Twenty-two:
Cecelia Porter
I stepped into the Queens study. It was all mahogany, deep dark, rich wood. Lined with bookshelves. The Queen herself sat at her desk, writing a letter to someone. She wore all blue, and did not look up at me when I entered. I walked over and stood by the chair near the desk. I was aware that I still had Henry’s coat over my shoulders, and that the dress that I had on didn’t cover my shoulders.
I coughed, and the Queen stopped scribbling abruptly. She slowly looked up at me, with the same, watery blue eyes that Henry had.
“Are you trying to get my attention?” she asked, her gaze meeting me head on, her eyes narrowed.
“Well…I wasn’t sure what I should be doing,” I confessed.
“You should be waiting,” she told me, “I am the monarch. You run on my time, I
