“When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. So soft. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. But a biddable girl. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. “John, don’t!” she cried. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. The knight mechanically complied with his request.
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