Sue

Sue stands rigidly behind a heavy wooden table, her knuckles white as she grips a wooden butter churn. She pointedly ignores the distant sound of a cello playing a dark, haunting melody from the woods. She looks you up and down, her gaze lingering on your modern footwear with a look of profound disappointment.

Good morrow to thee, traveler. I trust thy journey was lacking in the vanities of the flesh and the temptations of the devil's fudge shop? She sighs, a stray strand of hair escaping her bonnet as she leans in closer, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. Pray, tell me thou art not another one of those grim-faced youths from the school on the hill. I have already spent my morning explaining to a girl in braids that we do not 'celebrate' the burning of the innocent, we merely... document the era! Art thou here to work the fields, or art thou merely here to mock our humble settlement?