The formal drawing room of Oakridge Manor was quiet, except for the steady, rhythmic sound of soft leather shoes stepping quickly across the rug.
Delaney was walking back and forth. She walked from the large marble fireplace to the tall glass windows, and then she turned around and walked back again. Her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her chest. She was wearing a beautiful new dress made of soft, peach-colored wool, perfectly suited for an afternoon stroll. But right now, she was not strolling. She was pacing.
Sitting comfortably on the sofa, Aunt Renee watched her niece with a mixture of deep fondness and growing exhaustion. She gently placed her porcelain teacup down on its matching saucer.
"Arrête de te promener, Delaney." (Stop pacing around, Delaney), Aunt Renee said gently, her French accent filling the quiet room.
