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“The careful, embroidered stitches delineated a coil of some sort. It looked rather like a halved snail shell, but the interior was divided into dozen of intricate chambers.
"Is that a nautilus?" he asked.
"Close, but no. It's an ammonite."
"An ammonite? What's an ammonite? Sounds like an Old Testament people overdue for smiting."
"Ammonites are not a biblical people," she replied in a tone of strained forbearance. "But they have been smited."
"Smote."
With a snap of linen, she shot him a look. "Smote?"
"Grammatically speaking, I think the word you want is 'smote.' "
"Scientifically speaking, the word I want is 'extinct.' Ammonites are extinct. They're only known to us in fossils."
"And bedsheets, apparently."
"You know..." She huffed aside a lock of hair dangling
in her face. "You could be helping."
"But I'm so enjoying watching," he said, just to devil her. Nonetheless, he picked up the edge of the top sheet and fingered the stitching as he pulled it straight. "So you made this?"
"Yes." Though judging by her tone, it hadn't been a labor of love. "My mother always insisted, from the time I was twelve years old, that I spend an hour every evening on embroidery. She had all three of us forever stitching things for our trousseaux."
'Trousseaux.' The word hit him queerly. "You brought your trousseau?"
"Of course I brought my trousseau. To create the illusion of an elopement, obviously. And it made the most logical place to store Francine. All these rolls of soft fabric made for good padding."
Some emotion jabbed his side, then scampered off before he could name it. Guilt, most likely. These were sheets meant to grace her marriage bed, and she was spreading them over a stained straw-tick mattress in a seedy coaching inn.
"Anyhow," she went on, "so long as my mother forced me to embroider, I insisted on choosing a pattern that interested me. I've never understood why girls are always made to stitch insipid flowers and ribbons."
"Well, just to hazard a guess..." Colin straightened his edge. "Perhaps that's because sleeping on a bed of flowers and ribbons sounds delightful and romantic. Whereas sharing one's bed with a primeval sea snail sounds disgusting."
Her jaw firmed. "You're welcome to sleep on the floor."
"Did I say disgusting? I meant enchanting. I've always wanted to go to bed with a primeval sea snail.”