The music died with a strangled squeak of a violin. The conductor, sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere, lowered his baton slowly. The couples on the dance floor froze in mid-step, their hands dropping from each other's waists as they turned toward the center of the room.
The silence that descended on the Royal Opera House was heavy. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm, or an execution.
In the center of the polished floor, stood Priscilla. Her violet dress seemed to absorb the light, making her look like a dark bruise in the middle of a sea of pastel silks. She stood tall, her chin lifted, her eyes bright behind her sequined black mask.
She was facing the dais. She was facing the most powerful woman in England.
