Fifty Seven
“Hello, my darling mother.” Christian kissed Queen Gelda’s cheek with all the ease of a man who’d been kissed by queens his entire life and still managed to make it look like affection rather than ritual. Then, without waiting to be offered a seat, he flopped into one of the finely upholstered chairs in her sitting room as if it were a tavern bench instead of a royal parlor stitched with gold thread. The room smelled faintly of amber resin and something floral, like the memory of a garden trapped in velvet drapes. A fire murmured in the hearth despite the season, more for comfort than warmth. Gelda sat with her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, wearing the sort of expression that suggested she had been born to rule and had been tired since the moment she learned what rul
- Writer
