“Oh,” Mattie said, thinking of Fanny Hill’s fainting heroines. “Um . . . is there any blood?”
Cecy’s brow creased. “I don’t remember. A little bit, perhaps.”
“Not streams of blood?”
Cecy laughed. “No! Of course not! Whoever told you that?”
“I . . . um, can’t recall.”
Cecy leaned forward. “Don’t worry about it,” she said earnestly. “The first time is painful and . . . and awkward and a shock in its newness, but after that . . .” She shrugged. “It’s uncomfortable and messy, but one gets used to it. It never takes very long. A few minutes at most.”
“Oh.”
Cecy picked up her embroidery again. She set a stitch. “If this man should offer for you,” she said diffidently. “Will you marry him?”
“I haven’t even met him!”
“Yes, but . . .” Cecy looked up. “A husband, Mattie. Children. It’s what
