2 January, 1371. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
Celia sat cross legged on the floor, watching as Gabriel babbled to himself and played quietly at her side. The black velvet skirt of her ermine trimmed mourning dress was spread around her like a fan. It was a jarring contrast next to the soft cream rug.
She knew she shouldn't really be hiding herself away in the North Tower. She'd been repeatedly told that there were a number of far more pressing matters that needed her attention, from choosing an expanded circle of ladies and maids-in-waiting to attend on her, to supervising the last of her possessions being moved into the ostentatious queenly apartments.
The latter activity was an especially fraught one. Queen Maura had been staring absolute daggers at her for the past two days, while the elder woman's belongings were being carried out of the suite and Celia's were carried in.