Our story begins as most stories do when recited as a well-practised sonnet from the lips of the bard in your local tavern, with our heroine running late for work for the second time that week. When the slithers of winter had truly settled in and cast a smattering of frost across every thatched cottage and lamppost which made up the charmingly rustic little hamlet of Combe, described most lovingly as the arse-end of Bree-land.
The beady gaze of red robins perched upon crystallised branches and cobblestones glittering in the rays of a pale, wintery sunlight, Ophelia Pennyfeather was hopping out of her parent's cottage, foot in hand as she hastened to yank on her shoe - a mismatched shoe to be precise - and ignoring the prying eyes of Mrs So-and-So pegging out her washing in the front garden next door, tutting disapprovingly under her breath.
The village, considering the earliness of the hour, was already bustling with folk: a plethora of farmers, traders and many more of the like, seizing the day for another opportunity to get rich and finally, with the help of everything good and holy, finally get out of this dead-end little village. Or so Ophelia thought as she, shoes on successfully, manoeuvred through the throngs of village folk at a rapid pace, eager to get herself to work on time and refrain from having her hide thoroughly skinned by her battle-axe of a boss.
The occasional calls of 'Morning, Ophelia!' and 'How are you this fine morning, Ophelia?' and, naturally, 'That bloody Pennyfeather girl is late again!' sounded around her in a cacophony of the usual riff-raff. To some she waved, to others she took care to avoid.
"Oi, Ophelia!" jeered the voice of a young, rather good-looking fellow hanging out from a upstairs window as she passed, "Drinks tonight at the 'the Wattle'?"
"Get back to me when you can rub two silvers together!" She yelled back to him over the general babble of morning exchanges, accompanying her words with a rather rude gesture of her hand as she skirted around a trio of woodsmen carrying armfuls of logs in the opposite direction up the road.
She felt the sudden urge to check on her person for something that was very clearly missing but what it was she did not know. The thought had not yet occured to her. Hardly able to dwell on the subject, whatever it was would have to go unattended.
"Thirty silvers, girl! This is your last warning!" The distinct growls of a rather rotund-looking fellow surfaced from the nearest vegetable stall. Ophelia clasped her hands together apologetically as she narrowly avoided missing him.
"Yes, of course. I'll get those coins to you as soon as I find the strength to stop letting very wonderful lads, indeed, burn holes in my very small pockets."
"Last. Warning. Girl-"
"Ophelia! Ophelia!" came the squeals of a gaggle of young children, a collection of rosy-cheeked, heavily panting faces gazing up at her in something close to wonderment, "You comin' to play hide and seek with us again?"
"Not at the moment, but perhaps..." She groaned as she struggled to hoist one of the children out from her path, "...I'll come and play later tonight," She reassured before prodding her finger towards them, "Stay out of trouble, little fauns. You don't want Pellar Montgomery to have your hides again."
And once more, she was off. A flurry of thoughts interrupted by the drawn whistles of a band of boys hanging from the back of a hay cart, smoking from pipes and acting much like a raucous nuisance to the rest of the general population.
"Lookin' good, Ophelia!" one of them called, his eyebrow lifted and his lip upturned in a half-smirk.
"What's up with you?" Ophelia fired back, referencing the persistent whistling as she asked, "Lost your dog?"
The fellow grinned, folding his hands inwards to rest over his heart. "You wound me, Ophelia..." He sighed contently with a measure of feigned hurt and, as before, Ophelia waved another rude finger, issuing a series of horrified gasps from a duo of older, wizened ladies twittering their early morning gossip.
And continuing, Ophelia trudged on. And on. Leaving behind the burst of song from the hay cart as the lyrics, 'Oh Ophelia! How you wound me, dear sweet Ophelia!' rang out loudly.
The real Ophelia rolled her eyes all the same, the utterance of these words she had heard one time too many. And then-
Bollocks!
Her apron! It was her apron she was missing. Ophelia outwardly moaned her exasperation, receiving a round of severely concerned looks from passersby. Sighing and resigning herself to simply going without said apron, she proceeded on along the cobblestones, rounding the corner of the Combe and Wattle to head for Leecher Cartwell's humble abode atop the small mound of sandy stone and frosted grass which, when traipsed upon in her haste, crunched rather satisfyingly under her shoes.
She burst through the door moments later, skidding over the threshold and receiving little more than a simple 'Shut the door' from Cartwell's wife as she sat the desk beside the entry, flitting through a long scroll of ingredients without feeling the need to glance up.
"Sorry...I'm late..." Ophelia spoke thickly through heaving breaths, closing said door and shrugging off her navy-coloured cloak. She hung it beside the two others, Cartwell and his wife's, the two joint owners of the establishment, and ambled across the room to prep herself for whatever the glorious hamlet of Combe wanted to darken her doorstep with, evidently apron-less.
She headed for the backroom until the harsh interruption of Cartwell's wife made her hesitate, just out of sight.
"Ophelia."
"Yes?" Ophelia called sweetly, leaning back to poke her head out from around the corner.
"Come here," She said simply, though the air of authority weighed heavily in her voice. Ophelia mustered her smile and retreated back into the room, standing before the desk with her hands politely held behind her back.
"You called?" She tried to the lighten mood. Much to ill-affect.
"Why are you wearing breeches?" Cartwell's wife blinked, lowering the list and straightening her sitting position to gaze over the desk at the sight of the girl.
"What's wrong with my breeches?" Ophelia replied, a mixture of confusion and hurt slipping into the question as she gazed down at herself.
"Where's your dress?" She pressed wearily.
"Well, it's - ah - at...home...." Ophelia's voice died at the sight of her raised eyebrows.
"Ophelia, we try to uphold some modicum of respect. It's better for patients if we-"
"I mean, it's just...it's just breeches, why does it-"
"I expect a dress tomorrow," Cartwell's wife jabbed a finger at her and Ophelia nodded thoroughly.
"Of course. And corset-"
"And corset."
The door suddenly opened and the two women glanced around to gaze at the newcomer: a toothless fellow with a bit of straw hanging from the side of his drooping mouth, followed by a meek little girl with braided pigtails.
"Mornin' ladies," He started, a grubby hand coming to rest upon the girl's shoulder, "Bit o' an accident 'appened las' nigh'. Cork shot straight up 'er nose, stuck good n' proper."
Ophelia stared.
"A...what?" She tried to comprehend, beckoning the two inside.
"Woulda called in las' nigh', aye. But yer was closed, see. 'Ad to make it through the nigh' but she's been champion, 'ardly a peep."
"Take a seat up here, sushine," Ophelia crossed to the window sill and patted it, to which the girl sheepishly obliged, bringing her up to a suitable height for an examination. Pulling on protective gloves, Ophelia instructed, "Tilt your head back, buttercup. Let's take a look. Mm...yeah, that's up there, alright. How the bloody hell did it get up there?" She enquired with a frown.
"Treated 'er to a brandy for 'er tenth birthday. Only a small cork, mind. Must'a opened it right under 'er nose and the bugger shot up there faster than a fox down a rabbit hole!"
"Tenth?" Ophelia repeated incredulously and the fellow shrugged with a miraculously non-chalant demeanour about the whole ordeal.
"Tradition in me family, see. Me da' gave me a bottle o' brandy for me tenth birthday. And look a' me, I turned ou' fine," He patted his chest with an air of pride that Ophelia was surely failing to understand.
"I-...right," She gestured over her shoulder at Cartwell's wife with an exasperated sigh, "I'll just need tweezers for this one, I reckon. 'Modicum of respect'..." She murmured irritably under her breath.
