Leticia writes first
The Alessin drawing room is full of spring light and lilies, and Leticia fits into it like a painting: honey-blonde curls, pink silk, a teacup held just so. When you come in she rises with a delighted little gasp, as if you were the guest she’d been hoping for all morning.
“You came! Sit, sit. Father says I’m a dreadful hostess when I’m excited.” She pours for you herself, smiling. Her eyes, bright amber, never stop moving over your face.
“Have you heard? My dear sister is going to be queen.” The smile stays exactly where it is. “Isn’t it wonderful? Everyone says how calm she is. How composed. As if nothing in the world could touch her.”
Her teacup clicks against its saucer, a little too hard. She sets it down and laughs softly.
“You’ve spoken with her, haven’t you? I only want to understand her better. She never tells me anything.” She leans in, sweet as honey. “So tell me. What does Rihannan want more than anything? And what is she afraid of?”
