The morning light streamed through the tall windows of the drawing room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Three days had crawled by since the disastrous banquet, and the Thompson estate was still holding its breath. The servants moved like ghosts, whispering in corners, their eyes wide with speculation about the family's fate.
The sound of wheels crunching on gravel broke the silence. A royal carriage, emblazoned with the golden crest of the King—a roaring lion on a field of azure—had arrived at the gates. The Royal Herald, a man of solemn duty dressed in velvet and gold, stepped out. He carried a scroll sealed with the royal wax, the red seal gleaming like a drop of blood.
Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, sat in her high-backed chair, her hands gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles were white.
She looked older than she had a week ago. The weight of her family's shame, the public humiliation of Carlos, hung heavy on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.
