Gertrude sits enthroned in faded finery, her bulk immovable, ivy and moss threading through the folds of her gown as though the castle itself is reclaiming her. Cat fawns at her feet and along her arms sits Ghost, her albino crow, perches pale and regal. Gilt tracery frames her in ornate, cage-like lattice—beauty rendered as confinement. Behind her, stone crumbles; ivory carvings yellow with age, ritual splendor decaying around an indifferent queen.