“You’re . . .” Eleanor Ashley. My favorite author. The reason I do what I do. My idol. My favorite. My oldest friend even though we’ve never met. “You’re . . . You’re . . .” “—home is lovely,” Ethan filled in, giving Maggie a look that said get it together, so she did the only thing she could think to do in front of the Duchess of Death: she dipped slowly and— “Did you just curtsy?” Ethan whispered. “I . . .”
