The air in the Blue Guest Suite was hot, scented with lavender, and thick with panic. A lot was going on in there.
"Why is it tight?" Delaney shrieked. Her hands gripped the bedpost as if she were trying to pull it out of the floor. "I cannot breathe! I think my lungs have migrated to my throat!"
Behind her, the maid—a sturdy girl named Sarah whom Aunt Margery had sent—did not stop pulling. She had a foot braced against the base of the bed for leverage.
"A little more, Miss Kingsley," Sarah grunted, giving the laces a vicious tug. "We will be done soon. Madame Angeline made this bodice to fit like a glove, and fit like a glove it shall."
"Gloves go on hands!" Delaney argued, gasping for air. "They do not crush internal organs! I need to breathe, Sarah. Breathing is very important for living. Take it off."
