Excerpt
PROLOGUE YOU’VE SEEN THE photograph. The old woman cloaked in black, jaw clenched like a tomb, eyes that don’t weep anymore — because the time for weeping passed decades ago. A face without indulgence. Without forgiveness. A widow frozen in grief, turned into iron. That’s Queen Victoria. But that’s also the 19th century. Her image became more than a portrait. It became a template. A posture. A mood. By the time she died in 1901, she had ruled for 63 years. That’s longer than Napoleon lasted on Earth. Her name had become a synonym — not just for a monarchy, but for an era. For everything prim, powerful, and repressed. Lace over steel. Grief turned into policy. And that grief — it wasn’t...