“I should not have been surprised to learn your origin,” I said, low and gentle, though she still jumped and turned toward the sound. I assayed a sheepish smile and added, “The signs were obvious enough,” gesturing round at the room.
Genevieve bit her lip, looking wary.
“Gen, why do you look at me as if I might turn you out? Do you truly think we would reject you—your friends who have known and loved you so long? How silly.”
Genevieve, wiping at her tears, managed a smile, but tremulously. She showed me her hands, which were calloused and scarred, bearing all the signs of cooking and cleaning and gardening. It took me a thoughtful moment to figure what she meant by the gesture.
“Do you think I will scorn you now that I know you were never of high birth?” Her expression confirmed my gue
