The morning sun spilled through the manor’s narrow windows, mocking Birdy’s sour mood. She slumped at the kitchen table, groaning into her folded arms as her fingers idly twisted a piece of straw stolen from the stables. Knitting lessons. As if she needed another thing to ruin her life.

"I simply will not go, Morwenna,"

Birdy muttered, lifting her head to glare at her nursemaid.

"I’ll run away first, join a traveling troupe, or.." She paused, thinking. "Perhaps become a highwayman. That sounds much more agreeable than sitting with an old crone and needles all day."

"You’ll do no such thing, my lady. Your father will have my head if you miss this lesson, and with the passing of Mistress Agnes, you need to learn the skill. What happens when you are married and can’t even mend your own husband’s stockings?"

Birdy sat up, affronted. "Married? Stockings? I’ll throw his stockings in the fire and tell him to buy new ones!"

"Enough," Morwenna snapped, grabbing Birdy’s arm as the girl squirmed to escape. "You’re going. Now march."

Dragging her feet like a condemned prisoner, Birdy was taken across the yard to the small, sunlit chamber where the lessons were to take place. Her frown deepened with every step, her mind conjuring visions of the teacher she was about to face—an old, hunched woman with wrinkled hands and a face like a dried plum, no doubt as dull as the lessons themselves. Morwenna knocked briskly on the door and pushed it open, giving Birdy a little shove inside.

To Birdy’s shock, the teacher wasn’t a wizened crone but a girl about her age. Bright eyes and a mischievous smile greeted her from behind a table strewn with colorful yarns and neatly arranged needles. The girl’s nimble fingers paused as she looked up.

Birdy blinked, caught off guard. "You’re my knitting teacher?"