Chapter Fourteen
The room inside Isabella’s head, where the parts of herself had been neatly organized, was in chaos. The shelves had collapsed. Everything lay on the floor. Some things were broken beyond repair.
Who am I?
On the outside Isabella knew she looked the same, but on the inside everything had changed. She no longer recognized herself.
She dressed in her slate-blue riding habit with the row of buttons marching militarily down the front, bade Mrs. Westin and Harriet good-bye, and went downstairs.
“Your mount is here, ma’am,” the butler told her, opening the door.
Isabella trod down to the street, where her groom held the mare’s reins.
“Good morning, Burgess,” she said, mechanically.
Hooves clattered on the cobblestones: the Washburnes arriving. Behind them was their groom
