♱ @queen-of-scots
Great flares and flecks of colour, a stampede of feet, throngs of swarming bodies, oiled with precious scents, a web of fine silks, costly furs, and flame-coloured velvets, all gathered in the anteroom of the palace. Each royal, each maker of the universe, only a whisper, a breath, a shove, a feather’s touch away. The Dowager Queen gathers an ermine-furred shawl in the cradle of her arms – protection against the obstinate gusts leaking through the palace’s walls, and the careless bumping of nearby courtiers – as she foists a tight smile, a gracious hand, into the dazzling crowd. A look, a prepensed glance, is then shot in her daughter’s direction, ensuring that Arabella is still bobbing along at her side: in that careful, practised, utterly guileless way of hers, each step a little prance, like a fresh colt. ‘You comport yourself very well, darling,’ Marguerite reminds, one raven-head bent to another’s gilded.
‘I wonder, have you yet caught sight of our Portuguese allies?' The Dowager queries, stifling a snigger. 'I imagine Lennox must already be preparing the introduction.' Marguerite, head-bent and in suitably French fashion, then fishes in the lining of her gown for a small, velvet pouch; inside, a crush of perfumed evergreens. She draws it to her nose, and breathes deeply – the stench of the public usurped by the heady fumes of rosemary and lavender, starched into the warm, silken layers of her kirtle. In the next breath, she muses: ‘it is in his nature to dig his heels into matters he cannot control, isn’t it? We'll simply have to take it upon ourselves, I should think, if the Earl takes much longer. Shouldn't be tricky.'
Marguerite's sharp gaze scans Arabella's face for an indication of displeasure, her mind always in transit. The smoothness of her plotting replaced by something earnest, something deep, and graveled, the Dowager beckons: 'besides, it shall give us an opportunity to spend some time with one another – your advisers take you away from me, Belle.'
