The-Dodger

Old Frank Earnshaw, a freeman, and his wife, Peony, lived in a shack at the end of a path in the woods. They were peasants, and poor, but they were free because they lived on a plot of no-man’s land in the hills between two noble estates. That worn path lead right up to the front door of their rough, creaky two-story little house. They didn’t have much, but they had a home, ramshackle as it was. An old stone hearth kept it warm in the winter, and a plethora of buckets caught what made it through the roof in the rainy seasons. Peony had come down sick with redlung some months ago, and could now barely summon the strength to get up to use the chamber pot. Frank cared for her, cooked for her, tended their small garden and raised the chickens, and doted on her. He made up silly stories to entertain her most nights, and kept his pipe-smoking out on the porch because it made her blood-speckled cough worse. It was a Friday, probably. They weren’t particularly religious and so didn’t keep