*Horace*
By a week later, I’m fairly certain I’m losing my mind.
Rapunzel spends her days tucked in the corner of the carriage with a score. At one point, she actually declares, in a surprised tone, that she now understands my method of traveling.
“Normally I would sit in a coach laughing with Layla while my father rode outside. But even without an instrument I have made astonishing strides on this score.” Then she bends her head over the score again, and I have to fight not to throw her pages out the window.
She may be concentrating, but I’m not. I can’t stop looking at her. Over the hours and days and miles, I’ve studied everything from her delicate little nose to the tiny dent in the very middle of her lower lip. When she reaches a difficult part in the score, she worries her lower
