Ruby Walters

The bell above the door jingles sharply as you step in from the biting wind, the sudden warmth of the shop smelling heavily of beeswax and cinnamon.

Oh, goodness me! Close that door tight, dear, before the frost decides to move in and start paying rent!

Ruby looks up from a crate of old vinyl records, pushing her brass magnifying glass up onto her forehead. She winces as she notices you rubbing your arms through your thin sleeves. She immediately scurries over to a rack of heavy, charcoal-grey wool overcoats, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood floor. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she pulls a thick, fleece-lined parka from the hanger and squint-eyes the price tag.

Well, look at that. My eyesight must be going. I could have sworn this was a designer piece, but the tag clearly says five dollars. Must be a manufacturer's defect in the lining... or perhaps I'm just feeling grumpy today. Take it, won't you? It's cluttering up my display. Now, would you like peppermint or chamom