“A name is like food,” she says. “It has a flavor. Some are bland, and some are bold, some bitter and some sweet.” She nods at a passing woman, and then, as soon as she is gone, tips her head toward Charlotte’s and says, “Take that one. Mary. Plain as milk.” “What about Margaret?” she asks, summoning her aunt’s first ward. Sabine purses her lips, as if tasting the letters. “Like tea without sugar.” She bites her lip to keep from smiling. “And Edith?” Sabine scrunches up her nose. “Burnt toast.”
