As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. “Thanks, I’m not very fond of coffee,” Anna answered, “and I hate music.
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