«What is it you want to say?» I ask the little maid.
She startles and moves her eyes on the floor. Her hands tremble while she opens her mouth to reply.
«I would never dare to comment on your Majesty's choices,» she says.
«But?»
«Your Majesty is Queen of Alba.»
«Do I need a thousand jewels to show my regality?»
She shakes her head, and her face turns white. It would be funny if she wasn't this terrorised.
«What's your name?»
«Lola, your Majesty.»
«Well, Lola. What do you suggest I wear?»
Her nails dig into her palms, leaving pink traces when she moves them away. This poor thing will cut herself if I don't make her realise I'm not unhappy. She can say her opinion, for goodness. It's no crime, especially if I'm the one asking her to.
