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The day she died, the first snow fell over Crown City. William Ashford was busy strolling through the gardens with his new political bride. When the butler arrived to announce that his wife had passed, William merely frowned. "Got it," he muttered dismissively, turning right back to snap a crimson winter rose off the bush for the princess. He had no idea that Beatrice Cornwall was laid to rest wrapped in his old military coat. Or that into its very lining, she had stitched three agonizing years of unrequited love.