Antoinette kight sarcy book

Previously

…Antoinette wrung her hands, the silk of her hastily donned dressing gown rustling like a trapped bird. “Mother,” she began, her voice a breathy whisper, “it’s… it’s quite a piece.” Her mother’s needles clicked with the rhythm of a ticking clock counting down to something awful. Her gaze, when it finally lifted from the woolly chaos, was as sharp and unwavering as a crochet hook. “A pattern,” she stated, her voice a low rumble