SHE PUSHED BACK from the table, causing Malta’s pen to leave a squiggle on the paper. She stood up and rubbed her eyes. Malta watched her aunt walk away from the table and the scattered papers and tally sticks on it. “I have to go out,” she announced. Ronica Vestrit had just entered the room with a basket of cut flowers on her arm and a pitcher of water in her free hand. “I know what you mean,” she conceded as she set her burdens down on a side table. She filled a waiting vase with water and began to put the flowers into it. She had a mixed bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath, roses and fern fronds. She scowled at the flowers as she arranged them, as if everything were their fault. “The accounting of our debts is hardly cheery work. Even I need to get away from it after a few hours.” She paused, then added hopefully, “The flowerbeds by the front door need attention if you’re in the mood for outdoor work.” Althea shook her head impatiently.
