And an audience granted on short notice.
That alone was enough to tell her that Queen Charlotte knew exactly why she was here, and was willing to listen to her statement.
So why, then, was she so terribly nervous?
They reached a set of double doors, manned by a footman in livery so crisp it seemed untouched by mortal hands. The man bowed. “Her Majesty will receive you now.”
The duchess did not hesitate. Elizabeth followed, willing her legs not to tremble.
The room was sumptuously appointed but not ostentatious, its grandeur softened by the scent of fresh-cut roses and the faint crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth. At the far end of the room, seated in a high-backed chair, was the Queen.
Queen Charlotte had never been a beauty, nor had she ever aspired to be one. There was something severe about her, from her tightly curled white hair to the rigid line of her shoulders. She was dressed in dark silk, her gown adorned with an impressive lace fichu, a walking cane resting against the chair beside her.
She did not rise when they entered, nor did she even look particularly interested.
The duchess swept into a deep curtsy, her movements fluid and effortless. Elizabeth followed suit, lowering herself as far as she could, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor long enough to be appropriate.
A moment passed. A verylongmoment.
Heavens, were they ever to be permitted to stand again? Elizabeth stared at the floor under her feet, praying she would not topple over.
“You may rise,” the Queen said at last.
Her voice was precisely as Elizabeth had expected—cool, measured, and edged with a faint German accent.
Elizabeth stood carefully, clasping her hands before her.
The Queen’s dark eyes flicked over her with the same mild disinterest one might afford an adequate painting or a half-decent performance at the theatre.
“So,” she said, at last, to no one in particular. “This is the girl.”
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened, and she tried to keep from staring at anyone in particular.
The duchess tilted her head in quiet acknowledgment. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
A pause.
The Queen turned her attention to Elizabeth directly. “I understand you have something to say.”
The words were not a request.
Elizabeth inhaled, carefully schooling her expression into one of quiet confidence—though her fingers felt cold where they rested against her skirts.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, keeping her voice clear but deferential.
She recounted what she had seen. She spoke carefully, precisely, omitting nothing—the first misfire, the second gunman with the quieter shot, the way he had slipped into the crowd.
The Queen did not react.
Not once.
Not when Elizabeth described the true shot that had killed the Prime Minister. Not when she spoke of the man who had seen her.
And certainly not when she described how no one else had noticed any of it.
By the time Elizabeth finished, her mouth felt parched, her pulse thrumming against her ribs. She had spoken the truth—all of it.
And the Queen was entirely unmoved.
