further into the room , I frowned at the display – the odd familiarity of the yellow threads , the strange array of shades of brown , grey and black .
The weaver cleared her throat at my side . I looked at her , then past her , to the room beyond . The kitchen . The fruits of her labour . My mouth fell open as I beheld the neat arrangement of stove , oven and sink , complete with a long wooden table laden with delicacies : heaped platters of pretty cakes , strips and slices of meat both white and red , dishes of baked pear and apple – still steaming – and plates piled high with tarts and pies , both savoury and sweet , the golden pastry plaited .
I had not seen food of the like in months . Behind the mountains of goods , a large pot broiled on the stove , the smell of meat and thyme wending through the air . Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling , accompanied by bunches of straw matching the basket I carried .
Anger flashed from somewhere deep within the awe I had become lost in . All of this for one person … while people were dying daily beyond the woodland .
It was useless anger , and one I pushed away , trying to be grateful for the loaf of bread she had gifted my family . As if she had tapped into my thoughts , the crone crowed over my shoulder , ‘ Was the bread to your liking ?’
I turned to face her , jaw almost too slack to form an answer . She was a small woman , the top of her head barely reaching my chin . And she was stood so close to me , studying me from under my nose .
‘ It was … lifesaving . Thank you .’ Suppressing the urge to step back , I smiled into the words . An uncomfortable pause followed , before I added , ‘ Why did you extend your kindness to me ?’ I did all I could to stop my focus from drifting back to the laden table .
‘ Such nice hair .’ A gnarled hand reached to run knotted fingers through the tangled strands falling over my shoulder . I swallowed , itching to step away from the touch .
‘ Would you like to sit ?’ She asked . I could merely nod my eagerness , following her to the table and sinking into a wooden chair . My bones creaked against the wood . As I placed her basket onto the chair next to me , greedily drinking down the sight of the spread , she busied herself at the other end of the table , decorating a lavish plate into the most delectable arrangement I had yet laid eyes upon . My stomach gave a painful twist . She held the plate in an age-spotted hand , moving around the table and slowly , so slowly , lowering the plate under my nose . ‘ Thank you .’ The words were choked . My attack on the food was more vicious than the wolf ’ s ever could have been , my fingers delving into the nest of dark , shining berries , while my other hand fished for a slice of the meat . The Weaver 72