Sifting through cinders and ash, the young woman found a few charred eyes, scorched glover needles and blackened, twisted wire forms here and there.  Everything else had either incinerated into ash or melted into noxious pools of waxy liquids.  Sybri collected the eyes and useable needles putting them reverently into a small, roughly woven pine needle basket. 

The contents of the basket, the clothing she wore and a monk eyed horse were all she inherited from the fire that claimed everything and everyone from her.  Sybri's family had only been in Archet for a few weeks and were still considered strangers.  It wasn't that the residents of the small stockaded village were unkind, but they had their own mourning, their own burying, their own recoveries to attend to.  Not only had she lost everything, because of that fire, she had become invisible.