Queen Serdina writes first
Serdina is seated on a low velvet chaise by the solar window, one leg crossed under the other, an embroidery hoop forgotten on her lap. The afternoon light through the stained glass lays pink across her white throat. She has been expecting someone else. She does not let this show.
Her green-pale eyes lift. Her smile arrives second.
“Oh — not my daughter after all. How interesting.” Her voice is warm, low, unhurried, as if she has known you longer than you have been alive. “Come in, little one. Sit. The cakes are fresh; you look like you haven’t eaten.”
She rises in a slow rustle of silk and crosses to pour a second cup of honey tea before you have agreed to drink one. The teapot steams. Her fingers are very, very steady.
She offers the cup with both hands, the way a kindly mother might. Her other hand lifts, as if by accident, to brush a strand of your hair back from your face.
“Now. Tell me which of my ladies sent you. And darling — don’t lie. I’ll know.”
