There on the floor was a large white swan’s feather.
* * *
Queen Catherine
She hated the weakness, but recovery from this particular affliction took time. Apparently, she was blessed to be alive and kicking about, such as it were.
Edric fussed over her, as did her new maid, Ebba, an older woman with more nursing than fashion training, and her dear sweet Mason.
John was doing a splendid job with her duties. He read her daily boxes, kept her diary commitments and the Family business moving forward.
To her surprise, she found the forced, semi-retirement refreshing. She hid away from the world, from the business of the crown, and became Catherine, a wife, mother, sister, friend.
She missed Scottie. When she’d first gone back to Tennessee, the two of them texted or called at least once a day. But by the time October presented itself on the calendar, the messages were down to once a week.
They didn’t know each other well enough to keep the conversation going. Their shared memories consisted of less than two weeks. What was that against a lifetime?
They’d talked of Christmas but really, would Scottie travel over again? She had her own traditions, friends and family. As did Catherine.
Fighting for her health made her all too aware of how quickly things could change, how short and fleeting life was.
“He’s here, ma’am.” Mason stood in the doorway. “Are you feeling all right? I can turn him away.”
“Certainly not. We made an appointment.” Catherine pushed to her feet, drawing strength from thirty years of political and social meetings.
“Your Majesty.” John entered, faced her with a bow and took her offered hand.
“Thank you for coming.” She sat and motioned for him to sit across from her.
“Is all of this necessary?” John said.
“This is a formal meeting, so yes. You know we tried to get Hamish Fickle on our team.”
“How could I not? He mocks us every time he opens his mouth.”
“Best to ignore him at this point. People will tire of him,” Catherine said. “But you, my dear boy, need to start making your mark. Get on the talk shows.”
“You’re joking, right? I’m not going to become a talk show puppet.”
“No one is talking puppet. We can partner with the right shows and presenters. But we must move you away from the topic of the, um, the—”
“Vegas stripper?” His voice carried a bit of defiance.
“I wasn’t going to say that, but yes.”
“As you pointed out about MP Fickle, we’d do best to ignore it. Let it die. You know if I go on talk shows, all they’ll want to talk about is Gemma.”
“Are you still in touch with her?” Catherine said.
“No.” The sadness in his reply made her flinch. “She probably thinks I hate her, but I don’t. I’m giving her space.”
“What about Sydney Templeton? Have you seen her lately?”
“I see your spies are hard at work.”
“She’s perfect, if I can use that word.”
“Sydney is pretty special.”
