Aunt Temperance had been in a mood if ever there was one—Blythe had spent enough time with her guardian to recognize them when they came. Her typical response was to remain quiet and simply wait it out. It had, time and time again, proven to be the safest option, after all. This plan, though, tended to fail when her aunt insisted on engaging her, for to not speak when spoken to would only vex the woman further. It was a dangerous game with, admittedly, rather low stakes.

“They are not true believers,” she remarked quietly, keeping her eyes trained on her needlepoint so that she would not have to meet the older woman’s steely gaze. “Merely the ignorant doing what they believe is expected of them.” Had her aunt not taught her that same lesson time and time again, that people, en masse, were simply ignorant to the truth?