The carriage door opened, and Penelope stepped carefully onto the polished pavement leading toward the palace entrance, one gloved hand lifting the hem of her gown while the other accepted the footman's offered support.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Above her, the royal palace rose in pale stone and gold beneath the muted afternoon sky, magnificent enough to make even seasoned members of the ton lower their voices upon entering. The towering windows reflected the grey light of London in fractured silver, while royal guards stood motionless at the entrance like carved statues.
Penelope swallowed carefully.
She had attended royal events before—balls, public celebrations, crowded gatherings where one could disappear amongst hundreds—but this felt entirely different.
A private summons from the Queen was not an invitation one received casually nor survived carelessly. Something always happened; whether good or bad, one couldn't entirely tell.
