The morning of the Coronation, Caspian looked as though he might vibrate right out of his livery.
"The crowns are heavy, My Lady," the valet muttered, pacing the length of the new, unified super-suite while clutching a velvet pillow that bore the platinum diadem of the Queen. "They are physically heavy, and metaphorically terrifying. What if I drop it? What if it rolls down the aisle and hits the High Priest in the shin?"
"If it hits Alistair in the shin, I will personally double your salary, Caspian," Kaia said warmly.
She stood in front of the towering gilded mirror, her breath catching as the Head Seamstress made a final adjustment to her train.
She didn't look like the rebellious, whiskey-smuggling debutante from the masquerade. She didn't look like the terrified pawn caught in Victoria's web.
She looked like a monarch.
