𝘿𝙀𝙄𝙍𝘿𝙍𝙀 𝙍𝙄𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙎 was haunted by the memories of a life she could never live. A husband she could never have and a heart she could never truly hold. And a warmth that could never linger within her chest. Eyes of pale lilac were all she kn...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
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AEMMA ARRYN WAS SILENT AS DEIRDRE DRESSED HER. It was not unusual for the Lady turned Princess to fall into a melancholy state, especially in the mornings, but she seemed to sulk more so than usual. Her arms hung limply at her sides rather than soothing her fluttering stomach or delicately tracing her silver-toned hair, a sight that Deirdre thought she would never see. The woman was such a source of calmness. Like the moon on a cool, spring night, gently illuminating the flesh and gazing down upon you with a smile. To see her turn to such a depression was a sorry sight, to be sure.
Aemma turned sharply, suddenly, causing Deirdre's hands to fall from where she was pulling the pale blue dress over her shoulders. It hung loosely, threatening to fall. Aemma examined her lady for a moment before asking in a shaking voice, "Do you ever miss your mother?"
Deirdre downcast her eyes. Of course she missed her mother. Deeply. More deeply than she had ever felt anything. Eyla Malver had been a wondrous woman, so kind and so gentle with her daughter. Deirdre could say that her mother was the only person she had ever loved. However, this was not something she would say to Lady Aemma. "Of course, Your Grace," Deirdre mumbled.
"Please, stop with the formalities," Aemma sighed, shrugging her off when the redhead attempted continuing to dress her, "You have been in my service long enough. I would, in truth, consider you a dear friend. You must stop with . . . this."
