Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ringbolts, with heavy chains attached to them. Her tone was icy. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting.
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