TWENTY-FIVE
Rosamond rummaged through the chest of clothes in her chamber. Before, she had given the gowns little more than a cursory glance as she dressed each morning. But now, she laid them out on the bed one by one and truly examined them. What she found frightened her.
Mixed in with gowns she did not recognise were ones she most definitely did. The soiled gown she had worn today wasn't just like the one she'd worn to the tournament – it seemed to be the same gown, only faded from vibrant strawberry to a dusky rose. The gown she'd worn to Queen Margareta's coronation was more peach than pink now, for it had yellowed somehow. Faded, yellowed and, in one case, frayed where the lacings had come apart, as if with age. She did not understand how it was possible. How had Warin brought her
