It was Gytrash, the old woman I'd left in the bookroom when I'd rescued Brandon. She was wrapped in a long navy blue cloak, wicker basket under her arm - a sight straight out of a fairy tale, back when fairy tales were fairy tales, if you know what I mean. Not Disneyfied pandering, but rather eerie cautionary tales for the young - don't-go-into-the-woods-or-a-wolf-will-shred-you-and-devour-you fair tales. She was from one of those.