Somewhere outside, unrest was brewing, the economy was fluctuating, and war was just on the horizon.
Wool's orphanage didn't have much -if any- benefactor as sponsors go. In one word, it was a miserable place.
But it was just starting, the downward spiral not yet complete and the adults still had the energy to attempt at optimism.
Stories were a way to liven the place.
Three years old Mary Riddle especially loved stories about her mother, Merope Gaunt. Every little piece was considered precious.
"She adored berries."
"Sometimes, she would sit by the windowsill, humming. I asked once and she said it was a story she was telling. I reckon it was for you."
"I remember she mentioned that Marvolo was her father's name."
"She was a lovely cook, oh yes."
"Not very pretty, not like ye, but a polite young lass."
Saying 'stories' was a bit of an exaggeration, but Mary fancied piecing together every tidbit of carelessly dropped trivia.
She imagined it like building blocks, gradually filling the outline of the mysterious woman who had loved her enough to die for her.