Mercer
It was not often that I found myself in a state of utter befuddlement–my lips parting, breath stuttering, nostrils flaring and blood pressure spiking unreasonably high.
Usually, control was easier.
But my senses took leave of me the moment Maisie Adams stepped into the hall.
The crowd parted for her instantly, making way for her. Her chin was tilted high, her spine straight, and her steps sure. Confidential. Like she knew she was the moment.
She was a monument.
I refused to accept that what I was seeing was reality and not a figment of my imagination, until every head in the room turned to acknowledge her. And so the question tumbled out of every mouth.
Who is that?
