Jeanne tripped home that night at eight hours past noon, on the glass. She thanked Madame Orange profusely and politely for dinner, kept her napkin on her lap, and made generally appropriate conversation. A success, for all parties involved.
She walked in the door to find her mother sitting stock-still on the living room couch, ember eyes burning tiny scorch marks into the door.
“Where. Were. You?”
The living room was dark, though the lights were on and the fire blazed cheerily just out of reach through the door to the kitchen.
“Madame Orange’s house,” Jeanne answered, realizing she was in an insecure situation but not understanding why.
“Why didn’t you come straight home like I told you to?”
Maman rose from the couch, backlit strangely by the fire-glow. She looked even more wor
