PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Ann Hall
Frances nestled into her favourite spot behind the jardiniere, in the shade of the dining room curtains.
She liked it there. When she stood up, the fern fronds spilling from the pot tickled her cheeks, smelling of woodland. When she sat, legs tucked, she pulled the heavy velvet curtain to her, becoming invisible. Then she could listen to the parlour maids talk of Mother in sharp, hushed tones, watch Polly wipe her grubby hands on the table cloth.
Today, scuffing feet told her someone was coming. High and low whispers, a man and a woman.
Not her father.