Yvonne was dressed up and taken to the Queen's Audience Chamber.
The maids had worked in frantic silence, lacing her into a heavy gown of deep burgundy and gold that weighed more than a suit of armor. The corset bit into her ribs like a punishment. Her hair was pinned high with jeweled combs that dug into her scalp, and the bandage at her throat had been carefully concealed beneath a delicate lace collar. Every movement reminded her of the thin cut beneath it and of the man who had put it there.
She walked the long corridor flanked by guards and ladies-in-waiting, Klara trailing just behind her left shoulder. The palace felt different in daylight: colder, grander, every marble pillar and gilded tapestry screaming power. Yvonne's mind raced ahead, trying to piece together what a queen actually *did* during the day in this world.
Pray? Embroider? Smile and nod while men decided everything?
She had no idea. But she was about to find out.
