She had been nineteen. It had been a summer afternoon, though Penelope remembered very little of the weather now. What she remembered was the sound of laughter, her father's laughter which came from the study.
Penelope had been sitting on the floor beside the open windows, a book abandoned in her lap while Francesca attempted to braid a ribbon through her hair.
"You're pulling," Penelope complained bitterly.
"I am not," Little Francesca argued.
"You are."
Francesca tugged again and Penelope winced.
"Francesca!"
"I am almost finished," She muttered, her teeth catching lightly on her lower lip as she concentrated.
Penelope frowned. "You have said that three times."
"Because you keep moving."
"I am moving because you are hurting me." She wined and the little girl giggled.
Penelope turned around to glare at her, but the sight of Francesca concentrating so seriously on the ribbon made the irritation disappear.
"Does it look pretty?" She asked, smiling proudly at her work.
