The dry, pungent smell of herbs wafted out of the open door. Uilossiel stepped inside, the flagstones cool and smooth against her slippered feet. Under one arm she carried a large tome, and in the other hand a small journal.
"Tinwen? Are you there?" She peered around the corner and saw her younger sister Tinwen seated at a table, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle. Her silvery-fair hair, so like their mother's, was pulled into a coif atop her head. Although it was late in the afternoon, not a single fold of Tinwen's pale blue dress was out of place.
