The invitation arrived on a silver tray.
Elizabeth stared at it for a moment before picking it up, because the silver was important — silver meant command, and command from the queen's household meant something different than command from the administrative secretariat's embossed lion. She had been in King's Landing long enough to understand the grammar of its summonses. This one read, in a hand so controlled it might have been cut rather than written: *Her Grace Queen Cersei Lannister requests the pleasure of Lady Elara Tully's company for a morning walk in the Godswood. The ninth hour. Dress for cold air.*
Mira, who had delivered the tray and was now arranging Elizabeth's brushes with the focused attention of someone who has learned that appearing busy is the best available form of invisibility, said nothing. Her hands moved. Her eyes went, very briefly, to Elizabeth's face, then back to the brushes.
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