“Mrs May-Tree! How nice it is to see you here,” Anna said sweetly, eyes narrowing infinitesimally at the older woman who had dared to interrupt her group’s attempt to take me under their raven black wings.
Veronica snorted, “I didn’t think that you attended these dull old parties anymore.”
Mrs May-Tree was a handsome woman, probably in her late sixties, and one of the few here who had let herself go silver-haired with grace. Regal and sharp-eyed, it was clear that time itself had not dared to try and bend the straight-backed woman.
Her eyes dragged over each one of us in turn, her mouth downturned. They lingered were hands clung to me like Spanish moss. “Save your lies for someone who appreciates them, miss Walters,” she drawled, folding her hands in front of her. “Now, if you would be
