On the fourth night, the steward fails to walk silently into our cottage and pull me from my cot.
I cry out of relief, and I cry out of grief.
I cry for the boy who made me a bracelet of flowers, and for the boy-turned-man who brought me a Cathyrn doll from a country across the sea.
I cry for the lover I've always wanted who cannot look at my face.
I cry for the girl made of fire and stone who can only wait in a cot for the boy made of sunshine and sea.
I cry for the girl who can not even say his name.
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No Fury
FanfictionThe prince was born in his mother's lavish rooms three days before I emerged on the dingy floor of the ale house. He's a royal . . . she isn't. But the secret friendship that began in childhood grows into something much deeper -- and much more dang...
