The bathroom door slammed shut behind me with a hollow thud. I stood frozen, my heart pounding against my ribs as I stared at the aged woman who had trapped me here.
Beatrice. Mother of the Guardian who died because of me.
Her wrinkled face twisted into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Your Majesty," she said, performing an exaggerated curtsy. "How kind of you to grant me a private audience."
I scanned the small bathroom quickly. Only one door. No windows large enough to escape through. We were alone.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.
Her smile faded, replaced by a look of cold calculation. "I know what you are."
Four simple words that made my blood run cold.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, fighting to keep my expression neutral.
