Something had gone wrong and someone had to be accountable. I had to make a move or risk my head on a platter. The Queen had warned me: keep pressing, plant the right seeds, and people will take the view you want.
When I walked up to Bo Manor’s gate, I saw the child first. She was curled up and had her gaze settled on me. I had chosen my gifts for their charm and their value. I wanted the child to see the throne as a family. I also wanted to show the King that I could give without asking for notice.
“From us,” I began, voice smooth as I stepped forward, letting the charity always be on the surface.
Myra’s “No, thank you,” struck me like a blade. It landed not only on me but on the choreography I’d practiced for months in my head. There’s nothing colder than a child’s refusal. It leaves
