The next afternoon
*Isolde*
My new riding habit has regimental flair: braid marches up the cunning little jacket and then down the skirt; there are tiny epaulets on the shoulders. Even the fetching little hat is not a bonnet, but a rakish version of a lieutenant’s cap in dark crimson that flatters my hair and skin.
The costume makes me feel as if my figure isn’t too plump, as if I’m not too saucy… as my mother would put it. As if everything is right in the world, and I am the general of my own personal army.
A perfect illustration of the fundamental pettiness of my brain, I think, walking slowly along the path to the stables. Brielle feels happiest after she has cooked up some noxious brew that might… or might not… cure the second footman’s baby of red blotches on its bum. Whereas I f
