Post by yewtree on Oct 15, 2005 14:31:42 GMT
Tanith stood in front of the old mirror in the hall and pulled her kerchief around her neck. It was a clean white one, fastened with the cameo brooch given to her by her mother – a Wedgwood jasper with a relief of a priestess pouring incense onto a brazier. She looked critically at her reflection in the mirror, noticing the flecks of tarnish in the mirror's silver backing. At least the chiaroscuro effect of the mirror was flattering, she thought. She pulled a bonnet over her long dark hair, and smoothed her bottle-green dress, a plain one she wore for everyday. She checked her father's list, and stowed it carefully at the bottom of her basket.
She opened the front door and looked out into the village street; it was deserted. The morning sun was warming the Cotswold stone of the houses, and furnishing the street with a contented yellow glow, as if the stones themselves were giving off warmth. All the women of the village had scoured their front steps before retreating indoors again, so that each doorstep looked like a slab of fresh cheese.
As she walked down the street, she felt the stares of her neighbours drilling into the back of her head. She saw the twitch of a curtain out of the corner of her eye. She sighed. The tension had been building lately, as her father had received a fresh consignment of books from London. This in itself was noteworthy when most households possessed only a Bible. It was lucky that the neighbours had not seen the titles of the books, thought Tanith, otherwise there really would have been trouble. The attitude of the village varied from superstitious awe to fear and suspicion, sometimes swinging from one to the other in the space of a month. One might have thought, in this modern age, that people would have lost their ambivalent attitude towards the village blacksmith, even one who practised herbalism, but apparently not.
She opened the front door and looked out into the village street; it was deserted. The morning sun was warming the Cotswold stone of the houses, and furnishing the street with a contented yellow glow, as if the stones themselves were giving off warmth. All the women of the village had scoured their front steps before retreating indoors again, so that each doorstep looked like a slab of fresh cheese.
As she walked down the street, she felt the stares of her neighbours drilling into the back of her head. She saw the twitch of a curtain out of the corner of her eye. She sighed. The tension had been building lately, as her father had received a fresh consignment of books from London. This in itself was noteworthy when most households possessed only a Bible. It was lucky that the neighbours had not seen the titles of the books, thought Tanith, otherwise there really would have been trouble. The attitude of the village varied from superstitious awe to fear and suspicion, sometimes swinging from one to the other in the space of a month. One might have thought, in this modern age, that people would have lost their ambivalent attitude towards the village blacksmith, even one who practised herbalism, but apparently not.