Myrasyn led them down the processional hall with Rosie enthroned back on her shoulders, and the palace had dressed itself the way its people had: garlands of white blossom wound the pillars, lamps burned low and warm, and staff in ceremonial white lined both walls, each of them bowing to the Holy Son as he passed, deep and held.
Nobody spoke. A palace that housed thousands made no sound but their footsteps, and above the queen's crown Rosie hummed a tiny tune and vibrated with the effort of containment, both hands clamped over her own mouth for safety so she wouldn't spoil anything.
The great doors stood shut at the end of the hall, and from beyond them came a sound like the sea, if the sea wore silk.
Voices. Thousands on thousands of voices, held low, waiting, a pressure of presence that leaned on the doors from the far side.
Myrasyn stilled for a breath, melancholy plain on her face.
