The fabric was absurdly soft, like some celestial rabbit had donated its fur for a higher cause. It molded perfectly to her, like it had been personally tailored by an ancient goddess of comfort.
And the scent—heaven help her—the scent was ridiculous. A soft wave of rosewater, honey, and the faintest hint of mint drifted up, making her feel like she'd just walked into a luxury bathhouse designed by woodland elves.
She blinked at the palace wall, dumbfounded. "Is this... aromatherapy for my uterus?"
There was even a faint cooling sensation, like a gentle breeze in springtime that said, You're still a queen, even when your insides are falling apart.
For a second, she almost forgot she was bleeding.
Almost.
She exhaled deeply, flopped back on her fur pile like a woman reborn, and stared at the ceiling. "Okay, Bubu, I still hate you, but... this is criminally good."
She didn't care if she was dying. At least let her die clean. And chic.
