The Shadow of Great Britain

By London Bridge, a newspaper boy who had just emerged from a pile of sacks rubbed his drowsy eyes and watched the silent yet grand procession of mounted police and carriages pass before him. He gaped, still clutching yesterday’s unsold copy of The Times, which bore an outdated piece of news — His Majesty William’s condition was stable.

Meanwhile, in the newspaper office on Fleet Street, the coal stove had just been lit, and unproofed morning papers were piled high on the desks.

The editors, rushing in, feverishly transcribed and cleaned up the cold, stark telegraph lines before pasting them onto the top draft of the front page — the Tower of London had fallen.

The heart of this Empire had changed its blood before dawn.

By the time the convoy reached Kensington Palace, dawn had broken, the orange glow of first light casting an ethereal warmth on the old red brick walls, making every crack seem to glow with heat.

The convoy slowed down, the sound of hooves clattering on the gravel path becoming sharper, echoing more clearly in front of this yet-to-awaken palace.

The tall iron gates were tightly closed, the lamps on the porch still burning, guarded by two Coldstream Guards in uniform, their expressions showing a hint of bewilderment and weariness, evidently unaware of the purpose of this line of black carriages outside.

The leading guard instinctively stepped forward, saluting with his gun: ”May I ask...”

Before he could finish, Arthur had already dismounted.

He did not speak but took from his chest the Privy Council ring given to him by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

In the morning light, he revealed the ancient silver seal engraved with ”Honour, Service, Crown.”

”Please immediately inform Her Royal Highness Princess Victoria that Archbishop of Canterbury William Howley and Lord Chamberlain the Marquis of Cunningham request an audience.”

The guard’s eyes widened, and his gun dropped promptly. He first saluted Arthur, then quickly turned to run towards the inner gate.

Meanwhile, several police teams from Scotland Yard quietly appeared outside the palace walls, as if they had grown out of the ground.

The roads around Kensington Palace were quietly taken over, and passing coachmen and servants were politely redirected with the excuse of ”temporary road inspection.”

The Marquis of Cunningham opened the carriage door and disembarked ahead of the Archbishop.

He straightened his cloak and, looking at the vast Kensington Palace, couldn’t help but remark, ”This palace was not designed to welcome a monarch.”

Kensington Palace, long considered a hideaway for peripheral royals and royal lovers since the Hanover Dynasty, never belonged at the heart of power.

But today, this palace is to witness the coronation of the new king.

The Archbishop of Canterbury stood by the carriage shaft, silently gazing at Kensington Palace’s high window bearing the Hanover Family’s emblem.

”Cunningham,” he asked softly, his voice still steady, ”Have your men notified the House of Lords and the House of Commons?”

”I’ve sent someone specially to inform them,” the Marquis of Cunningham replied softly, ”Parliament will convene an emergency consultative meeting at nine o’clock, with the House of Lords first discussing the succession protocol, followed by documentation submitted to the House of Commons. The High Chancellor, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Minister of Seal, and the Speaker of the Two Houses will all be present.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury nodded, but his expression did not relax: ”Is Windsor’s sealing list ready? Has His Majesty’s seal, badge, document cabinet all been secured?”

”Everything’s been executed,” the Marquis of Cunningham paused, his tone inadvertently carrying a hint of fatigue, ”His Majesty left no formal orders on his deathbed. But customarily, His Majesty William’s personal letters will be taken by the Queen, state documents handed to the Privy Council Secretary for sealing by the Home Office, and the crown and scepter taken over by the Royal Property Department. Those accompanying in the palace have also signed confidentiality agreements.”

”What about the Prime Minister?” the Archbishop slightly lifted his head, ”Is he aware?”

”Viscount Melbourne is still at Broadlands,” Cunningham frowned slightly, ”But I sent a messenger last night.”

Upon hearing this, the Archbishop let out a gentle sigh.

In that sigh there was no emotion, just confirmation from an elder of the George III era, that this system could still operate with clock-like precision.

This was not the best arrangement, but it was the most orderly.

The iron gates remained tightly closed, cold air leaking from the rusted cracks as if intentionally delaying the time.

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham stood at the foot of the steps, waiting for over ten minutes, with only the morning breeze and the white mist of the horses’ breath rising and falling in the air around them.

The Marquis of Cunningham’s brows furrowed increasingly tightly, and he impatiently glanced at the guards: ”Given the urgency of the situation, please send someone to hurry them again.”

Just as he finished speaking, they finally heard a hurried sound of footsteps, a breathless footman in uniform ran out.

In his expression, there was no genuine reverence, more of confusion and unease.

He hastily made a bow, then spoke: ”Sirs, please wait, Sir John will be here shortly.”

”Sir John?” Cunningham was momentarily taken aback upon hearing this, then his face subtly changed: ”What about the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria?”

”They are still waking,” the footman repeated, ”Sirs, please wait, Sir John will be here shortly.”

Sure enough, after a while, a familiar figure shuffled out from a side door.

John Conroy appeared as always immaculate, a trace of irrepressible smugness and excitement in his expression, as if both inside and outside the palace gates were under his control.

”Sirs,” Conroy first bowed to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham, but did not immediately make way, instead leisurely asked, ”I wonder, what brings you here at this moment? Has something major happened?”