“What ever are you wearing?” Mable called after her, horrified as the pants and tunic unbecoming of a lady colored her vision. As a young woman, she’d been expected to be presentable in the dresses for maidens, not the children’s attire she wore.

“Traveling clothes—for the road!” Amaris responded. She attempted to sound cheerful, throwing the response over her shoulder. Her stomach filled with rocks, and her knees felt wobbly as she continued her forward steps. Over her shoulder, Matron Mable exchanged words with the man, followed by the distinct noise of an unsuccessfully twisted doorknob. He jangled the knob in his attempt to get at his cloak and weapons as Amaris disappeared down the stairs. She was glad they’d remembered to lock it as they left. It seemed everyone was ready to make a hasty departure from this place.

She descended the stairs. Her foot hit the final stone on the landing with the resounding toll of a funeral bell. Amaris entered the dining room. Her frenzied pulse no longer seemed interested in keeping her conscious. She fought the urge to press her hand against her chest to still her erratic heart.

This meeting was never supposed to happen. She had intended to be long gone before this day ever arrived. Amaris had firmly believed that by the time Madame Millicent returned to Farleigh, she’d be a week’s travel from this goddess-forsaken place. The Madame wasn’t alone. Amaris made no attempt to show respect to either of the women sharing breakfast tea near the window.

Matron Agnes’s worn features etched into deep disapproval upon seeing Amaris, doubtless irritated that she had chosen to arrive in boy’s clothes.

The Gray Matron had barely opened her mouth to address Amaris’s entrance when Mable hurried into the dining room, bending to whisper something into Agnes’s ear. Agnes’s frown deepened the carved lines of her age and she excused herself from the table, presumably to address the man’s need to access his belongings in the first hours of dawn. While Agnes had been a vision of displeasure, Millicent’s expression was the picture of delight. She radiated her catlike joy as she eyed Amaris, the little mouse who’d wandered in to play.

Her voice was bright, like the ringing of a silver bell. It was too pleasant, too musical for such a dark woman.

“My, what a flawless treasure you are. I’d nearly forgotten just how radiant. Come, dear; sit,” she purred. Millicent motioned to join her across the table, sweeping a gloved hand in a graceful gesture.

Amaris made no move to sit, but the refusal didn’t bother the Madame. Millicent shrugged and sipped her tea with proper, delicate movements. She acted as though she were performing for court rather than drinking from an orphanage’s cup.