. . . a few things in my way. Just a few. 🙂
I thought it warranted a picture!
On a more serious note, here’s Part 9 of The Sacrifice.
The Sacrifice 
Part Ninth: Your Choice
The seventh day since the confrontation with the dragon dawned. Penelope’s first waking thought was how bright the sun was. The second was the wretched realization that she was probably going to die that day. She lay for a long while thinking. Then she got up and began getting dressed. She tried not to think about Abadalyx, but everything in the room brought dragons to mind and tears threatened every thirty seconds.
She put on a plain, white dress that reached to her ankles with a leather belt that had pictures of lilies pressed into it and pulled her hair into two braids. She glanced across at her vanity mirror and her eyes lingered there; filling with tears as looked back at her pale, simply dressed reflection. Its expression was so despairing.
Stop it! She commanded herself, resolutely turning her back on the mirror, determined not to cry. This was YOUR choice, after all!
Infuriated by the tear that forced its rebellious way down her cheek, she smacked herself on the forehead—hard enough to make herself reel. She sat down on her bed and laid her head on her hands. Being a heroine was so much harder than she had ever imagined.
Someone tapped softly on her door. “Come in,” she called, hurriedly wiping her eyes. Henry opened the door and slipped in, looking as despondent as she felt. “Morning, Penny,” he said dejectedly.
“Good morning, Henry.”
There was a moment’s silence before he began again. “I don’t want to rush you, but are you coming down soon? Mother ordered your favorite for breakfast!” he added proudly, perking up ever so slightly.
Penelope winced inwardly, but could not bring herself to tell her brother that she felt anxious and sick, and not like eating anything—much less rich, iced pastries she now regretted having said she liked. “I’ll. . . I’ll be right there.”
“Alright,” he answered, and went out.
Penelope collapsed onto her knees as the door closed behind him, folded her arms on her bed, hid her face in them, and prayed—more for strength not to cry in front of her family than for anything else. The thought of being saved slivered into her thoughts and refused to be forgotten, but she did not dare to voice it, even in prayer.
