At the bottom of the hill the road curved slowly towards the outskirts of the town. A row of old houses remained like sentinels to the the outside world. Each house was occupied, their owners having lived there for generation after generation. The seven families of the seven houses. The seventh and last house had a small extension to its side. The last building on the row. It window frames and door painted a bright festive colour. The sign on the front declared in golden ornate script. The Little Red Bookshop.
Travellers whizzing by on the road would barely notice the little shop. Even those on foot often mistook it for being long closed and abandoned. Only the few whose curiosity got the better of them ever ventured inside. The door had an old fashion bell that clunked rather than rang when the door swung open. Like many an old bookshop, the shelves were stacked high with musty tomes and long forgotten volumes of books no longer wanted or needed.
The lights were dim, save for a lamp that shone over a desk in one corner. Here a hunched figure was usually found, scrutinising some parchment or ledger with a magnifying glass.