Band of Brothers
Moving through the streets of Hawthorne with a horse and wagon can be challenging, especially during the mid-morning bustle. Stalls line the street, regardless of the width. On the main thoroughfares, they create a daily festival of scents, sounds, and shines. To boys from the country, the wealth on display dazzles. As the roads narrow, the hawkers simply grow more determined, clinging to their patch of cobble, shouting all the more emphatically the worth of their wares. The permanent shops smile at passers-by, their giant front windows propped open in grins. Bulkier items, refuge from the masses, or services not fit for the streets themselves, all are available just a few steps up from the gutters.
It is mid-morning. Hawthorne is booming.
In one such shop, bolts of cloth, rolled and stacked, neatly fill the shelves. The counters hold trays full of spooled thread, balls of yarn in baskets, needles. On the floor, finely crafted chests, swirling with patterns etched in wood and metal. The inventory is diverse. Sturdy stools. Tinworks. Pottery.
In the center of the store, a pile of crates fills the floor, sharp lines softened by the huge canvas drape shielding the stack.
The lamps are dry. The candles, guttered out.
It is mid-morning. But the Sellers Stand is closed.