Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas

inspecting it, and then setting it down.
    â€œShe also needs to put off her mourning clothes,” Precious adds.
    â€œOh yes, very much so,” Stepmama agrees. “Penelope, we were all dreadfully sorry when our dear duke died, but you look like—”
    â€œLike a crow with shabby feathers,” Precious finishes for her.
    â€œYes, exactly so,” Stepmama says. “Well put, my dear. And so, Penelope, after breakfast you will find that all of your mourning clothes have been taken from your room and put properly away in the attic.”
    I freeze, and the bite of bacon and egg I am about to eat suddenly doesn’t smell quite so delicious. The grief and loss that I feel are too immediate; I’m not ready to put off my mourning clothes.
    â€œShe’s getting watery again,” Dulcet notes.
    I am not going to cry. “You had no right to do that,” I protest.
    Stepmama places a hand on her wide bosom. “I have every right!” Her voice grows shriller. “This is my house, after all, and you are living in it on my sufferance!” She goes on, listing the ways in which I am an ungrateful, unnatural child, so difficult compared to her own daughters, such an expense, a burden, a trial, and so on.
    I close my ears and grimly eat more toast.
    It isn’t actually Stepmama’s house. It is mine, or it should be, except that I am only seventeen and my father died unexpectedly and without leaving a will, and Stepmama is very rich—and so my place in the world is a little uncertain, except that I am Lady Penelope because I am the daughter of a duke.
    It must be one of the reasons my stepsisters hate me. Theyhave more money than they know what to do with, and I have no money at all, but they’re not Lady Precious and Lady Dulcet; they’re just ordinary Misses.
    â€œIt’s settled then,” Stepmama says with a self-satisfied nod.
    I look up, my toast forgotten. What is settled?
    â€œI shall write to Lady Faye at once,” Stepmama goes on. She sees my blank look. “About setting you up with a husband, of course,” she adds.
    â€œThe last thing I want is a husband,” I say. And I don’t need this Lady Faye friend of my stepmother’s telling me I need one, either.
    â€œDon’t be silly,” Stepmama corrects. “Every girl wants a husband. Just leave it to me, and to Lady Faye. She is an expert matchmaker. We’ll have you out of this house and settled with a fine man in a trice.”
    â€œI’m perfectly settled as I am,” I say. I don’t feel too much alarm. Stepmama can’t actually force me to marry somebody I don’t want to.
    â€œOh!” Stepmama makes shooing motions with her hands. “You’re impossibly contradictory. Leave the table at once, Penelope. Go to your room until you can behave properly.”
    I get up and, snatching two muffins from a plate on the sideboard, leave my stepmama and stepsisters to tell one another all about what a horrible girl I am.
    I N MY ROOM, the maid is standing before the wardrobe folding a pair of black stockings and setting them in a trunk. Aftera blank moment her name slots into place: Anna. I shake my head. My memory is behaving so strangely; it’s like a worn cloth, full of holes and unraveling threads. Seeing me, Anna bobs a curtsy. “I’m sorry, Lady Penelope, indeed I am, for I knew you wouldn’t like it none, but your stepmother ordered it, and—”
    â€œIt’s all right,” I say, and Anna heaves a sigh of relief and keeps packing.
    I lean against the wall and nibble at a muffin and feel twitchy, as if there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing, but I can’t remember what it is. It’s like an itch in the middle of your back, that feeling. An itch you can’t scratch.
    My room is large and full of light, but shabby, too. Even though he was a duke, my father didn’t have much money, but