The transition was final, marked not by a grand ceremony or a flourish of trumpets, but by the hollow, rhythmic thud of cardboard boxes being set down on a floor that was far too expensive for them.
Amara stood in the center of the East Wing suite, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she were trying to hold her own skin together. The room was a masterpiece of ivory silks, hand-carved mahogany, and gold-leaf accents, a space designed for a queen, or perhaps a very precious captive. In the middle of this opulent sanctuary sat her life: ten battered, brown boxes, their edges scuffed and their sides bulging, held together by layers of cheap, yellowing packing tape. They looked like debris washed up on a pristine shore.
Two of Darien's security men stood by the door. They had carried the boxes in with a silent, clinical efficiency that made Amara feel even more self-conscious about her modest belongings.
