She was up early, as she was almost every morning.

Almost every morning she set out into the wood. She crept out of her room, down the back alleys, and into the wood. All just before sunrise when the dew was fresh… Though, after the rainstorm the forest was not dewy but drenched.

She returned to the tavern with mud up to her knees and a basket full of soaking weeds and moss. She was most pleased with the moss, soaked as it was, she could keep it alive for a few more days. She washed the mud from her feet and changed her dress before she went inside. She expected a busy breakfast.

At these odd hours she liked to think of herself as a ghost in the tavern. Over the years she learned to tend the small things that were important to the inn. That the breakfast cook would always find the mixing spoon in the same place, the guests would find their linens folded all the same way, Sloan would always find the inkwell at the front desk full and never need to give such a small thing any thought. (As she filled the ink this morning, she noticed the new name in the ledger, but paid it little mind as she set upon her other duties)

As the smell of breakfast roused the guests, Haven quickly donned a fresh apron. Those who knew her called to her by name, giving her their orders. The rest caught on quickly to the method of their silent server. What she could not plate or pour herself she could sloppily-scratch-out for the cook on a slate they had made. (She had only just learned to write, and only knew the shorthand for the orders anyhow.)

She was happy when Gabriel, the Laughing Scorpion, began his performance. He played a jolly fiddle jig. The pace of her step began to match his rhythm, and she did a little spin every so often. (Whenever he might finish a tune, she would stop and clap encouragingly.) With these dance-steps she went in and out of the kitchen, wove round the tables, and kept an eye out for new arrivals that she should greet.