The serving wenches had filled the deep porphyry basin to its brim with steaming water, scrubbing her skin with lye soap until she gleamed pinker than when she came out of her mother's womb.
They trimmed her nails down to smooth crescents and brushed out the dark tangles of her hair until it cascaded over the polished rim of the tub in a heavy, glistening wave. Jasmine drew her legs up, resting her wet heels upon the carved footstand built into the stone.
It was hardly the most modest posture for a sovereign, but she was Queen of Yarzat, in her private solar, her pleasure was the only law that carried weight.
Maggi, the youngest of her maidservants, soon came forward carrying a lacquered tray of phials, their precious distillations catching the amber light of the candles.
She stood waiting for her sovereign decision.
Tonight was the great feast; and she would have to stand before the assembled lords of the entire realm both the new and the old. She had to look her best.
