The steward frowned. "Miss Abigail doesn't typically take visitors," he said doubtfully. "But I shall give her the name. Auster, was it? A moment."
He closed the door, and they heard footsteps disappearing further into the house.
The footsteps that came echoing back after several minutes were much lighter and quicker, trailed by a heavier, booted tread.
"Abigail, wait—"
"Unhand me this moment, Andre, or I swear you will regret it," a woman's voice snapped out moments before the door flung open to reveal a woman in a staid blue house dress.
She was older, of course, no longer a damsel of twenty but somewhere in her mid-forties; lines trailed from the corners of her eyes and mouth, strands of pale gray ran through her chestnut hair. But the eyes were the same as she looked Zephyr up and down.
"...You."