The Golden Perch Inn

[Rose]

Penstemon, Granny Greenhill, that is, to most folks around, had started out quite early that morning, her little cart packed with a crate of honey jars and a large willow basket filled with dried white lavender bouquets. She’d promised Rowan the lavender for the linen closet at The Perch. And the honey was for the kitchen – four nice sized jars of it; all of the apple blossom variety. Miz Cela had told her she was making honey cakes this week; someone’s birthday Penstemon thought as she loaded the clay jars in carefully.

Bumble, her dear little donkey, had been in one of his agreeable moods to day and so the harnessing and the trip itself had been accomplished with a minimum of bribes and cajolings. He halted, as she pulled back on the reins, stamping his hooves a bit and twitching his raggedy ears.

‘Yes,’ she assured him as she climbed down from the cart, She got out her yew wood walking stick from beneath the seat and walked forward to scratch his head. ‘There’s a treat for you, my dear Bumble,’ as he nosed her pinafore pocket and stamped again. She fetched out a large lump of sugar, wrapped up in a bit a thin parchment, and offered the sweet to her eager companion.

‘Now where’s that Will?’ she wondered, looking toward the stable. He was always so good about hearing the carts and wagons roll in and was usually jonny-on-the-spot about running out to help.

Granny stumped up to the little porch just outside the kitchen door and though it was not quite closed, she gave it a firm rap with her stick. Her old ears were still quite sharp and she could hear an odd assortment of voices from within, though no one answered her knock.

She pushed the door open with her stick and poked her head in. ‘It’s Granny Greenhill,’ she called out. ‘I’ve come to see Rowan and Miz Cela,’ she went on, stepping into the kitchen.

‘Oh, my!’ she cried at the sight before her. Her hand fluttered to her chest. ‘What on earth has happened?’