Rose was unsure what she was looking at as she stood outside her house in her thick, warm fur coat. She wrapped it around herself as she stared down at Madame Oliver, who was a little red. It might be from the cold or how angry she looked, Rose was unsure.
However, not just her presence was unexpected, but the accusation and glare in her eyes. Rose was at a loss for words at the woman on her front step, who looked like she might strike her.
It was some time before sunset—the sun already showing signs that any moment now it would be gone from view, leaving only cloudy skies and a crescent moon to guide the night.
Rose had just finished making dinner from the grains the baron had been generous enough to add. There was a bag of rye and a smaller bag of wheat.
