Anya stomped across the manor’s lawn to the woodland beyond. Whose stupid idea had it been to invite Lord Bernard to visit? He was a chauvinist of the worst kind, and she was two insults and a superior smirk away from smacking him over the head with the dining room’s carriage clock.
Even her father had frowned at his comments over tea, which was a good thing on reflection, it hopefully meant the stodgy and tedious young lord was no longer on the list of suitable candidates for Anya’s hand, or rather dowry. That’s what they were interested in after all. She wasn’t golden-haired and pretty like her neighbour, Piety, nor did she have Piety’s talent for shadowy schemes and manipulation.
All she had was her too-inquisitive, too-logical mind, and – thanks be to all the spirits – parents who gave her opinions some consideration.
That didn’t stop Father from having a list in the top drawer of his desk. A list of men’s names that he was methodically, logically working through to find the most suitable pair of hands for Anya’s fortune.
The pace he was going at, though, she’d be walking on eggshells at the news of every new visit for the next ten years. If she was going to have to put up with a husband, surely it would be more sensible to assess a group of them at once, and be able to directly compare.
Anya pivoted, backtracking to take a side path through the woodland. This was a good idea, and good ideas generally became better, or at the very least more fun, when discussed with Piety.
The DNA of Stories 