The thirty-nine years old woman was lanky, had dirty blonde hair, a pointy nose, and was about an inch shorter than Juana. She spoke with such confidence that had been prepared by years of experience. Her voice was husky, her jewellery was simple, her shoes looked cheap—she was more or less shabby looking, especially for the standards of a queen. Barita had been queen of Santonia since she was very little, as little as sixteen years old. Her father death had been a mystery, and what was even more mysterious was her three elder siblings—her two brothers and her sister—had lost met their waterloo when their foods was poisoned, with no suspects but the cooks—all of whom were publicly executed.
“Do you know the meaning of my name?” Barita asked, as they downed wine in the dinning hall that o
