As Ronda slipped out from the shadow of the crown prince's suite, her limbs felt hollow and drained. Was the prince truly so utterly blinded by his infatuation for this creature? Was he genuinely plotting to cast aside a century of courtly law and thrust a marriage proposal upon her at tomorrow's feast?
She could not permit it. Should Gareth elevate Melissa to the throne, her own quiet ambitions of securing her place by his side would turn to ash. The handmaiden violently shook her head. "I will not stand by and watch. A nosferatu upon the elven throne? It is an abomination!"
Yet what instrument remained within her grasp? The grand welcoming ball stood but a single day away, if she meant to sever this madness, she must weave her web swiftly. Ronda gnawed raw the inside of her lip, calculating her maneuvers. Should she carry the tale directly to the queen? No, that path would brand her a traitor in Gareth's eyes, shattering the fragile bond of trust she had so carefully forged.
