“The rules are simple: Do not awaken me before breakfast. Do not singe my hair. And do not dally with the footmen. The secret to keeping your position, my dear, is to avoid violating all three in one day.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon dismissing her most recent lady’s maid, the eighth in as many months.
Beneath her blankets, Genie’s world was simple. Warm. Dark. A bit close, but that was to be expected. She burrowed tighter as the knocking echoed on.
“Genie! Unlock the door.”
Genie sighed, heating her blanketed den further. Tugging a corner, she squinted at the rude white light from the window then glared at her bedchamber door. “Go away, Kate!”
Back into the den. Safe. Quiet.
Bang, bang, bang.
Perhaps not so quiet.
She closed her eyes, drawing her pillow up against her ears. There. Better.
“Dash it all, at least come down to breakfast,” came the faint, muffled voice of her younger sister. “Cook served a ham. It is your favorite.”
Once again, Genie poked her head into the appallingly bright day. “I don’t want any. Now, go away!”
She waited. One breath. Two. Silence. Blessed silence.
Her eyes drifted closed again. Her head dropped back onto the pillow. She didn’t bother to tug the blankets back into place.
God, she was tired. Sleep either came in long visitations or not at all. Today, it failed to arrive.
Failed. Much like her, she supposed.
The bitter truth clamped down upon her throat. She gritted her teeth and fisted the pillow. Flopped over and smashed her face into the soft, feathery thing. Screamed until her throat hurt.
It didn’t help. Nothing did, really. She was a failure without a future. She would linger at the edges of her old life like a ghost. Annabelle and Jane and Maureen would have a dozen more children. Kate would marry and add to the Huxley numbers. Her brother, John, would soon return from Scotland with tales of mad adventure, then dazzle the ladies of London before choosing one to bear him a half-dozen babes of his own.
And Genie? She would live at Clumberwood Manor. Alone. She would make hats no one would buy. She would avoid speaking with neighbors out of concern for their reputations, avoid appearing friendly with the household staff lest she reignite old gossip. She would grow old. Eccentric. Children would whisper about her in dreading tones, dare one another to approach while she haunted village shops.
The ghost of Eugenia Huxley, ever in search of the perfect red ribbon.
Her chest ached. She glared at the window.
She should have known better. Eugenia Huxley an employee? Preposterous. She could scarcely manage obedience to her doting father. When she was a girl, Papa had called her his “little rebel.” He’d always said it with a fond twinkle. Most employers hadn’t any use for a rebellious assistant, and Mrs. Pritchard—incompetence aside—was no exception.
Of course, Mrs. Pritchard had waited to give her the sack until she’d wrung every drop of work from Genie’s fingers. The morning after the incident with Holstoke, Mrs. Pritchard had entered the workroom with a beaming smile for Fancy Nancy. She’d avoided glancing at Genie, merely placing eight written orders upon Genie’s stack and collecting the five gold turbans from the shelf.
Genie had completed the eight orders in the time it had taken Fancy Nancy to finish a sad yellow cap from which all traces of lace had been removed. By late afternoon, Genie had wondered if Mrs. Pritchard might have forgotten her name, or perhaps Holstoke had revealed too much after all, and the milliner debated how to address her. A cold lump had settled in her stomach as she’d watched the woman grow increasingly pinched.
In the end, it had been worse than she’d imagined. Mrs. Pritchard had swept aside the curtain just before six. She’d watched Genie trim her last ribbon. Then, while Fancy Nancy hung her apron in the dimmest corner of the room, Mrs. Pritchard had spoken.
“Miss Huxley, you may consider your work here finished.”
Genie had blinked up at her, a bit dizzy after bending over her needle all day. “Yes. I was just about—”
“For good.”
The cold lump in her belly had grown. Spread to her muscles and skin. Crystallized and stung. “I—you—”
“Miss Knox will complete any remaining orders.”
Genie’s eyes had dropped to the capote in her hands. Wool felt and satin ribbon had blurred into a blob of delicate pink. “None remain,” she’d murmured, stunned despite the warnings that this would happen. “They are all complete.”
If anything, her answer had angered Mrs. Pritchard further, as though she’d wanted Genie to fall short. “Leave your apron. Leave the tools. I should not like to discover you have stolen from me.”
Raising her gaze, Genie had slowly stood, watching the woman’s face. Mrs. Pritchard had refused to meet her eyes. The coward.
She’d placed the capote on the shelf, quickly tugged at her apron’s ties, and folded it neatly before tossing it onto the worktable. “I should like to bid farewell to Mr. Moody.”
“He was dismissed this morning.”
A wave of nausea had struck, bringing Genie’s hands to her belly. “No. You—you—”
Finally, the milliner had looked at her. Viperous triumph lifted one corner of her lips. “He was caught reading again. Mr. Pritchard does not countenance sloth.”
Every sarcastic epithet that had risen in Genie’s throat stuck in place. She must help Mr. Moody. He’d been sacked because of her. She could not allow it.
And so, she’d begged. “Please,” she’d said hoarsely. “Please do not punish him. He’s done nothing wrong. I am to blame.”
Satisfaction had edged Mrs. Pritchard’s unpleasant smile. “Yes. You are.” She’d gestured toward the dimmest corner of the room. “Miss Knox and I shall do well enough without you, I daresay. And one of Mr. Pritchard’s previous assistants has already agreed to return to his position. Neither Mr. Moody nor you, Miss Huxley, will be given a reference. Now, leave my shop.”
Inside, Genie’s wrath had blasted Mrs. Pritchard with every scathing truth she’d held in check for nearly a year. The incompetence. The cowardice. The ugly, unpleasant pleasantness. The absurd tea sessions, vapid tittering, and absurdly tight hair. Nobody is fooled, you vain, talentless peahen, she’d longed to shout. Your idiocy is as obvious as your forehead creases! Unfortunately, Mrs. Pritchard had swished through the curtained doorway and departed the shop before a single word could escape past Genie’s tight throat.
The final indignity had been Fancy Nancy, smirking from her dim corner. “No less than you deserve. Conceited bit of baggage.”
Fortunately, Genie’s throat had loosened. As she’d passed by the bitter lemon, she’d leaned in, braving the stench. “When Mrs. Pritchard claims you and she will do ‘well enough,’ whom do you suppose will be charged with completing eightfold the orders you ordinarily make in a day? Mrs. Pritchard? Or her last remaining assistant?”
The dawning dismay from dull, muddy eyes had been Genie’s only solace that day. She hadn’t lingered to deliver further satisfying truths. Instead, she’d rushed back to Berne House and asked their new butler, Emerson, to locate Mr. Moody. Previously, Emerson had been employed by Dunston, and, like most of Dunston’s employees, he had a talent for ferreting information. But the process took time. Too much.
Days later, her guilt was making her writhe. She must find Mr. Moody. She must tell him she would secure a new position for him. A better position. One which paid enough that he could purchase his medieval adventures in bookshops rather than circulation libraries.
Perhaps she had been the cause of his misfortune, but she might also be the solution. Being an earl’s daughter did have some advantages.
A key rattled and clicked. Her door opened on a rush of air. Soon, a face remarkably similar to her own hovered above her.
“Stop wallowing,” the face said. “Come eat some ham.”
Genie cupped her sister’s cheeks and gently shoved. “For the last time, Kate. Go. Away.” She rolled onto her side.
Kate’s face reappeared, now hovering above the flowered coverlet. Sparkling eyes shone with determination and—worse—a challenge accepted. “Ham, Genie. Then, you and I are going for a ride in the park.”
Genie groaned and rolled toward the opposite side of the bed.
That was when the singing began. Warbling and grandiose, Kate’s voice approached her ear as her arrival jostled the mattress.
“In the downhill of life, when I find I’m declining,” she sang merrily, “May my fate no less fortunate be, than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining and a cot that o’erlooks the wide sea.”
Genie covered her ears with her palms.
Kate clasped her wrist and drew her hand away. “With an ambling pad-pony, to pace o’er the lawn, while I carol away idle sorrow.”
“For the love of all that is blessed and holy, Kate. I will make you a new hat.”
“And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn.”
“Ten. Ten new hats.”
“Look forward with hope for tomorrow.” Kate drew a breath to start a new verse.
“Very well!” Genie sat up and threw her blankets off. “I will eat ham if you will only stop!”
“And ride with me in the park. It has been months since the last time.”
Genie hugged her knees and stared down at her bare toes. “You shouldn’t be seen with me.”
“Rubbish. We are sisters, and we shall ride together. Today.”
She was silent a moment too long.
“With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, as the sunshine or rain may prevail. And a small spot of ground—”
“Good heavens. Yes, today. Now, do be quiet.”
Kate’s arms looped around her shoulders from behind. A soft cheek touched her own. “Never let that ill-coiffed prig defeat you,” she whispered, squeezing Genie into a fierce hug.
“She has already won,” Genie grumbled.
“The tartness of her face sours ripe grapes.”
“This is no time for Shakespeare’s insults.”
“Shakespeare is always appropriate. Particularly his insults.”
Genie’s head hung forward until her forehead touched her knees. Gently, she squeezed her sister’s arm and kissed her sister’s hand. “Let me dress, Katie. I shall come down in a trice.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
Despite feeling she’d aged eighty years in three days, despite having no sleep and less reason to be awake, she gathered her hair into a simple coil, donned her finest blue velvet habit, and went down to breakfast.
The ham was salty. She ate two bites. But she kept her promise.
A half-hour later, as Kate rode at her side recounting her “magnificent performance on pianoforte” at Lady Randall’s fete the previous evening, Genie rocked with the motion of her horse and strove to ignore the scornful gazes of Hyde Park passersby.
The hypocrites. Both Mrs. Riley and Lady Baselton were carrying on torrid affairs with a groundskeeper and a butler, respectively. For either of those two supposed ladies to cast aspersions in her direction was patently absurd.
No, the feigned outrage of some in the beau monde counted little more than the fly currently buzzing near her right ear. A nuisance, merely. Instead, she raised her chin and savored the breeze upon her cheeks, sunlight fluttering inside busy leaves, birds chirping merrily.
“… quite the most eventful evening in recent memory. There was, of course, the death of Miss Froom. One of the sillier girls this season, I must say. Still, it is a shame. Apparently, she collapsed mere minutes after departing Lady Randall’s …”
Perhaps Kate had been right, Genie thought as warm wind soothed her. This might be better than her blanketed den.
“… reported that he simply stood there, conversing intently with Lady Wallingham. What about, I cannot guess …”
Now that she considered it, this had been precisely what she needed—a warm day, a pleasant ride, the scent of green and the stroke of sunlight.
And, of course, the chance to display her finest riding hat. It had three cerulean feathers and a touch of white silk braid.
“… until Maureen invited him to dine with us. Heavens. Were I Lord Holstoke, I should find such an invitation rather uncomfortable.”
Genie blinked. Glanced sideways at her sister, who wore an elegant green habit and a hat with a plaid ribbon but, sadly, no feathers. “Holstoke?”
Kate shot her an annoyed glance. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“I stopped listening when you started singing. What was that bit about Holstoke?”
“He will join us for dinner this evening.”
Genie frowned. “But Maureen and Dunston will be there. Won’t that be dreadfully—”
“Uncomfortable. Yes.” Kate released a long-suffering sigh. “I am not about to repeat our entire conversation because you cannot be bothered to pay attention.”
“You are only vexed because I insulted your singing.”
“Everyone says I have a lovely soprano.”
“Everyone is wrong.”
For several minutes, Kate was silent, her lips pursed, eyes trained forward upon the path.
Drat. Regret ate at Genie’s stomach, turning two bites of ham into a caustic brew.
Kate fancied herself a performer of some merit. She’d been obsessed with music and theatre since before she could walk, and while her talent was middling, she didn’t deserve to have it stomped upon because Genie was having a wretched week. The scandal had made her sister’s life difficult enough.
“You would do better to strive for alto,” Genie offered. “Your natural pitch is lower.”
Kate squinted in her direction. After a long while, she clicked her tongue. “I knew it. That dunderpated tutor repaid Papa’s coins with dreadful advice. Why did you not say something sooner?”
Genie shrugged. “Your future consists of planning meals and producing your husband’s heir, Katie, not performing the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute. It serves little purpose to offer my critique.”
“But you are right, I suspect.”
“Of course I am. Now, tell me about Holstoke.”
As they exited the park, turning back toward Grosvenor Street, Kate described Holstoke’s bizarre effect on marriageable young ladies, turning them into frightened ninnies. She then explained that Maureen had—in Maureen’s usual fashion—imagined she was being kind by inviting Holstoke to dine with the Huxley family.
“Hmmph,” Genie commented. “More likely, she felt sorry for him. Which is perfectly silly. His troubles on the marriage mart are due to his peculiar nature. He could, if he wished, lower himself to pretend normalcy and thus solve the problem. The ton despises nonconformity.”
“Well …” Kate bit her lip as though biting her tongue.
“Well, what?”
“There is the small matter of his mother.”
Genie bit her own lip, reconsidering. “Yes. There is that.”
“And his father.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“And his sister.”
Sighing, Genie frowned at Kate. “None of which is his doing.”
“No. But you know how gossips like to wag their tongues. Everyone thinks him mad, like his mother. Some speculate he was the Primvale Poisoner.”
“What a lot of rot. Holstoke is odd, not murderous.” She looked at Kate, her curiosity striking again. “Is Maureen perhaps thinking you and Holstoke …?”
“Good gracious, I hope not.”
Genie glowered in her sister’s direction. “Surely you don’t believe the gossip.”
“No. But I also don’t fancy marrying such a humorless man.”
“He is not humorless. Exactly.”
“Really, Genie. He acts as though laughter would crack his teeth.”
“He laughs.”
“I have never seen it.”
“Then, you have not paid attention.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed upon her again. “Apparently, you have.”
Genie would have scoffed at the implication, but they’d already arrived at Berne House’s small stables. Dismounting with help from their grizzled old groom, Genie patted her mare’s neck before following Kate into the house.
In the oak-paneled corridor leading to the main staircase, Emerson appeared with a report that lightened Genie’s spirits. “I have located Mr. Moody, my lady. Shall I send a footman to deliver a message?” He handed her a small, folded slip of paper.
“No. Thank you, Emerson. I shall go and speak with him myself.”
The butler blinked, his eyes saying what his careful expression could not. “The direction is in Cheapside, my lady.”
She glanced down at the paper. “Yes, so it is. A hack might be best.”
Lingering ten feet away, Kate drifted back to join the conversation. “Are you mad? You cannot go to Cheapside in a hack.”
Genie lifted a brow. “Shall I go in a phaeton?”
“Genie! Do not be such a—”
“I am going. I owe him that much.”
While Kate ranted that Genie must cease behaving as though her reputation meant nothing, Genie gazed down at the address and wondered whether she should don one of her work gowns before heading to Cheapside. Yes. That would be best. Mr. Moody might be intimidated by her finest riding habit. It was rather splendid.
“… still a chance you could marry one day, you know. Do you wish to toss that chance away, willy-nilly?”
Genie glanced up at her sister, whose hands rested indignantly upon her hips. Even if she’d wanted marriage—which she did not—her chances had evaporated years ago. But she didn’t know how to tell Kate such a thing. So, instead, she shook her head and replied, “Let us leave the fairy stories to Shakespeare, hmm?”
Distantly, she heard Emerson greeting a guest at the front door. Over Kate’s shoulder, she spied a towering shadow sliding across the entrance hall’s marble floor.
Her sister continued arguing, but it was not Kate who claimed her notice. Instead, it was a man’s voice, flinty and low. “Thank you, but I shall keep it. Of late, my hats suffer great indignities when they leave my possession.”
The seriousness with which those words were uttered brought on Genie’s grin for the first time in three days. She brushed past a consternated Kate and strode toward the man who had spoken them.
“Holstoke. Missed me dreadfully, did you?”
He turned, his expression forbidding. “Lady Eugenia.” Those pale eyes lingered upon her for several heartbeats before sliding over her shoulder. “And Lady Katherine.” His dark head lowered briefly. “A pleasure.”
“You are a bit early for dinner,” Genie teased, depositing her gloves and the folded paper on the console table near Holstoke, who stood staring down at her like a great, green-eyed raven.
“Not too early to give my regrets, however.”
“Regrets?” The spark of pleasure she’d had upon seeing him so unexpectedly in her entrance hall deflated.
“I accepted Lady Dunston’s invitation in haste. I’m afraid I must—”
“Do not cry off.” She stepped closer, finding it easier to read the subtleties of his expression—tension around his lips, flaring around his nose, shifting of his gaze—at greater proximity. “Come now, Holstoke. You are among friends. We are quite fond of you.”
He frowned. “So you have said. What I do not understand is why.”
Blinking, Genie opened her mouth to answer and … nothing. Why, indeed? He was a peculiar man—taciturn, abrupt, and consumed with plants.
She propped an elbow on her wrist and tapped her lips with her finger.
His eyes followed the motion, though his frown only deepened. “You are taking a long time to answer.”
“I am thinking.”
“Try not to strain yourself.”
“The explanation is not so simple. You are far from charming.”
“Neither handsome nor charming.” His nostrils flared. “A mystery, indeed.”
The flare of his nose equated to annoyance—she was now certain of it. He was annoyed with her. She tapped her lips again. His eyes riveted upon her finger and flashed with … something. More annoyance? She could not be sure.
Drat, the man was difficult to decipher.
She blew out a breath and shrugged. “I cannot explain it. We like you, Holstoke.”
“That is irrational.”
“Yet true. You must accept our high regard and let us help you.”
“I do not require help.”
“Nonsense. If Kate’s account of Lady Randall’s fete is accurate, you need us far more than I thought.”
Pale eyes flashed. “Why not help yourself first,” he retorted, his voice hard and low. “Leave that rubbish milliner and engage in activities better suited to a lady of worth.”
Her head snapped back. Her heart stuttered. Her chest squeezed around an awful, hollow ache. For a few moments, she’d forgotten. She’d seen him in her entrance hall, and they’d begun talking, and reality had disappeared.
The reality of her failures—first, as an earl’s daughter whose only task was to marry well and avoid scandal. Then, as a milliner-in-training whose only task was to learn her trade and avoid being dismissed.
Behind her, Kate was murmuring with Emerson. In the distance, she heard footsteps as maids went about their work. She breathed the scents of beeswax and lemon and mint. The wool of his coat, so recently outside. The faint hint of shaving soap.
But all she could see were his eyes, snapping with disapproval.
She swallowed. Raised her chin. “That rubbish milliner is no longer my employer.”
“Good,” he said with a gleam of satisfaction. “You’ve seen reason at last.”
For a moment, she considered correcting his assumption, but promptly rejected the idea. Let him believe she’d left of her own accord. She hadn’t much pride left, but what she did have, she intended to cling to with all her—
“In my opinion, she is well rid of that position,” said Kate from behind her. “The cheek of Mrs. Pritchard to dismiss someone of Eugenia’s talent!”
Genie’s heart shrank. Her skin prickled. She’d long ago ceased flushing at every indignity—there had been too many—but this appeared to be an exception. Because he was here. And she wanted him to think well of her. And being dismissed was the most dreadful, pride-sinking experience she could imagine.
Apart from being caught with one’s skirts up around one’s chin, of course. That had been worse.
“She dismissed you?” For some reason, Holstoke’s soft, ice-edged utterance gave her a chill.
Genie answered with a brief nod.
Kate—ever helpful—chimed in, “Her friend, too. Mr. Moony.”
“Moody,” Genie corrected, turning to address her pest of a sister. “Whom I intended to pay a visit before I was distracted.”
“For the last time, you cannot go alone to visit a man in Cheapside,” Kate replied. “I shan’t allow it.”
“Cheapside?” The single word from Holstoke had an ominous ring.
Ignoring the looming lord, Genie focused upon her sister. “I am the reason he lost his position, Kate. Unlike you or me, he hasn’t an allowance and a grand house and a high-flown honorific to sustain him. He has been given the sack without a reference.”
Kate’s chin went up. “I shan’t allow it,” she repeated.
“I am going.”
“Not without the direction.”
Genie’s eyes flew to the table. No paper.
“I have instructed Emerson to send the carriage and a footman for Mr. Moony.”
“Moody,” Genie growled.
“Yes, well. Harry is headed there now. He will return with your friend soon, and you may conduct your discussion properly chaperoned.”
Genie flattened her palm against her forehead. “He does not know who I am and has no reason to trust Harry. Devil take it, I must catch the carriage and go myself. What were you thinking, Kate?”
Again, Holstoke intruded with a low, ominous lash. “Perhaps Lady Katherine was thinking you’d lost your head. She would be correct in that assessment.”
Spinning to face him, Genie found herself stunned breathless. Holstoke was … furious. About what, she could not say, but for the first time, she could read his eyes without trying. They were afire.
She started to speak, but her mouth had gone dry. He seemed larger, closer, darker. Holstoke in full dudgeon was a sight to behold.
“What did she say?” he uttered, his jaw tight.
Genie blinked and signaled her confusion with a small shake of her head.
His face hovered above hers like a great cloud. “Your employer,” he snapped. “What reason did she give for dismissing you?”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to catch her breath. “Mrs. Pritchard offered no reason, particularly.” She swallowed. “Only that I should leave and not steal anything.”
His nose flared. His eyes narrowed.
Drat. Perhaps she should have kept that last bit to herself.
“I shall discuss the matter with your father.”
“P-pardon?”
“Everything about this is unacceptable.”
“Holstoke.” She grasped his arm as he charged past her. The muscled limb slid through her hands until all she held were his fingers. She clung and took hold of his wrist, only to be dragged six feet before he stopped and glared back at her.
“It—it is nothing to do with you,” she sputtered.
Abruptly, he tugged until they nearly bumped noses, dropping his hat and trapping her hands against his chest. “I should have informed her of your proper title. That was my mistake. No one should be permitted to speak to you the way she did.”
Her heart gave a queer leap. “You only kept my secret because I wished it.”
“As I said, my mistake.”
A throat cleared delicately. “Ehrm, Genie?”
“Yes, Kate.” Why did her voice sound breathless? And why had she never noticed how defined his lips were? As though they’d been drawn by a newly sharpened pencil.
“Perhaps you would like to release Lord Holstoke’s hands. I am certain he needs them for other purposes. Retrieving his hat, for instance.”
She glanced down. They were clutching at one another, pressed close enough to be dancing. Or kissing.
What a strange thought. She did not enjoy kissing. And even if she did, she certainly would not be kissing Holstoke. He’d once proposed to Maureen, for pity’s sake. He might have been family, had Dunston never existed.
Kiss Holstoke? What a ninny-headed notion.
Another throat cleared pointedly. This time, it was Emerson. “I do beg your pardon for the intrusion, my lady, but Lord Berne would be glad to receive Lord Holstoke in the library, now.”
Slowly, she untangled her fingers from his.
Holstoke held her fast. “Do not go to Cheapside.”
It might have been an order, a plea, or a threat. How would he respond when she refused to comply? She could not be certain. The man had many oddities, which made him unpredictable. He’d taken a good deal more umbrage at both her employment and dismissal than was warranted by their acquaintance.
She raised her chin. “Very well. I shall remain here—if you do likewise.”
Green eyes narrowed. “Likewise.”
“Dinner?” she prompted.
His nose flared.
She smiled in satisfaction.
“Done,” he said.
Her smile faded. Drat. Unpredictable, just as she’d predicted. “Maureen will be here,” she reminded. “Dunston, too. And their children. They have four.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “I know.”
“And let’s not forget Lady Wallingham! And my mother—”
His hold upon her loosened. Gently, he lowered her hands and let her fingers slide away from his. “I know,” he repeated. “Do not go to Cheapside, Lady Eugenia.”
This time, she knew it was neither a plea nor an order. It was a warning, written inside those pale eyes like a sign above a door: Defy the Earl of Holstoke at your own risk.
Silently, she watched him gather up his hat and follow Emerson up the stairs, a tall, dark, looming form disappearing past streaming light and dust motes.
“Well, now,” said Kate. “Lord Holstoke, hmm?”
“What of him?”
“Oh, nothing. A bit … proprietary is all.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Kate’s fingers clasped Genie’s chin and tugged her around until she focused upon her sister, rather than the empty staircase. Genie brushed her hand away, and Kate grinned like an imp. “Silly or not, had I realized his persuasive talents where you are concerned, I might have invited him here days ago.”
Genie snorted. The sound lacked conviction. “Holstoke is mercurial. It is sensible to be cautious.”
Kate’s grin turned wry. “Sensible, cautious Genie. Yes, nothing unusual about that.” Her snort was far more convincing than Genie’s. She added an eye-roll for good measure.
“Go away, Kate.”
Her sister’s laughter stirred the dust motes as she, too, disappeared up the stairs.
*~*~*