She could however see that the floor was well swept and the small table well scrubbed. Two tin mugs stood on a shelf and a broom leaned upright in a corner.
She began to make out one or two more colourful items. A hand-painted candlestick stood on the mantel. A red enamel pitcher stood on the table. A purple and gold shawl lay idly thrown over the back of a crooked chair.
Hesitatingly, Davina picked up the shawl. It was of a soft weave and from it rose a faint scent of jasmine.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” demanded a voice from the doorway and Davina spun round in shock.
No butcher’s wife or fishwife, no laundry woman with a rude, red countenance met her eye. Instead she saw a being as rare and exotic as – as a mountain orchid. In one miserable instant, she knew that this wa
