The letter stared at her.
Her time had come and gone. If only it had come twenty years earlier. Maybe things would have been different. But it hadn’t.
Now it was her daughters’ chance.
Margolette. Lovely, changeful, vengeful Margolette–seachild, like the pearl for which she was named. Golden hair and ivory skin–her mother’s child, through and through. Youngest. Fairest. Would she catch a noble eye? Certainly; if she could control her temper long enough. Yes, Margolette was beautiful; but could she stay that way? Perhaps it would be best not to pin her hopes on Margolette.
Isabelle. Cold, haughty, Isabelle–beautiful, but deadly. Ice fae. Dark and alluring, inheritor of her father’s grace and poise, calculating and shrewd. Isabelle would go far.
Yes, Isabelle would go far.
So she plots, and she waits, and she spins her plans, and the letter is opened.
And the letter is for Hazel.
Isabelle sits at her window. Cold, cold, hard as stone she sits. Plans and plots and hopes and dreams swirl around her, and she waits for a knight to come and carry her off to a place where she can be free.
But she never tells.
And she grows cold, and hard, and lonely.
And the mousy pale servant who should be her sister recevies her scorn, and the sister who should be her friend receives indifference, and the mother who should have been a mother plots and plans and spins her futures.
And Isabelle grows cold.