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Speaking Things
Everything around Rose whispered. She was in a black gown seated by a table, her eyes weary, and expression sober from the multiple whispering complaints that came from the spoons, table, chairs, cups, and everything one could think of in a home.
Shutting her eyes to the whispers, she said, "One at a time."
"Who would go first?" a spoon asked.
A knife standing on its edge moved, giving off a glint of the sun coming in through the window, and this caught Rose's gaze as the knife paused.
"You," Rose said, looking at the knife. "You go first."
"Your Grace," the knife said with the voice of a man, "I didn't intend drawing attention to myself."
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