Beatrice sat in her private room adjacent to the small library, Laer sleeping in his cradle beneath a light canopy. In her hands was a letter. Thick paper, the heavy gold of the dowager queen's seal.
She read the lines a second time:
"To Her Majesty, the esteemed Queen Beatrice,
With great joy, after such a grievous illness that could not help but cast a shadow of anxiety over the entire court, your return to duty is a sign of divine grace and a testament to the indomitable spirit to which we all owe support and reverence.
In the desire to ease your path and remind you of the unshakable duty that binds us by family and power, I dare to invite you to a modest tea in the gardens of the small gallery.
I hope you, as before, will not reject the wise counsel of your elders and will keep in your heart respect for the hierarchy so necessary in these troubled times.
Of course, your health requires careful attention, and no one wishes to see you overburdened beyond what prudence allows. However, one must remember: the duty to serve good order and those who stood at the origins of the current world does not become easier due to temporary ailments.
I am confident that your former modesty and true understanding of duty will help you avoid the temptations of pride, so often accompanying sudden elevation.
I await you tomorrow at the third hour in the garden beneath the cherry arbor.
May the blessing of peace and obedience be with you.
Sincerely devoted,
Dowager Queen Marianna."
Each word, penned in fine, almost pearlescent script, sounded even, polite, almost caring. And in each, there was a subtle, cautious pressure, like a suffocating haze: "remember to whom you owe," "remember your place," "do not become proud of your position."
She slowly ran her finger along the edge of the sheet, thoughtfully, as if feeling each hidden splinter by touch. There was no pain. Only a calm, heavy realization. She believes I will come running under her wing, just by extending her hand. Beatrice folded the letter in half-neatly, precisely, to the millimeter. She did not crumple it, did not tear it, did not tremble. She simply placed it in the drawer of her writing desk, where other documents, equally cold and equally poisonous, were kept.
She stood up, straightening her back to a perfect line.
Her dress rustled softly against the stone tiles of the floor. For the tea, she would wear the most restrained dress, in muted colors, with minimal adornments. But each of her steps, each glance, each word would be honed so that no pearl on the dowager queen's veil could conceal their weight.
The garden had been prepared in advance.
Low tea tables, delicate porcelain cups, carved chairs arranged in a chessboard pattern among fragrant living hedges.
Everything was impeccable. As was the dowager queen Marianna herself, clad in heavy, dark silk, with pearl threads woven into her hairstyle.
She was already seated in anticipation when Beatrice entered the garden, carrying Laer in her arms.
Marianna smiled, thinly, like a snake's smile, devoid of genuine warmth.
-Your Majesty,- she said, slightly inclining her head, - How pleasant to see that youth has not yet lost its sanity. You have finally decided to visit your stepmother. The gardens seem much brighter when you fill them with your presence.
Beatrice executed a polite curtsy, precise to the last line, but without excessive warmth.
-Thank you for the invitation, madam. Duty requires respecting elders, especially those who tend so diligently.
Marianna gestured to the chair opposite. When Beatrice sat down, carefully settling Laer in her arms, the dowager queen nodded to a maid to fill the cups.
-The weather is treacherous these days,- Marianna noted in a light, almost caring tone.- Spring winds can be dangerous for those whose health is still so fragile. You should be more cautious, Your Majesty... not subject yourself to unnecessary trials.
The phrase sounded gentle. But behind the gentleness, a needle slid: Are you implying I'm too weak for my duties?
Beatrice lowered her eyes to the cup, traced the edge of the porcelain with her finger, as if studying the reflection in the clear surface of the tea.
-Care is a rare gift,- she responded calmly. -And all the more valuable when it comes from those who themselves know how heavy the burden of power is.
Marianna slightly nodded, accepting the tone.
-Of course, of course...- she said, as if forgiving Beatrice for insufficient gratitude. - That is precisely why I considered it my duty to offer you guidance. Experience is invaluable, especially for such a young queen who must withstand the storms and whirlwinds of governance.
"Guidance." "Young queen." Each word pierced Beatrice's skin with tiny thorns.
She raised her eyes. In her gaze was the calm of still water before a storm.
- I am flattered by your willingness to help, madam,- she said evenly. -But I hope I can bear my burden without troubling you with concerns.
For a moment, a shadow of irritation flickered in Marianna's eyes.
But she quickly concealed it behind a thin smile.
-I am sure you will manage,- she said sweetly. -Of course, with wise guidance and reliable support.
Beatrice slightly inclined her head, accepting the blow, but in her smile, there was something firm, almost defiant:
-Support is important,- she said. - But sometimes, it is the storm that strengthens the tree more than the most caring gardeners.
The tea in the cup trembled from the barely noticeable tremor of the finest porcelain.
Marianna carefully placed her cup on the saucer.
-The main thing is not to let the wind break the branches,- she replied quietly. - A tree too young may not survive the storm.
Beatrice smiled in response so easily that the smile would have seemed sincere if not for the cold in her amber eyes.
- There's no need to worry about my branches, madam,- she said. -Better to think about those who are used to hiding in their shade. Believe me, I know exactly where I stand. Unlike some, I am not here by someone else's grace.
Their gazes crossed.
-What a curious remark... I thought this palace has always been a home for all who managed to win the king's favor,- Marianna said, pressing her lips together, but then forced a smile.
-Undoubtedly. Only some win his heart, while others merely occupy a place beside him,- Beatrice smirked, lazily leaning back in her chair.
- You're too young to understand how this world works, child. Respect comes with years, not with a title obtained by chance.
- Oh yes, I understand that far better than you think. Respect must be earned. But here's the trouble... You never earned it. For what are you without a title? Just a shadow of the past, tolerated out of tradition.
-A shadow? Hmm... Then why did you come here? Afraid that this 'shadow' will outshine you?- Marianna grips her cup a bit tighter but immediately pretends to be amused.
Beatrice smiles:
- Oh no, Your Majesty, fear is a privilege for those who have time for weakness. I'm just amazed at how some, being so close to power, manage to remain in the shadows... and yet still leave such a bloody trail behind them.
-Such grave accusations. I hope you don't intend to repeat them aloud in the wrong place. Otherwise, you'll need to find very compelling evidence,- the dowager queen calmly sips her tea. -You're too impudent for someone who is merely a foreign queen. Should I remind you that I ruled this court long before your arrival?
For a moment, the garden froze, as if the very air had become denser.
-And yet, I rule now. And something tells me I'll remain here much longer than you anticipated.
Then Marianna slowly leaned back in her chair, feigned satisfaction with this little 'friendly' visit, and raised her cup in a final toast:
-Time will tell, dear. Time always puts everything in its place. To your health, Your Majesty. And to your resilience.
-To mutual understanding, madam,- Beatrice responded with a slight mockery.
And at that moment, under the clink of teacups, both realized: The game had truly begun.