Harold Ashe

Bree, half a lifetime ago

The day her mother died it was sunny. Only eleven years old, she didn’t stop crying for weeks. If the skies were dry, her tears would replace the mourning of rain. 

Bree, a couple years ago

The shadows of the alley were still cover enough to conceal oneself in, though the sun was higher than the smuggler would have wished. From the small nook, she could see any comings and goings from the bookie’s villa.

Bree, about 12 years ago

The cool morning breeze wafted in through the window of the tiny Bree home as Arthur Northropp hobbled across the floor on rough crutches. In one corner Sonya sat, already hard at work on a new weaving. The large tapestry she’d finished yesterday sat against the wall, rolled up and ready for delivery. A good commission, and one that might let them finally get out of the city. Finally own a farm again.