The Shadow of Great Britain

The Duchess of Kent drew in a breath so slight it was almost imperceptible.

The movement was very small, yet Arthur still caught it.

She made no sound, but she stood a little straighter.

She still wanted to wait—wait for Conroy to squeeze out a proposal, a word, even a vague opening line.

The kind of tactful phrasing that could be turned into ”The Princess is young” and ”Affairs of state are manifold,” the same words countless regents in history had used to ascend to power.

But Conroy still did not speak.

His gaze kept skirting away from Arthur.

Because he knew Arthur had been watching him all along.

Conroy withdrew without a sound.

Yet all that had just unfolded before her eyes was enough for the Duchess of Kent to understand—this time, Conroy could not help her.

The atmosphere in the drawing room once more fell into a brief stillness, like the pendulum of a tightly wound Clock suspended in midair, never to swing again.

A few soft footsteps came from the doorway.

It was the delicate sound of silk slippers stepping between tiles and carpet, gentle yet clear.

Everyone heard it.

The door had not fully opened when the light seeped in first.

It was a not-too-bright shaft of morning light, slanting in from a half-open window at the end of the corridor, spilling through the dust still hanging in the air, like a silent gauze ribbon laid across the carpet of the drawing room.

Then, a light figure slowly crossed that beam of light and stepped into the room.

Princess Alexandrina Victoria.

She had come.

She wore a sea-blue morning gown trimmed with white, a thin grey-white shawl over her shoulders. Her hair at the temples was neatly combed, held back at her ear with a single pearl hairpin, a gift from her aunt, Queen Adelaide. She had clearly been roused in haste, yet her gait was exceptionally steady; there was no trace of panic in her eyes, not even a lingering hint of sleep.

It was as though she had long foreseen this moment.

Victoria paused for a moment at the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room, brushing in turn over the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham before finally resting on her mother.

She did not speak, and the Duchess of Kent did not step forward to meet her either; instead she remained seated quietly in the chair, meeting her daughter’s eyes for an instant, a flash of indescribable emotion passing through them.

It was neither affection, nor joy, nor sorrow, but a sudden sense of strangeness and distance.

Victoria gave her a single glance, then let her gaze slowly drift toward Arthur.

Arthur stood by the fireplace, still silent as ever. He was as calm as a deep well—neither ardent nor evasive—simply looking at her quietly, giving her a slight nod, as though saying, ”You ought to walk to that place now.”

At once, Arthur’s right hand, gloved in white, settled upon the guard of his Sword of Honor as he slowly bowed his head and dropped to one knee.

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham, as though waking from a dream, likewise bent their knees and half-knelt.

”We have been commanded to attend upon you and to report: His Majesty William passed peacefully at two twelve this morning in Windsor Palace.”

Victoria inclined her head slightly and extended her right hand, granting the Marquis of Cunningham the distinction of the hand-kiss.

Cunningham bent forward, bowing low, and devoutly kissed the back of her outstretched hand, as if he had long accepted that these hands would one day hold the fate of the entire Kingdom.

The Archbishop of Canterbury followed close behind. Ignoring the frailty of his age, he bent down, his movements less restrained than usual; he kissed the back of Victoria’s hand, his trembling voice steeped in reverence: ”May God be with you, my Lord above. You are now the head of the Church, the Defender of the Faith.”

As Victoria withdrew her hand, her gaze shifted slightly and fell upon Arthur.

She looked at that dark figure who had said nothing yet stood unshaken at the edge of the drawing room—the frame that held quiet steel beneath its composure, the eyes whose silent presence had driven Conroy back.

She seemed to recall the Black Knight she had sketched in her notebook the previous night, that indistinct face at last growing clear in the morning light.

She slowly extended her hand.

Arthur hesitated only a fraction, then stepped forward on one knee, bowed his head, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

That kiss held no piety and no fawning, but was something like an oath, and something like a pledge.

He knew that what he was kissing was not only a hand, but the beginning of a new era.

Arthur stepped back half a pace, raised his head, and spoke in his usual tone, though imbued with solemn gravity: ”Your Majesty, the current state of public order in London is stable. Scotland Yard has completed temporary closures of all main routes between White Hall, St. James’s Palace, Kensington, and Windsor. District police stations began joint coordination at three o’clock this morning; aside from a few small gatherings, there have been no reports of violent incidents thus far.”

He paused slightly, then added, ”The ferries and parish markets along the south bank of the Thames River have been secured. The Royal Mounted Police and the Guard Cavalry have both entered second-level alert. The major newspapers along Fleet Street will, according to established procedure, issue a unified public announcement at nine o’clock this morning. The Clock Towers within the city will toll together at nine precisely, to mark the beginning of the national mourning.”

Victoria listened quietly, without interjecting a single word.

Arthur’s tone was steady and unruffled, yet every word was clear. As his report ended, he bowed his head once more, offered another formal salute, stepped back half a pace, and then sank down to one knee again.

Victoria said softly, ”Thank you, Sir Arthur Hastings, you are always so dependable.”

Arthur’s white-gloved hand pressed against his chest. ”It is my honor, Your Majesty.”

Victoria’s gaze remained fixed for a long time on the place where Arthur had withdrawn.

That ”you are always so dependable” was spoken very softly, as though she herself had not expected to say such a thing on such an occasion.