There once was a woman named Syeria who had come alone from the east in a gypsy wagon drawn by six mares with white manes. She sold reams of fine silk and cotton out the back of her wagon, which doubled as her home. Her silk was the most beautiful and her cotton the finest anyone had to offer. Merchants often passed through the town on their way to the larger cities in the west but the goods they tried to sell was of poor quality, as they wanted to save the best pieces for their richer customers.

The townsfolk regarded the grey eyed stranger with suspicion, for her ways where strange to them. Often they saw her roam the hills, gathering herbs and spiders’ webs. The whispered among themselves that she was a daughter of a gypsy king and her mother was a seer from a foreign land.

But she was kind to them and gave them medicine when they fell sick so they let her stay on their land throughout the summer without accepting pay. After the summer ended, Syeria packed her wagon, gathered her horses from the fields and went north, for the capital perhaps, the townsfolk thought. They certainly didn’t expect to see her again.

The day before the snow fall she appeared again, wagon, wares, and mares all gone. She carried nothing, save a sack of food and clothes tied to her back and she wore a key around her neck. The people in the square watched as she made her way to a small stone building that was long abandoned at the very edge of their small town. It had once belonged to the haberdasher, a man who had long since gone north to seek his fortune. They stared as she slipped the key from its chain and slid it into the lock. The wooden door creaked open and she disappeared inside.

The people waited for her to emerge, but after days of watching for signs of life they were disappointed; Syeria did not present herself to them again. Instead they heard her working throughout the night, cleaning out the old building she had traded her wagon-home and horses for.

One day the people awoke to see the door had been painted a light blue and it was open and inviting. Cautious at first then curious, a few peered inside to see how the strange woman was spending her solitary days. They entered the room, unsure of what they might find and gasped in wonder.

The room was draped with spools of the finest silk from ceiling to floor. They were arranged as carefully as flowers are, and the colours were the most vibrant anyone had ever seen. Reams of fabric were displayed on the small tables, laid out like offerings. Behind the counter glass jars held buttons of every shape and material; small round buttons of mother of pearl, long ones made of ivory, square brass ones that were engraved with foreign symbols. The wooden floor had been scoured and washed of dust and gleamed in the morning light.

Syeria stood near the doorway and, smiling, she ushered them in. More and more of the towns people were drawn to the commotion surrounding the once dead store. They talked, full of awe, for many weeks about Syeria and the new haberdashery.