The palace bloomed with celebration.
Preparations for King Marshall's birthday were already visible in every corner of court. Silk banners were being hung from the balustrades. Gardeners sculpted hedges into the shapes of stags and hawks. Musicians rehearsed in the west amphitheater, their notes drifting faintly through the halls. The air was perfumed with honeyed wine and anticipation.
Beatrice moved through it like a thread through embroidery. Deliberate, composed, and trying not to unravel.
She'd always known the attempt happened on the king's birthday. In the novel, it was a clean detail, almost theatrical. A poisoned goblet, a blame too quickly assigned, a war too eagerly accepted.
But in this timeline, everything had shifted. She was at the high table now. Which meant she would be right there when it happened.
And so would they.
Her family would attend in full.
