Clara twisted her apron in her hands. “Oof,” she said, cheeks glowing. “’Tisn’t right to speak so of the dead. So long gone, and us with no way of knowin’ what’s true and what’s fabled over time.” Lucy liked that. “Fabled over time”—as if stories changed and grew, facts and twists sprinkling upon them like sweet white confectioner’s sugar from Clara’s sifter.
