Meanwhile, The crying echoed down the stone halls of Wyfkeep Castle like a haunting wind.
"Vivi! Uncle! Vivi!" little Rose wailed.
The small voice, thick with tears, belonged to a stubborn little girl with dark curls sticking to her tear-drenched cheeks. Little Rose—Princess Roselinde, but no one dared call her that—had been wailing for nearly an hour. No lullaby soothed her. No toy distracted her. No voice mattered unless it belonged to her two favorite people in the world: Uncle A. and Vivi—her childish name for Salviana.
The maids were at their wits' end.
"She's not sleeping. She won't eat. Gods help us," one muttered, wringing her apron.
"We can't summon Lady Salviana, she's in hiding! We'd bring war to the door!"
"Can we—can we try Prince Warren?" another suggested. "She might listen to her father?"
