The scent of vintage lavender and heavy, suffocating royal incense permeated every square inch of the Dowager Luna’s private chambers. Cordelia Whitmore sat before her mahogany vanity, meticulously smoothing a rich cream into her hands. The fire in her hearth crackled with a low, rhythmic snap, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy velvet drapes that shut out the bleak winter afternoon.
A sharp, hesitant knock broke the quiet.
"Come in, Angelica," Cordelia called out, her voice devoid of its public hostility, replaced instead by a smooth, calculating warmth.
The heavy door creaked open, and Angelica stepped inside. She had changed into a form-fitting gown of deep crimson silk, her dark hair cascading perfectly over her shoulders. She looked every bit the picture of western nobi
