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To be fair, Pandora had chests full of clothing from her long life. Even her first pair of pants, when those had finally become acceptable for women to wear.
Her brother was more of the audiophile in her family, having strong feelings on every genre and the best artists within each. While her parents basically thought that anything that postdated Beethoven was basically “noise.”
“Do you have any idols?” She nodded. “Basically, anyone who can actually write. I tried once. I felt like I was typing for ages and ages. I was sure there were five thousand words. At least.” “How many was it?” Victor asked, lips twitching. “Two hundred.”
“You know what this meal reminds me of?” Uncle Reginald asked as he heaped the lamprey in blood sauce onto his plate. Pandora didn’t even know where the plates had come from. “The meals at the palace directly before the Black Death started,” he continued, making Pandora sigh to herself.
“I deal in rare artifacts,” he said. Which, thankfully, prompted about three hundred questions from Uncle Reginald, who, apparently, had about a thousand items he might be interested in selling.
