Evelyn
“Lucas,” I say cautiously. “Where is my mom?”
On some level in the background, I’m tracking the changes in the grand hall. The guards shoving out the last of the rebels and yanking the doors shut behind them to protect the guests inside.
The witches turning their attention away from the cleared door toward Lucas, their hands outstretched, but none of them doing anything for fear of unintentionally causing harm to the princess in his grasp.
On some level, I worry for Emma. I worry how she might feel neglected when my first question is for my mom when it is her being held at knifepoint.
On some level, I recognize the subtle difference in the way the knife at her throat gleams in the light, reflecting it in the way only silver does.
I collect all of this for later, because the t
