The merchant who had been packing his cart at the far end of the square had long since trundled off, his muttering swallowed by the cold.
So, for a brief, suspended window, the square had belonged only to them, four invisible figures wrapped around each other on the ledge of a frozen fountain, their silence bubble holding the world at bay.
That window was closing.
The first sign was the clatter of wooden wheels on cobblestone. A cart, heavy-laden and groaning under the weight of its cargo, rolled into the square from the eastern entrance.
Its driver was a stout woman with ruddy cheeks and arms thick as hams. She began setting up her stall, poles extended, canvas unfurled. A battered sign swung into place, its painted letters announcing HOT SPICED CIDER and FRESH PASTRIES in cheerful, weather-faded script.
Cecilia hid her face.
Because this first stall was not alone for long.
