SixteenDay four. Bridget woke chilled despite her wool blankets. Even the heated bricks she’d carried up the evening before had gone cold. Had Lily visited in the night? Would another day pass without knowing the truth about her?
Bridget hurried into her clothes, looked longingly at the textbook and journal, and rushed downstairs to the bar where radiators covered in ornate brass filigree snapped and hissed out warmth.
“How is June this morning?” she asked Tate.
Tate fussed with the setting she’d arranged on the bar. Two china cups and saucers, two small plates. Napkins. The sight of two long chocolate pastries made Bridget’s mouth water and her stomach growl. After Kid left, she might lick up the crumbs.
Before Tate thought to answer Bridget’s question, the door at the end of the hall
