“Are you digging a hole to China, my lord?” He pointed to a mound of black dirt piled high beside it. “I’m sure that apple blossom won’t appreciate being six feet under.” Ash paused and leaned on his shovel, realizing Swan was right. “Thanks,” he muttered, and stomped on the shovel’s head to jam it into the ground. He stretched his arms behind his back, pulling his muscles taut, and swiped the back of his glove against his brow. His glove came away darkened with perspiration and dirt. The sun was out, a luxury this time of year, but it made short work of him. His coat was spread over a hedgerow, alongside his cravat. Digging holes in March didn’t usually have him perspiring like a farmhand. Fortunately, his sisters never trailed him out of doors. He was filthy—even for an afternoon in his grove—and they would never allow him to hear the end of it. The day was beautiful. An early blackcap sang in the scrub. Chipmunks darted to and fro, chasing each other as they hurried to nest.
What do You think about The Trouble With Being Wicked?
