Ennison stood by her side. Should be home soon. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all.
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