Thomas had lived in Farlow all his life. As he looked out now into the wet morning, he felt little affection for the place. Perhaps I have stayed too long.
He turned to Merril the hawker, here to collect the rye and black breads for her daily rounds. ‘No tourte today,’ she said, gathering his wares hastily into her basket.
He shook his head distractedly, and she stood there awkwardly for a moment, her stomach rumbling. ‘Are you okay Thomas?’
‘Aye, aye.’ The baker looked around the gloomy room. ‘What would my father make of this? I’ve carried on the business all these years. Yet Farlow now…’
‘Times aren’t best, that I grant, but you have done well enough, ne’er mind the wind-suckers.’
‘I fear the good is behind us now. Has been for long years.’
‘Well that day was marked when-‘
‘No. Don’t say his name.’ The baker looked back out at the coming day. ‘Perhaps light will return here. Perhaps the teachings of the Sect will light our way anew.’
‘They won’t help us against the outlaws, mind.’
‘No. That is for the steward.’ Thomas leaned against the window’s sill, his eyes drawn towards the Riverbeck Inn. ‘He too has changed. Let’s hope he still has the wisdom to rescue us once more.’ Ah Elias, we need you. We all must struggle against the decay.
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