“Come here, Miss Lewis.” The Queen snaps her fingers and glares at the Scala Heir. Adair scurries away. Octavia nods to the now-open chair. Her crown slips forward a bit with the movement.
I slip into the high-backed seat beside her. “Hello, your Highness.” I wave to the King. “And your Highness.”
The King nods his head slightly. “Miss Lewis.” He looks regal with his shock of white hair and silver crown.
The Queen’s mismatched eyes narrow. “You may call me Octavia.” Up close, I notice her porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and delicate laugh-lines. Her sandy-brown hair is wound into a braided bun at the base of her neck.
“Thanks. Call me Myla.” I scan the scene. The Great Ladies stand near the steps to the royal pavilion. They all cluster around Adair, pointing at me and giggling. Ugh. M
