Lehzen was at the door of the small room at the very top of the palace which Victoria was now calling her room, and she was knocking gently at the door, careful not to startle the creature within, careful not to frighten. Her fist barely tapped the wood, and her voice barely tapped the air.

"Majesty!" she half-whispered, "Majesty!" Lehzen could faintly hear a little rustling inside, no more than that of a dormouse, and decided it best to continue with her announcement, trusting that the Queen was listening. She had been dependent on trust for weeks now: hoping the Queen was listening. She hadn't yet replied. "Lord Melbourne has arrived. He is requesting an audience with you. He says it is of a matter of great importance."

There was a silence before another rustling from inside the room and then a voice broke out, odd in and amongst the rustles, jutting out of the silence like the creaking of a door.

"I cannot see him." It took a few seconds for Lehzen to recognise the voice of the Queen. It had been so long since she had heard her voice, and it was hoarser now than before, more empty. She had lost all her mirth. All her colour. All her youth; snuffed out in an instant. "I do not want him in the palace." The voice sounded as strong as it could possibly have been. What she lacked in clarity, she made up for in volume. Lehzen could not see that she had stood up against the door, her chin raised and her hands clasped together and donning the position of Queen. She had the ability to look regal, but it was only behind a closed door, and she felt her legs wobbling beneath her and her bottom lip trembling and her steely gaze turning weak.

"Shall I ask him to leave, Majesty?" Lehzen asked, leaning in closer to the door, still keeping her voice low despite the Queen's force. The reply came out without a tremble,

"At once."

Lehzen nodded, though the Queen could not have seen the curt gesture through the door, and began to walk away before she heard a rumble of footsteps and the click of the door, squealing as it was thrown open.

"Wait!"

It had been weeks since Lehzen had last seen Victoria – and she was transformed. Her face was sunken. She was smaller, frailer. She did not care for being pretty. She did not care for charm. Her eyes were dark. Circled in purple. No longer blue and quick and sharp. Her dress hung from her. She did not fill it. It wore her. She was limp. Like a ragdoll. She was not a young girl anymore. How could she be a governess to a woman? This woman had seen the world and all the suffering in it and had become hardened to it. Her hair had turned almost grey. She was catching creases on her face. She did not smile. There was no emotion on her face. Empty, like the face of one in a dreamless sleep. She was ageing. She was too young. Too young to be so old.

"Tell him to wait. I shall grant him an audience."

Victoria did not know why she had agreed to meet with the man she swore she would never see again. Some curiosity, perhaps. The need to settle things with him. The need to cast the blame on to him. To make him understand how she hated him. To make him understand how he had brought her nothing but grief. The strongest grief. To make him hurt as she did. Or, perhaps, something more tender, that she would never admit to herself.

She descended the staircase, took the passages to where she knew he would be, and felt a conflict pulling her apart. One side was tugging one way, the other tearing her the other way. She would rupture inside, she feared. She was tired. She hurt. She felt Lord Melbourne's presence. Unmistakable. It coursed through her. Prompting her. Bidding her.

When she saw Lord Melbourne, her old friend and often confidant, now turned to a face that brought her grief, she was struck by the state he was in. His hair was plastered to his forehead in clumps rather than the usual curls, dampened by the rain which drummed profusely on the window, through which a little light was offered to make his wet cheek gleam. His nose was practically dripping, and his coat almost soaked through. She knew by how fervently he was rubbing his hands together that they were ice cold. She knew, if she were to hold them, they would be wet and half-frozen. She saw a face she had loved, so much, and had sought her out on the back of her eyelids day and night, that voice, his words. She felt the company that she once adored. But now it made her cold.

When he saw Victoria, his last love and his pupil, he almost broke his own heart, faltering on the edge of something agonising, holding himself together with the thinnest twine. Her hair was held up from her face by her own doing: it hadn't the fine craftsmanship of her maid, but was drawn back and up, leaving clumps and curls over her forehead and around her ears. Her dress, Melbourne thought, was the same that she had borne to the funeral, but she had lost the lace shawl and veil, and had lost the dignity with which she held herself, and now she was crumpled. He knew by how hollow her eyes were that she had cried all her tears away. He had remembered doing such a thing once, and he was sure he would do again if he had the strength. She was daubed in black and Melbourne did not think it at all suited her. He wanted her to wear pink again, and blue. And white. Oh, how he wished to see her in white.

"You are wet," she said, before anything else. Looking him up and down as if he were an item on display. A common figure. Melbourne allowed himself a laugh, thinking it appropriate, when it was not,

"Indeed, your Majesty."

"You came all this way by horse?" A flicker of something warm passed through Victoria's body. He came to see her. He came all this way just for her. The young girl in her cried out. The lover in her would have swooned. The warmth grew, creeping through her. But she promptly extinguished it.

"I came to enquire into your Majesty's health."

"I do not know why you felt obliged to come, Lord Melbourne," she replied, unfeelingly, remembering herself and the person she had sworn to be, turning her body away from him. The sight of him made bile rise in her throat. She wanted to close her eyes and banish him from her mind. She was afraid of him. She was afraid of how she felt about him. She clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes became steel.

There was no easy conversation, of course. Melbourne had expected it to be difficult but the reality was far more crippling. The Queen's mouth was rigid and tight-lipped. She was unforgiving, a closed book, an envelope without a knife. It was like trying to talk to a wall of stone, marble. Cold to the touch. No response.

"How is your son? And your daughter?"

"I do not know. I have not seen them."

"Edward, isn't it, Ma'am?"

"Yes. But I have not seen him," Victoria replied. Her voice was so cold. It chilled Melbourne. It sent a draft into the room. It made the air frigid. It made the birds shiver and stop singing. It made the rain freeze. Blood froze. Lungs struggled. Filled with ice. Melbourne fought it,

"You have not seen your new son?"

"No. I do not wish to see him."

"Ma'am, forgive me, but you are a mother. Do you not wish to be a mother to your children? They are the greatest blessings."

"I have never understood that. I tried to be a mother to Victoria. I did try. But she makes me cold. I don't like her touching me. She has cold little hands. And she's not at all pretty. I don't… I don't like her."

Lord Melbourne remembered his own children, selfishly, in that moment stood before his sovereign: exposed, vulnerable, at her mercy. He allowed his mind to drift back, billowing into the past. He remembered sweet George. His boy. Holding his hand in the night. That grip: as only a son holds on to his father. Growing into a man. Grasped. Taken. Turned cold. He thoughts back. Caro's screams caught his wandering mind and stilled it. It was held there. Shaking. He felt it, in that moment. As if he were living it again.

The calls from a doctor. She has gone into labour. She cannot have. It is too early. Too early. No. No. She is screaming. Sweating. Tossing. Turning. Hold her down. Hold her still. She has taken to the bed. Which bed? Where? Heartbeat. Metal. What are they doing? What is that? She is not strong enough for childbirth. She is calling for you. William. William. The name is screamed. The name is cried. You can only hear the name. She is not strong enough. George is lucky to be alive. Where is George? George? Your mother is sick. Do not be afraid. She is fine. Hold my hand. Your hand is so small in mine. Hold my hand, my little boy. My little boy. She is weak. Weaker still. Where has the light gone? Where is the doctor? Where is William? I'm here, my darling. I'm here. I'm here. Shh. You are strong enough. She is not strong enough. You are brave enough. She is not brave enough. You will live. She won't live. The child will not live. Where is George? He is fine. He is safe. Don't think. They are hurting me. Tell them to leave. I will die. I will die if they stay. No. Be strong. The doctors are here for you. They will help you. I love you. Leave the room. Shut the door. Wait. Hours. Hours? Screaming. Sweating. Crying. Wanting to hold her hand. Wanting to sleep. Silence. Crying. Dreaming? Crying. Again. A daughter. A daughter? A young daughter! Let me see her! Let me see her! My child. Mine. A girl. She is small. So small. How so small? No. Her eyes. They won't open. What colour? Taken away. Give her back. My daughter. Caro. Caro. She is alive. She is fine. She is weak. She is hurt. George is fine. George is ill. George is asleep. George is afraid. Where is she? My daughter? Where is she?

Dead.

Within hours. Let me see her. Please. No. Too small. Too early. Too young.

"Lord Melbourne?"

He was brought back into the room with her bidding. He blinked away the past and the tears with it, and his cheeks tinged pink in embarrassment. He had lost himself. He cleared his throat, and continued,

"You have two children living, Ma'am. You are very lucky."

Victoria was about to protest that she did not feel lucky or blessed or however he put it – but, in that moment when he drifted away from the room, she saw an acute grief pass over his face, like a shadow, and she knew what he had thought of, and she did not wish to cause him more grief, no matter how she told herself that she did not care. Her mind wanted to wound him, but her heart was too reluctant.

"I wish I could love them, Lord Melbourne," she choked, her gaze turning away from him, clasping her hands tightly together. "But I see them and I-" Her voice became nothing. Only air. And that air was filled with the thick hum of unshed tears, held only just below the surface. Her chin trembled and her eyes welled with saltwater and it was with all the effort she could muster that she kept herself from breaking down. Her throat stung. The throbbing in her head pained her.

"You must not blame them for what happened, Ma'am."

A scornful laugh rose from her lips. It burnt William's ears.

"I do not blame them. Why should I blame them? What have they done?" she cried in a bout of almost maniacal energy. Melbourne could have been afraid of her, had he not seen bouts similar to these a thousand times before. He held out a hand to the Queen, not for her to hold, but for her to understand that he meant her no harm. He held it out to her as a keeper does to an animal. And, if she were an animal, she would bite. "They did no sin!" she shouted, directly at him, bullets in her words. His hand faltered, lowering, his body receiving the wounds. "It is not them who will be made to pay for what they did!" Her voice became a shriek. Her tears would fall if anger were not holding them static. "We have sinned!"

Melbourne's body took a great blow. He shuddered, and his shoulders collapsed inwards, as if a great force had cracked his chest, and sent him staggering backwards. Wind was forced from his lungs and, with it, the stammered word,

"Ma'am?"

"Do you not understand, Lord Melbourne? What we have done? We killed him!"

Killed him? What had they done? Melbourne's head was full of bees. Albert had died of typhoid fever. That was what the doctors had said. That was what Emma had told him. That was what the newspapers had reported. That was the word on everyone's lips. Murder? What murder? She was not talking sense. The buzzing heightened.

"It is our love that killed him. I never appreciated him. Never truly loved him. I was cruel, so cruel, and all because of a fancy! Something fleeting! Because I couldn't bring myself to move on! Because I was acting like a little girl, not a woman! And it killed him. I cannot forgive myself. I do not care what you have to say to me, Lord Melbourne. Nothing you can say with heal any of my wounds. Nothing you can do will bring him back!"

Melbourne did not hesitate, did not think, before rambling a reply, throwing his arms out, exposing himself. Surrendering.

"If I could, I would give my life for him. If I knew it would make you happy. I would die a thousand times for it. I wish I could!"

"Don't say that." Victoria was pacing, her heart bursting.

"Why not?"

"Don't!"

"I only want you to be happy! That is all I have ever desired!" Melbourne cried, forgetting everything of his position and his tact and his gentlemanly manner. Damn all of it. He spoke, no, he cried with a fire that society had purged from him upon entering it as a young man. The instinct. The animal inside clawing to be heard and to be loud and to be real. The mind blazing through the surface. Tired of being shut away, being clipped, being hidden. Tired of its true meaning being obscured by manners and polite society. Tired of the dust. Wanting to burn. It burned bright and hot as he cried, "I want to make you happy, Victoria!"

His passion silenced Victoria. Struck dumb. Feeling little and offended. Feeling confused. She had not felt silence like that in so long. Stunned silence, in her voice and her mind. She looked him up and down, replayed the fervour in his voice over and over in her head, and it scared her to think that she had never wanted to kiss him more than she did at that very moment. To run her fingers, scratching, through those still dampened curls, to taste his lips, feel the rise and fall of his breath and share in it, breathe in what he breathed out, to soak up his passion and kiss it back into him, moan against his mouth, feel his tremble passing through to her. Nothing would be so glorious. It would stink of sin. She would do it if she did not fear God.

She closed her eyes, dismissing the desire that came creeping to her, into her, and sought strength before continuing,

"How can you say this to me, Lord Melbourne? How can you be so cruel?" Lord Melbourne fire was being suffocated again. "I gave you so many chances. All of which you turned down. All of them. And now you come to me and say all these things that I wished you had said before. You say them when I cannot accept them. You take the offers I once gave to you when I have taken them all back! You turned me away at Brocket Hall! And then you wrote me a letter, saying you would wait for me, for me to live with you in heaven! Where we can be together! Do you not understand how that hurt me? And now you come back, when you understand that I cannot accept you, and hurt me more with these… these… words!" Her tears fell freely now. Gasps racked her body. She choked on them. "You are too late!" An apology, a form of repentance, turned to smoke in his lungs. "I cannot do this. I cannot." And she turned to smoke too, for she turned and fled and disappeared, footsteps through the palace, dissolving into nothing, bounding away from him, into the indeterminable nothing. The footsteps left him and he found nothing in their wake. A cloying emptiness. A creeping. Catching in his throat. Making everything worse. He had done it. He had made everything worse.

Society was there for a reason, he told himself. It was there to stop people making things worse. He must remember to stifle the fire in the future. Always stifle the fire. Deprive it of oxygen. Turn it to smoke.

A crack. A smash? What was that? From upstairs. How much time had passed? Nothing was sure. Nothing was clear. All blurred as if gauzed over with a veil, black and vapid. The Queen. Victoria. He was moving before he had time to think. His feet carrying him, a cloud beneath him, to where he knew she was. How did he know? He could not have known. He felt. He did not know but rather felt. Like a string bound around his chest, too tight to breathe, knotted, dragging him against his will, against his better judgement, towards the soul that needed him. Hers. The beating of his feet against the staircases and the beating of the rain against the window and the beating of his brain against his skull and the beating of his heart against his lungs and his lungs beating against his ribcage and his veins throbbing and beating against his skin, paper thin, transparent, all restless and trembling, all taut.

His string sent him tumbling towards the Queen's chamber. The fire forced him to enter.

The Queen was stood, her arms falling tightly against her, a shard of glass clasped tightly in her left hand, and a scattering of light at her feet: a small puddle of shards, fracturing the light into a million rainbows. They blinded him. Her right arm, her forearm, was held out in front of her, soft and white, catching the colours of a rainbow, intact, but the edge of the glass trembling above the skin, ready to fall, ready to fall.

He had seen the scene before. He had been here before. He acted.

Victoria, frozen in that moment, was caught in Lord Melbourne's arms, ensnared, her cheek against the bristles of his overcoat, her small frame wrapped in his arms, her nose tickling as she breathed in aniseed and tobacco and parchment and all the smells that had become so distinctly him. The glass, cold and alien in her hand, was taken from her by a hand that was larger, rougher, and more familiar to her than her own. Her grasp fell open for him, unclasping and blooming like a gardenia, and letting loose the razor edge which he took without hesitation. Without fear. That hand took her harm. The hand that had led her in dances. The hand that had soothed her. Led her from carriages. Led her into the world. Led her through fear. Fought her uncertainty. Soothed her grief. The hand that held hers whilst it was kissed. The hand that had stroked gently over hers against the bleak cawing of the rooks. The hand that she had placed her love within, written down in a scrawling hand, urgent. The hand that she dreamt about. Caught her love. Catching it. She was bound against him, wrapped within him, held as tightly as possible. And, as her mind cleared and her eyes closed, she could hear words whispered in the voice that had never left her,

"Not again."

They shared a little moment's calm, once Melbourne had cleared the glass and calmed the Queen, sat her down on the bed, and allowed her to breathe. No anger. No pain. No grief. No angst, or sadness, or regret. A simple state of existing. A thing they had once shared often, but had not done in a long time. Victoria finally found the strength to speak, after the silence that they found themselves in.

"You will not tell anyone, I trust," she said, barely able to meet the man's eye. Melbourne shook his head and replied, earnestly, that he would not even think of it. It would remain between them and them alone. He could not bear the thought of doctors coming to prod and poke at her. Like they had done to Caro. It had only made her pain more agonising. It had only made the depression more acute. It had only make the hysteria stronger. He had learnt from that mistake.

When Victoria spoke again, she was hesitant with him. It was a tone she had not used towards him in a long time. He had missed it.

"When you found me, you said 'not again'… but I have never done anything like that before."

Melbourne's voice broke out with too much force to be believable,

"I was confused, Ma'am. Forgive me."

Victoria remembered how his expression clouded over when he had something to hide. She remembered how his mouth formed a hard line, and his eyes became dull. She knew that face too well. She did not speak to him, but looked at him. Not with harshness. Not a jot of harshness. The shine in her eyes, instead, pleaded with him. To be honest with her. After everything that had happened. Just be honest. Please. He took in her gaze. He processed it. He thought about it. He took a deep breath, understanding that gleam in the blue and what it meant. He tried to escape the past, desperately, but he was a man who lived in it. Always. No escape from it.

"Caro tried to… kill herself. Did I ever tell you that?" he asked, his voice more fragile now than ever. It showed his age. Creaking like the door to a mind that had seen many, many things and had a surfeit of stories to tell. A mind that ached and suffered pains but still stood on strong enough foundations to keep it steady amongst the beating wind and torrential rain. A door that held the barricade against the cruel and the cold, and harboured the warmth inside. Despite the cruelty and the bitter cold, the warmth remained. Victoria shook her head, finally able to really look at him. She saw the sadness in those eyes: green, soft and sweet like the skin of an olive, but shimmering with life, something gold, something rich, something she treasured. "A few times. The strain of George – my son – became too much for her. He was very ill. We didn't know what to do. And after our daughter… died… she took it very badly. She fell into a bout of terrible depression. Byron made things worse, of course. She felt worthless. Nothing I could do seemed to ease any of her pain. I don't suppose I really tried. I was proud. Foolish. She would hurt herself… I couldn't stop her." His voice broke. Victoria's body jolted when she realised that Lord Melbourne was crying. She had never seen him cry. She never thought she would. Not like this. Real sobbing. Tears falling from his eyes, down his cheeks. His voice hoarse and throat tight. Body convulsing. Shaking. Uncontrollable. Weakness. Purity. The most real she'd ever seen him. "Nothing… nothing… hurt me more than seeing her there. Pale and desperate. The woman I fell in love with, driven to madness." He stopped and heaved. He thought he would be sick. Victoria almost reached out to hold him, she wanted to, but felt paralysed. Tears. He sobbed. Victoria couldn't bear it. Her heart would break. He knew he should stop; but he could not. His heart was breaking. "I once drew a finger… across where she had hurt herself… she allowed me to do it… and I imagined that I was healing her, with my touch. She gasped when I did it. Took in a breath: winced. I thought I had done something. I wished. But… when I brought my finger away… the skin was broken and there was blood…" He trembled. His voice trembled. His hands clasped his mouth. Tears. He cried. Like a child.

Victoria could see the pain of a widower. Victoria could see the pain she felt. She could see it all. All the agony crippling her heart, twisting branches around her veins, seizing her and poisoning her, projected on to him. He hurt just as much as she did. He cried just as much as she did: with just as much force, as much pain.

They were not enemies in this.

She was a widow. He, a widower.

Her hand reached across the air and brushed gently on to his cheek. Her thumb swiped away a tear. She banished it from him. Took it for herself. He continued to cry. Heaving. Heaving. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Shaking. His trembling passed through her fingers, budding through her arm, passing through and striking her very core. Her palm pressed softly – oh, so softly – on his cheekbone and tentative fingers ghosted over his temple, catching his hair and stroking it. He closed his eyes, her touch scorching him. He would swear his face was glowing, radiating a golden light, and he felt a peace. His crying softened. He felt her pain, too. They shared it. He felt her love. His own hand, still shaking, hesitant, clasped that hand which cupped his cheek, and held it tightly. Never to let go. Thumb crossing over her knuckles. Fingers folding over her hand.

Sat on the bed in the highest room in Buckingham Palace, painted in rainbows scattered by shards of glass, foreheads meeting, breath melding, crying, hands learning and teaching, were Victoria and William. Widow and widower.