They sent two handmaidens to help her pack.
Elyra dismissed them before they crossed the threshold.
"I can fold my own silks," she said, and shut the door in their startled, pitying faces.
She stood there for a moment, her hand flat against the wood, her forehead almost touching it. The grain was smooth under her palm. Oak from the Veyrannese forests — Auren had insisted on it when they'd first married. A piece of home, he'd said, so she wouldn't feel so far away.
She hadn't felt at home in this room in years.
Lady Elyra. The words kept circling her skull like crows around carrion. Not Princess. Not Your Highness. Not the wife of Prince Auren Kaerethyne, daughter of the ancient northern house of Veyranne, blood of winter kings.
Lady.
One word, and Ysireth had carved five years of her life down to nothing.
She pushed off the door. Crossed the room. Sat down at her vanity.
