EstherThey had a bag each. Not nearly enough for a month of travelling, especially in the back country where grass was burnt, and dust and sweat stayed on the body for days, but a bag apiece was the most they wanted to carry.
Back at the cottage, the thrill of clandestine planning zipped between the sisters like a wild flame and Isobel emptied her bag of mending on the bed recklessly. There were no shirts waiting to be darned, thank goodness—they had left the music teacher’s house on Queen Street without a new parcel of clothes—but spools of thread and offcuts of fabric scattered over Isobel’s quilt. Esther eyed them sadly, realising her sister had used odd pieces to patch her own dresses and line the hem of her skirt.
‘At least we won’t be delayed by taking mending back to Queen Street,
