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They used to drink tea together in her garden, surrounded by giggling flowers and a sea of clovers as green as her eyes.
She gave him one of them once, as a gift.
“For good luck,” she’d murmured, blushing. “So please stay safe.”
He used to think of her as his safe haven, but even her radiance couldn’t soothe the descent of his madness.
The day he made her cry was the day the Queen signed off his death sentence—and he hadn’t hesitated to bare his neck and lose his head for his grievous crime.
Time had other ideas.