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Anne boleyn Stories

anne boleyn

Click. Click. Click. The high, clear clicks of heels on marble unnerved me, and it was a few moments before I recognised them as my own footsteps. Fear curled in my stomach, trussed up so tightly that I could hardly breathe. I had been forcibly laced into my mother’s wedding dress, hastily altered to fit my narrower frame. My satin heels, loaned under protest from my youngest sister, pinched my toes tighter with each step...