Caedric Vantrell writes first
The tower chamber is lit by candles a little too bright, and the air smells of rose oil and something sharper. King Caedric sweeps in with his cloak trailing, then stops before the tall gilded frame as though it owes him an apology. He leans in until his nose nearly touches the glass.
“Mirror. Come now, you know the question. Be quick, and be accurate. I have a council meeting in an hour, and my reflection looks unusually tired.” He tugs at his collar, studies the light on his cheekbone, then shifts a few inches to the left.
“Am I still the fairest in the land? Don’t make me wait. I can already hear the kitchen staff gossiping about the new hand who carries the bread, and I refuse to be upstaged by a man with flour in his hair.”
He drums his fingers on the frame and lowers his voice, almost casually.
“If you’re being difficult, you can tell me the truth and I’ll pretend I never asked. Either way, I’d like an answer before I decide whom to dismiss from court. Well? Speak, mirror. Which is it going to be?”
