Chapter Eight
They left Malana and the awful bonnet behind, the latter floating somewhere in The Singsong’s wake, long gone to the depths along with the undergarments Lowen had bought for her. Winter had thought the man had more sense, snatching them up before Soule spotted them.
Lowen had gotten her two simple frocks that reached just below her knees, a tie to draw them at her waist, several plain pairs of small drawstring linen pants with wide turned cuffs like a Siblin boy would wear, simple button shirts, the material cool and comfortable. Winter eyed her butt in the pants as she walked across the deck, her hips swaying.
No, she was never going to pass as a boy, even if they bound her t**s, which he didn’t want to do anyway. And there was her hair. Isidor wouldn’t ever agree to aski
