Now, she sprawled before her dressing table in an unqueenly fashion and studied herself in the mirror. It was a fine glass and rare, brought from afar after the birth of a son, but for the moment, Laveth was interested in neither appearance or expensive treasures. Something was amiss. Mirella was late, very late. Laveth had tried to control her fear by primping but had only succeeded in jumbling rouge pots, spilling rice powder, and scattering jewels. She’d painted her lips cherry; twice she’s wiped them clean. She’d opened the shutters over the bailey garden time and again while the rushes, disturbed by her constant pacing, wafted the scent of chamomile and coatmary from the floor. Nan Maura sneezed and begged her to sit.

            What was keeping the girl?

            First, she’d fed the boy – Ruse was being weaned and the process was messy — but it gave her an excuse for not attending the morning session – then the maids had sponged her, powdered her, and helped her dress. She donned a yellow silk only to change to lavender. Since the birth of the boy, yellow made her look sallow. Her heavy blonde hair had been braided and wound about a gold coronet. She replaced the aquamarines with pearls and now she was waiting to be summoned to the feast. Mirella had been instructed to fetch her as the King released the crowd into the Banquet Hall.

            She stuck her thumb in a pot of beeswax.