The streets of Bree did not cease to flow with life, even on a cold, early-winter morning. Amid the bustling townsfolk, wrapped in their winter hats and scarves, and the rattling wagons delivering fresh milk and eggs, a demure figure strode. She kept carefully to the side of the cobblestone street, knowing she could not swiftly dart out of the path of other people, nor the monstrous horses pulling their carts to and fro. She was of ordinary stature, with gleaming black hair that never seemed to lay flat, but preferred to dance and bob about her shoulders, and wide, green eyes that sparkled with flecks of gold. Her walking was steady, but somewhat slower than the other figures brushing past and around her. Each step included a slight list of her weight to one side. In this manner, she limped her way through the village. She was garbed in a simple, rustic dress of pale blue and beige; the colored yarn a luxury and indulgence that this provincial farm-woman could easily have done without. But it was the start of Yule, and if ever there was a time to enjoy the small things that life could offer, it was now.
By the time the bell struck noon over the Bree town-hall, she had a full basket swinging from her arm. Within it was a pack of fresh, hot currant buns, a jar of blackberry jam, a precious, tiny pouch of dried sweet cherries, a hefty portion of sage sausage, a new, leather belt (wrapped in a tight, tidy coil), a small jar of beeswax to soften the new leather, and a pair of woolen gloves. She turned aside from the bustling, noisy clamor of the main thoroughfare, and made her slow way along a side street. From the side street, she turned onto a narrow, dim alley, bordered by leaning, ramshackle houses where the sun only found a brief gap to shine at the high point of the day, before cold shadow returned. The air did not smell of fresh bread and holly wreaths and apple pies here. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and nose as she ventured further along.
The last house on this crowded, stifling little street was difficult for her to look at. Like the others, it seemed to sag on its foundation, as if the structure itself was too weary of the pains and struggles of life to hold its head up properly. The windows were shuttered, like closed eyes. A bottle lay on its side on the front step, discarded with a small amount of dark liquid still inside. She approached and stood for a time, gazing up at the edifice. Solemnly thinking of the wounded soul that likely hid within. It would be easy to take that wound into herself, and let it make her sad.
She stepped forward and crouched down. Stiffly, with difficulty, grunting at the ache that pressed through the bones of her right leg. She set the basket carefully by the door. Not in front of it. It might trip someone coming or going in a drunken stupor. It was placed off to the side. Visible, but safe from mishaps. A small paper label was attached to the handle, and she arranged it with tender, fussing fingers until it was just so, with the name easily read.
Emory.
It took a hand braced on the filthy ground for her to stand again, with much puffing and effort. She stood there for a little longer, looking from her offered gift to the door and windows, and back again. Then she turned away, and began to walk.
