ASTRID
Two maids guide me through a maze of corridors, twisting and turning so frequently I can’t help but suspect they’re trying to confuse me.
Finally, we arrive at a large wooden door inlaid with silver. One of the maids knocks, waits a second, and then grasps the handle, carved to resemble a wolf’s head. When we enter the bedchamber, it’s empty.
“The prince will be with you shortly,” the maid says, keeping her head bowed.
“Wait,” I say as they file out, but they don’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
And then, for the first time since Luca returned home with Rodolfo’s coin pouch earlier today—was that really only a few hours earlier?—I’m alone.
Cayden’s room is somehow opulent and sparse at once: Sheets of the finest silk flow like molten silver across a basic, four-poster bed.
