8 December 1958

"Really," Lucien said, no longer even trying to hide his exasperation, "isn't this all a bit...too much?"

The Earl Marshal frowned. While the man did not speak, Lucien fancied he could almost hear him saying Your Majesty, it is hardly enough.

"It's customary, Your Majesty," Alice said primly. She was standing just behind him, and though he could not see her he knew that she would be surveying the scene before her with a critical eye. Though initially Lucien had found himself completely flabbergasted by Alice Harvey and her strange, almost abrupt manner of speaking, he had come to rely on her entirely. He had heard it whispered that it was most unusual for a woman to serve as Personal Secretary to the King, but Alice had been promoted to the position prior to Thomas's death, and Lucien could see why. She was a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman, and she ran his life with all the grim determination of a drill sergeant.

"With all those open flames in the cathedral I'll go up like a Roman candle if I stumble," Lucien grumbled. He was aware that he was whining, but he couldn't help it. At that very moment he was standing on a box in the center of the grand hall, the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling merrily in the corner while adjustments were made to the garments he was to wear for the coronation. Lucien had never felt as out of control of his own person as he did in that moment; it was his place to stand very still and let his valet Peter and the seamstresses and the Earl Marshal poke and prod and readjust him, tug on his collar and fluff his robe and fiddle with his hair. Lucien had never, in his life, experienced so many people so completely consumed by the matter of his personal appearance.

The first order of business had been his suit. Despite his vehement protestations that he would be perfectly content in one of his navy suits it had been decided that he should wear full military dress. That he had served with the British army and not his own nation's forces did not seem to matter one lick to anyone around him. We enjoy a comfortable relationship with Great Britain, the Earl Marshal had told him. If you were an ordinary soldier, you could be transferred into our army and maintain your rank of Major. Of course, Lucien was no ordinary soldier, and he would not be wearing the crown insignia he had become accustomed to before his departure from the army. Upon his elevation to the throne, he had become the Field Marshal of his nation's army, a mostly ceremonial rank reserved for the monarch to demonstrate his absolute power over the military. It was a fiction, of course; Lucien wouldn't order troop movements or declare war unilaterally, and in recent decades Parliament had taken steps to ensure that he couldn't, but still, the honor remained. He wore a navy uniform, dripping with ribbons and medals, and the fabric itched something awful. Or perhaps it wasn't the fabric at all, just Lucien's body reacting violently to the very idea of wading once more into war, celebrating that which had brought him so much grief.

The uniform would have been injustice enough on its own, but to add insult to injury he had also been provided with a thick, monstrous fur cape. That cape currently swirled around him; were he to stand upon the ground and not the box that had been provided for him, the cape would have extended in a semicircle five feet around him. It was deeply cowled, and ancient symbols had worked all through it with gold thread. His skin crawled at the very thought of such opulence, at the sheer number of little animals who had been sacrificed to make it. The thing was heavy, and he found it difficult to turn corners while wearing it. When he had mentioned this to the Earl Marshal, the old man had pursed his lips and blandly informed him that he would do his best to make sure his sovereign only had to walk in straight lines, on the day.

His shoes were terribly shiny and pinched his toes, and the signet ring upon his finger was so heavy he feared it might slip off at any moment. The crown had not yet been placed upon his head, but Peter stood nearby, holding the monstrosity aloft on a cushion. It was nearly a foot tall, fur and gold and jewel-encrusted, and a petulant part of Lucien's heart wanted to knock it from the lad's hands and give it a kick for good measure. Not that it would do much good, he knew; they would place the crown upon his head, would place the ceremonial saber in his hands, and he would have to stand there, holding all of it, dutifully repeating the words that would seal his fate for good and all.

"You will wear the Jubilee circlet en route to the cathedral," Alice told him, leaving her spot behind him to circle him once, taking in his appearance with a critical eye. It was the circlet he wore at the moment, beaten silver set with one large ruby. "When you arrive you will be taken to the cloisters, where Peter will be waiting. He will take the circlet, and give you the crown and the saber. When the ceremony is complete you will return to the cloisters, and switch them again."

Lucien found himself overcome with a sudden urge to tell Peter he could keep crown and circlet both, that the lad had his blessing to pawn them and go off on a very long holiday, but the Earl Marshal had no sense of humor, and so he bit his tongue.

The whole ceremony had been choreographed like some incomprehensible modern dance, and Lucien was struggling to learn the steps. It didn't really matter, he supposed; he would not be alone on the day, and the various people in charge of him would not let him stumble irreversibly.

The vast doors of the hall swung open, then, and Lucien looked up quickly, eager for some distraction. It was Jean - Mrs. Beazley, he reminded himself sternly - with her arms full of fresh garland.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," she said quickly, stepping back as soon as she caught sight of the little gathering in the center of the room. "I'll come back later."

"We shan't be much longer, Mrs. Beazley," the Earl Marshal said grandly.

She gave a little nod and turned away, and as she departed something deep inside Lucien's chest seemed to snap. He was uncomfortable, he was bored, he was vexed, and he had not been alone with Jean for a week, not since that night she'd poured him into bed. His memories of the event were hazy but he recalled enough of his boorish behavior, and he was desperate to make amends.

"Back in a tick," he said, and then, despite the general outcry from the Earl Marshal and Alice and the confusion of the seamstresses, he strode purposefully from the room, the Jubilee circlet balanced rakishly on his head and the cape billowing out behind him like a sail. They could tell him what to wear and where to stand and what to say on the day of his coronation, but the King was still allowed some semblance of power, and in this instance there was nothing they could do to stop him.

"Mrs. Beazley!" A sharp voice rang out behind her, and Jean spun on her heel, obeying more out of reflex than any sense of deference. The sight that greeted her when she turned stole the breath from her lungs, though; does he know, she wondered, how commanding he looks, dressed like that? He was a tall man, a broad man already, but the uniform lent a sense of dignity to the muscular breadth of his chest, and the billowing cape made him seem like some warrior chief from the stories of old. The crown perched upon his head was sitting at a jaunty angle, but its disarray did not mar his visage; if anything, it made him seem more determined, seemed to highlight the movie-star handsomeness of his face, the shine of his slicked-back hair.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, dropping into a deeper curtsy than she had ever given him before. The formal nature of his clothing was a stark, almost painful reminder of his elevated station, in such sharp contrast to the somewhat familiar nature of their last encounter.

He strode towards her until he was standing less than a foot from her side, close enough for her to reach out and feel the softness of his cape beneath her hand, if she dared. The marble floor beneath their feet and the soaring ceiling overhead added to the sheer grandiosity of the moment; Jean had been living and working in the castle for so long that she forgot, sometimes, that it was not just another fine house. The importance of this place, this man, was impossible to deny in that moment, however.

"I wanted to apologize," he told her, and she found the gentleness of his tone utterly at odds with the preeminence of his appearance. "For the other night. I'm afraid I behaved quite badly, and I'm sorry you had to clean up after me."

For a moment Jean could do no more than stare at him, aghast and conflicted. It was not his place to apologize to her, especially not now, wearing the robes of state, wearing his sharp uniform, wearing that circlet that was as good as a crown. If only he would act like a King, be more aloof, more demanding, more disinterested in her as a person, Jean might have found him far more tolerable, but as it was her heart began to rip itself to shreds every time he drew too near, for he was handsome and kind and so eager to please that she found it hard, sometimes, to remember who he was. It was all well and good for him to do as he wished, but she was only a housekeeper, and she could never hope to be his equal. She found herself placed in an impossible position, torn between her heart and her duty, and each time she encountered him she found the lines of decorum beginning to blur.

"It's quite all right," she said just as softly, trying to dismiss the service she had provided for him, trying to forget the comforting weight of his arm around her shoulders.

"No, it isn't," he told her heavily. "I let my memories get the best of me. It won't happen again."

I let my memories get the best of me. What on earth did he mean by that? She wondered. Had he found himself haunted in the still of the night, pursued by ghosts and phantom visions of the terrible things he'd seen during the war? Or were there other memories, closer to home, that troubled him, memories dredged up by all the talk of coronation and his newfound status as King? In that moment, she wanted to know. She wanted, desperately, to understand him, to share his thoughts, to offer him comfort. Their position was too public, however, right in the center of the foyer, right in the beating heart of the castle, people walking to and fro all around them, and even if she wanted to reach out and place a tender hand upon his arm she could not, for to touch a King unbidden was an unforgivable infraction, and a sackable offense.

And so she only said, "you play quite well." She tried to say it kindly, hoped that he could hear in her voice that she did not harbor any ill will towards him, that everything would be all right.

He frowned, though, and her heart fell.

"My father was the real talent," he said bleakly. "I was rather more successful with the drums."

Jean was so startled by his confession, by the thought of this man in his uniform and robe and crown enthusiastically hammering upon a drum-set that she could not help but smile. Before she could speak, however, the tap tap tap of a cane upon the marble floor heralded Matthew Lawson's arrival, and so she bit her lip, and kept her words to herself.

"Your Majesty," Matthew said as he approached, his expression pained. "The Earl Marshal is having fits. Do you think we could go back and finish the preparations?"

The King sighed, and his shoulders slumped, and for a moment he looked more like a boy playing dress-up than a King nearing fifty years old.

"All right," he agreed glumly. "Let's get it over with, then."

Matthew turned away, and the King offered Jean a sad smile, and a little nod.

"Mrs. Beazley," he said.

"Your Majesty," she answered, and then she was left alone with her garland and her thoughts.