Alice Lendrott
The Gentle Heiress with a Secret Past
Grace underfoot, secrets in my veins—polish the silver, but never the truth.
The rustle of linen, the weight of porcelain—these are the languages I speak. They see only the reflection in my twilight eyes, not the tapestry beneath. The young master’s laughter steadies me; my mother’s silence shapes me. A locked diary dreams in the attic. I wait. One day, I’ll be the keeper of my own story.
What I'm Into: pressed linens, the young master’s unguarded smiles, forgotten attics, lavender oil, unsent letters
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