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love the most—Cinderella.” His face crumbled. “Why?”
    Her eyes flashed. “She will destroy thee. You love her too much! ‘Tis unwise to give that much control to another person.”
    “Like you did to King Aalexander?”
    “Aye!” A haunted look came over her.
    “Mother, thou art a bitter woman! Thy hatred has diseased thy mind and cankered thy soul! Cinderella is not evil! Thy bitterness has destroyed my life!”
    “Nay, I have saved thee, Rushton. I have saved thee from a fate worse than death.” She put a balled fist to her chest. “No one should have to suffer as I.”
    He grunted in disgust. “Always the martyr. I am sorry for thy troubles, Mother, but I am not King Aalexander, and Cinderella is not you!”
    “I know you are hurting, my son, but this will pass. One day you will thank me for what I have done.”
    “I think not!” he said hotly. He gave her a scornful smirk. “I hate you for what you have done!”
    She rocked back, her eyes burning. “Do not speak things you do not mean.”
    He leaned forward, his jaw tightening. “I meant every word!”
    Tears formed in her eyes, but she jutted her chin out defiantly. “I did what was best for thee. I will hold to that.”
    “Then I suppose that is all there is to say.” He stood, and as he moved to walk past her, she grabbed his cloak.
    “Do not leave like this, I prithee. I love you, Son. Everything I did, I did for thy benefit.”
    He thrust the pouch at her and then jerked his cloak out of her grasp. “Listen well, Mother,” he seethed. “As long as I live, I will never forgive you for that which you have done.”
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    L ong after Rushton left , Wisteria sat in the chair, staring into the empty space. Admittedly, she had made a few mistakes—the largest mistake being not hiding the pouch in a more secure place. Rushton was understandably angry, but that would pass. His heart would heal, and he would thank her someday. From the moment he was born, Wisteria had felt a fierce need to protect her son. She wanted to protect him from all of the hurt and turmoil she had experienced at Aalexander’s hand. Yea, she would spend the rest of her life protecting him—even if that meant protecting him from himself. She sighed deeply and stood, feeling weary and spent. The pouch slipped from her lap, and she caught it, but not before the stone tumbled out and fell to the floor. She bent over and picked it up, holding it in the palm of her hand. The bloodstone had betrayed her in the end. Perhaps that is why Griselda had given it back to her. Perhaps she had known that Rushton would come looking for it.
    To be such an ordinary looking stone, it was extraordinarily powerful. It was forged from the most powerful force imaginable—true love. A love that she once shared with Aalexander. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she clutched the stone in her hand. “Oh, Aalexander,” she breathed, “how did we let things get this far out of control?” She muttered the incantation that would cause the stone to glow blood red. While Rushton needed to be at the stone face in order to make the stone work, she—the inventor—could summon its power at will. Not only did the stone wield great power, but it also contained remembrances of the love she and Aalexander once shared. She vowed that she would never resurrect those memories again, but in this moment, she craved the warm comfort of how true love had felt—even if it were only a memory. The stone remained cold in her palm. She clutched it tighter and repeated the incantation. Nothing. She opened her palm and inspected the stone. A shiver of fear ran down her spine. This stone was a fake! Griselda had kept the real bloodstone. Griselda was toying with her. The question was— why ?
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    E lle felt Huntsden’s eyes on her as she walked down the hall to her locker. When she scowled, he laughed softly and made a show of brazenly looking her up and down. She hurried past him, feeling like a cornered