Queen Eleanor regarded her for a long moment, her gaze penetrating. “That will help. But it won’t be enough.”
Emilia met her gaze squarely, drawing on a reserve of courage she hadn’t known she possessed. “Then I’ll find the rest.”
Something shifted, barely, in the Queen’s expression. Not warmth. Not approval. But something like acknowledgment. A micromovement at the corner of her mouth that might, on another woman, have been the beginning of respect.
“You may call me ma’am in private,” she said, an unexpected concession. “In public, I remain Your Majesty.”
“Understood.” Emilia’s heart skipped: a small victory, perhaps.
Eleanor rose in one fluid motion, and Emilia followedsuit, careful not to stumble.
“You’ll be fitted for the state dinner next week. You’ll be seated beside the Prime Minister’s wife. Try not to offend her.” The Queen smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.
“I’ll do my best, Ma’am,” Emilia said. She resisted adding that she had managed to teach unruly undergraduates for years without incident.
“I’m sure you will,” Eleanor said coolly, and for a moment, Emilia couldn’t tell if it was acceptance or an insult, but the Queen’s eyes revealed nothing.
Then the Queen turned and, with a swish of tailored silk, departed leaving behind only the impression of a woman who had never once doubted her place in the world.
Emilia remained standing for a long moment after the door clicked shut, the vast silence of the drawing room pressing in on her. Her heart still hammered against her ribs. She let out a slow, shaky breath, the Queen’s final words, her small concession, echoing around her.Ma’am. It felt like a tiny island in a very large, very cold ocean. The weight of it all, the mountain ahead, settled heavily on her shoulders. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, before turning to leave.
* * *
The sunlight had mellowed into a warm gold, spilling across Emilia’s sitting room like honey: too soft, too peaceful for the thoughts circling her head. The tea tray between them was barely touched. Emilia’s own teacup had gone lukewarm; she’d been too keyed up to drink more than a few sips. Harper had made a face after one taste that clearly said,palace blend, not for me, and gone back to whatever caffeine contraband she’d smuggled in from outside.
Emilia found herself staring into her cup now, absently swirling the dregs, as Harper’s voice cut into her spiral.
“So?” Harper prompted, legs tucked under her, mug in hand. “How was your appointment with the Ice Queen of Caledonia?”
Emilia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I think she looked into my soul and found it wanting.”
Harper gave her a look. “And?”
“I passed. Barely. Like a C-minus, with a note that I show potential.”
The joke landed, but just barely. The words tasted like tin in her mouth. Her smile was small, forced.
“Harper, what if I’m just not cut out for this?” she asked, the fear slipping out before she could cage it. “What if I can never be what she, what they, need me to be?”
She hated how vulnerable she sounded. Hated that she cared what Queen Eleanor thought. But the truth was, that interview, or audience, or whatever it had been had left her rattled down to her bones. It wasn’t just the scrutiny. It was the unspoken message:You don’t belong here, not really. But we’ll tolerate you. For now.
Harper set her mug down. The teasing faded from her eyes, replaced by something warmer. “Hey. You just faced down Queen Eleanor of Caledonia in her natural habitat and walked out upright. That’s more than some prime ministers manage. You’re tougher than you think.”
Then, more lightly: “Besides, a C-minus from her is practically a standing ovation and a ticker-tape parade.”
Emilia dropped her head into her hands, her fingers curling into her scalp. “It was like a job interview, a history exam, and a psychological evaluation all rolled into one, with antique teacups and absolutely no emotional cushioning.”
Harper tilted her head. “Did she smile?”
“No.”
“Did she blink?”
“…I’m not sure.”
“Right. Standard encounter.”
Emilia looked up again, eyes dry but itchy. “She told me, and I quote, that I would not have been her first choice for Alexander. Or her second.”