21 June 1959

"And just what the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" Matthew grumbled as he came limping into view, leaning heavily on his cane and frowning at him in the darkness.

"Can't a man enjoy his own back garden in peace?" Lucien answered. There was a mostly empty bottle of whiskey sitting upright in the grass at his feet, and a completely empty one in his suite inside the castle, and all in all Lucien was feeling quite fine. Oh, the world tilted at strange angles if he moved his head too quickly and he could feel the words jumbling in his mouth, not quite coming out the way he intended, but he was sure that Matthew would get the point. He was a clever man, Matthew Lawson. After all, he had seen what Lucien could not, had tried to warn him-

No, he told himself, jerking his thoughts back from that piece of darkness. The whole point of the whiskey, after all, was that it helped him to forget. The whiskey set music to playing in his head, and brought a smile to his lips, and when he'd had enough it sent him off to bed untroubled by dreams. It was the dreams Lucien hated, more than anything about his waking life; in the dreams the grief came for him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"A man can. A king can't be mucking around in the middle of the night doing god knows what with a hammer."

"That's a fine whiskey," Lucien said, ignoring his friend's words completely and pointing to the bottle. "You should have some. Hardly seems fair, to leave me to drink on my own."

"Your Majesty," Matthew sighed, but he did come closer, and bent, somewhat awkwardly, to retrieve the bottle. That made Lucien smile; he did so hate to drink alone, and Matthew was fine company.

"Do you remember, Matthew," he asked, leaning up against the workbench beside him, grateful for its support as the world spun and shimmered around him. "Do you remember that summer, before I went off to university, when that girl, oh what was her name, the ginger one, you remember, she used to…" why was he having so much trouble finding the words? He could see it so clearly in his mind, could see himself and Matthew as they had been, then, eighteen and wild, with the whole castle at their disposal. They used to take bottles from the drinks cart in Lucien's room, and come down to the gardens, used to wander among the hedges, and sometimes that girl, that ginger girl, would join them, and she would smile at Matthew so prettily, and sometimes she brought a friend along and oh…

"We used to have fun, remember?"

"That was a long time ago, sir," Matthew told him, not unkindly. He'd rescued the bottle of whiskey but he wasn't drinking, and Lucien didn't like that, not one bit. If they were both going to enjoy themselves, he couldn't be the only one who was too far gone in drink.

"Whatever happened to her, the ginger girl? Where did she go?"

Why do they always leave, he wondered then; why is everyone else free to come and go as they please, and I'm stuck here, trapped, wasted, why do they always leave, why does everything I touch seem to shatter in my hands?

"I'll have some of that, if you aren't going to drink it," he added before Matthew could answer his question, reaching for the bottle. Matthew didn't stop him.

"Her name was Anna," Matthew told him, while Lucien fumbled with the cap. "And she stayed on here, for a while. And then she left."

"Where'd she go?" Lucien asked, and took a long swig of the whiskey.

"She fell in with someone else. Moved out to the country. Never saw her again."

"You liked her, though, didn't you, Matthew? You liked her." I bet you would have married her, given half the chance. I bet you loved her, and she left you, and what a pair we make, eh, Matthew?

There was pity on Matthew's face, and Lucien did not like that, not one bit. If they were going to talk about the old times, if they were going to laugh, if Matthew had come to help him in his endeavor then he would welcome his old friend's company, but if all the man intended to do was stand there feeling sorry for him then Lucien would be glad to see the back of him.

"What are you doing out here, sir?" Matthew asked him then.

It was very late; the grounds were all in darkness, though lights glittered in the windows of the castle high above them. There was a tall, broad stone wall encircling the castle and its grounds, and it shielded them from view of the city beyond. They were alone, there in the deep green grass, among the winding paths and hedgerows and flowers, there among the perfectly manicured trees and the artificial ponds stocked with exotic fish. Alone, on a summer's night, and wasn't that said, Lucien thought, that they should be alone, that no ginger-haired girls were laughing beside them in the silence.

"I'm building a glasshouse," he said, gesturing somewhat unsteadily to the edifice behind him. The frame was mostly complete, now, but they were taking too bloody long about it, and Lucien had been bored and at a loose end with himself cooped up there in the castle; it had seemed only natural that he spend his time in some more constructive endeavor. The thought drifted through his mind and he laughed at his own cleverness. Constructive indeed.

"You've got people to do that for you, sir," Matthew told him, and Lucien whirled on his friend, dizzy and hurt.

"It's my bloody house," he snapped, "and if I want to build something with my own bloody hands I bloody well can." Can't he see, Lucien wondered, everything I touch turns to ruin. If I can only just...if I can just make something, something I can see, something I can touch, something that doesn't fall to pieces, maybe I'll be all right, in the end.

"What possessed you to commission this thing in the first place? Do the gardeners not have enough work to do as it is?"

"I promised Jean," Lucien said then, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had come on, replaced only by the sort of sorrow he'd set out to drown. "I promised Jean I'd build her a glasshouse." So she could fill it with beautiful things, so she could grow something with her own two hands, so she could be happy. I promised.

"She isn't coming back, sir," Matthew told him, and there was regret in his voice when he spoke.

"I know," Lucien said, and suddenly he found his legs did not want to hold him; he settled down right there on the grass, staring up at Matthew and the pitch black sky above him. "I know she isn't coming back."

No, Jean was not ever coming back. It had been a fortnight, and she had sent no word to him, and her little room had been emptied of the last of her things, and stood vacant now. Lucien suspected she had prevailed upon her nephew to deliver her belongings now that she was settled, and though he knew that if he pressed Danny hard enough he could find out where Jean was staying, but he had done no such thing; Jean had made her choice, and she had told him don't look for me.

So he did not look for her, but he still found her everywhere he went. He carried her in his heart, the memory of her soft voice, her gentle hands, her cleverness, her brilliant smiles. Every inch of the castle reminded him of her, and even now when he sought to banish her from his thoughts she had found him; had he not come here of his own choosing, to hammer a few boards and help to bring the vision of the glasshouse he'd promised her to life? She would not ever see it, would not ever walk among the trestle tables and tend to the flowers inside with her own hands, but she would be there, he knew, every time he returned to this place. It would be a mausoleum, of sorts, for a woman not yet dead but still lost to him, forever, a place where he could mourn her memory, and the memory of the love that could have been.

"You were right, Matthew, and I was a bloody fool," Lucien said softly.

Above him Matthew folded his hands over his cane, and leaned down to answer him. "No, sir," he said softly. "You were not a fool. You just...you wanted something that could not ever be."

"It's been that way my whole life," Lucien told him ruefully. "I wanted Mei Lin, I wanted our daughter, I wanted our house in Singapore and a quiet life far away from here. And I haven't got any of it, have I? I tell you, Matthew, I'd give up the crown right this moment, if I could, after all the trouble it's brought me."

"You could, but you won't," Matthew said, knowing already all the many reasons why Lucien remained in the castle, all the many reasons why he would never leave it.

"No," Lucien agreed. "I won't."

"I am sorry, for what it's worth," Matthew told him then. "Jean is...she's a fine woman. She's been a friend to me, over the years. I know she didn't want to leave you, any more than you wanted her to go."

"It doesn't matter what we want, does it, Matthew? What's done is done."

"What's done is done," Matthew agreed.

The joviality that had carried him out of the castle and down to the gardens had well and truly left him now, and Lucien saw no point in staying. His head was heavy and the bottle was empty - it had tumbled from his grip when he settled on the ground, and leaked its meager contents into the grass - and the time had come, he supposed, to seek his bed, and see what dreams might come to him in the darkness.

"Right," he said, flinging his hands out to give himself some leverage, straining and struggling to pull himself upright. Matthew held himself steady with his cane and reached out to offer Lucien some assistance, and between them they managed to get him onto his feet.

"Time for bed," Lucien said.

"Yes," Matthew agreed, and together they set a meandering course for the lights of the castle. Maybe the dreams would come for him tonight, dreams of bullets and fires and the lash of his captors' whip, dreams of his father's disapproving face, his mother's soft voice lifted in song, dreams of the curve of Jean's hip. Maybe they would come for him, and leave him weeping in the darkness, or maybe, just maybe, the whiskey would do its job, and let him sleep.

It was a clear night, a warm night, and Jean stood alone in her back garden, staring up at the stars. Out here in the countryside she could actually see them; they were not veiled by the bright lights of the castle, by the city beyond. Out here she could hear only the trilling of crickets, the occasional rumble of a car rolling down the high street; there was no stomp of a guard's boot, no laughter from a room where women had gathered to share a nightcap before bed, no handsome man waiting for her in the darkness.

Despite the warmth of the night Jean shivered, and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Everything had come together, shockingly quickly. This little town was an hour's drive away from the city where her king slept, a town big enough to boast three pubs and two petrol stations and a bookstore, and yet small enough that everybody seemed to know everybody else. This little town was where her sister Eadie lived, and it was Eadie who had given Jean shelter when she'd fled her home, Eadie who'd helped Jean find employment at one of the town's pubs, Eadie who'd helped her find this little cottage to rent and arranged for Danny to drive her things out from the city. Had it not been for her sister Jean wasn't sure what would have become of her, but Eadie had just smiled and said that's what family is for, Jean. And no doubt she was right; when all else failed she had her family, still, young Christopher's letters and the promise that she'd see him this year for Christmas, Danny's easy smiles and Eadie's unquestioning support.

Yes, she had her family, and her home, now, a new home but one she thought she might grow to love, in time. Its previous occupant had died and his children had not wanted to sell their family home, but they likewise had not wanted to live there, and Jean had arrived just in time to solve all of their problems. It had two bedrooms, and a rather lovely bathroom, a brightly lit kitchen and a lovely little parlor, and best of all it had a garden, protected by a high wooden fence. You can do what you like back there, the landlord had told her, just keep it neat.

She stared around her now, trying to decide what to plant, how she would make this place her home. Flowers along the fence line, she thought, and perhaps a tree for shade, and perhaps a little bench under the tree, so she could sit outside and read when the weather was fine. There was room enough for a small vegetable patch, even; it would be nice, she thought, to grow something with her own hands again.

But though settling her things into this house and making plans for the garden had offered her some piece of hope, her heart sat heavy in her chest, and sleep would not come to her. Though Eadie had jumped at the chance to help her Jean could not confess the truth to her sister, could not speak of her turmoil to anyone at all, lest the truth come out and ruin them both. She had run away from everything she ever wanted, the dearest longing of her heart, in order to protect her king, and she could not risk the damage to his reputation now, not after the sacrifice she had made in leaving him behind. It had cost her much too dearly for her to be reckless now.

Are you there, my Lucien? She wondered, staring up at the stars. On a night like this, warm and clear, he would have come to her on the battlements, and they would have spoken softly to one another, might even have shared a dance, a kiss, a tender embrace; on a night like this, he would have been beside her. The thought pierced her heart as sharply as any blade; oh, my Lucien, she thought, you must know this is not what I wanted.

What she wanted was him, his strong arms, his warm eyes, his deep voice, wanted to take his love and return it to him a hundredfold, wanted to fall asleep safe and sheltered and beside him. But fate had been cruel to them, and sent her far from his side. Perhaps in time this grief would lessen, but as Jean stood alone in the darkness tears overwhelmed her, and alone and in silence she let them.