CHAPTER 4
At six that evening, Rosalind stood in front of the cracked looking glass in her tiny whitewashed room, studying her appearance critically. She wore a new royal blue dress she had just sewn for herself. The color accented the blue-black highlights in her hair, which she had styled in a loose upsweep that waved softly around her face. The cut of the gown maximized her narrow waist and shapely little bust—she had acquired a new appreciation of it in the last year—but even with the bustle, she still looked too skinny.
“This is terrible,” she murmured under her breath. She had spent the last year mooning over Vidal like a ninny, and in a misery of unexpressed emotion, had eaten even less than before. Her bare arms looked thin and fragile as twigs, and the tiny curve of her bottom h
