Ever since the day they met, Astrid had never seen Amalia cry. Transparent, warm traces traced down the girl's pale cheeks, like dew rolling off a petal.
Even when the truth about the transformation potion was exposed, even when Amalia doubted Livia's true intentions, she had never shed a tear in front of Astrid. This aloof girl who preferred solitude never cries when sad, she would simply curl inward, bristling like a hedgehog.
As for the original story's doll-like tyrant, emotional displays like this were even less conceivable.
Seeing the golden-haired little girl, who usually presented a strong front to her sister, now weeping so helplessly that even the lace at her collarbone was dampened and slightly translucent, Astrid quickly grabbed the silk handkerchief beside her, unused, and stretched out her slender arm. Her fingertips, the silk, gently wipe Amalia's cheek.
"I'm not blaming you, Amalia..." Astrid said softly.
