10 February, 1370. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
Celia walked slowly out of the chapel, deep in thought. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice people in her path until she collided with someone.
"Your Highness!" she heard an unfamiliar high pitched voice gulping.
Celia realised she'd just crashed into a laundry maid. The young girl looked petrified, the linen she'd been carrying now spilled all over the stone floor.
She probably thinks I'm going to tear strips off her, Celia thought. "Sorry. I wasn't paying enough attention to where I'm going." she muttered.
The maid stared at her in wild eyed shock.
"Do you need a hand picking all of that up?" Celia asked, pointing to the linen.
The maid said nothing, just continued staring at her as if the princess had suddenly sprouted horns.
