She has disobeyed a cardinal rule. Never interrupt in the middle of a poem. A poem must be savored, from beginning to end
“Will there be a comfortable mattress?”
Hannah cocks her head to one side, considering. In one word, no. She pushes down on Emmy’s mattress, stuffed with wool. At home — home! — the mattresses are stuffed with hay.
Emmy lifts her eyebrows. “Well, Mama?”
“I have an idea. We will take along your down quilt, and spread it over the mattress there. Then we’ll cover the whole thing with a sheet. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
She lifts a pen and adds to her list: extra down quilt. Sheets. She thinks for a moment. They may as well take along pillows for good measure.
“And I shall not be expected to fold up my gowns and stuff them into drawers, shall I?”
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