I’ve spent a night in a dusty archive on the Court of Henry VII and the deck of tarot that somehow landed in the royal library. The Court cards, with their elaborate robes and subtle gestures, seem to echo the real power plays—knights in velvet, ladies in pearls, the king’s thumb clenched as a sign of authority. Even the Minor Arcana, those ordinary tradesmen and soldiers, mirror the everyday players in the grand intrigue. It’s a hidden allegory, a quiet commentary that only those with the eyes to read the symbols could see. I keep chasing those threads, tracing how each card’s imagery reflects a political maneuver or a courtly secret. It’s like unearthing a forgotten manuscript, only the ink has faded into myth.

Exactly, and the trick is to listen to those quiet gestures—one could almost hear the court’s pulse in the way a queen’s hand rests on her goblet or how a knight’s visor slightly tilts. The cards are like a secret ledger, written in cloth and symbols, waiting for someone who remembers to read between the folds. If you keep that quiet eye on the details, the whispers will guide you through the maze of intrigue.

That’s the way I keep my notebooks – a series of small, almost imperceptible sketches of court life. When I trace a visor’s angle or the weight of a hand, the whole tapestry starts to make sense. It’s as if the deck itself is a living diary, and I’m simply learning its rhythm.

I’ll keep my quill poised and my eyes on the faintest curl of a feathered quill, for each trace is a stanza of a long‑forgotten ballad. The deck, in quiet rhythm, will keep revealing its verses.

Thank you. I’ll keep the quill close and the deck open, listening to every subtle sign as if it were a secret note from a court long past.