Peter, the earnest young valet, was waiting anxiously by the door to the king's suite when Lucien arrived there, Matthew by his side and Mrs. Beazley trailing after them, discreetly wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Your Majesty," Peter said as he caught sight of Lucien, giving a deeply awkward sort of bow. "The Prime Minister is on his way, sir."

Lucien barely registered the boy's words, already reaching for the door that would lead him into the room where his father lay. In the moment, he had little care for matters of state or politics; in truth, he cared for nothing, save his own aching heart.

"When he gets here, have him wait in the counsel room," Matthew said. Technically, it was not his place to issue such orders, but he was Commander of the Palace Guard, and the security of all royal persons, living or dead, fell under his purview. Lucien did not take issue with Matthew's command, and simply opened the door.

"I'll fetch some tea," Mrs. Beazley said in a wobbly voice, and then she departed, and Matthew and Lucien made their way into the king's suite.

On leaden feet Lucien marched to his father's bedside, trying and failing to steel himself for the sight that waited for him there. Thomas was not alone; a priest stood vigil over the fallen king and a young lady in a red dress was weeping in a plush-upholstered chair in the corner. Presumably it was the young lady who had found the king unresponsive and roused the whole house; he had been told by a physician earlier in the day that the castle employed a team of doctors and nurses who administered round-the-clock care to the king in his illness. The girl clutched a stethoscope in her lap, which seemed to prove the right of his suspicions, and Lucien felt a certain pity for her. She was terribly young, and he knew from experience that while it was never easy to lose a patient, some losses hit harder than others.

"Your Majesty," the priest said, nodding his head to Lucien with a solemn sort of dignity. "If you wish to pray-"

"I wish to be alone with my father." The words came out harsher than Lucien intended, but he could not disguise the grief that threatened to consume him; he had only just returned, hoping that he would have time to sort himself out, to devise some way to communicate with his father, to make some sort of plan, and now all of that hope had been lost. To lose his father so soon was the last thing he'd expected, and his hands were trembling, his thoughts racing, the taste of bile rising sharply in the back of his throat. And no, he did not wish to pray. It had been many long years since he'd found any solace in religion; God had stopped answering his prayers years before.

When the somber priest did not immediately respond Matthew once more stepped forward.

"You heard him," Lucien's old friend growled. "Clear the room."

The girl had pulled herself together, somewhat; she curtsied to Lucien and then hurried from the room as quick as she could mange. The priest followed at a somewhat slower pace but still, he went. The Commander of the Palace Guard was not a man to be challenged.

"I'll wait for you outside, Your Majesty," Matthew said, and then he, too, departed, closing the door behind him and leaving Lucien all alone in that room that had become as still and quiet as a crypt.

With a sigh Lucien sat down on the side of his father's bed, looking down at the old man with a heart full of sorrow. The years had stolen Thomas's vigor, and he had wasted away until he was no more than a shell of his former self. But still, Lucien had been so sure that they had more time.

How could this have happened? He asked himself, thoughts clouded by whiskey and the tumultuous events of the last twenty-four hours. Coming home had been hard enough, but this...there were not words for this. For most of his life Lucien had all but hated his father, hated his rules and his disapproval, hated the world he'd been born to, hated the restrictions on his person and the constant sensation that his life was not his own. Twenty years and more he'd been gone, spurning his father's attempts to bring him to heel, determined to live life according to his own terms. And what good had it brought him, in the end? His father had been laid low by illness, and Lucien had come home too late. It was too late to make amends, too late to prove to his father that he could be his own man and a good man at the same time. It was too late to ask for guidance, too late to ease himself into the public eye; this news would be all over the paper come morning, and the new king would be the only thing anyone could talk about.

As Lucien looked down at his father a strange thought occurred to him. The stroke that had taken Thomas months before had been catastrophic, left him paralyzed and mute; by all accounts, it should have killed him, for the old man had suffered a heart attack the year before, and his body was sorely weakened. And yet Thomas had clung to life, only to perish less than a day after Lucien arrived. Could it be, he asked himself, that his father had only stayed alive for his own sake, that the old man had fought tooth and nail to remain in the land of the living until he was sure that his son had returned to him, that his people were well? It was the sort of thing Thomas would do, stubborn as he was; however he had treated his son, the old man had always been dedicated to the welfare of his people. And now he had done his duty, and ensured that on the day he passed, Lucien would be there to take up his place, to care for those people as Thomas had always tried to do.

Whether it was the loss of his father, the loss of that chance for redemption, or his own fears for the future Lucien could not say, but emotion overcame him in that moment, and he bowed his head and wept.

For perhaps a half an hour Lucien sat with his father, trying to pull himself together, and when at last he felt steady enough he rose, pressed a kiss to the old king's forehead, and went in search of Matthew. The Prime Minister had been summoned, and Lucien knew that he would have to speak to the man, sooner rather than later. The transition from one monarch to another was difficult under the best of circumstances, and their current predicament was decidedly tricky. Public sentiment was not in his favor, and news of the king's illness had not been allowed to spread. The entire kingdom would be in shock when the sun rose, and Lucien and the Prime Minister's government would need to prepare themselves to respond at once.

They were waiting for him in the sitting room, Matthew and the priest and a half-dozen more guards. The king's body would not be left unattended, even for a moment; when Lucien stepped into the sitting room two of the guards - they were the same young men who'd been stationed by the front gate when Lucien arrived the night before, he realized - went straight into the bedroom without the need for direction from their superior, as if they knew already that it was their duty to stand watch over their fallen sovereign.

"Has Sir Patrick arrived?" Lucien asked Matthew. He was weary down to his very bones, but he would not rest until he attended to business.

"A few minutes ago, sir," Matthew answered. "I can take you to him."

"Lead the way," Lucien said, gesturing with his hand for Matthew to step out in front of him. But Matthew grimaced, and Lucien realized his folly at once; no one lead the king anywhere. That was his job; the rest of them would, of necessity, have to follow.

"Right."

His father had done his best to involve young Lucien in the business of state, and he recalled from his youth the location of the counsel room where the old king preferred to meet with the Prime Minister when he came to call. His feet carried him down the thickly carpeted corridor as if by muscle memory alone, and he was glad of it. He had not seen Sir Patrick in decades, and he did not relish the prospect of spending time with the man now. But Sir Patrick had been elevated to the post of PM some six years before, and was by all accounts a well-respected man. He had done what Lucien could not, and served the realm faithfully for most of his life. He might have been a pompous, conservative old windbag, but he knew how things worked, and Lucien would need to rely on his counsel, however distasteful it might be.

Matthew followed along behind him, quiet as a shadow. Though he had not said as much Lucien rather got the sense that Matthew had decided to take the protection of the new king as his own personal charge; most of the guards Lucien had seen were quite young, and perhaps Matthew felt that they were not suited to the task. Eventually he would be assigned his own protection detail, men whose sole purpose in life was to walk behind him with grim expressions and hands resting on their sidearms; Matthew had other, more important duties he could not neglect indefinitely. For the moment, however, Lucien was rather grateful for the company.

The counsel room was rather more cozy than some of the other, more grandly appointed rooms given over to the business of running the government. It was so named for it had traditionally been the place where the sovereign's chosen solicitor held meetings, but Thomas had taken it for his own. The walls were adorned with portraits of former heads of state in full military regalia, and the gleaming polished wood table that sat in the center of the room was surrounded by no more than ten high-backed chairs. As Lucien entered he found the corpulent Sir Patrick sitting not at the head of the table but rather directly to the right of it; a symbolic choice on his part, no doubt. Mrs. Beazley was with him, a silver tea service laid out on a tray in front of her while she poured a cup for the PM.

"It will be all right, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick was saying in a kindly tone of voice, but then he caught sight of Lucien, and rose to his feet with a surprising grace for a man so large.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head. "Long live the King."

"Long live the King," Mrs. Beazley and Matthew echoed automatically. They had been well trained, the pair of them.

The head of the table was meant for the King, and so Lucien made his way there. Matthew took up his post by the door, leaning on his cane, and Mrs. Beazley poured one more cup of tea, placing it by his seat.

"Your Majesty," she murmured to him softly, and then she was gone, the soft swish of her skirt fading as she slipped through the door. Lucien felt a pang of loss at her departure; he would much rather have taken his tea with Mrs. Beazley than with Sir Patrick.

"Right," Lucien said, sighing as he sank into his chair. Sir Patrick did not sit, and Lucien fought the urge to roll his eyes in frustration; all this little observances of protocol grated on his nerves. He gave a negligent wave of his hand, and then reached for the sugar bowl while Sir Patrick settled back down into his seat.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said. And though Lucien knew he would be hearing that same expression many times a day for the next several months, he could not help but feel a peevish sort of loathing for the sentiment. Yes, everyone would be terribly sorry for his loss, but none of them would understand the true scope of that loss. He had lost his father, but he had also lost his own life, in a way. Everything he was, everything he had been, would be taken from him, until all that remained was the crown.

"Thank you," he said shortly. "What happens next?"

The PM's expression in response to that question was faintly chagrined, as if he did not entirely approve of Lucien's direct approach to the matter at hand. Perhaps he disapproved of Lucien's demeanor, the laxity of his posture or his lack of emotion in response to his father's death. Perhaps to Sir Patrick's eyes Lucien was being a bit flippant, but the truth was he would mourn in his heart for all the rest of his days. Lucien was not through with weeping, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone catch him while he was at it. Of all the things he had been, a student, a musician, a rake, a cad, a doctor, he remained first and foremost a soldier. An old man dying peacefully in his bed at an advanced age after a prolonged illness was hardly the worst thing he'd ever seen; Lucien had kept his head under much worse conditions. His resolve had meant the difference between life and death, not just for himself but for many others besides, and he fell back on that old habit now.

"Well," Sir Patrick said after he'd taken a moment to gather his thoughts. "Tonight a team of doctors and priests will come to collect the King's body and take him to the cathedral to prepare him for burial. Tomorrow, the palace will release an official statement, and the government will as well. We'll need to allow enough time to arrange for the arrival of various heads of state who will want to pay their respects; I imagine it will be at least a fortnight before the funeral is held. The Earl Marshal will be in charge of that ceremony, as well as the subsequent coronation. His office will draw up the plans, but of course you will have final approval. The day of the funeral will be a national holiday. Then, perhaps a fortnight or so later, we'll hold the coronation. That will be a national holiday as well. You will make two formal speeches, one to the people on the day of your coronation, and one to the houses of Parliament the following day. You may need to do so sooner, depending on the public mood."

He had not said it outright, but from his tone Lucien gathered that Sir Patrick expected the public mood to be somewhat unruly. And who could blame, them truly, when they had lost a beloved monarch and a stranger had come to rule over them? Everyone is just a bit confused, that's what Mrs. Beazley had told him. Confusion could turn to riots in a moment, left unchecked. Lucien's head was reeling slightly; it was rather a lot of information to take in all at once, and he had, after all, had rather a lot to drink. The lingering effects of the whiskey manifested themselves in the trembling of his hands and a terrible ache between his eyes, but he could not say whether it was whiskey or doubt that set his stomach to roiling. Probably both.

"Who makes the announcement, for the palace?" he asked.

"It will be released to the newspapers, and read over the wireless. We've not had a...transfer of power like this one since the advent of television, and the publicity office will have to make a decision regarding whether the statement will also be televised."

That was something Lucien had certainly never considered, but now that Sir Patrick had raised the specter of television he found it only added to the growing list of his concerns. He could not do as his father had done in the early days of his reign, hide out in the castle with a modicum of privacy, shielding his foreign wife and then his son from view. People would expect to see him, and he would have to fit himself into an image that would meet with their approval. It was not a pleasant prospect.

"Do I need to review those statements before they're made public?"

Sir Patrick had laid out the schedule quite neatly, but Lucien still wasn't entirely sure what he was expected to do, and he could not simply do nothing. He was the King, now. The people were his responsibility, and he wanted, very much, to attend to those responsibilities - for lack of a better word - responsibly.

"You're under no obligation, sir," the PM told him. "The publicity office know what they're doing. But they're speaking with your voice, so if you want to go along after them, you have that right."

"Is there anything you need from me right now?"

Throughout their discussion Sir Patrick remained straight-backed and proud, ignoring his tea, but Lucien clutched his own cup as if it were the only thing holding him together, leaning back heavily against his chair. Matthew still stood sentry by the door, but Lucien hardly noticed him; the man had an uncanny ability to fade into the wallpaper that had no doubt served him well at times in the past, given his position.

"At this very moment, no. You'll have a meeting with your private secretary in the morning, and you can inform him about your decision regarding reviewing any official statements that are made. I imagine the Earl Marshal will want to speak with you in the afternoon as well. But for now, sir, all you have to do is simply be the King. The rest will come in time."

It didn't seem very simple to Lucien, but as least now he had some idea what to expect. Or rather, he thought he did.