What, in heaven’s name, is a parliament? Eleanor wonders. Somehow, this picture of an entrance to a parliament has crossed her leather-topped table, and she is mesmerized by the red velvet covering the stairs and the hundreds of gleaming candles. No, wait. Candles? She stares carefully. They do not appear to be candles, but, what else could they be? From the writing on the back of the picture, she knows this is the parliament in Budapest, a city in a far-off place, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, of which she has heard many tales. A parliament, she muses. That could not bode well for titled nobles, much less a reigning monarch. To let the people have their say? There are many whom she would not want to have their say, such as that abhorrent William of Litchfield, he of the grasping hands (she shudders delicately), but he is a noble, and, sadly, has total control over her future, parliament or no parliament. Nay, Eleanor vows to herself, she will not need a parliament or anyone to vanquish disgusting William — she will do it herself!