The Queen's Concern

The polished oak of the Queen’s private sitting room gleamed under the soft glow of strategically placed lamps. It was a room designed for comfort, for hushed conversations and delicate matters, a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of the security briefing room I’d just left. Queen Courtney sat in an armchair that looked more like a throne, her hands, adorned with rings that probably cost more than my annual salary, clasped serenely in her lap. Her smile was a practiced thing, a carefully constructed mask of maternal warmth.

“Opal,” she began, her voice smooth as aged silk, “thank you for coming. Please, sit.”

I took the offered seat, a plush velvet affair that swallowed me whole. My instincts, honed by years of scanning crowds for threats, immediately went on high alert. This wasn’t a casual chat. This was a performance, and the Queen was the lead actress.