14 January 1959

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

The old familiar words tripped from her lips haltingly, hesitatingly; it had been over a month since her last confession, and as she sat still and troubled in the confessional with her rosary dripping from her fingertips Jean felt a certain sense of dread settle over her. Often confession brought her clarity, peace of mind, the ritual itself a cleansing one designed to help her cast off her burdens. What she had come to confess today, however, was a heavy, precious thing; the longings of her heart had turned sinful and wretched and yet she did not wish to part with them, for to give up on those dreams would mean to let go of hope as much as grief.

"What are you sins, my child?"

Jean did not give confession in the big cathedral at the heart of the city; she preferred plainer, more humble surroundings, and Father Morton had been her priest for many a long year. They got on rather well together, and if anyone must hear the truth of her heart she would rather it be him than anyone else.

"I have been envious," she said slowly, "and proud. I have coveted that which does not belong to me."

"My child-"

Jean decided to press on, to lay it all out now, quickly, and prevent Father Morton from making any suggestions until she had told him the truth in full.

"There is a man, father," she said, and the old priest fell silent at her words. "He is a good man, and...and a handsome man, and I have grown to care for him. But he is not a man I can have. I have coveted him, and envied the woman who can be with him freely. I have felt pride in myself, to think that he might care for me more than he does for her."

"I see," Father Morton said slowly. "And you are certain that no match can be made between this man and yourself?"

She almost laughed aloud. Yes, she was absolutely certain; there was no way. King Thomas had taken a commoner to wife, yes, but she had been foreign and wealthy, well-bred and well-educated, refined and of an appropriate age. She had presented him with a son, and the people had grown to accept her, to love her, in time; or at least, most of them had, and those who did not approve did not have long to linger in their distress for Queen Genevieve had died quite young. The circumstances could not have been more different, now. Jean knew her own worth and would never have cause to doubt it, but she likewise knew that kings did not spend their affections on the likes of her. The daughter of farmers, widowed, with two grown children and a somewhat checkered past, she'd celebrated her forty-fourth birthday the month before. And each of things was a mark against her, another reason why the King could not possibly be allowed to look her way. He needed an heir and a suitably appropriate wife to give one to him. The past that had made Jean into the woman she was so proud to be, that past was a burden that no amount of chicanery from the Press Office could overcome. The King needed to be strong, needed to demonstrate to his people that he would do what was right for the kingdom; marrying her was most certainly wrong, and Jean knew it. Besides, she reminded herself as she had done more than once over the previous fortnight, she could not say for certain whether the King's affections ran so deep as marriage in the first place. He had been kind and gentle, yes, had held her so close and kissed her hand so tenderly, but he had been drinking that night, and their emotions had been high; what if he longed only for comfort, and took it from any quarter? The man could be capricious and unpredictable, and Jean did not know, not truly, what it was he wanted from her.

"I'm absolutely certain, father," she told the priest. "It cannot be."

"In that case, my child, the easiest way to avoid temptation is to remove it. If you do not see this man, perhaps in time these feelings will lessen."

Somehow, somewhere deep in her heart, Jean had known that the priest's advice would run along those lines. She had heard such words from him before, in regards to other, lesser temptations. But how could she remove this particular obstacle from her path? Leaving the castle was quite out of the question, she thought; this place had been her home for fifteen years, and she was happy here. More than that, it provided lodgings along with a healthy stipend the likes of which she could not command if she went to work somewhere else. Without a husband to help support her she would struggle, she was sure, alone in the city. She did not want to trade her beautiful suite of rooms, the manicured gardens, the familiar stones of the battlements, the little cache of money saved up for travels she intended to undertake one day for the hard-scrabble life of a cook or a housekeeper somewhere in the city, for a dingy flat and the clamor of the streets. She did not want to leave her life, her friends, her home. And she did not want to leave him, not truly.

"That would be...difficult," she said slowly, though she tried to think it through, tried to discern whether there were any steps she could take to lessen her distress. Perhaps she could forgo her evening walks along the rooftop, and perhaps she could be less forthcoming when she did find herself alone with him. Perhaps she could excuse herself from any room he was in, and refuse to engage him on personal topics in the future. Perhaps she could turn the cleaning of his suite over to one of the other girls, and perhaps, in time, with a bit more distance, these feelings would begin to fade. That prospect was troubling; a piece of her heart had rejoiced in the sudden rush of affection she felt for him, in the touch of his hand, the thought that he might care for her as no one else had done for so very long, the thought that she was not entirely beyond the reach of love. She wanted that love, she ached for it, but her mind knew what her heart did not, that this love was not hers to claim.

"But not impossible?"

Maybe the Lady Ann will distract him, she thought as she turned the beads of her rosary over and over between her fingers. Maybe in time he will not seek me out, and we can both carry on. Maybe he does not care for me at all.

"No," she agreed. "Not impossible."

"Then do this thing, my child. Withdraw from your temptation, and say a rosary each night for the next seven days. May the Lord grant you wisdom, and peace."

"I understand that things are taking longer than you expected, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said, his conciliatory tone grating against Lucien's nerves. "But these things always take time. There are no records, and there is still a great deal of confusion in that area. Our people will find your family, sir. In time."

That had been his answer each time this particular topic was raised, and Lucien had grown tired of hearing it. Likely Sir Patrick was quite tired of saying it as well, but Lucien would not allow the matter of his family to be forgotten. A promise had been made, in good faith, and he was determined to hold up his end of the bargain only so long as Sir Patrick did the same. The Prime Minister had come to him this afternoon for their weekly meeting, and so far this one had been no different than any of the others Lucien had endured previously. The stated purpose of these meetings was to discuss the matters that had been set before Parliament, though Lucien always asked for a report on the investigation into his family's whereabouts and Sir Patrick always seemed to find the time to bring up the subject of Lady Ann. It was not a subject Lucien wanted to engage with him on; Lady Ann was perfectly nice, but it was not her face he saw when he closed his eyes, was not her companionship he longed for.

No, he longed for Jean, her steady, practical wisdom, the softness of her face when she smiled, the warmth of her in his arms. It was Jean he wanted to speak to in the stillness of the evening, Jean he feared he had wronged and so desperately wanted to please. He had not had a moment alone with her since their dance, and he was beginning to fear he had overplayed his hand, that she did not care for him so deeply as he did for her, that his attentions had caused her distress. Perhaps Sir Patrick was right, and he ought to focus himself on Lady Ann, or Joy as she was affectionately known by her friends. Sir Patrick had explained that little oddity to him; her mother's name was Ann as well, he'd said, and she was her parents' only child. Her father called her Joy, and the name rather stuck. But it's far too common for a lady of her standing.

Ann was rather a common name, too, Lucien thought, but he had delicately let the subject drop. He had no such sense of decorum where the matter of his family was involved, however.

"Do you have a time frame, at least? Any idea at all when we might know something?"

"I have only been told soon, Your Majesty."

Soon. Lucien was growing to hate that word.

"And since I have no new information to give you on that point, I would like to direct your attention to another matter."

What would it be this time, Lucien wondered, the factory workers' union or subsidies for farmers? Or, perhaps most galling at all, the repeated attempts to bankrupt the National Health Service in hopes of privatizing the whole industry? Though he had only been king for a bare three months Lucien had already learned that he and his Prime Minister did not quite see eye to eye on any of those points. Lucien was sympathetic to the unions and an adamant supporter of the NHS, and Sir Patrick...well, Sir Patrick was sympathetic to his own purse.

"I believe I have mentioned that the intelligence service has intercepted several attempts on your life since your return?"

That was not at all what Lucien had been expecting him to say. He nodded, mutely, and waited for the bad news.

"I'm afraid we've identified a credible threat. There's a radical anti-monarchist group we've been keeping tabs on, and we've received some information that they are planning to attack your speech at the opening of the new hospital next month."

It was rather too early in the evening for a drink, and Lucien could not help but lament his lack of scotch, in that moment. He had been shot at before, of course, had more than once encountered people who had done their level best to kill him, but never his own countrymen. He could understand the anti-monarchist sentiment - he rather agreed with them, if he were being honest with himself - but that they should think murder was the only way to achieve their goals was deeply distressing. At least on the battlefield he had been armed and prepared, had been able to see his enemy, to face them. In this new murky world of domestic intrigue he was rather at a loss; the enemy could be anyone, anywhere, and they would strike when he was least prepared. A battle, he thought, would have been preferable.

"I suppose you're doing something about that?"

He tried to make the question sound casual, but he was sure he'd failed quite miserably.

"We've picked up a few of their operatives, but some of the key players have gone to ground, and we can't seem to find them anywhere. The area where you're set to give the speech is too open, and it would be all but impossible to guarantee your safety. I must ask you, sir, to reconsider."

"Could we move the speech to another day?"

Lucien did not like the idea of retreating from public view at the first sign of trouble. He was a new king and he wanted his people to see him, and he wanted, very much, to stand before them and speak earnestly of the merits of the NHS, and the new hospital they'd built. He wanted his people to know that he believed in them, that he wanted to help them. And besides, hiding was not in his nature. If he went ahead with the speech and someone did come to attack him, perhaps the security services could capture these missing operatives then, and be done with the lot of them. The palace guards who dogged Lucien's every step were exceptional, and he was not without skills of his own. No, he had no intention of cancelling the speech.

"I'm afraid not, sir. The speech is scheduled for the day before the hospital opens. If we delay, we would have to keep the hospital closed to ensure your safety, and that would be unacceptable. Certain preparations have to be made before a royal visit, and these people would simply adjust their plans, whatever the day."

"I won't cancel," Lucien said firmly.

"Sir-"

"That's my decision. The speech goes ahead."

Lucien personally had no taste for giving orders, but some part of him remained Major Blake, still, and he was the King. Much as he might like to Sir Patrick could not overrule him, not on this matter.

"We will take every precaution, then," Sir Patrick said slowly, "but it must be said that we will do so under protest. I do not think this is wise, sir."

"Your concerns have been noted," Lucien told him. "Now. Is there anything else?"