Beatrice was invited to dine with the royal family for luncheon the following day.
The long table had been set with pale linens and trimmed with fresh winter blooms, white narcissus, silverleaf, and small yellow blossoms that brightened the cold. A fire crackled gently at the far end of the room, casting soft light over the polished crystal and gold-rimmed dishes.
Beatrice sat at Francois' right. Lila, across from her, leaned back in her chair like she's watching another puppet show.
Queen Cecile sat at the head of the table, as composed as ever. King Marshall, a little less so, was already halfway through a second roll, ignoring the pacing of courses entirely.
No one mentioned the courtyard, no one mentioned the near-death. No one mentioned the announcement.
Beatrice picked at her citrus-glazed duck. Francois hadn't stopped glancing sideways at her since the soup.
Princess Lila, of course, noticed.
