One
Wellingshire, England
Princess Gabrielle was barely six years old when she was summoned to her mother’s deathbed. Escorting her was her faithful guard, two soldiers on either side, their gait slow so she could keep up with them as they solemnly made their way down the long corridor. The only sound was their boots clicking against the cold stone floor.
Gabrielle had been called to her mother’s deathbed so many times she’d lost count.
As she walked, she kept her head bowed, staring intently at the shiny rock she’d found. Mother was going to love it. It was black with a tiny white streak zigzagging all around it. One side was as smooth as her mother’s hand when she stroked the side of Gabrielle’s face. The rock’s other side was as rough as her papa’s whiskers.
Every day at sunset Gabrielle brought her mother a different treasure. Two days ago she ...
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