Faye
Alma and Lowe’s house is a little rough around the edges, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from a building nestled in the depths of a five-hundred year old village. It’s decorated tastefully, however, and I find myself grinning with delight as she shuts the front door behind us, my gaze sweeping over the tidy, but snug, living room. A fire burns bright in the hearth to combat the chill in the air. Little frames of dried flowers and herbs hang on the wall, and the couch is covered in handmade quilts and fluffy pillows in deep reds and greens. A wooden staircase along the wall leads up into the upper floors while an archway leads directly into a small dining room, then the kitchen, where the smell of herbs waft toward us on the breeze.
“It’s a bit drafty in here today. Lowe has on
