Miranda settled onto the stool in front of her mirror and brushed her hair. It was a chore she performed faithfully, one hundred strokes in the morning and another one hundred before bed. Sometimes her maid did the actual brushing, particularly when a night of dancing had left Miranda exhausted, but finding the ritual soothing, Miranda often did it herself. Her hair, which had been as bright as sunshine when she was a girl had darkened to a golden brown, but was still thick, wavy and generally unruly. It hung halfway down her back and took her maid an age to corral it atop her head.
A quick knock on the door signaled the arrival of her maid. “Good morning, my lady,” she said as she set a cup of chocolate on the vanity, to tide Miranda over until breakfast. Miranda smiled, but reached gra
