She handed us our plates, patting my hand in a motherly fashion as she guided the trembling hand holding my plate into my lap. Our cutlery was bundled in white linen napkins, not monogrammed, I was surprised to see. She held up a perfectly soft hand, as I made to thank her for her kindness. She must have had some household help, but they were nowhere to be seen, or heard, rather.
“You must save your strength, young Willow, and recover. You are safe here.”
She had a very mild Northern accent, from which state, I could not tell. It seemed she had lived here long…
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