The Queen’s carriage came up the lane in a vision of cream and jade trim; Peter Jones, fisherman, gulped.
The carriage slowed, though, rumbling to a near halt before reaching them; Peter had just begun to wonder about potential problems or reluctance when Cadence laughed and took a step forward, holding out hands. “Your Majesty. Good to see you, Lyssa.”
The nearest escort-rider dropped reins, hopped down from her mare, shook out long corkscrews of black hair, and ran over to take Cade’s hands; the Queen, dressed in practical if fancifully embroidered trousers and a quilted jacket, kissed her errant councilor on one cheek and demanded, “Cadence, what haveyou been up to?”