Elara was certain when the King mentioned "ladies," he had meant women closer to her age—peers who had recently entered marriage and faced similar adjustments. Instead, she found herself seated among much older women, their seasoned gazes and measured words making her feel like a child pretending to play queen.
'How old am I even ?' The thought struck her suddenly, like a whisper from the depths of her fractured memory. She couldn't recall, but the realization did little to dampen her spirits. If anything, she felt a strange detachment from the whole affair. These women, while gracious and polite, acted foreign to her. They treated her with reverence, as though she were someone mightier and wiser—a Queen beyond reproach.
'The older me must have been fortunate to have been blessed by their company.' Elara mused, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the royal head chair she sat upon. Her thoughts became her anchor, distracting her from the gnawing sense of being out of place. Yet, even as she sat there, feeling like a trespasser in her own life, she couldn't shake the nagging guilt.
Pretending to be their Queen, she thought bitterly. The self-criticism stung, but she let it linger. It felt almost deserved.
Talk of the old Queen—her predecessor—had been scarce, but Elara intended to learn more. What had she been like? How had she carried herself? Perhaps she could glean something from a portrait or painting, study the poise and grace immortalized on canvas. She had no choice but to learn how to embody the role she had inherited.
"Your Majesty."
A maid's soft voice pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. Elara turned her attention to the young woman who approached, balancing a silver tray with a steaming teapot and an ornate cup. As the maid carefully set the tray before her, Elara's mind wandered briefly to the dream she'd had the night before—fragmented, haunting images that dissolved as quickly as they came.
"Your Majesty, I don't mean to offend," came a voice from across the table, shattering the fragile silence. It was Lady Pamla, Lord Erickson's wife. Her tone was measured, almost apologetic. "But do you truly enjoy the tea?"
The question caught Elara off guard. Pamla gestured with an elegant motion of her hand, nodding toward the other ladies seated at the long table. "I mean," Lady Pamla continued, her voice tinged with a noblewoman's diplomacy, "we were given the tea as well, and I must admit, the taste is not quite to our liking. The King did mention it was a... gift of sorts—a welcome gesture from you?"
Elara's eyes drifted to the cup of tea before her, studying the dark green liquid as though it held answers. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her silence stretching long enough to make the air feel heavy.
When she didn't respond, the Duchess, sitting to her left, leaned forward to smooth the conversation. But before the Duchess could speak, Elara's voice cut through, sharp and quick like the beat of a heart. "Of course," Elara said, her lips curving into the faintest smile. "Although, I must admit, the taste is quite bad."
The ladies gasped lightly, their attention fixed on her. Elara leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if she were about to divulge a grand secret. "I drink it and pretend to enjoy it so I don't hurt my husband's feelings."
The table erupted in laughter, the sound rich and full, echoing in the grand gardens space. Elara allowed herself to join in, a soft chuckle passing her lips as she glanced down at the tea. It was bitter—both the taste of the brew and the word husband as it lingered in her mind.
Taking the cup in her hands, she brought it to her lips, letting the sharp bitterness settle on her tongue as she swallowed. For a fleeting moment, she wondered which was harder to endure: the taste of the tea or the bitterness of her role.
"You must be surely fond of your husband, Your Majesty ," the Duchess commented before another lady at the table added, "And close," before turning to the other women. "I have seen the King pay more attention to the Queen than to the events or people around him. They even engage in conversations, with the King being the barrier of the conversations while the Queen responds to most of his questions. I wouldn't dare do that with Jeffrey. We barely even speak."
At Lady Rosia's comment, the other ladies turned their gazes to Elara, as if the notion of such intimacy in a marriage was foreign and enviable. To them, witnessing and hearing of what seemed like a healthy relationship was as rare as diamonds in dust.
"They seem so close," another woman observed, while someone else chimed in, "They do seem like they speak of everything."
But before anyone could predict the unfolding disaster, a question came from the far end of the table—one destined to destroy the carefully maintained illusion.
"Your Majesty," one of the ladies asked tentatively, "if I may ask—it may come as seeking advice—but how do you make him so smitten while he has other mistresses to please him on the side? He seems utterly captivated by you—"
The words felt like sharp glass cutting into Elara's chest. Mistresses. She barely heard the continued praises of the King's devotion to her; her mind was anchored to that single, damning word.
"Forgive me," Elara interrupted, her tone measured, though her heart raced. She turned her silvery gaze toward the woman who had asked the question. "You mentioned mistresses?"
"Yes," the lady replied plainly, though awkwardness was beginning to spread like wildfire across the table. It became glaringly clear that Elara was unaware.
"Oh, it seems that is a sacred—" The Duchess attempted to rescue the situation, her voice tight with concern, but another lady interjected, her voice filled with a brazen sense of camaraderie.
"No, my lady. The Queen seems to be in the dark, and as ladies, we must have each other's back. We shall tell the Queen all that she needs to know."
The Duchess's gaze darkened as she stared at Lady Beth , heavy with warning, but Elara's resolve solidified. Whatever this secret was, she wanted—no, needed—to know.
"What mistresses, Lady Vivian?" Elara asked, her voice calm despite the rising storm within her.
Lady Vivian stiffened, her lips parting in hesitation, but before she could answer, another voice spoke.
"The King's mistresses," Lady Beth said, boldly stepping into the tense conversation. "His once personal attendant, Olivia, and now—who is that woman again?" She paused for a moment, turning to the others before answering her own question. "Oh, the now court lady, Morgana. I seriously don't know how she got that title."
The words echoed around Elara, each one a blow that threatened to shatter her composure. The world around her began to spin, the carefully curated reality she had built crumbling under the weight of their revelations.