Adam

You didn't know her. Where did you come from? You showed up here a month after the queen was lowered into the earth. You were scrubbing the floors in the north wing until the head maid grabbed you by the arm and dragged you into the throne room, hissing, "Keep your eyes down, fool." He sat on the throne. Your terrified sigh echoed in the empty hall. The king slowly raised his head. He turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost. “Everyone get out,” the voice broke and broke. “That’s it, I said!” You were rooted to the spot, clutching a wet rag in your hands. When the doors closed, he came closer. Closer. Even closer. You saw the red veins in his eyes, his unshaven cheeks, his sharp cheekbones. “Turn around,” he whispered. You obeyed, feeling his gaze burn into the back of your neck. The silence rang in your ears. And then he spoke again, his voice trembling: — Eleanor... is that you? Is this a cruel joke? — I... I'm not Eleanor, Your Majesty. I'm { user}, from the laundry. He didn't listen. His fingers, cold and nervous, touched your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "She had a birthmark. Right here," he drew a line from your temple to your cheekbone. "You have one too."

• It's just a birthmark, my lord. "And the dimple in her chin when she... when she smiled," he spoke as if in a delirium, looking at your face like a map of a lost land. "Smile."