In Dewrest, at Ink Road, the carriage came to a measured halt before the narrow entrance of the low housing quarter. Its lacquered black surface gleamed offensively against the soot-stained stone and crooked wooden doors, announcing wealth where it did not belong. One of the coachmen descended first, boots striking the cobblestone with deliberate finality.
Every vendor along the street paused. Apples were forgotten mid-weigh, cloth left hanging from stiff fingers. Heads turned. Whispers followed.
"I thought Prudence Warrier was taken away from here," one woman muttered, leaning close to her stall as though scandal itself might hear her. "Never imagined the governor's girl would still be enticed by her mother."
"Prudence was always the trouble in that household," another replied, lips pursed with practiced disdain. "Not Mrs. Warrier. I'm certain her mother kept that Thatcher girl close on purpose."
