Chapter 18
The next morning, before I was even fully awake, a ghastly noise filtered down the corridor and into my bedroom.
“By the Twins, what is that sound?” I asked Sorche, who had come into the room to poke up the fire and light the lamp.
I seldom swore, but the noise was dreadful—a shrieking squawk that sounded as though someone was murdering a chicken in the hallway.
The maid frowned. “It’s Miss Neeve, practicing her flute.”
“Oh dear.” I burst out laughing, though there was a horrified edge to it. “She really is dreadful, isn’t she?”
Sorche wound her hands in her apron. “It’s not for me to say, Miss Rose.”
Her voice was choked, and I couldn’t tell if she was trying not to laugh at the sound, or holding back tears of pain.
It certainly was agonizing—and getting worse by the mi
