Chapter 24

Winter had fully taken hold.

The palace, once cool and austere, was now filled with the scents of pine, honey, and spices. Fires crackled in the hearths, stoked nearly around the clock. Along the long galleries, fabrics the color of wine and gold were hung; outside the windows, garlands of spruce branches swayed.

The Winter Ball — the first major celebration after a long lull.

And the palace was literally buzzing with preparations.

Beatrice had been up since early morning.

Without second thought, accompanied only by Lynette and a couple of aides, she went down to the kitchen, where life boiled in the hot haze, among cast-iron cauldrons and delicacies.

The air was thick with spiced aromas: warm cinnamon, caraway, pepper, boiling honey, and scorched sugar.

Massive roasting pans sizzled, filling the air with the smell of baked meat. Ducks rotated slowly on spits, their skin crisping into a golden crust, soaked in herbs and garlic.

In the center of the hall stood heavy tables piled with dishes. Open pies were cooling on them, filled with dark cherries, spiced pumpkin, and crushed caramelized nuts.

A plump cook in a white apron, cheeks forever red from the heat, led the queen between the tables where pies were already baking, ducks roasting with herbs, and sharp broths simmering.

Barrels of cream sauces stood open; the thick, slightly sweet mass dripped slowly over the sides, releasing a warm aroma of milk and vanilla.

On one side of the table rose a mountain of fresh bread: fluffy, with a crisp crust, sprinkled with coarse salt and poppy seeds. Nearby lay flatbreads filled with soft cheese, herbs, and thinly sliced cured meat — made especially for the ball's appetizers.

Beatrice tasted straight from the pots with a spoon. First was a thick beef broth, cooked on the bone with onions, carrots, and celery, so fragrant it made you want to dip bread into it at once. She shook her head.

– Add more bay leaf and thyme. And a little less salt. – The guests will be drinking wine, let's not overwhelm them.

Then she tried the custard for the pastries: honeyed, with a hint of cinnamon, so thick the spoon stood upright in it.

A faint shadow of doubt crossed Beatrice's face.

– It's a bit heavy, – she said calmly to the head cook. – Replace part of the honey with baked apples. A little lightness won't hurt.

The cook nodded, red from both heat and happiness. Her Queen knew what she was talking about.

Beatrice paused, eyeing the table settings.

– Add fresh sage to the venison, – she said quietly. – And serve it cold, thinly sliced. Otherwise the guests will tire of it too quickly.

The kitchen maids watched her, in her simple travel dress, without heavy jewelry or a proud mask, sitting right on a wooden bench, tasting saffron cream soup from a spoon, frowning, laughing, arguing about the right cinnamon for the wine.

For them, it was an unheard-of miracle. The Queen was here.

Not somewhere behind seven doors and seven seals. But here, where it smelled of bread, burnt pie edges, and home warmth.

When the heavy doors of her chambers closed behind Beatrice, she finally allowed herself to exhale. The dress was gently taken off. On the side table, the ladies-in-waiting carefully placed the thin silver threads they had used to decorate her hair. Candles crackled softly, melting away the remnants of tension. Beatrice walked over to the window.

She tapped a thin fingernail against the cold glass. Everything was ready. Everything was going right. And yet, under her ribs, there was a pleasant rumble of fatigue… and hunger.

She glanced over her shoulder at Lynette, who was diligently arranging jewelry on a shelf.

– Lynette, – Beatrice said lazily.

– Yes, Your Grace? – the girl straightened instantly.

Beatrice smiled slightly.

– Tell the kitchen… to send those pastries. The ones with cheese and herbs. And warm cider.

A confused smile flickered on Lynette's face. She froze, as if not believing her ears.

– But… Your Grace… – she lowered her eyes, – usually… that kind of food isn't served in the private chambers… especially not to the Queen…

Beatrice laughed quietly, briefly, almost like she had earlier, sitting among the kettles in the kitchen.

– And what's so terrible if my crown smells faintly of rosemary?

Lynette swallowed, still unsure whether it was a joke or a test.

But Beatrice, with a casual wave of her hand, added:

– And tell the cook it's a secret order. If anyone finds out – I'll deny it.

Now both were barely holding back smiles.

Half an hour later, a tray appeared on the small coffee table in the bedroom: warm pastries with melted cheese, sharp from the herbs, apple cider, steaming, sweet, with a light note of cinnamon.

Beatrice picked up one of the pastries with her fingers, not even using a spoon, as etiquette demanded. Took a bite, eyes closed in delight.

– This… is a true celebration, – she whispered. – Have some while it's hot, while the cheese still stretches — that's the best part.

Lynette, leaning in, took one too, pulling the cheese, covering her mouth with a hand, trying not to laugh out loud. Yes, now she knew for certain:

her Queen was not like the others. And that was exactly why she would serve her to her last breath.

At that time, Theodore sat in his study.

He was buried in papers: delivery confirmations, guest lists, security concerns.

Everything was proceeding as expected.

And yet his thoughts kept drifting away from the documents — to the soft rustle on the stairs, to the tapping of light shoes on stone tiles, to how Beatrice, without waiting for reports, had thrown herself into the ball preparations herself.

He had heard from the servants: that she laughed with the cooks today, that she tasted the spices, that she changed the menu. He smiled slightly.

And at one point, he caught himself wondering: Where was the woman they had described to him months ago? Where was the cold queen, who supposedly despised the servants and wove conspiracies in every shadow?

She was gone. In her place stood a different Beatrice. Open. Warm.

Theodore leaned back in his chair. He remembered how they used to bring him whispers: "That she keeps forbidden books." "That she whispers with foreign advisors." "That her heart belongs not to the throne, but to her hidden goals." "Your Majesty, while you are away, she sleeps with the young pages."

He didn't believe it at once. He waited.

But somewhere deep inside, a small worm of doubt had been planted.

And now, looking at the lively palace, hearing her voice echo in the corridors, he knew: that worm was dead.

Because no traitor would look at a child like that. No one else would try so hard, for peace in the palace. No conspirator would laugh at oversalted stew. And no one could pretend to be that alive.