The royal cortege had been delayed due to an argument that flared up right before their departure. Ingrid could not comprehend why Gerhard was in such a haste to attend this reception, ignoring palace protocol and the customary way of life. She had posed the question directly, but the king merely brushed her off - a manner of conduct entirely uncharacteristic of him. This put the young queen on her guard. The warnings of her mother surfaced within her memory.

“The king, sooner or later, will bring another woman.”

Ingrid could not credit that this would become a reality so soon. Within her head, like a persistent whisper, the words overheard on Princess Abigail’s first birthday surfaced once more: “The queen has still not given birth to an heir to the throne.”

Crossing the threshold of Rosenwald, Ingrid felt as though she were covered by a cold shadow. All countenances were directed toward the center of the grand gallery. Her hands clenched involuntarily, though her face remained impenetrably expressionless. She perceived something strange and frightening - whether from the fact that she recognized Azalea in the mistress of the house, or from the fact that for the first time in a long duration, she was not the center of attention.

When Gerhard, not awaiting the master of ceremonies, directed his steps toward Azalea and extended his hand to her, Ingrid went still. She closely observed her spouse, attempting to maintain her customary mask of icy tranquility upon her face, but inside, everything constricted with pain. She witnessed what the courtiers failed to register: Gerhard was not similar to his ordinary self. A lightness had appeared within his movements that had not been present for years, and a living, almost boyish excitement was within his eyes. That exact same brilliance she had witnessed within him merely once, prior to their official acquaintance.

During the reception, Ingrid followed on the heels of the king like a shadow, observing how he inspected the exhibits with unfeigned curiosity.

“This vase... it hails from the eastern lands, does it not?” Gerhard listened to Azalea's account with interest.

She responded confidently, revealing the history of the origin of each canvas and every single curiosity in such a manner as if she herself were their creator. Ingrid did not comprehend what exactly had so captured the king. Granted, the canvases were impressive, the technique of execution bordered on a miracle, and the silver-and-blue palette of the gallery exerted a soothing effect, but… why, these were merely things. To what purpose did Gerhard listen to Azalea with such attention, an attention with which he did not listen even to his most trusted councilors?

Ingrid cast a glance at Azalea. Within her image, within this dress shimmering as though all the stars of the night sky had fallen upon the fabric at once, there was something that compelled even the queen to feel herself a foreign guest within her own kingdom.

“I wish to purchase this canvas,” King Gerhard spoke confidently, keeping his hands behind his back and not shifting his eyes from the painting.

“The Girl with a Pearl Earring, Your Majesty?” Azalea clarified.

“Yes, I am fond of this work. I think it will occupy a worthy place within my collection. Indicate the price, and the chief treasurer will deliver the necessary sum.”

Ingrid looked at her spouse in surprise. For a fraction of a second, her thoroughly calibrated mask of tranquility faltered.

“Your Majesty, ought it not be evaluated by a specialist first? After all...” she commenced, but the king cut her off sharply.

“I spoke that I am purchasing it,” Gerhard pronounced firmly.

Ingrid fell silent. She did not set about arguing—not here, not before dozens of curious eyes prepared to dismantle her every gesture into venomous gossip.

“There is no necessity for that, Your Majesty,” Azalea smiled politely, scarcely inclining her head. “If the painting has caught your fancy, it will be an honor for me to present it as a gift to such a connoisseur as you.”

Gerhard held his gaze upon her for a second, within which flitted something greater than mere interest in art.

“Your offer is flattering, Lady Azalea, but I am accustomed to paying for what is dear to me. However, there is something more. I should like to discuss business with you that brooks no delay. And, I presume, it is better for us to execute this tête-à-tête.”

“I think my study will suffice for that purpose.” Azalea indicated with a gesture, showing the way.

This short transit from the center to the exit of the gallery appeared an eternity. A ringing silence held sway within the hall, replaced instantaneously by a furious whisper once the door closed behind them.

Ingrid remained standing in the center of the hall, encompassed by the crowd. She strived to preserve her countenance, but the corner of her lips twitched nervously.

“Your Majesty, Queen Ingrid, permit me to offer you a glass of wine,” Elena approached her swiftly, attempting to intercept the queen’s attention and draw her away from the gossip.

Ingrid turned around. She attempted to depict a light, social smile, but a sharp, painful sting went still within her eyes. She perceived how she was looked upon from all sides - with pity, derision, or curiosity. And every single word of "royal seclusion" inside Azalea's study echoed within her consciousness like a strike against her own position.

“Thank you,” the queen spat out, accepting the glass from Elena's hands. Her fingers trembled slightly.

The massive doors of the study slammed shut with a dull thud. The king, who had commanded his knights to keep their distance, did not pronounce a single word this time against Ophelia and the chief knight entering the room in Azalea's wake.

Gerhard settled himself unhurriedly into a deep leather armchair, observing his interlocutor. Azalea, however, paying no heed to court etiquette, textually collapsed onto the soft sofa. The voluminous skirt of her dress spread across the velvet upholstery, filling nearly the entire space. Not losing a single fraction of a second, she shed her shoes, and her bare feet sank into the thick pile of the carpet. The girl stretched with enjoyment and emitted a contented groan, relaxing her fatigued muscles.

“This corset is a genuine instrument of torture,” Azalea leaned back, closing her eyes. “Had I known it would be so painful, I should have preferred a less pompous attire.”

Ophelia, accustomed to similar sudden manifestations of her mistress’s weariness, rushed to her side immediately and neatly put the discarded shoes aside so they would not hinder her.

Gerhard froze in astonishment at first, gazing at such a sharp contrast between the “dazzling lady” from the gallery and this relaxed girl, but a fraction of a moment later, his shoulders shook from genuine laughter.

“You have not altered at all,” he pronounced through his laughter. “And I am highly glad of it.”

He relaxed within his armchair, his gaze softening, losing that official strictness he demonstrated at court.

“Your Majesty, do you not also desire to shed that pompous attire as soon as possible and don your favorite robes? I wager a hundred gold pieces that you have still not outgrown your passion for comfortable, broad shirts.”

The chief knight cleared his throat nervously, visibly unaccustomed to such conversation.

“Relax, Albrandt,” the king threw out without turning around. “Azalea has known me long enough to command the right to converse with me in such a manner. At least, far from inquisitive eyes.”

At that moment, the silence of the study was interrupted by a cautious knock at the door.

“Your Majesty,” a voice rang out from beyond the threshold, “the father of Lady Azalea, Berthold von Berge, requests permission to enter.”