They called her the Duchess—
not because she wore a crown,
but because she had bled for one.
The title had begun as rumor.
A careless line in a pamphlet, printed by a sympathetic pressman.
Then, by dawn, it was on every street corner — sung by vendors, whispered by washerwomen, echoed in drawing rooms.
"The Duchess," they said, "the one who rose and fell for love."
And then, more daringly still:
"The Duchess — the one who sings against kings."
By the time the Parliament convened again, the name was more than mockery.
It had become myth.
The scandal they meant to silence had turned into a symbol — of defiance, of womanhood, of the price of truth.
But myths were never safe to the men who built their kingdoms on silence.
--
The Chamber of Inquiry
The day dawned gray and cold, the kind of Windsor winter that swallowed sound.
Inside the Parliament's old inquiry hall, every bench was filled — peers, ministers, correspondents, and vultures disguised as gentlemen.
