The ministers who had once sneered at Arabella's influence no longer had the courage to defend Christopher. Outwardly they maintained the slow civility of court life, but every furtive glance and tightened jaw betrayed a realization they would not voice aloud: the castle answered to her now. It was not theirs to dismiss her commands or to pretend her authority did not exist.
So they did the only thing left to courtiers whose teeth have been blunted by fear— they watched in silence while Christopher dissolved into cold sweat.
He dabbed at his forehead with a trembling hand, trying to arrange a posture of composure, but when his eyes met hers he felt something like a thorn push up through the ground and pin him to the spot. Arabella's gaze was a blade; it rooted him where he stood.
"I do not repeat myself," she said, the calm in her voice so absolute that Juan visibly flinched.
