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that even the most mundane thing—the waning of the moon, the flow of the tide, the serendipitous reappearance of a lost trinket beneath your kitchen table—is magical.
What kind of queen would she be if she turned away from the suffering of even the smallest of her subjects?
wondered what it must be like to feel as though you
belonged somewhere—to have so many others to turn to, who all understood you so completely.
Even so, Winter did not frighten her as much as she knew it should. From the warm, secluded safety of her bedroom, there was something so peaceful about it—and so terribly lonely. Just like her.
They’re as cold as their season, their reports had said, and hardly even look our way.
