Rylee
The curtains in the parlor are all pulled up. The carpet and sofa covers have been replaced, and the bright light pouring through the windows highlights the intricate patterns on the decorations, making the room look especially gorgeous.
Meg drops me off and leaves. Now, I'm alone. I sit anxiously on the couch, my mind racing with all sorts of thoughts. My legs shake involuntarily, and I fight the urge to pinch my nails. Meg said no pinching.
"Hera Dewey," I whisper, pronouncing my grandmother's name for the first time. Yesterday, Alvar showed me a picture of her—a stately lady in a bowler hat shaking hands with a royalty member. She looked serious, every wrinkle on her face exuding authority. Alvar said she's the head of the Dewey family now, very demanding and prickly. Would she recognize me as her granddaughter? Would she like me?
Would Hera hate me if she knew my history?
I've never wanted someone's approval so badly, not even Alvar's. But now, facing this relative I've neve
