She stood at a large wooden table in the center of the room and surveyed her work. Golden mid-afternoon sunlight streamed in from the open door and the window to its left, illuminating the flour-covered table top. Her hair was pinned at the nape of her neck but as she turned her head, the fine hairs framing her face caught the light.
She brushed the last bit of flour on her hands off and wiped them on her apron for good measure, apparently satisfied by what she saw. A basket filled with bread covered by a checkered cloth sat on the table, its handles raised expectantly in preparation for the upcoming journey.
Only when a shadow darkened the room did her concentration waver. She looked up.
“Are you leaving?” The Huntsman asked, as he ducked down into the doorframe.
She nodded imperceptibly, still absorbed in her preparations, and looked back at the table. He frowned slightly at her response but didn’t press her for more information.