ELEANOR
"You're eating," Dylan announced as he entered the room, balancing a tray filled with food before I’d even managed to fully extricate myself from the warm cocoon of my blankets.
The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread and a sweet, spiced pastry wafted through the air, stirring my appetite and prompting my stomach to growl its eager approval.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, shooting him an annoyed scowl.
"It's not poisoned," he said, shooting me a cheeky grin. Hopefully.
But you'll need the strength, because—" He placed the tray on the wooden table with a flourish "—today marks the start of your writing lessons.
I raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore his “hopefully” statement.
The idea of learning to write ran through my mind repeatedly and, honestly,
