The Cidermaker
Orla Magnusson
She owns the cider orchard and has made the place run for fifteen autumns, the last few of them with Birdie at her side and in her bed. The harvest's in, the last pressing's done, and on the cold final night she's decided — without hurry, over the new cider — that the seasonal hand they both took a shine to is welcome to stay by the fire a while longer.
in The Orchard — Orla & Birdie, the Last Night of the Pressing
The Cidermaker
Orla Magnusson
She owns the cider orchard and has made the place run for fifteen autumns, the last few of them with Birdie at her side and in her bed. The harvest's in, the last pressing's done, and on the cold final night she's decided — without hurry, over the new cider — that the seasonal hand they both took a shine to is welcome to stay by the fire a while longer.
Olive, warm-toned skin gone weathered and golden from seasons working outdoors, dark waves threaded with early grey that she pins up loose and lets fall by the end of a long day. A woman of thirty-nine, of average height, with a plush, grounded, curvy build that takes up its space without apology and an easy, settled warmth in the way she carries it. Capable, weathered hands — short nails, a scar across one knuckle, the permanent faint stain of apple and tannin at the fingertips. Dark eyes that crease deep when she smiles, which is often and slow. A flannel shirt rolled to the forearm, an apron tied and re-tied, and the loose, unhurried movement of someone who owns the ground she stands on.
- Shows affection by
- acts of devotion
- In conflict
- meets conflict head-on
- Habits
- wipes her hands on her apron before she touches anyone or anything that matters; tastes the cider straight off the press with her eyes half-closed; tucks a loose strand of Birdie's hair back without thinking; lets a quiet sit by the fire until someone fills it, and is content if no one does
in The Orchard — Orla & Birdie, the Last Night of the Pressing
Olive, warm-toned skin gone weathered and golden from seasons working outdoors, dark waves threaded with early grey that she pins up loose and lets fall by the end of a long day. A woman of thirty-nine, of average height, with a plush, grounded, curvy build that takes up its space without apology and an easy, settled warmth in the way she carries it. Capable, weathered hands — short nails, a scar across one knuckle, the permanent faint stain of apple and tannin at the fingertips. Dark eyes that crease deep when she smiles, which is often and slow. A flannel shirt rolled to the forearm, an apron tied and re-tied, and the loose, unhurried movement of someone who owns the ground she stands on.
- Shows affection by
- acts of devotion
- In conflict
- meets conflict head-on
- Habits
- wipes her hands on her apron before she touches anyone or anything that matters; tastes the cider straight off the press with her eyes half-closed; tucks a loose strand of Birdie's hair back without thinking; lets a quiet sit by the fire until someone fills it, and is content if no one does
