The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The air around the secluded cabin grew cooler, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Delia sat on the rough wooden steps, a large wicker basket resting by the door. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity.
"Your Grace," Mr. Rye said from his position by the carriage, his voice full of polite concern. "It's getting late. The road back will be dark soon. It seems His Grace is not around."
Delia looked at the basket. It was filled with freshly baked bread, a hearty stew kept warm with insulated cloths, and a few neatly folded sets of clean clothes. She had come with a clear purpose, but now, sitting in the quiet twilight, her resolve was wavering. She should leave. She should simply leave the basket and go home. But she couldn't.
