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him in.”
    “She’s gone to the village.”
    “Then you can let him in.”
    “I’m still in my nightshift.”
    “So dress yourself.”
    “If you don’t have to dress, then I don’t have to.”
    “Very well, then don’t.”
    The illusion of being back at Holingbroke became more
difficult to maintain with each exchange, since at the family home she and her
sister had separate bedchambers and here they shared not only the same chamber
but also the same bed—an ancient, old-fashioned affair with an elaborately
carved bedhead, massive posts and heavy velvet curtains. She could not imagine
how the Hilliar servants had managed to move the piece, even dismantled, up the
winding stairs. Amanda had hoped to sleep in the small middle bedchamber, but
it was as yet unfurnished, and even when it was would probably need to be given
over for the use of whatever servants they were able to hire. So she would be
stuck with her sister’s company for some time.
    She burrowed down so deep into the bedding that she had to
draw her knees up to her chest. But it was no use. Her sister’s voice was still
audible.
    “Somebody will have to let him in when he arrives,” Honoria
whined plaintively.
    The illusion of being at Holingbroke vanished entirely as
the morning brought the reality of their new situation fully to light. Not only
was there no footman to answer the door, but no maid to light a fire in their
room. There was no maid to hold their clothing before the blaze so that the
garments would not feel like ice stretched over their skin as they dressed. No maid
to lace their stays and tie their petticoats, so they had to help each other
with numb fingers that felt large and clumsy. No maid to bring them tea, and no
fire over which to hang the kettle.
    “I’m hungry,” Honoria complained as they struggled to rekindle
the fire in the working fireplace in the parlor. The coal in the bucket was
damp and so their attempts to get it to light from the embers of last night’s
fire met with little success.
    Amanda waved toward the kitchen. “We’ve some bread left in
the hamper we brought from Holingbroke. I had some before you came down but I
think there’s half a loaf remaining.”
    “No, I just ate it. But I’m still hungry.”
    She took a deep breath and exhaled, watching the coals in
the firebox glow with feeble orange light. “Well, you said you wanted to forage
for food. This would be a good time.”
    “It’s December.”
    “Is it?” Amanda rubbed her hands together to try to regain
feeling in her fingertips. “I hadn’t noticed.”
    “Why did you insist that we would have to cook our own
dinner?”
    “You liked the idea yesterday.”
    “No I didn’t. You did. You always get your way with Mama.”
    Honoria was plainly trying to pick a quarrel, so Amanda
clamped her mouth shut on the retort that sprang to her lips and blew on the
cinders again, hoping the red glow would spread to the fresh coal she’d added.
It didn’t work. With a sigh, she sat back on her heels.
    Her sister rubbed her hands, stood and bounced from side to
side as if to keep warm. “I like young Mr. Hilliar. I wonder if he is a good
dance partner. Elinor said that when men go to university they spend all of
their time gaming and learn none of the dances and are horribly clumsy and
drink too much punch.”
    “Elinor is twelve. How would she know?”
    “She has an older sister.”
    “Who is fourteen.” And just as annoying as her sister and
the two of them were exponentially more annoying than Honoria, who often seemed
to aspire to the limits of the annoyance scale herself. But now Amanda would
give all of her clothes and half her hair to be home in the neighborhood of
Honoria’s annoying friends again instead of here in this cold place.
    Honoria twisted her hair as if preparing to pin it up.
“Elinor’s sister says if she was as pretty as you, she would find a rich
husband and buy new bonnets for her friends every week.”
    “Hmmn,”