It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. "So much the better," rejoined Sir Rowland. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry. I'll be quiet. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack.
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