The silence in the Royal Opera House was absolute. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket that covered every lord, lady, and servant in the room. Even the candles seemed to flicker less, as if holding their breath to see what would happen next.
The Queen sat on her velvet throne, the black leather book open in her lap. Her face, usually a mask of bored indifference, was now twisted into an expression of deep confusion and growing disgust.
She turned a page. The crisp sound of the paper turning echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hall.
She read a few lines. Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed into a thin, white line. She looked up from the book, her gaze landing directly on Priscilla. It was not a look of approval. It was a look of someone who had just stepped in something unpleasant on the street.
