Beatrice sat in the armchair by her window, a single candle flickering at her side, the rose pin resting on the table like a question no one dared ask aloud.
Three days.
In three days, the crown would name her. And the court would bare its teeth.
She watched the stars. Listened to the hush of wind in the garden below. And tried to picture herself. Not as Beatrice Da Ville, not as Bea Elisha Park, but a queen-in-waiting. A symbol. A decision made permanent in public.
By the time dawn crept in across the windowpanes, she had written nothing. But the silence inside her was no longer heavy.
It was shaped like resolve.
Preparations moved quickly.
The palace seamstresses arrived first. Two dozen of them, descending like a gentle storm. Measuring, murmuring, pinning bolts of rare fabric to her frame. Beatrice stood still as they flitted around her like birds, draping deep violet velvet across her shoulders, silk the color of burnished steel around her waist.
