There did not seem to be a square inch of her body that did not ache. She groaned as she stretched. "Sore ye’d be, I prophesied to Lady Elsbeth, and sore ye are," stated a clipped, Irish voice. Jane turned her head to see her dresser, Mrs. O'Rourke, lay down the petticoat she was mending. The widow of an impressed seaman, she’d been with Jane since her come out and had long adopted the forwardness of a lifetime servant. She was an imperious looking woman with a stern, long face and gray hair swept severely off her high brow. Other servants were in awe of her. She was good at her job but secretly given to periodic indulgences with the bottle, spouting prophecies and conversing with 'little people' no one else could see. "You were not alone in that prophecy," Jane said tightly as she straightened cramped limbs and struggled to sit up. "I believe I was the only one who did not. I stand, or rather sit," she amended as her legs gave way under her when she attempted to stand, "corrected.
