Hunter's Moon Read Online Free

hairdressers, beauticians and perfumers who were about to descend on our house.
    By eleven o’clock I was duly scrubbed, massaged, perfumed and brushed into suitable form. Belladonna had selected a special outfit for me: a simple dark-green tailored suit made up of a long skirt and a jacket with a nipped-in waist, to be worn with a white blouse. Belladonna’s outfit was similar, only hers was a rich amber colour and her blouse was stitched with fine insets of lace.
    â€˜Now, this is an occasion when you will have to say something, unlike yesterday,’ she said, as we drove through the streets of Lepmest, back to the store.
    I looked at her in some dismay, for she hadn’t mentioned that before. ‘But what do I say?’
    â€˜Just thank the staff for their loyalty and service to our company, and tell them to enjoy themselves.’ She smiled. ‘It will be easy. You’ll see. The rest you can leave up to me.’
    And so I did. After that first awkward speech, which to my surprise was met with lots of clapping, I hardly had to say or do anything besides smile and look interested when people talked to me. There were about fifty people there, all wearing their Sunday best, all full of good cheer and chatter and much praise for the show last night.
    Traditionally, this staff lunch was lavish, and this year was no exception. The food looked and smelt delicious and our guests fell on it with much enjoyment. I would have loved to follow suit, for I was very hungry on account of that missed breakfast, but I’d seen Belladonna’s warning glance and so forced myself to only eat very little of the braised asparagus and tomato, crab salad, smoked duck breast with cherries, venison raised pie, exotic fruit, and beautiful little iced cakes that looked like jewels. Belladonna always maintained that a true lady never showed her hunger in front of guests.
    Instead of eating, I listened to the conversations around me. A lot of them centred on talk of the Presentation Ball: who would be there, who wouldn’t, what everyone would be wearing. After a while, the conversation moved to gossip about past balls. As I listened, I began to feel more and more worried that I would do something wrong atthe ball and become the subject of gossip like the poor girls and boys the staff were discussing with such relish: girls who’d tripped over the hems of their dresses; boys who’d tripped over their own feet; people who, from sheer fright, had been tongue-tied when they were supposed to be repeating the oath, who sneezed when the Duke was talking to them, who danced with the wrong person, danced too often with the right one, were too shy or too forward, laughed too much, or laughed too little. It seemed as if there were a thousand and one ways I could make a fool of myself, and a thousand and one pairs of eyes to note it.
    I said as much to my stepmother, on the way home. She smiled at my worries and said that all I had to do to avoid gossip was to be discreet at all times.
    â€˜Though that does not mean to be stand-offish,’ she added, giving me a sideways look. ‘You do need to have one or two topics of suitable conversation ready for every occasion, or risk looking as if there are no thoughts in your head.’
    It was a gentle rebuke, but it stung.
    She saw my expression and patted my hand. ‘Don’t worry, Bianca. I am certain you will do very well and make us proud. Now, this afternoon I still have many things to do and cannot be disturbed so you must keep to your room until the maid is ready to dress you.’
    At home, time ticked on. I tried to read but could not concentrate. I tried to come up with some suitable topics of conversation but found myself yawning. Feeling hungry after the little I’d eaten, I went down to the kitchen and, finding it empty, sneaked a couple of slices of breadand cheese. Back in my room, I tried drawing but found that my pencil kept halting as I