“Dominick, you are crawling with vermin,” he said. “There are only two ways to get rid of them. Either you have a bath in that handsome copper tub…” His son’s head came up. “Or you must eat a bowl of turnips.” Dominick drew back and gazed at his father in blank horror. “Sorry,” said Dain, suppressing a grin. “It’s the only other remedy.” The struggling and wails ceased abruptly. Anything—even certain death—was preferable to turnips.
