Even as she opened her mouth to say yes, Desdemona felt herself stiffening.

She had long since come to terms with the fact that Arthur Pettigrew was her weakeness—moreso than any of her character flaws, Art had unbridled power to ruin her emotionally. That, she supposed, was what love meant, but it was still not a power she was certain she trusted him. The water under the bridge was more of a flood than a stream, and it was too soon to cross that bridge safely.

"What sort of space does it allow for staff?" Dezzie asked, stepping away from her husband and further into the house instead. She did not need a great deal, but neither of them could cook.