Morning of the eighteenth of the eleventh month.
Myrkentown.
The back room of Tready's Toys.
"Careful, careful, my boy, hm hm! If you would learn to make toys, mmph, then you have much to learn to do well, hrm hrm!"
Aloisius Treadwell stands beside his second eldest son, Nicholas, in what is usually the bath chamber between his toy store's kitchen and master bedroom. Father and son are dressed alike and dressed down, each wearing nothing more than a simple, red, one-piece suit of pajamas. Both are starting to sweat; the saw between them, which is mostly through a plank that will eventually be the side of a new doll house, is the reason why. Said plank rests atop two boxes.
"You have to guide the thing, mmph mmph, back and forth, and let it do some of the work! You just have to make it go where you want it to go, hm, and not be so rough with it!"
"But my arms hurt, Father. . . ."
"Oho! This is the hard part, son, hrm, but after, we can rest, we can eat, and then we can smooth off this thing's edges and see what we can do with it."
"You said it would be," a huff for breath here before Nicholas can continue, "the side of a new doll house?"
"The back, mmph mmph, after it is painted and, mmph, carved some." The toymaker nods, reaching a hand out to grab a handkerchief to mop between chin and breast.
"So it will look like the one you have in the front room, in the corner?"
Another nod follows. The handkerchief is stuffed into a pocket, and Aloisius lifts a nearby mug of beer to lips. A good gulp or two later, and it is passed to Nicholas, who downs the rest. Even at twelve, the boy is a veritable copy of his elderly father.
"Now, a little more work, dear boy, mmph, and we are finished with this for now."
Grins exchange, and, a few more hefts of the saw, a few more hard cuts for a young boy and old man, a spray of splinters and sawdust. A few more moments, the saw carves through, the board gives away and falls into two equal sections, and the saw is pulled up and lifted safely.
"Against the wall, hm hm. We--" but Nicholas is already lurching forward alongside Aloisius, guiding the two of them toward the wall as directed before the elder Treadwell gets to finish his breath and sentence.
"There!"
"There, mmph mmph!"
"Father?" between pants of air.
"Nicholas?" One plump hand braces Tready against the wall while the other lays claim to his cane.
"Lunch?"
"A little early, yet--"
"But that doesn't matter at home." Another wide grin, mischievous and merry despite the labor of sawing into a piece of wood.
Lunch passes quickly enough; Aloisius and Nicholas had the sense to prepare it in advance. Soon enough, the two rest at the kitchen table, each one leaned back in his own chair, happily full. The son mirrors the father, hands resting on the top curve of stomach.
"We should keep working," from the boy, his eagerness returning with a warm belly. "The animals--those were fun to stuff and sew! And you let me paint a little, and--"
"And you have a good hand for it, mmph mmph."
"But, Father?"
"Nicholas?"
"Why do you label everything? Your yarn, your paints?"
"Colors, my child, mmph."
"What of them?" Nicholas here slowly stands, showcasing the beginnings of the same difficulties his parents both face in that simple act. In moments, though, he is by Aloisius, bracing to help him up to his legs and cane.
"I, mmm, well, your mother tells me I don't see 'em right, mmph mmph." Shoulders shrug. "So I have her label things for me."
At this, the boy brightens, and even more so once his father is not leaning on his arm so much. "I can help with that! If I am to work here--"
"Which you are--"
"Then I can keep it all neat and proper!"
Treadwell nods his head, smiling.
"Now, dear boy, mmph, dear Nicholas, we have a doll house to fashion. What say you?"
For a moment, Nicholas says nothing. He disappears, scurrying as quickly as his heavy frame can carry him into the front room. He returns, pursy and flushed but grinning wide and holding up a wood-carved husband and wife who look suspiciously like his parents. "I say 'yes!'"