Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris

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THE LACE ON MY PARTY FROCK itched horribly. I don't understand how they can make things as complex as motorcars or machines that fly but can't invent itchless lace. Although Mother didn't seem to be plagued with this problem, I would have to pay close attention to the other ladies at the reception this evening to see if they exhibited any symptoms.

"You're surprisingly quiet, Theodosia," Father said, interrupting my thoughts.

"Surprisingly"? Whatever did he mean by that, I wonder?

"I would have thought you'd be chattering a mile a minute about Lord chudleigh's reception."

Tonight was to be my big introduction to professional life. And I planned to savor every second of it. I would be the first eleven-year-old girl ever to walk in their midst. What if they should ask me to make a speech? Wouldn't that be grand? I would stand there, with all eyes on me—keepers and lords and sirs and all sorts of fancy folk—and then I would ... have to say something. Maybe having to speak wouldn't be such a great idea after all.

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