Alicent attends the dinner out of deference to their hosts, rather than genuine interest in the affair. Her time at court has inured her to the trials of pretending. She beams at her neighbours with effortless brightness and raises her glass in toast to their guests of honour.

Many familiar faces sit at the head of the table, after all: Louis, Lestat, Lexi. Companions. Friends, even.

As the food shifts and distorts, vines running red, Alicent gasps into her palm. Still, she knows the smell of cooked flesh, sloughing from blackened bone, her son’s skin melted to his conquering armour. Strangely, it does not fill her senses now. A half-remembered nightmare overlaid on this present horror. Only Armand’s voice — at once beside and before her, all around her — penetrates the rising din.

She jerks her attention back to their lauded guests, blood-brown curls trailing after her. Indignation rises at the order, yet she stands abruptly, hand steadying on the back of her chair. Even as her feet carry her down the length of the table, her eyes dart about, furtive in their search for answers.

Who dares order a queen? For a queen does not bow to the will of another. Except the King.