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Miribelle was not one to go indoors, even into a Public House, with dust on her feet. She stood at the door to the Perch and stamped with a ladylike vigor on the mat; then, as a second thought, twitched the cloak she wore, sending what little dirt there was along its hem flying in the morning breeze.
The common room was warm and inviting. And the smell of breakfast foods made her nose twitch with anticipation. She set herself down at at a small table and waved to one of the servers. ‘Eggs, please,’ she said. ‘Yes, scrambled will do nicely. And a rasher of bacon, fried crisp. Biscuits…two, mind you…if that wonderful Miss Cela has made them this morning.’ She raised her nose slightly and sniffed with appreciation. ‘Tea? No, not this morning, I think.’ She sniffed again. ‘Coffee, today, if you please. With sugar and a small pot of cream.’ She gave the server a smile and a satisfied nod of her head. ‘Yes…that will do me quite nicely.’
Once the server had gone, she reached into the bag she’d set by her chair and fished about in it. ‘Ah, there you are!’ she exclaimed, fetching out her knitting needles with a work in progress slung between them. Miribelle eased out a length of pinkish yarn and began to work on another row.
Click-clack…click-clack went the needles, as her hands worked independent of her eyes – both of which swept the room with an avid interest, taking in all the little doings, the comings, the goings of those about her.
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