Aaron
I could hear her quick footsteps behind me, her sandals tapping on the stone pavers as she struggled to keep up. “Aaron!”
“What?!” I rounded on her and she stopped short, skidding to a stop a few feet from where I stood. She had followed me out of the garden and across the wide stone walkway that led from the castle to the outskirts of the village below. “What, Maeve?”
“Why did you just walk away? I was talking—”
“I don’t want to talk about that day, alright? I’m sorry I’m not—not practically deformed, like you assumed.”
Her mouth dropped open for a second, then she snapped it shut, her sapphire eyes narrowing into cat-like slits. “I never said you were deformed!”
“You thought I should have been. Your memory is lacking, Maeve. How old were you? Six? Seven?”
“I was ten, Aaron—”
