A soft tap pulsed through the room, and the Princess Lenore turned, the flicker of a frown marring the perfection of her brow.
"Well, Marta?" she demanded.
Her maid-in-waiting entered fearfully. She was old and ugly. The Princess would not have about her any who were not; her radiance must be at all times like that of a true jewel amidst paste. Even the ladies of the court were required to dress down their own lesser beauty when gathered for state occasions.
"Well, Marta?" repeated the princess.
"Your pardon, Highness," breathed the old woman. "A delegation from the women of the city—"
"What do they want?"
"It is something about ... taxes, Highness. They say they cannot afford—"
"Taxes!" The princess' eyes clouded. "Why must they fret me with their miserable woes? I know nothing of taxes. Bid them see my father."
Marta cringed humbly.
"They have tried to, Highness, but without success. That is why they have come here. To beg your intercession—"