Princess Sara sat curled up on the plush bed of the guest dormitory, her silver-blonde braids mussed from restless tossing.
In her small hands, she clutched the one treasure she'd never let anyone see—a handkerchief embroidered with silver lilies, its edges frayed from years of secret clutching.
"Mother..."
Her whisper cracked like thin ice, her rose-gold eyes swollen from crying.
She remembered why she'd been given this handkerchief—she'd been six years old, sobbing in the palace gardens because the other noble children and siblings had mocked her for tripping during an important ceremony.
"Silly girl," they'd sneered. "Princesses don't stumble."
But her mother had found her, kneeling in the dirt without care for her silk skirts. She'd wiped Sara's tears with her thumbs, warm and gentle.
