By Dorothy A. Winsor
Published by Dorothy A. Winsor at Smashwords
Copyright 2016 Dorothy A. Winsor
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The boy was arrogant.
Myla had known he would be even before he arrived that morning to foster along with her at Green Valley Manor. Now she sat quietly sewing with Lady Isadia, while Kaven soaked up everyone's attention at the other end of the Hall. The stable master was once again telling the tale of whatever Kaven had done with a difficult pony when he arrived, and the stable master's little boy leaned on the bench next to Kaven, looking at him with worshipful eyes.
Myla stabbed her needle through the cloth and tugged until the thread straightened with a twang. Let the fool preen all he liked. She knew some things he didn't. Several of them, in fact.
"Don't pull thread so tight, Myla." Lady Isadia leaned toward Myla.
Myla frowned at the seam she was sewing, which had puckered into little ridges. Her mother had died when she was born, and while the women of her father's household all sewed, no one had ever tried to teach Myla. She'd been happier running loose in the woods anyway, and there were days she longed to be back there. Still the invitation to live with Isadia had been an unexpected honor, and when the widow of the last chieftain offered to teach you to run a household, you didn't say no.