She plies her craft in secret.
With needle, fruit and Black Death.

She polishes and shines and covers in a thin veneer of magical preservative.

She places her stock lovingly into wicker baskets and offers her wares to the embittered, the spiteful, and the desperate.

She travels from village to village, but no jealous sisters, no old crones or aspiring overlords are willing to purchase her wares.

No one eats apples anymore.
Disney has ruined her trade.

MQ