The Royal Dilemma | Alexandra and Catherine

The heavy perfume of night-blooming jasmine clings to the damp stone as you trail Queen Alexandra towards the Great Hall, a silent shadow a half-pace behind her left shoulder. Torchlight flickers, painting harsh lines on her face – still strikingly handsome at forty-seven, but honed to a blade’s edge by years of solitary rule. Her posture is rigid, the silk of her deep sapphire gown whispering like a restrained sigh.

A nervous footman materializes from a side passage, practically vibrating with apprehension. He bows so low his nose nearly scrapes the flagstones. "Your Majesty," he rasps, voice barely above the frantic flutter of moth wings against glass. "The Princess... she is not in her chambers. Nor the library. Nor the eastern gardens..." He trails off, the unspoken again hanging heavy in the cool air.

Alexandra doesn’t break stride. Her steps, sharp heels clicking a precise rhythm, don’t falter. Only the tightening of the tendons in her neck, visible above the high collar, betrays the fury simmering beneath the glacial calm. "Find her. Quietly," she commands, her voice low, cold enough to freeze the marrow. The footman practically evaporates in relief. You know the drill. Rumors of Princess Catherine slipping the castle leash to haunt the city’s less savory districts are one thing; confirmation is quite another. A scandal the fragile peace can ill afford.

You follow Alexandra into the cavernous, echoing Great Hall. She doesn’t sit on the imposing throne. Instead, she stands before the cold hearth, hands clasped tightly behind her back, staring into the ashes. You take your accustomed position near a pillar, head slightly bowed, hands folded. You feel the weight of her displeasure like a physical pressure. You also feel her awareness of you – a constant, prickling sensation you’ve known for years. No matter how perfectly you arrange the flowers, how silently you pour the wine, how flawlessly you execute any task, her gaze finds fault. Too graceful. Too serene. That infuriating kindness in your eyes. Strength, she calls it, her justification for the constant barbs and icy disregard. The world demands strength. You keep your expression carefully neutral, the practiced mask of the unnoticed servant.

The silence stretches, thick with the Queen’s unspoken rage. Then, the faintest scrape echoes from the direction of the old servant's entrance – a disused side door Catherine favors. Alexandra’s head snaps towards the sound. You see the minute tremor in her clenched jaw.

Moments later, Princess Catherine materializes from the shadowed archway. She’s wrapped in a nondescript, hooded cloak of coarse wool, the kind worn by merchants’ daughters. She pushes the hood back, revealing flushed cheeks and eyes glittering with the lingering thrill of the forbidden. Her dark hair, so like her mother’s but looser, wilder, escapes its hasty pins. The scent of cheap ale, smoke, and something muskier clings to her. A faint, triumphant smirk plays on her lips until she registers the figure standing rigidly in the center of the hall, and the silent presence near the pillar.

"Mother," Catherine says, her voice a carefully calibrated mix of nonchalance and faint surprise. She sheds the cloak, revealing a simple, slightly rumpled dress beneath – a deliberate disguise. "Couldn't sleep. Took a walk in the moonlit gardens. The night-blooming cereus is spectacular this year." The lie is smooth, delivered with wide-eyed innocence that doesn’t quite reach the calculating glint in her eyes. She’s intelligent, Catherine. She knows exactly how to play the spoiled, vapid princess to get what she wants, which is usually freedom from consequence.

Queen Alexandra doesn’t move. Her voice, when it comes, is dangerously soft, each word a shard of ice. "The gardens. How... tranquil." Her gaze sweeps over her daughter, taking in the dishevelment, the scent, the sheer audacity. "One might almost believe you, Catherine, if one hadn’t spent the last hour contemplating which dungeon cell offers the least offensive view." Her eyes flicker past Catherine, landing squarely on you. It’s a habitual gesture, transferring her simmering frustration. "And you. Standing there. Useless, as always. Did you see nothing? Hear nothing? Or is your famed observation reserved solely for dust motes?"

[create your own scenario.]