Lady Margiette darted, as much as a proper lady dared, through the stone hallways. She was a Lady of the Court, and Ladies didn’t run. But tonight, propriety be damned. Her heart pounded like a war drum beneath her ribs.
She couldn’t believe how the new Queen had treated her and Lady Rosemary.
Usually, being called to serve as a Queen’s Lady-in-Waiting was an honor. Tonight, it felt like a horror. The thought that this would be her fate, every time she was summoned, sent a chill crawling up her spine.
The Queen’s voice echoed in her memory: “Everything in this castle now belongs to me — rooms, servants, even their loyalty. If they can’t keep up, I’ll find others who can.” She had laughed after saying that, her grin wide and cruel. “I’ll be visiting the Queen’s Tower soon. I want to see which of them still think they matter. Perhaps I’ll give them all sewing rooms.”
The words echoed in Margiette’s skull like a slap. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone floor, each step fueled by fury.
Sewing rooms for the former Queens. Like they were old women to be shelved and forgotten.
Her Great Aunt Belladonna would never accept that. She had survived the cruelty of House Black. The previous Lords had used beatings, humiliation tactics, and forced marriages to keep the Black women in line, but Belladonna had escaped and had risen above it all to become High Queen of Camelot. She had sworn never to live like that again.
And now Queen Valentina was threatening to drag her back down.
No. Margiette’s jaw clenched. If Belladonna’s freedom was at risk, so was her own. And Margiette would not let that happen without a fight.
She passed servants in the hallway, their startled expressions following her as she stormed by. A few guards called after her, confused by her pace and urgency, but she ignored them all.
When a knight stepped into her path, she collided with his armored chest. Hands caught her by the upper arms, steadying her before she could fall. She looked up, heart pounding.
It was Sir Frollo—one of the older knights from House Washington. He rarely left Camelot these days, preferring to stay near the capital.
“Lady Margiette?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, breathless. “I must speak with the former Queens. Immediately!”
Before he could question her further, she pushed past him and gathered her skirts in both hands, charging into the courtyard. The Queen’s Tower loomed at the far end, bathed in the glow of torchlight.
She reached the door and slammed her shoulder against it. It gave way with a loud creak, and she stumbled inside the tower’s Common Room.
Behind her, she heard heavy footfalls—Sir Frollo was following.
Margiette hesitated. Could he be trusted? Would he side with the old guard... or pledge himself to the new Queen?
She made her choice. Stepping aside, she let him enter. The door slammed shut behind them, and she locked it with trembling fingers.
When she turned, the former Queens were already gathered—seated in the Common Room, their faces marked with surprise and concern. However, Aunt Belladonna’s face darkened, her expression flashing toward anger. Margiette didn’t care. She rushed forward and collapsed at her aunt’s feet, hugging the woman’s legs as if anchoring herself to the only strength left in the kingdom.
“Auntie,” she gasped, her voice cracking, “you have to leave Camelot!” The room went still. “Queen Valentina—she’s threatened to treat you like the old Black Lords once did. Cast you and the other Queens aside in some forgotten sewing room… or worse, have you killed. She even threatened to use Kalliope’s babe against her!” Margiette felt her aunt’s body go rigid beneath her grip. The Warrior Queen’s hands hovered in the air for a moment, uncertain—before one finally rested on Margiette’s shoulder, heavy and trembling.
“She said that?” Belladonna’s voice was barely above a whisper. The room remained still. No one dared interrupt. “Sewing rooms,” Belladonna repeated, almost to herself. Her eyes drifted to the fireplace, the flames casting shadows across her aging face. “Just like my mother. Just like I was meant to be.”
Margiette looked up, startled. The older woman’s expression was unreadable—blank, almost ghostlike. “I clawed my way out of that life. I bled for it. Buried the Lords who dared treat me like a possession.” She drew a shaky breath and finally looked down at her niece. “And now she wants to send me back?” Belladonna straightened, slowly but with purpose. Her voice steadied, sharpened. “No. I will not go quietly. And I will not be forgotten.”
Queen Susan stood slowly from her chair, her expression calm but scrutinizing. Her pale fingers brushed invisible dust from her gown before folding neatly in front of her.
“Lady Margiette,” she said, her voice crisp, “perhaps you’d better explain what happened in the Royal Wing that has caused such… alarm.”
Her tone wasn’t cold, but it carried weight — the kind used by a woman accustomed to handling volatile rooms.
“You burst into the Queen’s Tower like a messenger with news of war,” Susan continued, gaze level. “Tell us exactly what was said, and by whom. If Queen Valentina is a danger, we must understand how, not just why you’re upset.”
Margiette rose shakily to her feet, her fingers still curled in the folds of her gown. She tried to speak, but her throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard before she could force the words out.
“She called the Common Room—our Common Room—‘a peasant’s parlor.’ Said the furniture was beneath her. That the colors were dull. She mocked the portraits of the former Kings. Said she didn’t want to sleep under the eyes of dead men.”
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t stop.
“She ordered them taken down. All of them. Every symbol of House Drake, of the last five reigns, thrown away or stored out of sight. Lancelot tried to explain their value—tried to remind her of tradition—but she laughed at him. Laughed.”
Margiette’s fists clenched.
“And then she looked at me and Lady Rosemary like we were maids. She said we were late. Said if the real maids wouldn’t arrive fast enough, we’d just have to serve until they did. No ceremony. No honor. Just a command.”
She met Susan’s gaze now, her own eyes wide with disbelief.
“And then she said she would visit the Queen’s Tower to see which of you still ‘thought you mattered.’ That maybe she’d give you all sewing rooms. Like the old Black Lords used to do to women they wanted silenced. Forgotten.”
Her voice broke, but she caught herself before tears could form.
“She said even the babe in Kalliope’s belly could be used as leverage.”
At first, Kalliope said nothing.
She sat frozen in her chair, one hand instinctively resting over her swollen belly. Her face was pale—too pale—and her lips had parted slightly in disbelief. The silence that followed Margiette’s words was unbearable, thick as storm clouds.
“She said that,” Kalliope finally whispered. Her voice trembled, barely audible. “She would take my child?”
Her fingers tightened across her stomach. “My child. Not hers. Not the Court’s. Mine.”
Her chair scraped the floor as she pushed herself upright, unsteady but defiant. “She’s not even Queen by blood. She came from nowhere, and now she wants to claim a legacy she didn’t earn—and steal my child to legitimize it?”
No one dared interrupt her.
“I won’t let her. I will not be used as a vessel and discarded. I’ve lived too long under shadows like hers. If she dares come near this baby…”
Her voice shook, but her eyes burned now with fury. “She will learn why I was once Queen. And why I survived longer than anyone expected.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself. But her next words came low and bitter:
“Let her try to take what’s mine. I won’t run. I won’t beg. But I swear to the gods—I will not bow to her.”
Before Kalliope could say more, another voice rose—soft, but firm.
“Enough.”
All eyes turned to Queen Clarine. She had not moved from her chair, but her gaze was sharp beneath her silver brows. She folded her hands over her lap, the gesture precise, deliberate.
“Do not let emotion blind you. This is still Camelot. We are still women of the Court.” Her voice carried the quiet weight of age and tradition. “It is not uncommon for new monarchs to stumble early in their reigns. Youth breeds arrogance. Power sharpens tongues.”
She turned her gaze toward Belladonna, then to Kalliope.
“We have all known cruelty. We have endured worse than a few careless threats. If every Queen who insulted her predecessor was cast down, there would be no Crown left to wear.”
Clarine’s expression didn’t soften, but her voice gentled a fraction as she looked at Kalliope.
“I do not dismiss your fear. Nor the insult. But we must not confuse recklessness with evil. If we act too soon, we risk igniting division—and giving Valentina reason to strike.”
She drew in a slow breath. “Let her prove who she is. Not just with words, but with deeds. And if she overreaches…” Her eyes hardened now. “Then, and only then, should we rise against her.”
A moment of quiet followed Clarine’s words—until Queen Vivien stirred.
She had been silent through most of the exchange, sitting like a carved figure in the firelight. Now, she rose with deliberate grace, the long folds of her dark gown brushing the floor.
“I agree with Clarine.”
Her voice was soft, but it carried. The kind of voice that didn’t need to be raised to be obeyed.
“I have seen six monarchs rise and fall. Some were fair. Some were cruel. All of them believed they were chosen for a reason. And every one of them—every one—tested the Court in their first days.”
She paused, folding her hands in front of her.
“I do not like what I’ve heard tonight. The Queen’s words are troubling. Reckless. But if we strike too soon, if we act from fear rather than proof—we will fracture Camelot faster than any tyrant could.”
Her eyes moved to Margiette, then to Kalliope, lingering with unspoken sympathy.
“We do not survive by racing to war. We survive by watching. By enduring. And when the moment is right… then we act, and our actions carry the full weight of the Crown’s legacy behind them.”
Vivien turned toward Belladonna, her gaze steady.
“I do not say this to belittle your fury, Belladonna. Or your fear, Kalliope. I say it because I have lived through bloodshed. And we must not invite it unless we are prepared to see it through.”
Before Belladonna could speak, another voice rose—this time, younger, more pointed.
“Endure? That’s easy to say when you’ve already carved your place in history.”
All heads turned toward Holly, who had remained near the windows until now, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“My mother endured. She survived the Black Lords. She bent herself into a crown to protect her children and this Kingdom. So did Elsa. So did I.”
She took a step forward, her voice steady, but her eyes hot with anger.
“Elsa and I got lucky,” Holly continued, her voice hardening. “When the Knights—Sir Jack and Sir Nicholas—were found worthy by the Sword, you, Mother,” she turned to Belladonna, “requested we marry them. So it would look like the Crown passed through our blood after King Donald died. As if we had inherited the Throne.”
Her gaze swept across the room.
“I remember what it was like when a new Queen arrived with power and no respect for the Court. I remember the way people said, 'Give her time.' I was fifteen. And by the time anyone acted, three noble families were gone, two Queens were dead, and the High Priestess had vanished.”
She turned toward Vivien and Clarine, unblinking.
“I won’t ‘wait and watch’ while Valentina threatens my mother, my cousin, or my Court. Not again.”
Queen Marie let out a slow breath, then rose from her chair with the poise of a woman who had worn a crown and buried a husband.
“Well,” she said, her voice clipped but steady, “it seems the younger generation has more spine than the rest of us tonight.”
She looked to Holly, then to Belladonna and Kalliope.
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“But let’s not forget that crowns are more than gold and steel. They’re alliances, oaths, and appearances. What Queen Valentina lacks in tact, she may yet make up for in political reach. You think the Court will rise for us?” She shook her head. “Some of them are already kneeling.”
Marie turned to Vivien and Clarine, then back to Belladonna.
“If we act openly, we risk civil fracture. But if we do nothing, we may wake to find ourselves locked away in truth, not threat. So the real question is this—” her eyes sharpened, “do we fight her now and risk everything? Or do we play the game she’s just started?”
She lifted a brow. “Because like it or not, ladies, Valentina Lynn just made her opening move.”
Lady Morgana stepped into the room, her cloak trailing behind her like mist. She said nothing at first, her gaze sweeping over the gathered Queens, resting briefly on Margiette, then Brenna... and finally Belladonna.
“I see the storm has already begun.”
The air in the room shifted, bristling with surprise—and then fury.
Belladonna stepped forward, her voice sharp. “You knew.”
Morgana tilted her head slightly, but didn’t answer.
“You knew the Holy Sword could choose a woman,” Queen Clarine said, rising from her seat with tight-lipped restraint. “And neither you nor Merlin saw fit to inform the Court?”
Queen Susan’s brows lowered. “Why keep that truth hidden? We believed only men could rule. We were taught that. We buried daughters who could have claimed the sword.”
Even Vivien—usually composed—stood, her voice low but ironclad. “Do you understand what it cost some of us to uphold that lie?”
Morgana’s eyes darkened slightly, though her voice remained calm.
“It was not a lie. It was… a choice.” Clarine stepped forward, her voice bitter. “A choice? To let us believe only men were worthy of the Sword?”
“No,” Morgana said, “A choice to say nothing when none of you tried.”
That quiet statement cracked across the room harder than a shout.
“You all believed the Sword would never choose a woman, so you never stepped forward. You raised sons to be kings, and taught your daughters to support them. You bowed to tradition without ever testing its edge.”
Belladonna’s jaw clenched. “We would’ve been stopped. The Court. The Church—”
“Yes,” Morgana agreed. “And you believed them over the Sword.”
She stepped closer to the firelight now, the flicker painting her features in shadowed gold.
“The Sword has no gender. It recognizes courage, will, sacrifice. It waits. And for a thousand years, no woman approached it with all three. Not until now.”
Vivien’s voice was hard. “And what about the cost of our silence? Of yours?”
Morgana’s expression didn’t change. “You think I didn’t want to speak? Merlin and I both watched queens waste away, watched capable women wither in the shadow of husbands they could have eclipsed. But our power does not belong to us. It belongs to Avalon—and Avalon watches time, not comfort.”
Belladonna stepped forward, fire in her eyes. “You let over a thousand years pass in silence. And now the first woman the Sword chooses is a tyrant.”
Morgana’s voice dropped.
“No. You let a thousand and half years pass in silence.”
Morgana’s voice softened, the firelight catching a flicker of something rare in her eyes—something almost like sorrow.
“There was one,” she said slowly. “One woman who bore the weight of the Sword’s light—though never its name.”
She looked around the room, her gaze settling on Belladonna last.
“You wouldn’t have read her in your histories. Camelot never wrote her down.”
“Who was she?” Vivien asked, watching carefully.
Morgana exhaled.
“She called herself Queen Storm. And she appeared during my brother’s reign—Arthur’s—when the skies were bloodied and Prince Robert’s armies darkened the horizon. She fought beside us. Not behind, not from a balcony—beside. She turned the tide more than once, though no bards sing her name.”
Kalliope looked shaken. “Why wasn’t she remembered?”
Morgana’s voice dropped. “Because she chose not to be.”
She took a step forward, toward the heart of the circle. “Only once did she speak to me in private. After the war ended. She said, ‘The Sword will choose a Queen one day. When the land is broken and the hearts of men grow weak. But the woman it chooses will pay a price. A heavy one. If she survives it… she may be the only one who can break the curse.’”
Clarine’s brow furrowed. “The ten-year curse?”
Morgana nodded. “The same. Arthur lived with the knowledge that his death was sealed by the Sword’s power. And yet, he wielded it because the kingdom needed him. Every King since has walked that same path.”
She looked to each Queen, her voice now low and steady.
“Queen Storm believed a woman might bear that burden differently. Might change the ending.”
Susan stepped forward, quiet and uncertain. “And you… believed her?”
“I did,” Morgana said, without hesitation. “But prophecy doesn’t work the way most of you were taught. If you speak it too loudly, you give others the power to shape it—or ruin it.”
A beat passed.
“The Sword has now chosen. For the first time in our kingdom’s history, it reached for a woman. Perhaps it made a mistake… or perhaps, it is remembering her.”
A long silence followed Morgana’s words. The fire popped, and the shadows seemed to press in around the room, heavy with history, prophecy, and things left unsaid.
Then, from near the door, a voice spoke—measured, respectful, but uncertain.
“Forgive me, Your Majesties… but what do we do now?”
All eyes turned to Sir Frollo, who had remained quiet until now, standing near the door as if unsure whether he should have stayed. His silvered hair caught the lamplight, and the deep lines in his face looked deeper still.
He glanced between the Queens, then to Morgana.
“I served under each of you and your husbands,” he said quietly. He stepped forward, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword—not threatening, but steadying.
“I’ve lived long enough to know prophecy is real. But prophecy doesn’t tell us how to act. It doesn’t guard the gates or calm the nobles. It doesn’t protect the people.”
His gaze flicked to Belladonna.
“Queen Valentina was chosen—or appeared to be. If she’s the wrong one, we can’t say so openly. If she’s the right one, we may not survive her reign. So I ask again…”
He looked around the room.
“…what do we do now?”
Queen Vivien rose slowly from her chair. The firelight caught the silver strands of her hair, making her look both regal and ghostlike—like a Queen pulled out of time.
“You’re right to ask, Sir Frollo,” she said, her voice even. “And we are wrong to delay an answer.”
She looked toward Morgana, then to the others.
“We’ve heard prophecy. We’ve heard fear. And we’ve heard fury. But what we haven’t named… is the line we must not let her cross.”
She folded her hands in front of her, the motion precise and practiced.
“We cannot move against Queen Valentina for being arrogant, or unprepared, or even cruel. Many Kings have been all three. But if she threatens this kingdom’s stability, its legacy, its people—then we must be ready.”
Vivien turned toward Sir Frollo.
“So what do we do now?”
She paused.
“We watch. Closely. We speak to our Houses, quietly. We mark who bends too quickly… and who stands still. We make ready—not for rebellion, but for remembrance. If the time comes that we must act, we will do so with purpose. With evidence. With unity.”
Her voice sharpened slightly.
“If the Sword has not yet found the Queen it meant to choose… then it may still be watching.”
Morgana, who had watched in silence as Vivien spoke, stepped back into the shadowed edge of the firelight. Her eyes, always ageless, seemed distant—focused on something far beyond the Queen’s Tower walls.
She looked toward the window, where the night pressed dark against the glass.
“The Sword has not finished speaking.”
The room stilled again, breath held in collective silence.
Morgana turned her head slightly, not looking at anyone, as if listening to something only she could hear.
“When the true Queen stands ready… it will call her.”
She paused—just long enough for the words to feel like an echo of something older than any of them.
“And heaven help the one who tries to silence it.”
Without another word, she turned and left the room, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow that did not belong to the fire.
Ralph Barkson rubbed his temples as he fought off a headache. He couldn’t believe it took him nearly three hours to get away from the fuax guard duty he took. He sighed. He was started to hate this mission. It should have been a simple retrieval mission, but the target had to escape and flee into Avalon without the pendent that would have sent her to the White Hall Estate. Now, Valentina Marie Armstrong hid in the White Hall Wing of the Castle while another Valentina Lynn White Hall was chilling in the Royal Wing as Queen of the Kingdom.
There was no way there were two Valentinas, he reasoned. He had been around the White Hall Estate every New Years and had seen the records. There was only one Valentina within the Main Branch of the White Hall Family. Granted some of the side branches of the Family tree weren’t documented, but those branches were either expelled from the Family or died off. He had to figure out which side branch the New Queen came from. He hoped Kikyo would have hear something from the other servants.
Ralph paused in the middle of the hallway as he heard a door open and shut before footsteps moving over a rug reached his ears. He glanced around the hallway before he darted into the shadows of a statue of armor. Not his best choice of cover, but it was the best he could do. He stood still and watched as Sir Lancelot walked by, looking annoyed.
Lancelot’s voice was just loud enough for Ralph to hear, “Hopefully, Arthur will be able to work out a deal with Queen Valentina about the women in his family or they would have to make a run for it.”
Ralph raised his eyebrows at the Knight’s back. A Deal with the New Queen or make a run for it? It almost sounded like Lancelot thought Queen Valentina would try to murder the Former High Queens or harm them in some way. That was strange. That would be expected from an enemy of the Drake House, but not a White Hall.
The White Hall Family prided themselves on giving second chances and looking pass political rivalry for the greater good of the Kingdom. Yes, they could be cut-throat and bloodthirsty when they needed to be, but in generally, they were a kind family, willingly to work out deals, instead of fighting it out.
More suspicion rose in Ralph’s gut. There was something not right with this situation. He slipped from the armor’s shadow and strolled forward to the storage room the team had agree to met at. He glanced up and down the hall. He heard the door to the White Hall Suite open and he muttered a curse. He opened the storage room door swiftly and stepped inside, but close the door as softly as he could. He stood just inside the door, listening.
“Genesis,” Tina’s voice sounded exhausted, “What if she is right about everything she told the Court today? Me being adopted and supposed to be a body double for her as she went into hiding.”
“That’s the thing,” Genesis argued, “We White Halls wouldn’t hire or create body doubles. We would face the danger head on. We may go into hiding, but we would not another person in danger while doing so.”
Ralph’s brow furrowed at that. Body doubles? In the White Hall family? That sounded like something from a spy novel, not a noble line that prided itself on transparency—even when blood was spilled
“Whatever you say, Gen-Gen,” she said before the sound of another door opening and shutting echoed through the hall.
Genesis sighed. It echoed through the hallway before he promised, “I will get to the bottom of this, Tina. I swear it.”
Once Genesis’ footsteps faded, Ralph cracked the door. Empty.
He eased it shut and turned to face the dimly lit room—dusty crates, half-covered lanterns, the smell of dry rope and old parchment. His eyes lifted to the rafters—where Abasi sat, legs crossed, breathing deep. Ralph scowled. Meditating? Seriously? But the man didn’t stir. His breathing was slow. Steady. A soft snore escaped his nose. Ralph frowned. Unbelievable. He hissed, just loud enough to be heard, “Are you seriously asleep right now?”
No answer.
Ralph rolled his eyes and muttered, “One mission. Just one mission without someone napping through the fallout…Lazy bastard.” He jumped into the rafters and sat with a leg on either side of a beam and laid back. He glanced at Abasi. The other man didn’t have the bad idea of taking a nap. Who knows how long it would take for the other two to show up. He glanced back at the door as it creaked open again.
Kikyo slipped inside, muttering, “If she snaps her fingers at me one more time, I swear I’ll swap her hair oil with ink.”
Ralph leaned out from the shadows above, smirking, “Charming as ever.”
She froze, hand on her hip. “Oh, for the love of-Ralph?”
He pointed two fingers downward in the silent signal for climb up. Then, jerking a thumb toward the rafters: We’re up here.
Kikyo’s eyes narrowed. “You’re joking.”
He gave her a challenging look, “Storage crates. Not that hard. Unless you’ve lost your edge, of course.” He sat up and swung his right leg over the beam.
She exhaled through her nose and gave him a rude gesture but moved quickly, nimbly scaling the crates until she settled into a perch beside him, scowling. She spotted Abasi leaned against the beam, gently snoring. Her scowl deepened. “Is he….?”
“Asleep,” Ralph confirmed.
Kikyo shook her head. “Gods help us.” She turned to Ralph, “I don’t think Waya will be able to join us. He is being tracked by those Frost Fuckers unless he is able to lose them.”
“What did he do?” Ralph groaned. His shoulders slumped.
“I’m not sure,” Kikyo stated, “I saw him being followed by them. I wasn’t able to get close enough to hear anything. The servants areas are already buzzing with enough complaints about the New Queen that I wasn’t sure I would be able to get away. Sebastian had us all in the storage rooms in the catacombs, digging into the White Hall room for the decorations. Apparently, the New Queen wants the White Hall decorations up by the end of the week or heads will start rolling.” She paused. “Sebastian already assigned 6 maids to the New Queen and yes, a couple of them are skilled in spying.”
“That is a smart move,” Abasi spoke up. Ralph and Kikyo traded amused looks before they turned to Abasi. “Personally, I would invest in more spies,” he yawned and stretched, “Place them within the guards and the Knights, but that’s just me.”
Tina wiped her cheeks as she walked into her bedchamber. She had finally broke down in the Armstrong Common room after she returned to it. She wished she could take Genesis on his word about her heritage. If it was true, that she was adopted by the White Halls, she would have to figure out who she was. She knew Genesis would argue against her, but the only ones who really knew the truth were her parents. That quest was one she couldn’t do within Camelot Castle. She sighed, but it came out ragged like she was chocking on it.
The sound echoed in the room as she settled on the edge of the bed. The fire crackled in the fireplace. The wind rattled the window as rain pelted it. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she was back at home, in her room. She would have been able to listen to music or a book or something. She tucked her feet under her and stood up. She walked in front of the bed, twisted on her toes before she went back, stopping close to the window, staring out of it.
A storm moved close to shore. Lightening flashed and Tina could have sworn she saw a boat on the horizon, fighting the storm. The light faded. Thunder boomed. She turned away and walked back to fireplace. She stared in the flickering flames, feeling the heat wash over her. It was supposed to be comforting. It wasn’t. She shivered. She reached behind her and untied the ties for her dress. She grunted as she accidentally tightened them before she managed to do them. She wiggled out of and kicked it to the vanity chair.
Tina went to her traveling bag. She opened the flap and dug through it to find a pair of loose shorts and loose fitting tank top. She quickly changed into those. She set the bag on the floor and walked back to the window. She ringed her hands together before she looked out of the window. Lightening flashed again. The ship she saw was still on the water’s surface. She turned away and walked to the fireplace then repeated the motions.
She let out an aggravated groan and went into the common room. The room was darkening as the fire dimmed to embers. She paused as she spotted vase sitting back in the middle of the coffee table with another bouquet of flowers. She walked over to it and studied it. She couldn’t tell what the flowers were in the dimming light, but she was able to smell them. They smelt nice.
Tina felt around on the table, checking to see if there was a note. It took her a bit, but she did found another note. She walked over to the dimming fire and angle the note where the flames reflected off of it.
Stay with me.
That was new. The last note simply said stay. This one suggested the sender wanted a deeper relationship with her. She flipped the note over, hoping to see a name, but there was nothing else on the note. She sighed. She tossed the note into the fire and watched it burn into ash.
She stood up and walked back to her room, shutting the door behind her, holding the vase of flowers on one hip. She paused, looking at the door. She wondered if she should lock it or not. A part of her said she should lock it because it would give her some extra time if someone tried to do her harm. Another part welcomes the trouble. She sighed as she went to set the vase on the nightstand. She left the bedroom and went to the main door leading into the White Hall hallway. She locked the door.
Tina returned to her room and locked the door behind her. She sighed as she placed her back against the door. She glanced at the window. That would be the only other place an assassin could use to get into her room. She walked over to it and opened one window. Ignoring the cold rain, she lend out, peering left then right, down and up. She frowned. It wouldn’t be easy for a possible assassin to reach her, but it could be done. She straightened up and closed the window. She looked at the window lock. It was a simple flip lock. She frowned. As assassin could slip a knife or something slim through the tiny gap between the windows and flip the lock open.
She turned to look at the room, wondering what she could use to alert her to an intruder. She could use a vase, but she didn’t want to ruin the flowers. She dismissed the idea. She walked across the room to a unlit torch and grabbed it before she stuck the end into the fire. She waited until it lit before she moved to the bathing room and walked it.
The Armstrong Bathing room was nothing fancy. It had a sunken large tub about three feet deep, seven feet long, and four feet wide. The Armstrong coat of arms decorated the walls and some of the stone floor. Whoever designed this suite want a strong emphasis on the family coat of arms. She lit a couple torches as she passed them, heading to the storage shelves. She had noticed the other day when she explored the Armstrong Suite more that the bathing room had a shelves full of different oils, perfumes, soaps, and bathing salts in containers of clay and glass.
She stopped in front of the shelf and studied the containers. She needed a couple glass ones. Maybe she could use the clay ones as well. She knew clay jars would be easy to break as glass if they fell from a certain height. They could be used as an early detection system. She grabbed one and shook it, hearing the container shift up and down like it was sand. Salt would do just fine. She smirked.