February 8th, 1873, Brooklyn Hill, Wellington, 0500 hours.
Every morning, precisely one hour before sunrise, Mrs. Mary-Anne Fowler would wake, dress hurriedly, and venture outside to retrieve the eggs her much loved hens laid. After offering thanks to the birds for their generosity, and with eggs in her basket, Mary-Anne would carefully walk down the steep Brooklyn Hill - a route which was often muddy and sometimes hazardous. She would chat amiably with tradesmen or market sellers on their way to the busy township of Wellington, regularly dispensing advice and horoscope predictions to those eager to learn of impending fortune and love. Once her eggs were sold, she would return home, and in the afternoons, she often received visitors whom she would, for a penny or two, formally provide wi
