November 17. Bells tolled all over Hatfield, not in triumph, but in foreboding.
Shadows strayed where sunlight could not reach.
Elizabeth stood alone in a tight cloak, feeling the weight of the crown she held– and its power.
And the eyes that watched from everywhere–and saw it all.
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Dawn broke with a November chill over Hatfield. The soft tolling of bells ascended with the morning sun — not in victory, but with an ominous note of caution.
Queen Elizabeth’s gaze fell over the castle ramparts. She wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, not from the chill, but from the eyes — of someone unseen.
The pants of an anxious messenger were only too audible as he ran into the room.
“Your Majesty… Queen Mary. She’s… dead.”
A heavy silence consumed Elizabeth’s room.
A raven — typically tied to a pole in a corner of the castle gardens — flew to her window and perched.
A death call to the House of Windsor.
In her chambers, Elizabeth slipped the crown off her head. She gazed at its perfectly set jewels —
Each gleamed.
With glittery foreboding.
And the whispers from the afternoon court —
“A lone queen will succumb.”
Later, in bed,
the voice of her mother haunted her ears — and mind.
“Power costs blood…”
She shot up in bed. Catherine’s voice was too loud for sleep.
She trailed through the corridors of Windsor’s halls. Each step she took was heavy with memory.
And weight.
Of her mother. Of England.
The tapestries darted from one wall to the other, as if touched by someone —
Not her.
Not a courtier.
Not there.
Windsor was testing her mettle.
She turned to face the shadows and spoke.
“If this —” she held the crown — “is mine, then I’m your master.”
The room stilled. The shadows lined up to face her.
The raven cawed once, in a sharp, approving screech.
The messenger burst into her chambers once more.
He ran before her and knelt.
“Your majesty, the council believed you would decline the throne. They’ve prepared another successor.”
A figure entered — in a dark cloak.
Her successor.
It lifted its cloak.
Elizabeth stared herself in the face.
A perfect double.
Herself to fight.
She stepped forward, unafraid.
Her double bowed — in complete homage.
It didn’t just accept her — it revered.
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