“Are you going to eat it?” He pointed to the orange, untouched next to her bowl. She stiffened, as if bracing herself for something unpleasant. He noted her hands as she reached reluctantly for the fruit. Her knuckles were red, chafed—like his. Like Gurn’s. This was a woman who labored in Cumbria’s household. No pampered ward here, but one who did menial work.
