by Leah Cypess
Alina unfolded the letter slowly and with great care: it was very old, and felt thin and fragile under her steady fingertips. Her heart was pounding in a way unfamiliar to her, and not just because of the whispers she had heard on the way to the throne room: gold to straw from two passing courtiers, the end of the peace from a duke to a lady, Rumpelstiltskin – she hadn’t turned fast enough to see who’d said that.
She had come to the sitting room to ask her father about the whispers, but before she could say a word, he had handed her the letter. She smoothed out the last fold and focused on the ornate, flowing script so similar to her own.
The king was watching her. She composed her face and read. (Continue Reading…)