Preoccupied wasn't exactly the word to describe Birch's current state. A recent promotion to captain had put a large amount of paperwork - something she'd previously avoided at all costs - on her plate. There were more responsibilities than that, of course, but it helped that Flynn, a good friend and guard himself, had been promoted at about the same time as she had; it was nice to know that someone shared the load and was adjusting at the same pace she was. It was a bit easier for Flynn, she supposed, since he'd been at the castle longer than she had and knew everyone a bit better, but she felt she was doing pretty well. It was hard, though, to come up with schedules when she didn't yet know everyone's strengths. Who would be better at guard duty, and who would be more inclined towards patrols? Her predecessor's notes were probably quite thorough, but Birch couldn't make out heads or tails when it came to the squiggly mess. The few words she'd been able to translate had been either terribly misspelled or she'd gotten them completely wrong, which left her with a pounding headache just behind her eyes. At least she'd chosen to maneuver her desk onto the front porch, where a cool Spring breeze took the edge off of the otherwise warm day.
It was as she tentatively laid her quill to paper, about ready to jot down the first assignment, when the unmistakable scent of burning food reached her nostrils. Swearing loudly (and rather creatively in both English and Fyren), Birch pushed away from her desk and stormed inside. There, Rochambeau was gaping at the stove, which was (of course) billowing out large dusky clouds of smoke. Birch's sudden appearance jolted him out of his horror.
"Dinner's burning!" he exclaimed helpfully, dashing out the front door as Birch shot him a dark look.
A half hour later, after she'd managed to subdue the flames and trash what had been the makings of a very good dinner (thank you very much!), Birch stormed back out of the house to find... Nothing. The same breeze she'd been enjoying had turned playful, sweeping a few pages into the neighbor's yard, and Rochambeau was also there, her precious quill clenched between his teeth as he romped across the grass. Groaning, Birch stormed over the property line to fetch her wayward familiar and equally wayward paperwork, grateful that the house was still vacant. Or was it? A small frown formed on her face as she spotted an interior light burning, and hurried to pick up her items before the new neighbor saw her - frazzled and flustered and smelling vaguely of burnt roast - in his yard. |