Wren
Mira called at nine, as promised, with a glass of wine already in her hand and her hair in the towel turban that meant she was settled in for a full session.
"Report," she said, in place of hello. "Everything. Skip nothing. I have all night and my husband thinks I'm doing my skincare."
Mira has been my best friend since we were nine years old, when she punched Tommy Hale for calling me round and I shared my honey rolls with her, sealing what she describes as history's most profitable friendship. She'd been checking on me every few days since Silvercrest Lane, and tonight I actually had good things to tell her, so I curled up on my sofa with tea and gave her all of it.
The mansion. Berta. The gardens and my terrible ankle. The wing that had known my tea brand before I arrived. Brea
