The servants ran back and forth through the corridors of the Royal Palace with the desperate discipline of people trying to pretend that absolutely nothing was going wrong.
Silver trays passed through the kitchen doors in a steady stream. Bottles of refined blood were carried to temporary cellars. Floral arrangements were remade for the third time because someone had decided the black roses were two fingers higher than the correct height. Servants polished railings that already shone, soldiers reviewed patrol routes, seamstresses crossed the corridors carrying emergency uniforms, and two butlers nearly started a war over the position of a table no important guest would ever notice.
Everything had to be perfect.
Not good.
Not acceptable.
Perfect.
