The Coronation Chain

The box is older than the girl who opens it. Dark wood, corners softened from years of handling, the hinge giving a small resistance before it yields. Elinor lifts the necklace out with both hands, the chain settling heavily across her palms, cool and certain in its shape.

“It was mine,” she says, though that much is already known. She steps closer and fastens it herself, fingers steady at the clasp. The weight spreads across the collarbones, each link lying where it should, the small chains dipping and rising with the line of the chest. The stones catch what little light comes through the window, not brightly, just enough to mark their presence.

“You’ll need to keep your shoulders back,” Elinor murmurs, adjusting one of the drops so it sits centred. “It sits best that way.”

In the mirror, the girl studies it — not smiling, not uncertain either. Outside, the courtyard has already begun to fill, footsteps on gravel, the low hum of voices gathering. Elinor steps back, hands folding neatly in front of her, as if her part in it has already passed.