3 YEARS IN THE FUTURE
"You've grown." The tape measure slips across my shoulders down to my wrist. Lady Arabella scribbles down notes in her booklet, a levity in her eyes that I'd once feared would be snuffed out forever.
"Marie feeds me too much cake," I quip back, making eye contact with her in the mirror. That's kind of a lie, though. I am baking and eating way more sweets than any other 11-year-old kid would be allowed to eat. I suppose that's one of the benefits of not having parents who pay attention to you.
But in recent years, it seems that I've exchanged a lack of parents for a helicopter of an older brother.
"Doesn't seem like it to me, you're still skin and bones." Arabella extends the tape measure down my back. I can feel her fingers through the thin material of my shift. They're cold, but I don't mind so much. In a few short years, I won't be able to feel them at all as I start wearing corsets like other young noble ladies.
