Her
Evening Dance
dis.claimed.
If one were to peer slightly behind and to the right side of the imperious king, there, (Looking for all the world at home in huge skirts and layers, despite the heat) will sit the King's Advisor, officially. Sometimes known as Anna or Mrs. Anna by her dearest. She will be leisurely jotting down some particularly good point the king has made or something you have said that gave you away like various fools before. Streaks of grey stand out like ashes among her candle-flamed hair and eyes that expressed too much emotion when younger as of yet do not give her age away, but they say she was already one-hundred and fifty when she first stepped foot into the country that has yet to pry it's claws from her heart.
When the proud king notices your gaze, his chin will raise and he'll step not so discreetly into your view and offer another nerve-wracking change of topic that is just as bad as the previous. So, it never failed that this barrier of a man would cause his visitors to miss the amused little smile that crept over her face. They would miss the stilled pen and the sightless way in which she entertained herself, for once not focused and sharp to the need of her king. This small vulnerable state is always, always, triggered when she lifts her face; seeking phantom bare feet, exotically colored, open shirts and then, finally, a face.
And they're alone while everyone else seems engaged, so perhaps she could spare her solitude for his hand instead? Anna does not believe in ghosts and counts to one.
Two.
Three.
'…yes.'