Ten-year-old Charlotte Christianson stood quietly, trying not to fidget as she was being scolded. She wondered when her parents would be coming home. She hoped it would be soon.

“You are not to play with that thing anymore!” the grand duchess spat.

Charlotte opened her mouth to speak but the stern look on her grandmother’s face meant that she was in no mood to be trifled with. He was not a “thing”. He was her best friend. He was her only friend. Charlotte closed her mouth and continued listening.

“You are a daft, selfish little girl who cares nothing for our future.” she said, removing a wooden rod from her dresser.

Charlotte looked up, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over her. She knew what was coming.

“Hold out your hands.” her grandmother said in a flat tone, void of any discernable emotion.

Charlotte removed her gloves without a word. Her hands were tiny, delicate, and pale; marred only by the assortment of pink scars, which ran horizontally across them. She held them out and clenched her jaw, waiting.