Her room looked as
if Kitty had merely stepped out for a moment, as opposed to forever. The sweater she’d been knitting sat in a
basket next to the couch; some of her drawings were scattered on the
table. A book she’d been reading laid
face down on the couch cushion.
The King glanced at the book—a
translation of the Interior’s history—before he turned his attention to the
drawings. Although quite impressed by
her skill, he realized with some sadness that Kitty drew what she saw,
not what she felt. Even the few drawings
of himself that he found told him nothing.
He would never know the secrets of her well-fortified heart.
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