Book 16: The Weight of Being Queen

Maeve

Rose bushes cast in golden streaks fan out on either side of the illustrious walkway. My heels click against the smooth, alabaster tiles sparkling in the final moments of the sunset illuminating the castle in Crescent Falls in shades of gold and magenta. It’s a work of art. Guards move to the side, bowing their heads as I walk up the stairs, my heart lodged in my throat, my mouth dry from lack of use.

I haven’t had much to say these past few days. I haven’t been able to find the words I need to convey my utter despair–especially to my family.

A butler opens the door and ushers me inside. It’s all very formal, like I’m an honored guest, a diplomat, rather than a family member who’s been to this castle dozens of times over the course of my life, but I’m stuck in autopilot as my footfalls echo, stretching down dimly lit, but modern, hallways that weave throughout the backside of the castle, where the more formal sitting rooms bleed into rooms fu