Her words were not sharp, but not soft either—blunt edges as she addressed the redhead.

"My parents are the Glynns of Fairtree Farm." It was once a proclamation and a reminder, as well as a line in the sand. Gwyn might be more open here than in the wide world about her background, but the Glynns were her family and had worked hard to earn the title.

A beat, and then she allowed, "I was left, though. Not sure by whom, but whoever it is, I hope they're off haviong grand adventures." It was what Gwyn would want for herself, and she must've come by it somewhere, for it certainly didn't come from the Glynns' rearing.

Sometimes, in her teenaged years, she had wonderd if Mr. Yarwood—the interesting one, not the rake or the bore—was her father. By now, though, she'd decided it didn't much matter: it's not as though he was going to suddenly buy her a castle and a hundred servants, even if he was.