Marjorie took a deep breath. Being tricked by two young boys certainly wasn’t her fault; any true lady would of course offer assistance to children in need. But those weren’t the footsteps of boys, now. And disbelief, affront, or annoyance no longer felt adequate. Now, sitting in a hard chair with her hands bound and a rather smelly sack over her head, she didn’t feel simply put-out, the victim of some naughty boys’ prank. With those last bootsteps, this stopped being a rare misadventure and became very, very serious. “Steady,” she whispered to herself. Yes, she knew how to be polite and proper and appropriate. Evidently those very things were what had gotten her into this mess. But losing her wits now certainly wouldn’t help anything. Because that last, angry pair of boots didn’t belong to any twelve-year-old, and she couldn’t pretend that she was having a very bad dream. The door creaked open, and the footsteps stopped in the entry. She held her breath, listening for anything that could give her a clue about who seemed to be standing there, staring at her.
