20 September 1959

"That John's a nice fella," Eadie said archly, taking a sip of coffee and watching Jean like a hawk over the rim of her mug. They were sharing breakfast together, the way they did most every Sunday, before venturing off to church. Ordinarily Jean quite looked forward to their Sunday morning chats, to spending a bit of time alone with her sister - Eadie had been a godsend, had kept Jean company, kept her from moping too much over the months since she'd come to this place. Their husbands were dead, their children out living their own lives, and they had gravitated towards one another, just as they had done during the war while their men were away and the work of maintaining their family farms had fallen squarely on their shoulders. It was strange, Jean thought, how the courses of their lives had run so much the same, despite the difference in their temperaments.

"I'm sure he is," Jean answered, refusing to look her sister in the eye. Yes, John was a nice man, a very nice man, but he had expressed no interest in being anything more than a friend to Jean, and if he had she would have left the pub at once. They were friends, two people who had lost too much to even contemplate romance, and particularly not with one another. But from the very first Eadie seemed to hope for more, for Jean's sake, and she was not content to let the matter lie, no matter how Jean tried to dissuade her.

"Oh, come now, Jeannie," she huffed, "would it kill you to smile, every now and then? I know this isn't where you want to be, but you're here now, aren't you? Why not make the best of it? You don't have to be lonely, if you don't want to be."

That was true enough; John was not the only available man in town, and Jean had firmly closed the door on any possible romance with her king. Lady Ann stood by his side, now, and he had no need of Jean; the thing was done. If Jean did not want to be alone she did not have to be, no more than Lucien was, but what Eadie didn't seem to understand was that Jean much preferred the solitude of her grief to the company of a man, even a nice one. She had been alone with her grief for years before Lucien came along, had armored herself in memories and taken strength from them. I had my love, that's what she used to tell herself; one is enough, for a lifetime. But then Lucien had come to her, burned holes in her defenses with the touch of his hand, and she had begun to wonder, for the first time in nearly twenty years, if perhaps there was room in her heart for a second love. It was no longer a question, now; she had loved her Christopher, and she had loved Lucien, too, and both those loves had left her cold and lonely. She did not need another.

"I'm fine, Eadie, honestly," she said, waving the very suggestion away with a negligent hand. Eadie frowned as if she did not quite believe her, but she let the subject drop - for now. Jean did not believe for one moment that this was the last time she would find herself on the receiving end of such well-intentioned advice, but peace reigned, for now, and so she sipped her coffee and picked at her breakfast in the wan light of an autumn morning. For now she was content; she could not ask for more.

"They told me I'd find you here," Joy said as Lucien held the door open for her, as she stepped into his suite with her back ramrod straight and a murderous look in her eyes. "I thought I'd see you at the breakfast table."

"Li isn't feeling well," Lucien answered, though he regretted those words the moment his daughter's name passed his lips, for he knew that it was because of Li that Joy had come to him, that it was the arrival of his daughter that had made his almost-fiance so very cross. "I checked in on her this morning, but she wouldn't eat. I've left her to rest, for now."

"Have you rung for a physician?" Joy asked, and for a moment Lucien could not help but wonder if perhaps all was not lost; there was compassion in the question, if not in the tone in which it was delivered. Perhaps, in time, Joy might come round, might set aside her wounded pride and find it in her heart to be kind to Li. Though Li's appearance in the castle meant a great deal to him personally he could not say what it meant for the future of the kingdom; it might well be that she still had no intention of accepting her birthright, that he was still in need of an heir, and thus in need of Joy. He had not slept a wink, and all his thoughts, all his questions, all his hopes, every possible consequence of the night's events went tumbling through his anxious mind at breakneck pace, and the riot of his thoughts left him feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts.

"No," he said. "I'm a doctor myself, Joy. I examined her, and there's nothing to worry about. She's just had a very difficult journey, and her time's nearly come. I imagine the next few days will be uncomfortable for her, that's all."

Joy gave him a very strange look, then. "What else don't I know about you?" she asked him softly.

The things you don't know about me could fill a book, he thought sadly. "Why don't we have a seat?"

They were standing together in the parlor of his suite; Joy had come to him in a fine pink dress, while he himself was wearing the same trousers and wrinkled shirt he'd been wearing the night before, his jacket, tie, and waistcoat long since forgotten. There was a tray of breakfast things on the low table by the sofa; Peter had brought the food to him when he had chosen to forgo breakfast in the main hall, but Lucien had not touched it. His nerves were frayed, his mind racing; when he left Li's room he had thought that perhaps it might be time for a lie down, but there was too much noise in his head, and sleep remained beyond his reach.

At his suggestion Joy began to make her way across the room, and he followed in her wake. It did not escape his notice that she chose rather deliberately to settle herself in the armchair, rather than on the sofa as she ordinarily would have done. Apparently she had not interest in sitting beside him, this morning.

"Right," he said, flopping heavily onto the sofa. "You know that I was a soldier?" It seemed to him that the easiest thing to do would be to start at the beginning, and so he did.

"Everyone knows that, Your Majesty," she answered, frowning.

"I trained as a doctor first, and then served as a medic in the British army. I was stationed in Singapore. While I was there, I married a local girl."

"Married?" Joy repeated, her tone incredulous. "No one's said a word about -"

"No one knows about it," he said grimly. "I could probably count on my two hands the number of people in the whole world who know that I was ever married. I knew my father would not approve of my wife, so I didn't give him a chance to put a stop to it. The whole thing was done very quietly."

"And where is she now, your wife?" Joy spat out the word wife as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. "Is she going to come waltzing through the door this evening?"

"My wife was killed during the battle of Hong Kong." The color drained out of Joy's face at those words, but Lucien took no satisfaction from the sudden change in her demeanor. "When it became clear that the Japanese were set to invade Singapore, I put my family on a boat. My wife's parents were already in Hong Kong, and I thought she would be safe there. But the ship sank, and my wife died, along with most of the passengers. Li was saved, but she was taken to an orphanage."

"Why was she not sent back to you? Or sent here to your father?" Joy had crossed her legs, and she leaned towards him now, her forearms resting on her knees, her eyes watching him carefully. Though he did not love her, though he did not think he could ever come to love her, Lucien did admire her, in some ways, and he appreciated her curiosity, her intellect, her keen insight into the world around her. If he could not have Jean, he supposed Joy would not be entirely unbearable.

"By then Singapore had fallen, and I was held in a prisoner of war camp." Joy gasped but Lucien did not stop to explain himself; those three years had been the darkest period of his life, and he had no intention of explaining it to Joy now. "The government in Hong Kong had no record of Li's identity, and no way to reach me even if they did, and my father did not know she even existed."

"I had no idea," Joy said softly. "They never mentioned any of that, in the papers. About the camp, I mean. It must have been dreadful for you."

For a moment, just the briefest of instants, Lucien contemplated rising to his feet, peeling the shirt from his back, and showing Joy the crisscross of scarring that scored his skin. She was meant to be his wife, and if that ever came to pass she would inevitably see those scars for herself; perhaps, he thought, it might be best to get it out of the way now, to show her exactly what sort of man she was marrying, the memory of misery he carried on his skin. There had been no need for such a display with Jean; she had known before he ever kissed her, before he ever fell in love with her, before he ever took her to bed, that his dreams were haunted by ghosts, that he grew maudlin with drink, that his memories were full of dark and terrible things. Joy didn't know any of that, and perhaps it would be a kindness to tell her now, before it was too late for her to turn tail and run.

And yet he did no such thing, for to reveal himself in such a way would be to leave himself vulnerable, and he did not trust Joy with the shattered pieces of his heart. Jean had dragged her fingertips against his back and with her gentle touch she had soothed him, blessed him, absolved him of his pain. Somehow he did not think that Joy's touch would have the same effect.

"No one did," he answered. "There were press releases, when I first came back, newspaper articles introducing me to the country. We rather conveniently chose to leave that part out. It doesn't make a difference, now, and I'm not interested in being the object of anyone's pity."

"Of course not," Joy demurred. "So your wife died, but you found your daughter?"

With that question they were back on track, and Lucien was grateful for the return to the subject at hand.

"When I became king, I set the security services to looking for her. They finally tracked her down a few months ago."

"That's why you went to Shanghai?"

"Yes."

Joy nodded, her eyes still watching him intently. "It was my understanding you were in need of an heir, Your Majesty, but it seems to me you've got two downstairs. I don't see where you need me at all, now that she's here, and about to give birth."

The same question had been rocketing around Lucien's brain for most of the morning. If Li delivered her child well and healthy, if she chose to stay in the castle, if she accepted the mantle of princess and everything that came with it, he supposed he did not need Joy at all. He would not need a wife, another heir, would not need anything but his family. And yet he did not know for certain whether Li wanted to stay, and he had promised her that he would not ask her to do anything she was not willing to do. She had only arrived the night before, and Lucien felt it would be cruel to force her to make that choice now, when her grief was so very raw, when she found herself alone in a strange corner of the world where no one save Lucien spoke her language.

"My daughter was not raised a princess," he said slowly. "She doesn't speak much English, and our world is foreign to her, in every way. She may have no interest in assuming the throne when I'm gone."

"So you still need me, then," Joy said, though there was neither triumph nor relief on her face; if anything, her expression seemed bitter. "You want to hedge your bets. A spare child, just in case."

No, what Lucien wanted, more than anything, was to forget that he was king, to spend time with his daughter, to hold his grandchild in his arms, to be a father, and to hope that one day Jean might find her way back to him. Sir Patrick and the politicians could wring their hands over the rest of it; it made no difference to Lucien.

"I think that would make Sir Patrick happy," Lucien said.

"And what about you, Your Majesty? What would make you happy?"

This is dangerous ground, Lucien thought, scrubbing his hand across his face wearily. However much he might have disliked Joy's turn of phrase she had a point; he was not prepared to set Joy aside until he knew for certain whether Li intended to stay. He was hedging his bets. And perhaps that was cruel, to hold Joy in reserve, just in case he needed her. There was no great love between them, but she could not settle into her own life until he had made his choice.

What would make me happy? He wondered. Li made him happy, Jean made him happy, a stable country and the lights in the glasshouse made him happy. Joy didn't factor into the bargain, when it came to the matter of his own happiness. But if Li chose to leave…

"It's all right, Your Majesty," Joy said, rising to her feet. "I think I know the answer. Or at least, I know I don't want to hear it." She smoothed the front of her dress, and offered him a wan smile. "I will stay for a month. If you haven't made up your mind by then, I'm leaving, and you'll have to find yourself another girl."

And then, without waiting for his dismissal, she turned and left the room on silent feet.