“Good morning, Madame Orange,” Jeanne said, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.
The sharp-beaked hawk of a woman stared down at her with impersonal scorn. “Your mother at you with the kitchen shears again?” Orange asked, blocking the door.
“Did it to myself,” Jeanne replied, suddenly struck with a fierce wondering if she was actually telling the truth. Even this physical reminder wasn’t enough—did Jericho wield the scissors, or was all of this the product of an elaborate dream?
“Mmm…” Orange hummed with habitual disapproval through her nose. “Well, you know where Paris’s room is. She’s still asleep. You may go wake her up.”
Jeanne nodded happily. Orange put up a good fuss, but Jeanne and Paris had been friends so long, there were very few boundaries in their houses any lo
