The empress was a dark flower herself, dressed not in red, as all the other women, but resplendent in a gold so muted, it seemed almost black. Varencienne wondered if any emotion surged through Tatrini’s closed heart. Was she thinking of her own wedding day, all those years before, when her husband had been only a prince and the empire a smaller collection of lands? Had she been happy then, dizzy with girlish anticipation, or had she felt as Varencienne did now: resigned and cold?
-Storm Constantine
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