You tailor her features to be sharp, sharper than they are. You apply eyeshadow to her eyes, contour her face, put her hair up. She sits, prim and proper, eyes cold. The Lantsov emerald shines in the low light of the queen-to-be's bedroom, as if it were a reminder of everything that happened, as if it were the anchor that stops her from floating away and disappearing.All Rights Reserved
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