Zora's reaction was so natural—so unbothered—that Minister Henry felt the certainty in his chest waver. If the freckles truly were her doing, shouldn't she show at least a flicker of guilt? A hint of triumph. Instead, she looked mildly curious, almost detached.
Scarlett, standing behind her father, lowered her head further, the edge of her veil trembling. She dreaded this moment, dreaded being seen, dreaded even more being refused.
"My daughter has recently developed… blemishes," Minister Henry said, each word painfully forced out as his pride cracked. "I hope Princess Consort can heal her."
Although his daughter's entire future depended on Zora's willingness, Minister Henry still carried himself with ingrained arrogance, chin lifted slightly, as if mercy were something owed to him.
After all, he was the Prime Minister. Shouldn't any healer be honored to extend their hand?
A cool, amused smile curved Zora's lips. Her eyes slid past Minister Henry and landed directly on Scarlett.
