There's a small courtyard just off the west gallery with a crooked gingko tree and a bench that split you cleanly in two if you sat in the wrong spot.
No one used it because the shade moves like it was trying to escape. I liked it, so I sat. I watched a maid carry laundry line and drop her basket when one of the iron hooks gave way.
She froze, staring at the hook like it had betrayed the empire, then started looking around for someone to be angry about it. I don't like wasted time. I stood, crossed to the wall, and rested my fingers on the hook. It was tired. Brittle. Metal whispers when it's about to break; you can hear it if you were built wrong like me.
I pressed and it softened under my skin, then reformed. Better. I hardened the nail behind it for good measure. The maid stared at my hands, then at my face, then remembered her knees wanted to bow.
"Don't do that," I said. "Hang your laundry."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
