"Yes, quite well, thank you Mary."<br/><br/>Lorna Shaw sat in front of her chamber's vanity mirror, doing her hair.    Having begun combing in small sections from the bottom, and then working upward toward the roots, she'd deftly managed to take out all of the tangles, and avoid any damage.   Though her penance enforced a simple ponytail as her sole choice of style, she nonetheless took the same meticulous care with her tresses that she always did.<br/><br/>The comb with which she diligently worked was one of her most treasured keepsakes.  It had belonged to her murdered mother; come with her when she'd emigrated from the wave-lashed isle of Thassos, in Graece, to be wed to Lorna's father, the Marquess Alaric Shaw.   As Mary pulled open the drapes, the morning light fell upon the comb's silver filigree and mother-of-pearl inlays, casting it alight with moon-hues, that almost made it seem some fey implement; out of place in the dawning day.  Finishing, Lorna placed it on the vanity's marble top, and then took up a brush; good quality, but common and banal contrasted to the comb.<br/><br/>While she continued to work, she addressed Mary without looking at her:<br/><br/>"Now, Mary, please understand --  nothing in my penance proscribes me from attending this morn's breakfast.   And, I wouldn't think of forcing you to sit about here with me, and miss it yourself.   I will not have it.   And, regardless, I do wish to go --  so, that is what we shall do."<br/><br/>She shortly concluded her ministrations with the brush, placed it aside, then retrieved a specific white ribbon, with which she proceeded to bind back her hair.    Giving her reflection a last review, and being satisfied, she finalized her humble ensemble:  lifting a dull silver crucifix from the vanity top, she slipped it over her head, and about her throat.    Then she arose, turned, and gave her newly acquired aide a polite, modestly friendly, smile.<br/><br/>"Come. There is no reason to linger here.   Let us be off."<br/><br/>In due time, the pair made their way from Lorna's chamber, situated in Greenmoor's slightly more austere western wing, and descended the stairs into one of its several main hallways.<br/><br/>While they walked, Lorna idly made note of a rather resplendent shaft of ruby tinged, morning light, which streamed from a window some distance ahead of them:<br/><br/>"Well, morning has its own distinct and lovely shade, does it not?   Like precious rubies, or fresh roses..."<span style="font-style: italic">or the color of blood, from pricking your fingers on their hidden thorns,</span>she added silently, drawn from the cool irony she was beginning to experience, as they drew nearer and nearer the palace's royal wing.<br/><br/>Along the way, they passed a particular tapestry, that depicted a certain fable with which she was well familiar.<br/><br/>"Ah.   The tale of Sir Orland of Gancil...are you familiar?   A rather naive sort of fellow, bent upon, of course, winning the heart of the beautiful damsel whom he fancied.  It's a long, involved sort of tale... but, ultimately, after a rather circular quest, filled with much misadventure, he discovers that she cares nothing for all the pretty riches he tries to lay at her feet...all the bloody victories he wins in her name.   Her own personal quest had been simply to find an honest, gentle man, whom loves her enough to not leave her side for campaigns, and crusades.  She finds those things in a humble woodsman, whom she then weds, and lives happily ever after with.  And, Sir Orland...well, there are two endings.   One says he gives up on worldly things altogether, and lives out his remaining days as a monk.   The other, that he ties stones to his feet, and drowns himself.  Either way, it's a tragedy, I'd say.  How easily we may delude ourselves...by making the error of not asking, listening, and understanding...is the simplistic moral of the fable.  And, isn't it so?"    Lorna sighed faintly, after she concluded.<br/><br/>"I am sorry, Mary.  I must be wearying you with my chatter.   You look very nice this morning, by the way."    It wasn't sarcasm.   Mary's grooming was quite thorough, she noted, not for the first time.  The girl had an eye for detail.   Which again spoke of a bright mind.<br/><br/>Shortly, they emerged from an adjacent, branching hall into the antechambers of the palace's royal wing.   Attired in the same simple, sky-blue gown, hair bound in a simple ponytail, with a bland white ribbon --  Lorna was of course aware how sharply she contrasted with the resplendent trappings of the other attendees, that she began to see.<br/><br/>If the humility of her garments wasn't enough to spell it out, then the prominent crucifix -- sole accessory that she wore -- should do the trick, to inform all present that she was doing formal penance.<br/><br/>And then of course, there were some few here whom knew she was a repenting<span style="font-style: italic">adulteress...</span><br/><br/>But this didn't bother her.   Some time after her mother's passing, the part of her that was capable of caring what other people thought about her had died.   She could remember caring, as a girl, what that had been like.  To wonder in some degree of desperation if others regarded her well, held her in good esteem.   Today, it seemed like an odd, distant fancy --  evaporated with the past, and other fancies that had little to do with a starkly real world.<br/><br/>Appearances could be most usefully deceiving, any rate.   Anyone who'd not learned that...well, they had a few hard lessons ahead of them.  She turned and smiled at Mary.<br/><br/>"Well. And so here we are.  This looks quite lovely.   I - I don't have a gift, for his Majesty," she added, sounding more than a little sheepish.<br/><br/>"That wouldn't really be appropriate.  But...I do have a simple note I would like you to deliver, please."      She handed Mary the slimly furled and sealed piece of velum that she'd been carrying.