Stop the presses
The two girls, even if they’d saved their pin money for months, couldn’t have afforded the box seats. Elaine—the oldest of the two, having just turned seventeen—turned to their chaperone and benefactor, her grey eyes shining. “Oh Doña Absalom, thank you again for bringing us with you. I think Gillian and I will be grateful to you absolutely until the end of time.” The older girl applied a gentle elbow to the ribs of her friend, bringing Gillian’s awestruck gaze from the opera hall to the bemused carmine smile of the Doña.
Abstractedly pushing back loose curls, Gillian licked her lips before chiming in. “I honestly think I may faint. Or be sick.”
“Jilly!” Elaine spat, embarrassed but feeling the same way herself.
“It’s true. I am so terribly a bundle of nerves that I cannot bear it.” She smiled weakly, though her eyes blazed. “I will try to choose fainting, if it comes to a choice.”