain himself. Jed didn't trust him, he figured. Occasionally he would catch those cold blue eyes lingering on him, watching his every move. But should he have lied then, when Matilla had asked him where he was from? The very mention of Sunberth had made her cringe and cast a worried look at Jed. As if being a slave wasn't enough, now he'd marked himself as a criminal and vagabond too. Some devilish child that wouldn't pass on the opportunity to slit his Master's throat when given the chance.
Besides, that old hag, Matilla, was more of a nuisance than a help. Shuffling about the shop, taking one and a half bells to fetch a loaf of bread, probably getting lost once or twice on her way back. But instead of scolding the old snail, Jed had established a habit of taking the piss on him instead. As if it was his fault that he'd bought two good-for-nothing idiots who did anything but work hard. It was unfair, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Sighing, Tim brushed some dust off his apron and coughed. The sight before him strained his muscles even further. All Jed's tools, which he'd painstakingly organised the day before, lay in complete disarray. Jed's best hammer rested in a pot of dried-up wax, his files were scattered on the ground and a trail of other tools led to the hunk of muscle at the other end of the room. Flaring his nostrils, Tim grabbed the hammer and tried to wrench it loose. But it was immovable, like a rock chained and pinned to the ground. It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't break. It would just sit there, indifferent to the red-faced puffing and fuming boy. He didn't even hear what Jed said, or if he'd said anything at all. "Shut up!" he snapped as he spun around and threw the hammer at Jed for good measure. "I am busy," he fumed, "cleaning up your bloody mess again!" He took his apron of and threw it to the floor. "I am done. You figure it out yourself!" And with that he paced towards the door, quite prepared to storm out and leave that awful, awful shop.
