Power did not merely corrupt Victoria Taryn; it caffeinated her.
At seven o'clock the next morning, the East Wing sitting room had been transformed into a military command center. Swatches of imported silk were pinned to the walls like battle flags. Footmen rushed in and out, their faces pale with terror, carrying silver trays of heavily caffeinated tea and endless ledgers.
"No, no, absolutely not!" Victoria barked, slamming a hand down on a table covered in floral sketches. "I asked for innocent white lilies, not aggressive white lilies! These look like they are about to demand a ransom! Send them back!"
The Head Florist, a man who had survived two wars and a famine, burst into tears and fled the room.
