She felt herself tremble as her hands clasped together in front of her. Now that she was here, Jaenelle wished she'd changed into something more... well, something other than a pair of trousers and her papa's old shirt. At least they were clean trousers, made of a rough-weave black material. The shirt was long on her, far too large, but a few tricks of Craft, and it fell comfortably, sleeves rolled up to her wrists, the collar open at the throat just enough to glimpse the Black pendant she wore, the setting an intricate design of silver and gold spiderwebs.
Her strength had matured. Not to her full potential, but enough that he would know. Enough that any of the Blood who were willing to see could tell that she was, at the very least, a dark-Jeweled Queen and Black Widow.
His face was far too perfect to be merely handsome. He was beautiful. She remembered him being attractive, yes, but this? The confidence and maturity, the vitality, the mark of freedom still fresh upon him. Witch saw him, and approved. Jaenelle gently inclined her head to him, taking a step closer. "I'm glad to see you, Prince," she said, falling back on Protocol again. Mother Night, why was this so difficult?