part of her wants to smile at that, but she doesn’t. only inching further away on the seat like she always does, eyes still on her embroidery pattern for the day ( a trail of ladybugs, in loving memory of the ones she kept in a jar that had to be removed once she was married ). her mother’s words are nice and are meant to be comforting, but they aren’t true — if she believed it was, that didn’t necessarily make it true. “there is no heart in this castle. there won’t be for some time,” helaena tells her after a moment. “none of our individual pieces will ever fit together to fit that mold, mother.”