25
The Nets That Ensnare Us
Angela Enos
“My brilliant boy.”
It was what father had said when Bran died. Everyone knew that. It was in books.
Whether or not their brother would have been truly brilliant would always remain uncertain, a theory unproven. All the girls knew was that their brother had been loud and sometimes bossy, ate more than his share of pudding and had been twelve years old when he died of consumption. There were only three siblings now, half the number they had started with. Three girls. None of them were expected to be particularly brilliant.
This was not what the history books would say, later on. But as Actia often said, history books didn’t know anything.
It had been Lottie’s idea. She was the oldest. She always had ideas.