“Your Majesty, has anyone told you are looking particularly radiant today?”<br/><br/>Gwendolyn Amauri was a still figure at one of the windows— a seated statue dressed in all mourning garb. The weakly eked compliment pointed in her direction from one of her ladies in waiting went unnoticed and lingered in the air uncomfortably. The ladies sitting at court with her all exchanged unsettled glances with one another before they returned to plucking at their instruments— all a desperate bid to be the first one to bring a smile back to their queen’s face. Gwendolyn’s gaze outside was absent minded, focused on the birds that crisscrossed the sky.<br/><br/>The last Amauri to fade, little Crisand, had been laid to rest in the royal crypt a fortnight ago. Except for the queen herself, there were no Amauris left to be claimed. Her mother had been the first, whisked away by the Sickness in the winter. Her eldest brother, and heir to the throne, followed her within weeks. The remaining withered around her like flowers buried underneath snow— Aiden, Mylisant, and Cecilia. Crisand and her father, the stalwart Tiberius Amauri, had both fallen ill at the same time. She truly believed her father passed first so that he would not have to watch one more child of his die.<br/><br/>She had been crowned a month ago upon her father’s death. Of course, Gwendolyn had been aware of the initial rumors— that she was a fatal nightshade blossom—a witch, that had killed everyone around her in a stride for the crown. But then others in the kingdom began to die of the same ailment: a fever, a persistent sweat, a long slumber, and cruelly, what seemed like a spontaneous recovery before they finally died. Gwendolyn had thus far remained untouched by the Sickness, as beautiful as the day her last living family member withered away. But her face, once full of the bright optimism of youth, had aged. Her dark ringlets even had a shock of silver from the stress, just next to her temple; a sharp edge to her beauty. Her ladies, once her close friends, no longer knew how to handle her and her sadness, which seemed to know no end. She no longer had the taste nor patience for frivolity or trifles.<br/><br/>On this day, however, something was fated to change. The footman posted at the door suddenly slammed his staff against the floor twice, jarring her out of her state so suddenly that she nearly fell out of her chair.<br/><br/>“Sir Cameron Fitzroy!”<br/><br/>And even though Gwendolyn was queen, at the sound of that name, she was the one to suddenly stand, eyes intent on the doors in disbelieving anticipation.