"No, I am hoping someone else I've spoken to will dispose of that monster soon enough. It's still sitting on her very bed as if it had ownership. Elizabeth herself is nowhere to be...found..."
It's such a struggle not to cry, no matter how old your daughter is, to imagine her in danger of any kind. And Anne, damn her books, has a vivid imagination.
"Her eyes, blue like mine, and ever so sharp. She has the reddest hair, it's so very busy, curling here and waving there, and you know it's part of her very personality. I could see it even then— now—" she stumbles over the confusion of time in regards to her own daughter, once again, and it frustrated her. But it also makes her realize she's talking a lot to this man. This man who is asking a lot of questions, but he never asked her if she was a queen.
He had just told her she was, like he knew. How? Someone who had responded to it? Someone who had read it and instead spoke with others their conspiracies?
Her entire posture seems to stiffen up, grip on his arm tightening with nails just starting to dig in. She's looking right at his face now, squinting with her lips pursed in concentration when she isn't speaking in a decidedly firm whisper.
"And who are you, to track down a dragon or a princess?" Queen, she knows, but doesn't care. Her sweet, sweet little Princess Elizabeth... "Who are you?" Anne Boleyn repeats, almost silkily, while leaning in closer to someone she's already deciphered as a bounty hunter.
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It's such a struggle not to cry, no matter how old your daughter is, to imagine her in danger of any kind. And Anne, damn her books, has a vivid imagination.
"Her eyes, blue like mine, and ever so sharp. She has the reddest hair, it's so very busy, curling here and waving there, and you know it's part of her very personality. I could see it even then— now—" she stumbles over the confusion of time in regards to her own daughter, once again, and it frustrated her. But it also makes her realize she's talking a lot to this man. This man who is asking a lot of questions, but he never asked her if she was a queen.
He had just told her she was, like he knew. How? Someone who had responded to it? Someone who had read it and instead spoke with others their conspiracies?
Her entire posture seems to stiffen up, grip on his arm tightening with nails just starting to dig in. She's looking right at his face now, squinting with her lips pursed in concentration when she isn't speaking in a decidedly firm whisper.
"And who are you, to track down a dragon or a princess?" Queen, she knows, but doesn't care. Her sweet, sweet little Princess Elizabeth... "Who are you?" Anne Boleyn repeats, almost silkily, while leaning in closer to someone she's already deciphered as a bounty hunter.