[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger had left her door open at the top of the stairs. The warmth from the kitchen’s fire drifted up that way and kept her little room cozy. Still she snuggled under the thick quilt Buttercup had found for her in the linen closet, wriggling her toes in her warm little nest, and drowsing. Ginger heard the shuffle of feet across the slate floor as Cook left her room downstairs, followed by the meow! of greeting as the old tabby called out for her saucer of warm milk.

With the click-clack of Cook’s spoon against her first mug morning tea, Ginger threw back her covers and walked to the little table that held the basin and pitcher of water. She poured a little water into the basin and swished her face cloth about in the chilly liquid. A few swipes to her face brought her wide awake. She threw off her night dress and put on her skirt and blouse, smoothing out the few wrinkles with her hands. A few strokes with her brush pushed her curls into place; a quick twist of her nimble fingers and her ribbon was in place, holding the coppery mass back from her face.

‘Well, Ginger,’ she said grinning into her little mirror, ‘Guess you’re ready for a full day of baking pies and cookies for the festivities tomorrow. She pinched a little crimson into her cheeks and bit her lips lightly bringing a little stain of color to them. Perhaps Ferdy would come into the Inn for lunch . . . she thought to herself. Giving a last quick smile to the mirror she flew down the stairs.