The invitation to the "traditional afternoon activity" was delivered by Alfred, who looked like he was in physical pain just speaking to Aria.
"Clay pigeon shooting," Alfred intoned, staring at a spot on the wall three feet above Aria's head. "On the South Lawn. Everyone is expected to participate. Appropriate attire is... requested."
"Appropriate," Aria mused. "Got it."
A few minutes later, Aria walked onto the manicured South Lawn.
The Sinclair family was already assembled. The men were in tweed and hunting vests. The women were in quilted Barbour jackets and sensible boots. It looked like a catalogue for people who owned bloodhounds and hated joy.
Aria was wearing denim jeans that had been shredded within an inch of their life, exposing vast expanses of her upper thighs. On her feet were brand new high-top Converse.
But the pièce de résistance was her shirt.
