“Oh, thank heavens!” I cried, reaching for the battered envelope in the postman’s grasp. “I’ve been waiting for this for over a . . .” I trailed off. My eyes locked on the postman’s horrified face—and his eyes locked on my wrist. Yet it was not the poor quality of my gray gown’s lace sleeve that prompted his expression but rather the bandaged stump poking out from beneath. I yanked back my wrist, and the postman’s face erupted in red. “P-pardon me, Miss.” He thrust the letter at me. “Of course,” I squeaked, snatching the letter with my left hand. Then I bolted from the post office into the Philadelphia morning. Holding the hard-earned letter like a visor against the sun, I strode into the bustling Chestnut Avenue traffic. The road’s cobbles were layered in a sticky, dried mud from yesterday’s rain. It clung to my boot heels as I crossed into the rattling carriages, clopping horses, and distracted pedestrians. As I passed by shop after shop with their giant signs overshadowing the offices wedged between, I cursed myself for my stupidity.
What do You think about A Dawn Most Wicked (2013)?
