Bewitched
Either way, had she not, I fear Tremaine would have had the canvas burned, or worse—mocked before others until its dignity crumbled into ash.
When I reach the attic door, the hinges groan, but everything inside remains unchanged, as though no one has dared to disturb it for years. That is the way of attics. They hold memories in the same posture forever, untouched, while the world below shifts and forgets. My stepsisters have no love for this place. I doubt they could find their way here, even if ordered. Anastasia has little patience for dust, and Drizella even less for words on pages. Sometimes I wonder if they can even read.
Bab Populer