It was sundown. The carriage reached the cottage on the cliffs. Patricia followed the path to the door, but hesitated before knocking. Maybe I should go back, she thought. Maybe I should just throw myself off the cliffs instead. That would be better.
But she knocked, and when the door opened she went in without waiting to be invited or greeted. She had to duck a bit to fit through the doorframe. She was a great, tall woman, with strong arms and broad shoulders and a hard face, but she was often called beautiful.
(A duke wrote a sonnet about her hair two seasons ago. She called the verses "quaint."
Anadine was wiping flour—covered fingers on her apron. She was small and fine, and anyone would admit she was pretty, but gentlemen of every stripe stayed away from her, and no one would have
