Adriana was sitting alone by a window in the East Gallery, enjoying the paintings of the royal family. Uniformly somber expressions looked down on her with little variation except in the manner of clothes that represented various whims of the day. Oh look! She thought. There was a time when courtiers weren’t expected to wear wigs! Absent-mindedly she ran her fingers through her dark, luxuriant hair. Why should I hide my beautiful tresses under some smelly, powdered wig?
Just then, a passer-by dropped a note onto Adriana’s lap and quickly sped away before she could see if it was a man or woman. All she saw was a dark cloak with a hood. Trying to look inconspicuous, she opened the note and read the delicate, feminine script:
“If I were you, I’d find someplace new to rest my head. There’s danger here. Just ask your friend, the Master of the Horse.”