From: Issue 3 | Subscribe | Buy
George called out, “Mrs. Whitman, you have a visitor.”
Mrs. Whitman strode from her workroom, her white hair skipping out of its hairpins. She straightened her work skirt, massaged her bad knee, then hurried down the hall.
“George, what’s happened to the lamp with the blue shade?”
“To which lamp are you referring?” George smoothed down a cravat embroidered with tiny trombones. Improper attire for a butler, but George had never been entirely proper.