“I was expecting you earlier this month!” I answered. “And based said expectations on the Gregorian calendar, which you must no longer abide by. Whatever happened?” “France.” We sat. “France?” “France, Emma. I have a weakness.” And she burst into a rush of French, the only thing of which I could understand was her love of their madness and their food, more worthy than what London offers. Or so I think. My French is rusty. And rusticated. At Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, we studied French with only a stack of farmer’s reports for aid. Were I to find myself stranded in agrarian
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