The iron-rimmed wheels of the flour cart scraped over the wet cobblestones in the alley behind the River Lantern Inn.
Tobin pulled back on the reins of his two grey cart mares, the horses snorting plumes of white vapor into the damp autumn air. The high-sided wooden bed of the wagon was piled to the gunwales with rolled woolen blankets, sixty sacks of hard sea biscuits from the municipal depot, two barrels of dried valley apples, and four crates of clean linen bandages. Half a dozen children from the weavers’ quarter huddled under an oilcloth tarpaulin in the front, their small faces pale and silent beneath wool hoods.
Jon Hale carried Nell down the ladder from the hayloft in his arms, her boots tucked against his hip.
She was bundled in a heavy, homespun cloak of undyed sheep’s wool that reached down to her ankles, tied at the neck with a sturdy leather thong. Under her left arm she carried a shallow wicker basket lined with dry clover, where Button sat calmly, its black feathers sleek against the grey willow twigs. The lame rook did not flutter or croak; its dark, bead-like eye peered out through the wicker weave with quiet, observant stillness, watching the steam rise from the horses’ flanks.
