Morag frowned as she packed them in the back of the cart. It was a telling tale that she had so little to show for her winter efforts. Last year she attended Saint Finan’s Fair in mid-March with fourteen—a far better offering. The hours lost to healing Wulf before yule were worthy ones. It was the hours lost since that gave her pause. Cloth was her only means of trade, and she would feel the pinch of her idle hands before the first harvest. She glanced over her shoulder at Wulf. A heavy mist had settled in the glen overnight, and even though the sun had risen, fog still blanketed the keep. She could hear others working in the close, but she could not see them. “Perhaps I am better to sell the cloth in the village,” she said to Wulf. “They know the quality of my work here. If the buyers in Edinburgh are not as discerning, I may not earn the coin I’ll need to see me through the summer.” He covered her hand with his big one and squeezed.
