The room at the end of the long gallery was quiet, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the purple afternoon light.
It looked like any other queen's room... a basket of tangled silk thread by the hearth, a silver mirror on the stand, and a high walnut desk near the window.
When the heavy knock came against the oak panel, Ophelia's hands moved across the desktop before her breath could leave her mouth.
She slid two long sheets of white paper over the small iron blade that lay near the inkstand, covering the dark grey notes she had been writing since noon.
"Come in," she said.
She sat back in the high-backed chair, her fingers folded neatly over her dress, her eyes fixed on an old book of poetry that lay open near her left elbow. She hadn't read a line of it all day.
Caelen came through the door, his heavy boots making no sound on the thick wool rugs.
