NIA
Mrs. Caroline left for the market at half past ten, which is the only reason I picked this hour.
You do not have this conversation in a kitchen with Mrs. Caroline in it. That woman can hear a secret being kept from two rooms away. She took her basket and her good coat and her opinions off to the village, and the moment the back door clicked shut behind her I sat down at the kitchen table, put my phone face down in front of me, and started counting on my fingers underneath it.
Not because I am bad at the math.
The math is insultingly simple. I did it right the first time, days ago, standing in the laundry with one of the Luna's dresses in my hands. I did it again the second time and the fifth time, and every single time it has handed me back the same number, and I am not going to run it a sixth time under this table because numbers do not change their minds no matter how hard you squeeze your own fingers.
Six weeks. At the outside. Possibly less.
