It had been three weeks of bone-rattling carriage rides, questionable roadside stew, and a mental soundscape that made a busy airport terminal look like a meditation retreat.
The weather was doing its best to match my mood: a bi-polar mix of humid heat and sudden, aggressive thunderstorms that turned the border road into a slurry of grey mud.
My "frail" princess-body was currently 90% aches and 10% pure, unadulterated spite. To make matters worse, Novella—the Goddess of Plot Holes herself—had been pinging my consciousness with the persistence of a spam bot.
Apparently, giving her an offering was the equivalent of signing up for a "Premium Dream Subscription" I couldn't cancel.
"Seraphine, darling," she'd whisper in my head while I was wide awake, "What if the next chapter involves a tragic misunderstanding with a Duke?"
