“Here,” said the voice of my aunt, and I blearily gazed up from the journal to see a plate of food before my eyes. Little jacket potatoes covered with beans and melted cheese, a lurid, most British, meal. The scent of sweet-savoury food made my stomach roll uneasy.
I must have turned a little green, as she set the plate to my side and took her own plate to her seat near the window. “Don’t eat if you don’t feel up to it,” she said, her tone gentle.
I shook my head, then wished I hadn’t when it made my head wince again. I put aside the journal, unsure if it was in fact the scent of the food or the words I had read which made me feel sick. Bartholomew had tried to force himself on Philomena… was she safe? Until I read on, I wouldn’t know.
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