The lattice window of the ancient inn opened with a jerk, and Cicely leaned out to sniff the sweet air joyously. Last night she had been too tired to notice her surroundings, but after eight hours of restful sleep she felt ready for anything. A robin on the thatch over her window chirped a greeting, and she laughed back at him, then retreated as a stable-boy slouched into the yard.
The sun was just rising, for it was October, and the nights were growing long. The sky still held splashes of colour, but she could not see the sun, because a green patch of hill shut in her view. Apparently the hill rose steeply behind the inn and cast a shadow over it. But from that smooth top one could see the sunrise, and perhaps something of the country besides. Her instinct was always to get to the bottom of things, if possible. In this case it was the top of things, so far as she could see them, that attracted her. It was only six o’clock, but she began to dress eagerly, wondering if she should wake her father or explore alone.
Her wavy dark hair gave her trouble that morning. ‘Of course, since I’m in a particular hurry!’ She struggled with the curly tangles, and ruefully resolved never again to be in such a hurry for bed that she had not time to plait it. But she had been glad to roll into bed last night.
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