The palace's west gallery was all light and laughter.
It always looked innocent in the morning. Sun pooled across polished floors, courtiers drifting in elegant clusters, the scent of lemon cakes and rosewater filling the air. Today, there was a musical quartet playing softly near the far arch, and a table of diplomatic wives pretending not to gossip near the citrus trees.
Beatrice stepped inside like she belonged there.
And for the first time in a long while, no one tried to argue with that.
She wasn't late. She wasn't early. She arrived at the exact right moment, when the attention was just beginning to shift, when eyes had grown bored and needed somewhere new to land.
They landed on her.
She felt it in the change of air. How the laughter dulled, then resumed just a shade louder than before. She moved through it with effortless grace, acknowledging no one until spoken to.
Which didn't take long.
"Lady Beatrice."
She turned smoothly. It was Johanna.
