1 October 1958

"What happened to your escort?" Matthew asked as they followed the long winding pavement from the gate to the front door. The hour was grown late indeed, but the castle never truly slept; there were guards, always, standing mute on the catwalk above, stalking the grounds, and inside there lurked an industrious butler whose sole purpose in life was to wait in a large, comfortable chair by the fireplace should the occasion arrive when his services were called for, and others whose duties Lucien had never quite understood who nonetheless patrolled the lower levels of his family home in the still dark hours of the night. In the past the castle had seemed to him to be a living thing, plumbing and electrical wires running through the stone walls like veins through a body, a steady heartbeat of crackling fires and footsteps accompanying the despondent sighs and rattles so characteristic of old buildings. And in all the kingdom there was no building older than this, this titanic monument to an ancient way of life that had long since faded into memories.

"They slowed me down," Lucien told him with a wry grin. In truth it had chafed, being watched every moment. The soldiers had come to him, sent by the Prime Minister with news that his father the king was ailing, that the time had come for him to put aside his childish pursuits and return to his responsibilities. Lucien resented the condescending tone of the note sent to him by the Prime Minister, but he understood Sir Patrick's concerns, and had offered no argument. He understood, too, why soldiers had been sent to claim him, why during his journey he had not been permitted a moment's privacy, even in the loo; he was precious cargo indeed, the future of their kingdom bound up in the shape of one very tired man, and the soldiers could not, would not, relax until he was safely ensconced within the walls of the castle. Lucien had been too long in the world, however, had spent too many years living life according to his own preferences, and the sudden reminder of the restraints that would be placed upon him when he returned home was galling. There had been a moment of confusion when their ship arrived in port, when the soldiers who were his escort were trying to arrange travel from the docks to the castle, and Lucien had slipped away from them, had seized this last opportunity to enjoy his anonymity. He did not know when next he might be allowed to hail a cab, to chat amenably to the driver, to stand upon a street corner unremarked and unobserved, and he had not quite realized how precious that freedom was to him until he felt it begin to slip from his grasp.

"They won't like that," Matthew grumbled.

"No," Lucien agreed, "I can't imagine that they will."

The castle door swung open as they approached; this, too, had once been wooden, rough-hewn and carved in intricate, grandiose patterns, but time and progress had taken their toll, and that wood had been replaced with a heavy, reinforced steel. A butler stood waiting as Lucien and Matthew stepped inside, and he offered a flowery, overdone sort of bow in greeting.

"Welcome home, your Royal Highness," the butler said, still bowing.

Matthew did not roll his eyes, but he came very close.

"The prince's escort has been waylaid," Matthew told the man. "They should have a radio, see if you can contact them and let them know he's made it home safely."

"At once, Commander," the obsequious man said, and then he was scurrying away, and the door closed behind them with a clang that seemed to carry with it an eerie sort of finality.

"Home sweet home," Lucien said, a bit bitterly, as he gazed around. The place had not changed much; the door opened onto a vast, marble-floored foyer, the ceiling rising high into shadows overhead. There was a grand staircase off to the left, and to the right corridors and entryways led to offices and ballrooms and dining rooms and the like. The first floor of the castle was for entertaining, the second for the business of statecraft, the third for housing those employees - servants, really - whose constant presence was deemed a necessity, the fourth for housing the royal family. The walls were hung with a strange mixture of artifacts; ancient tapestries and old family crests, portraits of kings and the creations of some of the most renowned artists of the day. In the daylight the foyer seemed almost to glow as the sunshine came slanting in through the high, narrow windows, but it was late, and the flicker of the lamps was feeble at best.

"Can I see my father?" Lucien asked as Matthew began to lead him across the foyer, towards the staircase. Matthew's steps were slow, now, and the steady tap tap tap of his cane seemed to match the tempo of Lucien's own heartbeat. However he had come to be wounded it seemed that his injury had not stalled Matthew's career; commander of the palace guard was a high honor indeed, and spoke to the level of esteem in which the king held him.

"Not tonight," Matthew told him, without an ounce of pity. The pair of them had been barely twenty, the last time they spoke, and while Matthew had always been a somber sort of man Lucien did not recall him having ever been quite this glum; it was not a comforting revelation.

"Doctor's orders," he elaborated after a moment. "The king needs his rest. Seeing you will be shock enough. Best not wake him just to scare him senseless."

"Quite right," Lucien agreed.

And then they were mounting the stairs. They moved slowly, spiraling up into shadow; on the second floor the stairs turned off to the right, and then again on third, and by the time they reached the fourth they were almost on the other side of the castle altogether, and both of them a bit short of breath.

"Christ, I didn't miss those stairs," Lucien complained.

Beside him Matthew huffed out a laugh. "You'd think after all these years I'd be used to them," he said, "but truth be told, I hate them. His Majesty won't hear of installing an elevator. Or he wouldn't, before…"

His voice trailed off but Lucien did not push him; there was no need. The king had suffered a near-fatal stroke, and been rendered mute and all but paralyzed. The truth of his condition had been concealed from the general public, while every last member of the government gave themselves over to near hysterics, consumed with worry over the fate of their kingdom. The king had but one son, one son who had gone abroad for a university education and never come home again. The king had but one sister, who was herself in ill health, whose children had died, whose only living heir was a granddaughter who had gone quite mad, and been sent to live out her days in a quiet institution far from the public eye. Lucien was the country's only hope; had he not returned when called for, had he shirked his duties, the petty squabbling of cousins vying over the succession could very easily have brought the kingdom to its knees. He might have had no interest in ruling, might have found the whole concept of a monarchy outdated and unnecessary and distasteful, but Lucien could not have in good conscience stayed away, knowing that his absence had incited a civil war. He had no choice, and he had always hated being backed into a corner.

"Here we are, sir," Matthew said as they came to a stop outside a familiar door. This had been Lucien's suite, once, in another life, and it seemed that now it would be again. Having done his duty in delivering the prince safely to his quarters Matthew turned to leave, but Lucien reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder and gently stopped his progress.

"Come and have a drink with me, Matthew," he said. "For old time's sake."

For a moment Matthew studied him, as if considering declining the invitation, as if wondering whether he even could, and then he shrugged.

"Just the one, then," he said.

Lucien smiled, and swung the door wide.

The suite was comprised of four rooms. The door opened onto a formal sitting room, complete with a well-stocked drinks cart and an array of comfortable chairs and expensive sidetables. To the left a door opened onto the bedroom, which boasted its own private bathroom. To the right, a door opened onto a study of sorts, lined with bookcases, complete with a heavy desk situated directly in front of a broad, beautiful window. Though this place had belonged to him from the moment of his birth Lucien had never been particularly comfortable here; the furnishings were old, and far too fine for a young boy, and it had always been clear to Lucien that he was not allowed to romp and play as other children did. It would not do, to damage such nice things.

"Scotch?" he asked, gravitating at once towards the drinks cart. That had been added on his eighteenth birthday, a gift from his father to signal his entry into the world of men. Perhaps the king had hoped that his son was serious enough, responsible enough, to be allowed such unfettered access to drink; if he had thought such things, he had been very wrong indeed.

"Just the one," Matthew said again, shifting a bit uncomfortably on his feet. Belatedly Lucien realized the cause of his old friend's distress; it was not the prince's place to pour drinks for a subordinate, and Matthew could not sit until the prince had done the same. Damn it all, he thought glumly. For the last two decades and more he had lived in a world without such rules, and he was not looking forward to living by their proscriptions once again.

"For god's sake, Matthew, sit down," he said, with a bit more heat than he'd intended. "Give your leg a rest after all those stairs."

"As you wish, sir," Matthew said. He did not protest, Lucien noted, merely sank at once into the closest armchair, and Lucien supposed he ought to have been grateful that his old friend had given in so easily.

The drinks poured then Lucien turned and joined him, passed him a glass before settling into the chair directly across from him.

"A toast," he said, leaning forward so that he and Matthew could clink their glasses together. "To the commander of the palace guard."

Matthew's expression soured, but he took a drink just the same.

"How did that happen, anyway?" Lucien asked. When he'd left home Matthew had only just joined the palace guard, and had been seriously considering life outside the walls of the castle. As he recalled, Matthew had wanted to be a proper copper, and Lucien found it somewhat sad that his old friend had not achieved that dream.

"You stick around long enough, and they promote you. The longer you stay, the higher you go. And I've been here longer than anyone."

Lucien laughed. "You always were too modest for your own good," he said. However Matthew chose to frame it, Lucien knew that his old friend must have shown himself to be brave, competent, steady, reliable, possessed of a dozen good qualities and mettle of steel in order to be trusted with such a post.

Matthew did not have a response, and for a moment they sipped their drinks in silence. It was a silence that borrowed beneath Lucien's skin, made him itch with the need to stand, to pace, to wave his arms around in distress at his circumstances, to drink, and drink, and drink, until he fell into a stupor, and woke once more in Hong Kong. There was no chance of that now, though, he knew. This was no dream; he had been allowed many long years to live life on his own terms, and that freedom was ended.

"What do I need to know, Matthew?" he asked, trying to shatter that silence, trying to find some occupation for his anxious mind.

"About what, sir?" Matthew asked him carefully. This, too, was to be expected; the commander of the palace guard could not be permitted to air his grievances openly to the heir apparent. Things are done in a certain way, Lucien heard his father's voice echoing in his mind, and they are done that way for a reason, and it is not your place to challenge the order of this world.

"The country. The government. My father. Please, Matthew, be candid. I'm afraid I've been gone too long, and you're the only friend I have here. I need to know."

"I think I'll need a top up first," Matthew said wryly. The words made Lucien smile; perhaps, he thought, the order of things did not have to be as strict as his father had always told him. Without a word of complaint he rose and refilled both their glasses, and returned to his chair at once, eager to hear what Matthew had to tell him.

"The country is in fine shape," he began. "The war was hard, but industry was kind to us, and there's enough to go around. The people are fed. And here, like everywhere else, things are changing. The women went to work during the war, and they didn't like being told to go back home. Most of them didn't. But we're finding our way. The government is…" he spent a quiet moment searching for the right word and then at last settled upon, "contentious. The Lords represent the old way, the Commons are fighting for the new. And Sir Patrick is caught in the middle."

"Is he still as old-fashioned and as miserable as he was when we were young?" Lucien asked dryly. He had not cared for Sir Patrick when the man had been no more than a young member of the House of Lords; now that he had been made Prime Minister, Lucien could not imagine his estimation of the portly knight would have improved.

"He's doing what he thinks is right," Matthew replied evenly.

"And my father?"

Once again, Matthew was quiet for a long moment. "He's not well," he said at last. "It's good you came when you did."

"I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I?" Lucien asked, his tone bitter even to his own ears.

Matthew regarded him for a long moment, and then took another sip of his drink. "No," he agreed. "I don't suppose you did."

A petrified-looking young man woke Lucien in the morning, and announced in a quivering voice that he would be serving as the prince's valet. Though Lucien had intended to be kind to the lad he had drunk rather more than was wise the night before, had woken feeling like a bear with a sore head, and his words had been rather abrupt. Another misstep, he told himself, to be corrected at a later date. He took his breakfast in his sitting room, looking longingly at the drinks cart and very seriously considering prescribing himself a treatment of hair of the dog before the older, wiser, more responsible piece of his heart intervened. He dressed carefully; sometime in the night his escort had arrived, and his bags had been delivered to his room, and some industrious servant had pressed his suit. The valet had stammered his way through an offer to assist Lucien with dressing, but he sent the boy on his way. It hasn't come to that yet, he thought to himself; some things he could still do on his own.

And when he was ready, fed and dressed and fortified, he squared his shoulders, and made his way down the corridor to his father's rooms.

Two guards stood sentry at the door to the king's private suite, but these two lads were better prepared for Lucien's arrival than the pair he had met the night before.

"Your Royal Highness," one of them said as they both came to attention.

"I'd like to see my father, please," Lucien answered. A strange expression crossed the boy's face, and it took Lucien a moment to work out the reason for his confusion. It was the please that had thrown him off balance, Lucien realized; princes were not meant to say please to anyone.

"Of course, sir," the young man said. "The doctor has been in already this morning, and word was left that you were to be allowed entry whenever it suits you."

While he was speaking the second guard had turned and opened the door, and so Lucien only murmured thank you, and passed through it.

The king's suite, like his own, opened onto a sitting room, though the suite boasted several more rooms, a grander view, and grander furnishings. The bedroom door was open, and so it was there that Lucien went at once. He lingered in the doorway for a moment; a woman was sitting in a chair by his father's bed, a plate balanced daintily upon her knees, and she was in the very act of lifting a spoon to the king's lips when she noticed Lucien's arrival.

"Your Royal Highness," she said at once. Graceful as a dancer she rose to her feet, one hand taking the plate and resting it on the side table while she gave a quick, neat curtsy. She looked to be forty, or thereabouts, with little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth that brought to mind the memory of a thousand gentle smiles. Her hair was dark and artfully curled according to the fashion of the day, and her dark navy dress clung to her lithe frame in a way that made Lucien's breath catch in his throat. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her features delicate and lovely, and as he stared at her he forgot himself entirely.

"My apologies for interrupting," he said.

She looked at him strangely. "Not at all, sir," she answered in a clear, soft voice. "His Majesty has had quite enough of breakfast, I think, and will be quite happy to see you. Please, come in."

It did not seem possible, in that moment, to ignore her gentle command, and Lucien was halfway across the room before it occurred to him that he had just allowed some nameless member of the staff to tell him what to do. There was no time to think on the strangeness of it, however, for she had wiped the king's chin and spoken to him softly and taken up the plate again by the time he reached her.

"Your Majesty," she said in parting, offering a curtsy to his father, and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her as she vanished, though the faintest hint of her floral perfume lingered on the air in her wake.

With a sigh Lucien settled himself into the chair the woman had so recently vacated, and took a moment to stare at his father with sorrow in his heart.

The king was thin, far too thin, his arms and legs limp beneath the duvet, his eyes sunken into a face that had grown impossibly wrinkled with time. When last Lucien had seen him, King Thomas had been a tall, proud, straight-backed man with a full mustache and an iron will, but age and infirmity had laid him low, and Lucien did not appreciate this reminder of the way all life must inevitably end. The king's thin lips moved, slightly, as if he were struggling to speak, and then Lucien noticed with a sinking heart that there were tears in the corners of his father's eyes.

"Hello, dad," he said softly. "I know we've had our differences. And I know we never quite forgave one another. But I'm here now, and...and everything is going to be all right."

It was a lie, but one that Lucien desperately needed to believe.