The Blackthorn women are many things, but teetotalers isn’t one of them. “Bea’s quite precocious for her age,” observes Davina as she languidly traces a finger over one of the many marks carved into the ancient wood tabletop. “As were you,” Esme says as she glances at me. “But she’s an angel. You were a little devil. Full of spit and vinegar, just like your mother.”
