"Here, chicky, chicky, chicky… come to mama."
Marla's voice carried far enough that even the nearest neighbor might hear it. She clutched her skirt in one hand and a scoop of feed in the other.
From the porch, Tristan tried not to laugh. "You do know they're faster than you, right?"
"They won't be once they see the feed," she shot back.
The hens paused at the scattering of grain, long enough for Marla's hopes to rise, then darted in the opposite direction.
Marla froze, then planted her fists on her hips. "Darn these chickens. Always escaping the coop. I told you that the gap in the corner was troublesome."
Tristan hopped down the steps and crossed to the far end of the run. Sure enough, a section of chicken wire sagged loose, the post beside it leaning like a tired old man.
"You're right," he said. "The mesh is bent, and the post's giving out. We'll fix it—more poles, tighter wire. Maybe even a roof over the run so they stop tempting every hawk in the county."
A light tap of wood pulled his attention to the road. Old Mrs. Keyes, their nearest neighbor, leaned over her fence with her walking stick.
"That rooster of yours chased my cat again," she called, though her eyes were smiling.
"That's not my rooster," Tristan replied. "He belongs to Marla. I'm just the innocent bystander who repairs the damage."
Mrs. Keyes snorted. "Innocent? I saw you last week trying to get them to follow you like ducklings."
"That was a training exercise," Tristan said, straight-faced.
"For them or for you?" she asked, chuckling as she shuffled away.
A few minutes later, another figure appeared on the road. Harro from the mill carried a bundle of narrow poles across his shoulder.
"Heard you're patching the fence," he said, offering the bundle. "The grain store had extras."
"Thanks," Tristan said, taking them. "If this works, I owe you fresh eggs."
"Make it a loaf of Marla's bread," Harro replied. He started to leave, then paused.
"Oh—strange thing. A couple of days ago, I saw a man standing under the big oak by the crossroads.
Hood up, just… watching. Thought maybe he was waiting for someone, but he never waved, never moved. By the time I passed again, he was gone."
Marla glanced at Tristan, but he kept his tone casual. "Could've been a traveler."
"Maybe," Harro said, though his voice carried doubt. "Anyway, watch your fences."
When he left, Marla fetched the toolbox from the cottage. Tristan began measuring the gap between poles. He dug a shallow trench along the inside edge of the chicken run, breaking the hard soil with a pick and scooping it out with a shovel.
Together they set the poles deeper so the wires would stay taut. The mallet proved useful for hammering each post into place. Finally, standing on opposite sides, they pulled the wires tight.
"Hand me the pliers," Tristan said.
Marla passed them over. "You've got a knack for this. Almost like you've done more than mend violin strings in your life."
Tristan smirked. "Turns out, in a mining camp, you either learn to fix things or you go without."
They were tightening the last section when another neighbor appeared. Brent, a quiet farmer from two fields over, carried a sack of cracked corn.
"For your birds," he said simply, setting it down. Then, almost as an afterthought, "You had a visitor yesterday. Tall man. Didn't give a name. Asked if I knew the music teacher. Said he'd wait near the treeline."
Tristan's hand stilled on the wire. "Did he?"
"Didn't see him after that," Brent said, scratching his chin. "Thought you might be expecting him."
"Not me," Tristan replied, forcing his voice light. "But thanks for telling me."
When Brent left, Marla straightened from where she had been hammering staples. "That's twice in one day someone's mentioned a watcher. You think it's the same man from last month?"
Tristan checked the tension on the mesh. "I think it's possible." He did not add more. No point worrying her until he spoke with Shannon.
By midday the coop was secure. New poles stood firm every few feet, wire stretched tight, and a light frame with netting covered the top to deter aerial predators. Marla gave the fence one last push to check.
"There," she said. "Nothing else is getting through."
"We'll see," Tristan replied. "Chickens are smarter than they look."
They released the hens back into the run. The birds clucked and flapped, pecking at straw and scratching at the fresh earth beneath the netting.
With the work done, Tristan leaned on the gate. He liked this sort of task—small, tangible fixes where the results were clear by the end of the day.
Teaching was different. Progress came in slow, careful increments, sometimes invisible for weeks. But this? This was simple. Direct.
Mrs. Keyes reappeared before long, carrying a jar in her hand. "Pickled beans," she said, pressing it into Tristan's palm. "For the music man who also mends fences."
"Thank you," Tristan said, smiling.
"Just… keep an eye out," she added more quietly. "A stranger passed my place yesterday morning. Asked where the road to your cottage was. I didn't answer him."
Tristan felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. "I appreciate that."
When she left, he turned his gaze toward the treeline at the far edge of the property. No movement, no sound but the rustle of leaves.
Still, Harro's story of the hooded figure, Brent's mention of a tall man, and Mrs. Keyes's warning formed a pattern that was too sharp to ignore.
Three separate accounts. Three different people. All pointing to the same presence.
The Steward, perhaps. Or someone sent by him.
Inside, Marla was already clearing the tools. "If that man shows up, we call Shannon," she said firmly.
Tristan nodded. "Yes. Right away."
They ended the day by cleaning the feed troughs and replacing the buckets with fresh water. As the sun lowered, the hens settled into the secure coop, their soft clucks easing into silence.
On the porch, Tristan wiped the dust from his overalls and the mud from his boots. The fence stood stronger now. The coop was sealed. Yet the unease clung to him like a shadow. Someone had been circling. Someone patient. Someone testing.
The Steward was no longer satisfied with watching. He was becoming bolder—measuring distance, studying habits, testing the edges of safety.
Tristan tightened his jaw. If the watcher thought Chordlight Cottage was unguarded, he was wrong.
He would reinforce the property. Traps, alarms, even simple markers that told him if someone crossed the line.
The chickens clucked one last time before roosting for the night. The cottage windows glowed with lamplight. But beyond the fence, the treeline loomed darker than usual, as though it was holding its breath.
Tristan whispered to himself, almost a vow: "You'll find I am not so easy to corner."