Nicholas focused on the remaining daylight pooling on the floor in the magistrate’s office. He ought lift his head, show a measure of respect, but the cold wooden planks were preferable to the fire in Ford’s eyes. He sucked in a breath and held it, the tightness in his chest matching his nerves. Would this day never end? Keeping a foolish woman from harm, comforting his dying sister, finding his employer dead, and now this. Not that he’d never been dressed down by the magistrate before, but with fatigue fraying his tightly woven resolve, this time the man’s censure nipped particularly deep.
How To Write Like Jane Austen--Maybe
2 hours ago