Aye, definitely for worse. Amber belted the leather belt she’d found around her waist. The fawn britches she’d annexed from Krayne’s wardrobe were hopelessly large, but rolled up at the bottom and bound tightly at her waist, they’d neither fall down about her ankles nor trip her. He wouldn’t let her go? She pulled the white shirt over her shift, which she’d bundled and tucked into the britches, and folded back the sleeves. Well, she had no intention of going anywhere. She was going to stay very close to her darling husband, a sharp thorn in his side. Who did he think he was? Who—or should she say what—did he think she was? Some possession he’d grudgingly collected along the way and decided he might as well keep? She found her boots, almost as muddied and bedraggled as the gown she just couldn’t force herself into, and tugged them on. Although the shirt hung to her knees, she felt exposed. She went through the wardrobe again, but found nothing resembling a cloak. As she whirled about, her eyes landed on the sea chest by the door, curved at the top, the whole engraved in images of flat-headed snakes that looked like two-forked demons.
