Beatrix had been quiet the entire time, standing to the side of the room, away from a couple small groups of women in hushed conversation.  It seemed as though they had waited in the parlour for half an hour, though she couldn't quite be sure.  The servants had done well to accommodate them with wine and an assortment of fruits and cheeses, but the young blonde-haired daughter of House von Winterfeldt found her appetite lacking.  Try as she might to avoid it, her mind kept returning to the truth that her future would, by and large, be decided this evening, an evening she had prepared for since she had first come into womanhood.  All she could do now is hope she had prepared well enough, that she would be among the chosen.<br/><br/>Every so often, she would brush aside an errant strand of blonde hair from her face.  Every so often, she would cast her eyes to one of the others, all young ladies like herself, whose fates mirrored her own, a few of whom she recognized.  They were all dressed in identical night-gowns, simple but elegant, the garb of a woman whom had long ago put her old family and alliances behind her and taken up the mantle of a new family, that of the Sisterhood.  They were all armed as well -- Beatrix wondered that they would need them.  Confident though she was in her sword-arm, she could not shake that creeping apprehension that mortal danger was imminent.<br/><br/>It took Beatrix a second to notice when Queen Alveena herself entered the room, whereupon she quickly but gracefully stepped forward along with the others, and lowered herself onto one knee, gazing at the floor.  She waited to be addressed.