What Time the Sexton's Spade Doth Rust (Flavia de Luce, #11)

by Alan Bradley

And then with all the nonchalance I could muster, I retrieved Gladys from where I had parked her behind a tree, gave her a light dusting-off with my skirt, raised my chin, and pedaled off in a radiant cloud of righteousness.

I could almost hear the crackling of the flames of frustration behind me.

Becoming a woman was not part of my plan. The thought of becoming a lady was even worse.

“The making of a pot of tea is a blessing,” Father once told me in a rare moment of revealing his thoughts. “A blessing upon both the one who prepares it and those who drink it. A small sacrament, to be sure, but it must never be done frivolously or unthinkingly.”

Although I’m not unhappy, I generally try to keep a serious expression on my face in the presence of others. It’s cheap insulation from the world.

Of all the mealtimes of the day, breakfast is the grisliest. Our brains and bodies have not yet had their chemical brakes released, and our powers are accordingly diminished. At least, that’s the way I see it, based upon my own observations.

It is comforting, when the whole world is spinning, to take refuge in the certainties of science: to touch the flasks of precisely calibrated measures, to touch the tools of certainty—a world in which a gram is a gram and a grain is a grain, now and forever and forever until the very end of time.