Muted light, richly colored, poured gold and sapphire into the sparsely-furnished sitting room in Herald Alberich's private quarters behind the training salle.

Now that the colored window was installed, and the protective blanket taken off, it made that little room look entirely different. Alberich hardly recognized it.

The four Journeymen who had helped their Master install the piece were gone now, leaving Alberich alone with the artist himself.

Both of them gazed on the finished product in silence, while behind them a warm fire crackled on the hearth. It was a staggeringly beautiful piece of stained-glass work; in fact, Alberich thought, it would not be exaggerating to say it was a masterpiece. Not that he had expected less than a fine piece from

the Master of the Glassworkers Guild, but this was over and above those expectations.

The artisan responsible for its creation stepped forward and gave the top right-hand corner a final polish with a soft cloth, removing some smudge not visible to ordinary eyes. He flicked off an equally invisible dust-mote as well, and stepped back to view the expanse of blues and golds with a critical eye. A man gone gray in his profession, he was tall, but not powerful, with wiry, knotty muscles rather than bulging ones. His expression was unreadable, a square-jawed, hook-nosed fellow whose face might have been stone rather than flesh.

"It'll do," he grunted, finally, his long face betraying nothing but a flicker of content.

"A work of power and beauty, it is," Alberich replied, unusual warmth of feeling in his voice. "It is exceeding my expectations, which were high already. Your skill is formidable, Master Cuelin."

"It'll do," the artisan repeated, but with just a touch more satisfaction in his own voice. "I'll not praise myself, but it'll do."

This was such classic understatement that Alberich shook his head a little. In so many ways, this was a piece of artwork that went far, far beyond even the monumental works that only the great and wealthy could afford, be they individuals or organizations. It was the care to every detail, as much as the design, that showed that expertise. For instance, to protect the fragile leaded glass, made up of pieces no larger than a coin, the panel had been installed against the existing window. Now, the bars holding those old panes in place could have cast distracting lines across the new pattern—except that Master Cuelin had taken that into account in his design, and the shadows had been integrated in such a way that unless you looked for them, you did not notice them.

Yet Master Cuelin seemed no more than mildly pleased that everything had worked out as he had planned. Alberich knew that tone; not only from working with Master Cuelin on this window, but from working with others who shared the same obessive drive to excellence that marked the man's work. No point in heaping him with effusive praise, for it would only make him uncomfortable, and he would begin to point out "flaws" in the work not visible to anyone but him.

"Very happy, you have made me," he said, instead. "Never shall I weary of this piece." And although he had paid Master Cuelin already, when he shook the man's hands in thanks, a heavy little purse that had been in his hand slipped quietly into the Master's. That was the way of doing business, in Karse, when one was pleased with special work. Some things, Alberich felt, were probably universal—an extra "consideration" for work that exceeds expectation being one of them.

Evidently the custom held true in Valdemar, because Master Cuelin did not seem in the least surprised; he said nothing, only pocketed the purse with a nod of thanks. He dusted off his hands on the side of his brown leather tunic—all of his clothing, tunic, breeches, even his shirt, was leather, because leather wasn't likely to catch fire—

"Well, if you're that satisfied, Herald Alberich, I'll be off—" the Glassmaster said. "I've that lazy lot of `prentices to beat back at my studio, for no doubt they'll have ruined the cobalt plate I laid out for them to cut for the new `Pothecary Guild window, aye, and muddled the designs I set them to copy, and complain I've assigned them too much work."

Alberich shook his head, in mock sadness. "It is ever so," he agreed, and sighed. "The younger generation—"

"We were never like that, eh?" Master Cuelin barked a laugh, and slapped Alberich's back. The Weaponsmaster allowed a hint of a smile to show, and the Glassmaster winked. "Well, 'tis heavy work we have before us—you know what the

old saw is, `A boy's ears are on his backside, he heeds better when he's beaten!'"

Since there was nearly the identical saying in Karse, Alberich nodded, and with another exchanged of pleasantries, he escorted the Glassmaster out. Indeed, some things were universal.

But since it was not yet time for the next class of Heraldic Trainees to arrive for their weapons' training, he returned to his sitting room in the back of the training salle to admire his newly installed possession once more.

There had been a plain glass window here, but the presence of such an expanse of clear glass had made Alberich, on reflection, rather uneasy. It was fine for the former Weaponsmaster, Herald Dethor, to have such a thing, but Dethor didn't have to think about potential Karsite assassins peering through it—or the far more common, but equally annoying habits of the young, idle and foolish offspring of Valdemaran nobles daring each other to spy on the dreaded Weaponsmaster from Karse. Not that they'd see anything except Alberich reading, pacing, or staring at the fire, or occassionally entertaining a visitor, but it made him irritated to think of them watching him. It wasted their time, annoyed the Companions, and made the back of his neck prickle for no good reason. If he sensed someone watching him, he wanted to know there was danger, not adolescent curiosity behind it.

But he hadn't wanted to block off the window, either. Very useful light came in there by day, although the view was nothing spectacular, just one of the groves of Companion's Field. It had been Herald Elcarth who had suggested the stained-glass panel when he had mentioned the annoyance of looking up to see lurkers in the bushes one night.

Elcarth hadn't known where to obtain such a thing, but Herald Jadus had. In fact, Jadus had pointed him to the particular glassworks involved in creating most of the stained- and etched-glass windows for the various Temples in and

around Haven, whenever a generous patron was moved to donate such a thing.

Until he went to the workshop and saw some of the designs, the subject of his glasswork hadn't actually occurred to Alberich—but as soon as he realized what Cuelin specialized in, he had realized what his window surely must show.

The Sun-In-Glory of the God of Karse, of course; Vkandis Sunlord in a form that few in Valdemar would recognize as such, and no one who mattered would likely take offense to. Particularly as this Sun-In-Glory would be laid out, not on the usual field of reds as in a similar window in Karse, but on a field of Heraldic blue.

If Master Cuelin realized just what the pattern was, he hadn't said anything. Alberich would not have wagered on his being ignorant, though. He had been doing religious glasswork for far too long not to have learned virtually every symbol of every deity worshipped in Haven, and every possible variation and nuance of each symbol. Vkandis was worshipped here, and by Karsite exiles—just not under that name. The "Lord of Light" was what He was called here; a title and a name less likely to evoke hostility from the good neighbors of those exiles, all things considered.

Alberich would not have taken it much amiss had Master Cuelin delegated the work to his apprentices, either—but he hadn't. He'd attended to it all himself. And the result was glorious; the one indulgence that Alberich had permitted himself since he'd been made Weaponsmaster.

:Very nice for us, too,: his Companion Kantor commented, as Alberich sat down and allowed himself to drink in the color and composition. :We get the best view of it at night, when the light is coming from inside. Clever of you to station lanterns with reflectors shining outwards at the bottom corners. Gives us a lovely piece to look at.:

:And prevents any shadows falling upon it and telling people what goes on in my sitting room,: he pointed out. :After paying no small fortune for such a

piece, I've no mind to have it shattered by an ill-considered crossbow bolt, because I was foolish enough to show a target.:

Since there was no graceful reply to that, Kantor wisely declined to make one.

The leaded glass was thicker and heavier than the window it had been mounted against, and Alberich realized after a moment of sitting there that the drafts he'd become accustomed to were gone. Well! An unforeseen advantage!

And a third—as he bathed in the golden light from the Sun-In-Glory, despite the fact that on the other side of the glass, there was a bleak winter landscape under overcast skies, he understood why Master Cuelin had insisted that the Sun dominate the panel. No matter what the weather outside, the light coming in would be warm and welcoming. Alberich already felt his spirits a little lighter.

:For which my gratitude to Master Cuelin knows no bounds,: Kantor observed, dryly. :Anything that sweetens your temper makes me grateful.:

:Indeed?: Alberich countered. :Alas, that he cannot do me the return favor of creating such a thing for you, since you spend your days out-of-doors. Perhaps I should query Bardic Collegium about the possibility of serenading you on a thrice-weekly basis to sweeten your temper?:

:Then who would chastize the greenlings properly?: Kantor asked, airily. :Disciplining the youngsters requires a certain acidity of temper to deliver correction with the appropriate degree of sting.:

Alberich shook his head. He should learn never to try and exchange barbs with his Companion; Kantor would always win.

Not that there wasn't some truth in what Kantor said; Kantor was to the young Companions what Alberich was to the Heraldic Trainees, in a way. Not so much the trainer in fighting technique, for a great deal of that was in the hands of the riding instructors, but as the disciplinarian of the Companion

herd. Normally that would be in the hands—or rather, authority, backed by speech, and occasionally hooves and teeth—of the Companion to the Queen's Own Herald, the Grove-Born Rolan. But Rolan's Herald was Queen's Own Talamir, who had very nearly died in the last battle with the Tedrels on the Border with Karse; Talamir's original Companion had died, and one never spent much time in Talamir's presence without realizing that in many ways it had been no great service to Talamir that he had been brought back to life again. Though Kantor had never said as much in so many words, Alberich got the distinct impression that most of Rolan's time was taken up in making sure that Talamir remained—well—-sane. So most of Rolan's duties to the herd had been delegated.

Not all of those duties had gone to Kantor, either. Some were the provenance of some very wise old Companion mares, thus ironically echoing the heirarchy in a real horse-herd, where the leaders were the oldest mares, not the stallion, as Alberich very well knew.

:Hmm. And human-herds, though ye know it not.:

:Your point being—?: Alberich replied. :Though you'd best not let Queen Selenay discover you think of her as an old mare, wise or not.:

He sensed Kantor's snort of derision. :Selenay should be perfectly happy to be compared to a Companion mare.:

Alberich let that one go. There was no use trying to explain to Kantor that no nubile young woman was going to appreciate being compared to a mare, ever, under any circumstances.

Particularly not when her Councilors—some of them, anyway—were very diligently trying to make her into one. Of the brood-stock variety....

Which was one reason why he had welcomed Master Cuelin's arrival this afternoon to install the window, as the perfect excuse to avoid the afternoon Council meeting. That particular item was on the table for discussion, and it was a subject that Alberich was particularly anxious not to get embroiled in.

For one thing, no matter how publicly he'd been lauded and laden with honors after the Tedrel Wars, no matter how trusted he was by most—by no means all—Valdemarans of note, he was still the outsider. He was, and would always be so. It could not be otherwise. And for another, well—

—well, it was a subject where nothing he said or did was "safe." Someone would take exception, and at this point, he didn't need to add any enemies to a list that was already long enough.

#

The atmosphere of the Council Chamber this afternoon was unwontedly subdued. Usually there had been at least three arguments by this time, and the kinds of icy, polite cat-calling that made people who were not used to Council debates blanch and wonder if a duel was about to break out. Today, however, was different. The atmosphere hadn't been so edgily cordial since the first, tentative sessions after Selenay's coronation. Around the horseshoe-shaped, heavy wooden table not a voice had been raised. The representatives of the Bardic, Heraldic, and Healers Circles, in their red, white, and green uniforms respectively, had been extremely quiet, as had the Lord Marshal's Herald and the Seneschal's Herald, and of course, her own, the Queen's Own Herald, Talamir.

As for the rest—well, they had been nervous. They didn't really know her, although she had been in their midst all of her life. They were her father's Council, really, not hers. They were his friends, advisors and peers, and none of them had expected to serve her at all, much less so quickly. So they often argued and battled among themselves, as if she wasn't even there, or was no more than a token place-holder.

Except on the rare occasions when what they wished to do was going to have to involve her. Then they generally acted as they did today; becoming very quiet, and rather nervous. These elder statesmen and women were apparantly unaware that they gave themselves away, acting as they did.

Queen Selenay knew why they were nervous, of course. They didn't know she knew, which might have been funny under other circumstances. In the throne that had been her father's, with the chair at her right hand empty, Selenay watched her Councilors behaving as if they were good little schoolchildren debating beneath the strict disciplinarian eye of their teacher.

This was, of course, because they were shortly going to unite in a totally uncharacteristic burst of single-mindedness and do their level best to force their Queen to do something she had no intention of doing whatsoever.

Marry. Worse than that, to marry someone they, not she, chose. The potential candidates were as sad a collection as nightmare could have conjured. The youngest was ten, the oldest ninety. Among them were a number of young men, but even these were impossible. Some she had heartily detested from the moment she'd met them, others she didn't even know, and from their reputations, had no desire to know. A very few might be reasonable fellows, some were pleasant enough company on a casual basis, but that was no reason to marry any of them.

Her Councilors, however, did not see it that way.

It hadn't been like this when her father had sat in this throne, but Sendar had ruled as well as reigned. She reigned, but only the backing of the Heralds made it possible for her to command much of anything. She knew that; she had expected it from the moment she took the Crown. She was much too young to be a Queen, much too young to command the respect of men and women old enough to be her parents. Not even the white uniform proclaiming her a full Herald managed to gain her that respect.

Well, there were ways around that. But she was getting weary of the artful dodges, of setting her words in the mouths of others, and she had not even reigned a year. And these marriage-plans were more than a mere inconvenience; they were an attack on her autonomy. Her good Councilors would not be happy with a mere Prince Consort. They wanted a King.

She tapped her index finger idly on the stack of papers just under her right hand, and smiled a grim little smile. Her Councilors—the non-Heraldic ones, anyway—were not aware that she had come prepared, indeed, armed and armored, for this afternoon's meeting. She knew what every man and woman around the table was about to put forward, for not all of them had been close-mouthed about it, and Talamir had gotten wind of it and let her know what was toward. That had given her ample time to prepare for what they were about to unleash on her. They had no idea that she had come forwarned and forearmed.

For that matter, other than Talamir and Elcarth, she wasn't sure the other Heralds were aware that she'd been engaged in laying to groundwork to defend her freedom.

It was nothing less that she had done, for her Councilors were determined that she should not reign alone—and each and every one of them had a particular candidate to place in the running, sometimes more than one. All of them, of course, with the best interests of the Kingdom formost in their minds, or so, at least, they would tell themselves. Of course, every candidate would have blood-ties or ties of obligation to the Councilor who put him forward, but never mind that. They would put such things out of their minds, telling themselves that they were doing this for Valdemar, and not for any selfish reasons. There was no Heir! Selenay had been an only child, and the Crown now rested on her fragile head alone! She must marry, and produce children, quickly!

Of course, if the chosen spouse happened to be helpful to friends and families, well....

Every one of them had given over whatever disputes they had to settle on that list of potential Consorts, arguing and trading without any consideration for what she wanted, until they had mutually agreed on enough men that if they couldn't bully her into taking one, they could wear her down until she agreed out of exhaustion.

When Talamir told her what the plans were, Selenay had gone straight to Herald-Chronicler-Second Myste, who was surely the only person in Haven who had the esoteric knowledge to help her out of the trap. And although she had not really expected a great deal of sympathy from Myste, the Herald had amazed her by reacting with indignation to the plans.

"By Keronos!" Myste had exclaimed, her eyes behind the thick lenses of her spectacles going narrow with speculation. "You haven't been Queen a year, girl! Shouldn't they at least wait until you've settled?"

"Apparantly not," Selenay had replied, seething with anger. "And apparantly none of them want to see a foreigner brought in as Consort, either."

"Idiots," Myste had muttered under her breath, pushing her lenses up on her nose. "The hand of a Queen's too damned valuable to waste—what if we need an alliance?"

"What if we just need to keep five or six princes dangling on promises?" Selenay had countered. "And besides—"

She didn't add the "besides," which was that she wanted to be able to love her husband, not merely tolerate being in the same room with him. Myste probably guessed it, for she'd given Selenay a shrewd look, but she hadn't said anything, except "Well, if they haven't got the sense to see past their own interests, it's up to some of the rest of us to see to it that they can't meddle."

And Myste had outdone herself on the Queen's behalf, spending every spare moment locked away with dusty law and record books going back generations. The result was the pile of neatly-written papers under Selenay's hand.

Aside from the two exceptions of Talamir and Elcarth, there wasn't a single person around the Council table that had the slightest inkling that they were about to see what Selenay could do when she was not in a mood of sweet cooperation. In point of fact, no matter who was brought up, the various

candidates for potential spouse were going to be mown down like so many stands of ripened grain....

Myste had not even told Alberich; she had sworn herself to secrecy before Selenay had even asked. There was no tighter-lipped creature in Valdemar than Myste when she chose to take that particular path.

It's too bad Alberich isn't here, Selenay thought, still tapping. He might enjoy watching me dispose of this idiocy. She missed his craggy, scarred face at the table today; although he did not have an official position on the Council, as Talamir's right-hand man (and in no small part, hers as well), he could and did sit in on it whenever he chose. When he did, he usually took Dean Elcarth's seat as the representative of the Heraldic Circle. The Weaponsmaster knew of the plans, of course, though not how she intended to counter them. And she thought that he would take great pleasure in how she was going to discomfit them all.

Or maybe not. In Selenay's limited experience, a confirmed bachelor like Alberich had a tendency to panic when confronted by the question of potential matrimony, regardless of whether it was his or someone else's.

Besides, he's probably concerned that if I flatten every other possible consort, someone will suggest him as an alternative. The mere thought made her stifle a smile. They'd suggest she take an illiterate fisheman from Lake Evendim before they suggested Alberich. Not that she'd mind an illiterate fisherman from Lake Evendim half so much as she disliked some of the so-called "candidates" for her hand her Councilors were going to suggest.

The Councilors had been well aware from the moment they started their plotting that this was a subject their Queen was not going to entertain gladly, which was why they were intending to surprise her with it, in hopes of taking her off guard.

As they disposed of some final trivial business, they kept glancing at her

out of the corners of their eyes, and there was a certain nervous tone to their voices that would have been amusing if she had not been so very angry with them. Her father had not been dead a year, and already they were at her to marry! As if she could not rule by herself, or at the very least, rule with the true council of those who were loyal to her (and not merely devoted to their own interests), and rule well and wisely!

:You can rule with more wisdom than some of their choices,: her Companion Caryo said into her mind. :Not that some of their choices would be allowed to rule at all. They wouldn't be Chosen by a Companion if every living male in Valdemar were to drop dead this moment.:

A stinging indictment indeed, coming from Caryo.

And there was the real rub. What some of her Councilors seemed to keep forgetting was that any husband she took would be nothing more than Prince Consort unless he was also a Herald. Only then could he be a co-ruler.

Of course, they probably assumed that a young woman would be easily led by her husband to give him whatever he wanted. Some of them probably assumed that she could make a Companion Choose him, if she wanted it badly enough.

:The more fools they,: said Caryo.

:Well, they have a poor opinion of how strong a woman's will can be.: Selenay reflected, as she gathered her nerve, that it was a very good thing that Caryo was of a mind with her. It would be great deal easier to resist both bullying and blandishment with Caryo behind her.

:And don't forget, you have Myste, too,: Caryo reminded her.

Yes indeed. Myste, her secret weapon, who not only had supplied her with this vast and intricate report, but was currently mewed up in the libary with every book of Valdemaran geneology in Haven at her fingertips, and a page to bring her whatever she needed for as long as this meeting lasted. No, her Councilors surely could never have reckoned on Myste.

The last of the minor business was disposed of. The Councilors put up their papers, some of them poured themselves wine, and there was a great deal of coughing and shuffling of feet. Then, as she expected, really, it was Lord Gartheser, more portly now than he had been before the War, and more florid of face, who cleared his throat awkwardly and put the subject on the table.

"About the matter of your Majesty's marriage—" he said, and stopped.

Selenay smiled sweetly, a smile that went no further than her lips, as she looked down each side of the horseshoe-shaped table before she allowed her eyes to rest on Gartheser.

He makes a poor conspirator, she thought. It was from him that Talamir had learned what was toward, though Gartheser himself was probably completely unaware that he had betrayed anything. But he gave himself away, according to Talamir, in a hundred ways, by little nervous tics, by being unable to meet a person's eyes, by dropping far too many hints when he was satisfied with himself. At that point, both Talamir and Alberich had gone to work, and no secret was secure when those two were ferreting it out.

Though it occurred to her that Talamir had probably not done nearly as much work as Alberich. Talamir's sympathy was probably at least in part with the Council. Well, give credit where it was due; he had told her in the first place.

"My marriage?" she asked, in feigned innocence. "I wasn't aware I had been betrothed, much less that there was a marriage in view. Certainly King Sendar never said anything of the sort to me."

"Ah, well, your Majesty, that's the whole point," Gartheser managed. "You haven't one, you see. Betrothed, that is."

She took her time and looked carefully around the horseshoe-shaped table again, making sure to look each one of her Councilors steadily in the eyes. The silence was deafening. No one moved. "Indeed."

"And you—that is we thought—that is—" Gartheser couldn't look her in the eyes anymore. He dropped his gaze and stared at his hands, and stumbled to a halt.

"We have some candidates in mind, Selenay," Lord Orthallen took up the thread, smoothly. Orthallen looked the part of the senior stateman; he had retained a fine figure, and the silver streaking in his dark blond hair in no way detracted from his handsome appearance. Women younger than Selenay threw themselves at him on a regular basis. "You really must marry as soon as may be, of course. A young woman cannot rule alone."

"Indeed," she said, levelly, hiding her rage with immense care. She wanted to scream at them, then burst into tears, and nothing could be more fatal at this moment.

But the others took that lack of objection on her part as the signal that she was going to be properly malleable, and took heart from it. Only Elcarth winced a little at her tone; only Talamir's lips quirked, just a trifle.

"The first, and indeed, the most elligable candidate is my nephew Rannulf," Gartheser said, brightly, "Who—"

"Is not elligable at all, I'm afraid," she interrupted smoothly. "He's related to me within the second degree, on his mother's side, through the Lycaelis bloodline. You know well that no King or Queen of Valdemar can wed a subject who is within the third degree of blood-relationship. That is the law, my Lord, and nothing you nor I can do will change that." She raised her eyebrows at them. "The reason is a very good one, of course. I shall be indelicate here, for there is no delicate way to say this. As my father told me often, the monarchs of Valdemar cannot afford the kinds of—difficulties—that can arise when a bloodline becomes too inbred."

And with you and yours marrying cousins and cross-cousins with the gay abandon of people blind to consequences, that's the reason half of your so-

called "candidates" are dough-faced mouth-breathers who couldn't count to ten without taking their shoes off, she thought viciously.

:Harsh. With justification, but harsh,: Caryo observed sardonically.

Gartheser blinked, his mouth still open, and stared at her. Finally he shut it. "Ah," he said at last. "Oh—are you quite sure of that?"

She opened Myste's report to the relevant page. "Rannulf's mother is Lady Elena of Penderkeep. Lady Elena's mother was my father's cousin through his mother. That is within the second degree."

"Oh—" Gartheser said weakly.

"Then there is my nephew, Kris—" said Orthallen quickly.

"Related to me within the third degree on both sides of his family, as his mother was a cousin-by-marriage of my father, and his father was a cousin-by-blood to my father," she said briskly, already prepared for that one, "Besides being so young that there is no question of consummation for at least eight years." She smiled dulcetly at Orthallen. "Which does rather negate the entire reason for marrying with such remarkable speed in the first place, before my year of mourning is over. Doesn't it?"

To her great pleasure, Orthallen was left so stunned by her riposte that his handsome face wore an uncharacteristic blank look. Not that she wanted to humiliate him—she was really awfully fond of him, after all—but it gave her no end of satisfaction to make him understand, in no uncertain terms, that just because she was fond of him, she was not going to allow him to manipulate her into something she did not want to do.

And blessings upon Myste; she suspected that not even Orthallen knew about the nearness of her blood-relation to his nephew. He proved it in the next moment by saying, cautiously, "I assume you have the particulars of these degrees?"

She went to the second page of Myste's notes and gave him the genealogical

details, chapter and verse, in a no-nonsense, matter-of-fact tone of voice.

"Ah," he said. And wisely said nothing more.

So it went. Every single candidate that any of them brought up, she cut off at the metaphorical knees. Including the ones that she had not given Myste to research; that was why Myste was shut up in the library. She would leaf through her thick sheaf of papers to give Myste the chance to trace pedigrees, then pretend to read what Myste MindSent to her.

At last they ran out of names—or at least, of names that they could all agree on. Now the daggers were out, and the looks being traded across the table-top were wary. Any new candidates would be people who one or another of the Councilors objected to for reasons of his or her own. She could sit back and let them play against each other, which was the better position to be in.

At least, that was true among the highborn Councilors; the Guildmasters were a different story entirely. None of them—and no candidate outside of the nobility—would be related to her, which eliminated that argument.

However, she thought she could count on the highborn Councilors to fight tooth and nail against any common-born man being put up as a potential Prince Consort. There was an advantage to snobbery.

Mind, if she did happen to fall in love with a commoner—

That would open up a whole new set of problems which she wasn't going to think about. The current set was more than enough to deal with.

It's too bad Alberich isn't here now, she thought, letting her anger begin to die. This is the part he'd really enjoy—watching them cut the legs out from under each other.

Ah well. She hoped the installation of his window had gone well. She was looking forward to seeing it. It would be the only part of her day she was able to look forward to.

Why would anyone want to be a Queen?

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4