The Shadow of Great Britain

The night was so dark it seemed blue. Standing on the balcony of the third floor of the Albion Hotel, looking out over the port of Ramsgate, the black sea resembled a bottomless abyss, devouring all improbable dreams.

Arthur leaned against the door frame of the balcony, his cane casually resting to the side, and a hint of tobacco lingering on his fingertips.

By the railing, Agares’s figure blended into the night, and only the corner of the Red Devil’s mouth, seemingly smiling yet mocking, could be seen.

”Tonight was quite the show. To storm into that villa, surrounded like a rat’s cage, facing a roomful of people who could send you to the gallows at any moment, and still walk out unscathed...” Agares paused deliberately, as if genuinely searching for an appropriate word of praise: ”My dear Arthur, if it weren’t for your ’dedication to the ailing princess’ being utterly repulsive, I might have applauded you.”

Arthur glanced at him and said indifferently, ”Getting the word ’applause’ out of your mouth seems harder than getting the Conservative Party and the Whig Party to agree, so thank you, Agares.”

Agares licked his nose, a detestable smile covering his face: ”Don’t thank me yet, Arthur, because I foresee you’re going to be getting my praise more and more frequently. You’re becoming increasingly skilled at using others’ perception of morality to get the situation you need. That’s truly good news; you’re becoming more and more like a real villain.”

Arthur didn’t deny it; he simply lit another one: ”You’ve praised ’villain’ too many times. It’s getting old.”

”No, no, no.” Agares shook his fingers critically: ”You thought you were just second-rate, but now, you’ve reached even higher.”

”Are there classifications of villains?”

Agares seemed to enjoy the topic, straightening his back slowly from the railing, extending his arms like a priest preaching in a church: ”Villains, of course, have classifications.”

He extended one finger, tracing the air with a hint of mockery: ”Third-rate villains, they live by petty thievery. Tipping fences, snatching silver spoons, stealing shirts from neighbors’ yards. I don’t bother to give them a second glance; they deserve to be caught by the ear and scolded at the village market.”

The second finger went up, with a metallic gleam: ”Second-rate villains know how to rob. They ride horses, carry guns, form gangs, break into merchant houses and gentry estates at night, steal whatever they can carry, and set fires to destroy evidence. Their names appear on posters, printed into flyers nailed at the city gates, and might live on in tavern tales for several months, maybe even years.”

The third finger slowly lifted, and his voice lowered: ”And first-rate villains... they never get their hands dirty. They use others’ hands to take what they want, others’ mouths to say what they want to say. Others bear the infamy and punishment for them. When the dust settles, they just need to raise a glass under the lights, accepting belated applause and cheap compliments.”

Arthur lay on the railing, gazing at the distant sea: ”So, am I first-rate now?”

”First-rate? No, no, no, dear, didn’t I just say? You’ve gone even further.” Agares paused, his smile slowly splitting like a blade’s edge: ”You’re unlike any of them; you’re very close to those your human peers call great men.”

Agares shifted his stance, resting his elbow on the cold railing: ”However, my only dissatisfaction lies in that noble mother. Do you really think she was moved to tears by you today? No, she just found a graceful way out. Isn’t it humanity’s specialty to stitch hypocrisy and emotion into the same hemline?”

Arthur’s expression remained calm: ”Whether she was genuinely awakened or took the easy way out doesn’t make much difference to me. If it’s the former, she’s fortunate. If it’s the latter, I’ve already shown the greatest kindness within my ability.”

Agares tilted his head, looking at him with a tone of slight satisfaction and speculation: ”So you plan to ignore the truth, only acknowledging the results on paper?”

Arthur looked towards the sea, as if that thin line of dark tide was more worthy of attention than the sarcasm before him: ”Different stances reveal different truths; only results are quantifiable. Agares, you must know, I am a graduate of the University of London, a disciple of Jeremy Bentham, a Utilitarian.”

”Trading one smile for ten rounds of applause, one tear for a hundred people’s sympathy.” Agares sneered: ”A Utilitarian? Huh... perhaps.”

...

The night in Windsor was heavier than in Ramsgate, the thick clouds lowering the sky, swallowing the castle’s spires into shadow.

Candelabras stood tall in the banquet hall, golden light flickering between luxurious tableware and crystal chandeliers.

Queen Adelaide sat at the head of the long table, smiling as she conversed with the noblewomen on either side, yet King William IV’s seat was empty. He had been called to an adjacent small parlor by his private secretary, Sir Herbert Taylor.

The attendant gently closed the door, shutting out the songs and laughter outside.

King William IV stood by the fireplace, clutching a letter not yet fully unfolded, his knuckles whitening from the force.

”Damn it!” The King’s voice was hoarse and violent, ”Is that woman mad? How dare they do such a thing to my niece, the future Queen?!”