The morning was bright and hot. Spring was grasping on with tendrils that grew thinner and weaker with every dawn. The air held a heaviness that promised the woman would be damp with sweat by the end of the day's work.
She stood before her wardrobe, clad only in her small-clothes. The rising sun had long since crested the eastern hills and lit up the bedroom with a pale, gold light that she favored over any other time of day. One hand settled onto the generous swell of a hip as she considered the dress hanging loose from the opposite, upraised hand. With a low hum, she replaced the woolen work-dress that had served her through the springtime, with a lighter, linen one.
Now properly garbed, she turned to the looking-glass that leaned against the wall. Beyond the windowpane that had been opened to welcome whatever breezes might visit the village that day, the townsfolk were already beginning to emerge from their cottages. Her eyes rested on the idyllic scene briefly, before turning their attention to her hair. Summer would turn the flaxen tresses into a shade that seemed almost silvery, but for now, their hue was still a pale gold. She rubbed her fingers over the tips of the strands that rested slightly past her shoulders. Becoming accustomed to the shorter length had not been easy, nor swift. But now it felt...less alien. The hair had grown to suit her round, sturdy features, framing them in a way that she could almost call appealing.
A sudden, sharp rap at the door made her gasp and twitch. Swallowing back her thrumming heart, she walked quickly across the small room and opened the latch.
A ruddy-faced man with wheat-colored hair stood on the mat, blinking at her. Behind him was a small cart, laden with goods that were covered in canvas tarps, drawn by a patient-looking, elderly mare. "I did not mean to startle you, Brynleigh," he chuckled, noting the expression on her face. "My apologies for the early hour! But I've got a lot of stops today, and you're first on the list!”
The young woman’s features smoothed into a relaxed and somewhat sheepish smile. “It is quite all right! Forgive me, for not answering the door more politely.”
“Ah, we will not worry on it another moment, lady,” the goodsman assured her. In his hands was a square-ish parcel, wrapped in brown paper. “Your bread!” he announced, offering it over to her.
Brynleigh accepted the package with a deep bow of her head, perhaps hoping to hide the faint bit of color that had painted her cheeks. “A good day to you!” she added brightly, before turning to close the door.
“Oh, miss!” cried the man.
She halted with the door half-open. He was holding out another package. It was small and thin, not much more than an envelope. Puzzlement tipped her head slightly to one side.
“This is also for you,” said the goodsman.
There was an impulse to reply, “What is it?” But such a question would be absurd. He was merely the deliverer. She tucked the larger package under her left arm, glanced at the mysterious parcel for a moment, then reached out to take it. “I thank you. Ferthu hal! May your day be safe and free of troublesome customers.”
The man chuckled appreciatively, touched his palm to his chest, and retreated in haste back to his waiting cart of goods.
After the door had closed with a gentle click of the latch, she quickly deposited the larger parcel on the table and turned her attention to the smaller one. The penmanship on the outside seemed familiar, though she could not immediately place it. Slender, strong fingers carefully opened the wrapping, and in doing so, something fell out. A flash of shimmering green, fluttering like a moth with a broken wing, down to the floor.
She stooped swiftly and plucked it up. A ribbon. Smooth like satin. Still crouched, she brought it close to her face for inspection. Two colors were spun together; green like the windblown grass of the Mark in midsummer, and gleaming gold like the wheat-fields in autumn. The gossamer threads formed a pattern of delicate leaves against the verdant background.
Bewilderment and delight swirled pleasantly in her breast. Who was it from? She stood slowly, running a thumb along the silky material, before reverently laying the ribbon on the table. Delving with greater care into the thin package, she produced a folded piece of parchment. Breathing slowly through parted lips, she spread open the small square of paper.
“Wear it and I will know when I see you, that your hair has grown long enough.”
