"What's the matter with you?" "I like them!" Reaching for the printer's book, I longed to look at the handsome calling card again, the one with a silhouette of a hawk. It seemed all the cards I preferred were meant for men—the ones with bold strokes and dark letters. Nostrils flaring, Zora presented me with one of her cards. "See, there. That's a proper lady's card. Ivory and silver and script. Don't you think it introduces me well?" "It's very like you," I agreed, rubbing the ivory edges of it. "But I..." "That's the living end, Charles," Mrs. Stewart shouted from downstairs. Zora's eyes went wide, and I felt my pulse tick up. That could only be Mr. Stewart, and what could be so devastating as to make my most proper cousin shout like a fishwife? Zora dumped cards and catalog alike on the bed and motioned for me to follow her to the stairs. We tried not to clatter, keeping our shoes firmly on the blue carpeting. When the wall gave way to open banister, we crouched to listen. "Ohhhhh," Zora said, resting her hand on my neck.
