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ice in her voice.
"Your father . . . our father will explain," I said.
She flicked me another of her scornful glances before
throwing her hair back.
"I doubt anyone can explain it, but I can't listen
now anyway. I'm exhausted. I must sleep and I'm certainly not in the mood to hear about you right now." She started to turn but paused to look me over from foot to head. "Where did you get these clothes? Is everything you have handmade?" she asked
contemptuously.
"Not everything. I didn't bring much with me
anyway," said.
"Thank goodness for that." She yawned. "I've
got to get some sleep. Beau's coming by late in the
afternoon for tea. We like reviewing the night before,
tearing everyone to shreds. If you're still here, you can
sit and listen and learn."
"Of course I'll still be here," I said. "This is my
home now, too."
"Please. I'm getting a headache," she said,
pinching her temples with her thumb and forefinger.
She turned and held her arm out toward me, her palm
up. "No more. Young Creole women have to replenish
themselves. We're more . . . feminine, dainty, like
flowers that need the kiss of soft rain and the touch of
warm sunlight. That's what Beau says." She stopped
smiling at her own words and glared at me. "Don't
you put on lipstick before you meet people?" "No. I don't own any lipstick," I said.
"And Beau thinks we're twins."
Unable to hold back, I flared. "We are!" "In your dreams maybe," she countered, and
then sauntered to her bedroom. After she entered and
closed her door, I went downstairs, pausing to admire
her headdress and cloak. Why did she leave it here?
