1 December 1958

Jean was humming as she worked. It wasn't a conscious action; her mind - and her hands - were occupied with another task. A whole host of maids and gardeners and various other servants had been hard at work all day, hanging the traditional Christmas decorations under her careful supervision. They would join her in the grand hall later, to assist with decorating the twelve foot pine that stood lonely sentinel in the corner of the cavernous room, but first she was allowed this moment of solitude, deftly untangling string after string of festive garland. It was the sort of task she could have delegated to someone else - or several someones, as there was rather a lot of it - but she was grateful for the momentary respite from the frantic activity of the day. There were four royal residences, and overseeing their decoration and maintenance was her occupation. She'd spent the morning on the telephone, giving her orders, the afternoon tromping through the castle and checking in on the various tasks already underway, but this moment was hers and hers alone, in the fading sunshine of an unseasonably mild late afternoon.

Christmas was quite her favorite time of year. The castle seemed to burst with life; there were parties, usually, a winter ball and a Christmas Eve feast, a Christmas Day ball, a Boxing Day extravaganza. All month long they would play host to visiting dignitaries and their families, and the announcement had just been made that very morning that King Lucien's coronation would take place on Christmas Eve. The traditional feast would double as a celebration of his coronation, and Jean's to-do list would grow exponentially. There were people to house and clean up after, and so much food to be made her head spun at the very thought of it. But first, this. First the comforting familiarity of garland and shining ornaments, wreaths and lights, candles and mistletoe. It was a bit early to be undertaking such preparations, and the Christmas Tree in the grand hall would almost certainly have to be - very quietly - replaced before the season was through, but her heart was glad.

It was not the decorations or the festivities or the presents that Jean so loved about Christmas, though; it was the memories. Memories of a simpler time, when her boys were small, their cheerful faces as they tore eagerly through brown paper to reveal the modest presents underneath, memories of holding baby Jack in her arms while she sang quietly with the rest of the congregation at midnight mass, memories of Christopher rolling her smoothly beneath him and rocking gently against her while they laughed and whispered words of love to one another in the stillness before the children woke on Christmas Day. It was the memories of love, the warmth of family, the peace of her church and the joyful potential of a coming new year that Jean so adored. She could only pray that this year her memories and her hope would not be lost beneath the noise.

"Noel," she began to sing, quietly, garland draped round her shoulders and dripping from her fingertips as she continued her careful work. "Noel, born is the king of Israel…"

She smiled around the words, a smile only somewhat tinged by sadness. Jack had had some difficulty with that particular song as a child, she remembered. Oh, Jack, her sweet wild boy who had become almost a stranger to her. Even as a boy he had been belligerent, had angrily demanded an accounting for anything he did not understand or did not like. Rules chafed him, and he was prone to breaking them just to prove that he could. But he had been sweet, once; he used to pick flowers for her, and she had smiled and accepted them gladly, wondering how she could chastise him for pilfering the blooms from the neighbor's garden when he had done it with such gentle intentions. He had this way of smiling, lopsided and easy, that reminded her so much of Christopher, reckless and impulsive, capturing her heart utterly no matter what sort of mischief he had caused. Jack had learned early that he could get away with murder so long as he kept his mother happy; how much trouble could he have avoided, she wondered, if only she had not been so charmed by his smile?

"Noel," she continued to sing, lost in the past, "Noel, noel, noel-"

She did not hear the door opening, did not hear the footsteps over the sounds of her voice and her thoughts, but eventually voices broke through the din, and she closed her lips at once, somewhat mortified that she had been discovered. It was the King, accompanied by the Earl Marshal and Rose Anderson from the Press Office, Matthew limping behind them with a grim look upon his face.

"When you leave the cathedral, we'll bring you straight here," the Earl Marshal was saying. The King might not have heard; he appeared most distracted, and wandered away from his retinue, drawn as if by some unseen force to the grand piano that stood beneath the tree, a bare few feet away from Jean.

"Mrs. Beazely," the King said in a soft voice, giving her a little nod as his hands reached for the piano, fingertips dragging against the elegant wood.

"Your Majesty," she answered just as softly.

Those were the only words they spoke to one another; the Earl Marshal had shuffled over and once more taken up his detailed recitation of the plans for the coronation, while the King settled himself on the piano bench and listened with a pained expression. After a time he was led away from her, and she watched him go, no longer humming, no longer singing, no longer thinking of Jack, a strange sort of lament settling low in her chest.

It was later, much later, and the castle was asleep, or as close to that as it ever got. Jean had taken herself down to the kitchen for one final cup of tea and a few minutes spent with the wireless, but the time had come for even she to seek her bed. She was striding silently across the marble floor of the foyer toward the staircase when her ears picked up the soft strains of an unexpected sound. At once she abandoned the stairs and made her way instead to the grand hall, to the polished floor and the gilt and the sparkle of the Christmas decorations so recently hung in place.

Every inch of the castle was well maintained - Jean saw to that - and so the vast doors did not squeak on their hinges as she swung them open. The hall beyond was all in darkness, save for a small lamp shining beside the grand piano. The sound that had so beguiled her had been the sound of that piano, picking out a familiar tune. It was the same carol she had been singing earlier in the day, played with the expert grace of one who had performed it a thousand times, but it was not the song that caused her breath to catch in her throat. Or at least it was not only the song.

The King was sitting there, bent over the keys, his broad, strong hands caressing the melody as gently as a mother would her child. He had abandoned his jacket and waistcoat, and sat before her in only his dark trousers and white shirt. The fabric stretched taught across well muscled shoulders, and Jean found herself frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the sudden yearning she felt at the sight of him, by the sudden rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her as she wondered what it meant, that he should play the same song he had caught her singing only a few hours earlier.

Two months he'd been in the castle, now. Two months, and they had spoken to one another softly more times than she could count, now, had shared pieces of their pasts, of themselves. The King had demonstrated a concern for her - for everyone who worked in the castle - most unlike his predecessors, and she found him at once alarming and endearing. When she made her way up to the roof of an evening she tried to stop herself from wishing he would find her, tried to quell the disappointment she felt each time she entered a room and he was not in it. Yes, he was handsome, and clever, and kind to her besides, yes there was a brokeness about him that called to her, made her want to take him in her hands and heal him, but he was the King. He was not hers to yearn for her, hers to touch; he was so far beyond her reach the very thought was laughable. And besides, she told herself time and time again, she did not really know him, not truly, and could not ever hope to, for he might as well have been from another planet. It was not her place to be his friend, his confidant, or anything else her traitorous mind might wish for in the still of the night.

And yet, she could not stop.

Her mouth was open, poised to sing out the words, to match the skillful playing of his fingertips with her own joyous harmony, but before she could he stumbled across the keys, and the music stopped abruptly. He cursed, low and angry, and reached for a glass he'd left on the back of the piano, but he missed his mark and sent the glass careening to the ground where it shattered into a thousand tiny slivers, a dark pool of what she supposed must be whiskey spreading out beneath it.

"Damn," he swore again, but when he tried to right himself he got his feet tangled up and fell back against the bench, his elbow slamming into the keys with a terrible cacophony.

"Damn!" he shouted this time, and Jean took that as her cue to intervene.

"Your Majesty," she called to him, rushing to his side, not bothering with pleasantries. His eyes were bloodshot and half closed already, his body slumped back against the piano, his hands trembling, but it seemed to her that his cheeks flushed at the sight of her.

That'll be the whiskey, she told herself sternly.

" 's all right, Jean," he said, his words thick and slurred as she knelt beside him, wanting to look into his eyes. For a moment she stared at him, shocked beyond all reason by the sound of her given name falling from his lips. When on earth had he learned it, and why did he choose to use it now?

"I break everything I touch, you see," he said, throwing his arms out expansively and almost tumbling from the bench. "I'm not to be trusted with precious things."

"It was only a glass, sir," she said, trying to keep her voice even, trying not to drown in the blue of his eyes, so beguiling even now, bleary as they were. "Hardly irreplaceable."

His stare was baleful, full of grief, and she could not help but wonder what troubled him so, this man who had everything most men dream of, wealth and status and power, his every need attended to by a horde of servants who asked no questions. He had a beautiful home, and more food than anyone could ever hope to eat, and yet there was an emptiness to him.

What does any of that matter, without love?

It was a terrible thought, and one she tried to banish at once, but still, it lingered.

"Right, then," she said, reaching out all unthinking to brace herself against his thigh as she rose to her feet. The muscle beneath her palm was hot and hard and just the thought of it sent a rush of heat to her face, but the King did not appear to notice. "Bed," she said, holding her hand out to him. He threw his head back, watching her for a long moment, and she wondered if it occurred to him how forward, how discourteous she had been, wondered if he didn't like it.

"As the lady wishes," he answered winsomely. He took her hand, but he was far too heavy for her to pull him up all on her own. She gave a great heave, and he did his best to stand, but his legs were unsteady and he swayed on the spot. Operating by instinct, with no time for thought, she used the hand still holding his to pull his arm round her shoulders, and took his weight there.

"Come on, then," she whispered, and he followed her from the room, leaving the piano and the shattered glass and the whiskey where they lay.

Her heart was in her throat with every step they took. His suite was all the way up on the fourth floor, and she prevaricated as she guided him towards the stairs; it was a long way to go with a man twice her size who could hardly stand on his own, and there was an unoccupied room with a bed in it on the first floor. But if he were not in his own bed come morning his valet would shout the whole castle down, and she wanted to spare him that embarrassment.

Might be better than the embarrassment of the pair of you slipping on the stairs and cracking both your heads open, the reasonable part of her mind counseled her, but Lucien - the King - seemed determined to reach his own bed. It was a difficult business and they took their time about it, one step at a time, resting on each landing so they could both catch their breath. And all the while she held his hand, the weight of his arm heavy but also somehow comforting round her shoulders. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and expensive cologne, and his clothes were soft, his body warm; oh, but it had been such a long time, such a very long time, since last she'd had a man's arms around her.

At last they reached his suite, and she helped him to his bed, where he flopped back like a sleepy child, his eyes already closed. Jean's heart was pounding, half from the labor it had taken to reach this point and half from the thoughts his proximity inspired, thoughts of wanting, thoughts of pain. He had been a soldier, she knew; what horrors had visited him, in those dark days everyone else seemed to have forgotten? Was he, like her, still troubled by ghosts?

Carefully she removed his shoes, and then fetched a blanket down from the closet to cover him. He seemed content enough; he caught the edge of the blanket in his hands, and turned his head toward her on the pillows, eyes closed but a smile tugging at his lips beneath his beard.

"All right?" she asked him gently.

"All right," he agreed. "Thank you, Jean...sweet Jean...my Jean." And then he gave a great sigh, and his whole body went slack as consciousness deserted him.

She left him there, tiptoed from his suite and back down the corridor, grateful with every breath that no one had discovered her in that place. She did not want to have to explain herself, to reveal his shame, did not want to share this moment with anyone else. My Jean, he had called her, and she hardly knew how to feel about it. She had never been the sort to want, to need to belong to someone else, had cultivated her own independence until it was most precious to her. But when he spoke her name...oh, it was as if some tiny, frightened piece of herself stepped trembling from shadows into the light, as desperate for a piece of affection as a wild dog for a bone. Her head was spinning, as she returned to the great hall and cleared away the mess he had made. She felt almost dizzy, as if she had climbed to a great height, and peered over the edge only to find herself seized by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that in the next moment she must surely plummet into the abyss.