Another baby.

Mama had told them all on Christmas as though it was some sort of gift for the existing children. Philippa Rowle had been duly excited when Mama had been pregnant with Alby and Flo—not with Frederick, as she had only been a baby, but also he had turned out to be a menace—but that had all been before she was so grown-up and so frequently out of the house. Pippa knew her existing siblings; she did not know this new impending creature who would have full access to the house without her watchful eyes upon them. She had smiled a practiced smile at the news, of course, but that did not mean that the young witch was happy about it.

Displeasure, though, had long been placed upon the list of "Things To Keep Hidden". Young ladies were supposed to be mild and agreeable, and now there was even more competition for her parents' affections.

It had been three days, and while she had not exactly warmed to the idea, she was resigned to it as she worked at her embroidery sampler in the parlour. Her harpist's fingers were well-suited to this particular work, though it did not entirely spark joy; perhaps once she mastered this new stitch, she would use it to embroider a handkerchief for Papa.

"Do you think the baby will be a boy," she asked Mama, "or a girl?" The two spent so little time together that Pippa was loath to let her own displeasure take it from her—and perhaps, if she playacted interest, enthusiasm, well enough, it might manifest.