Be honest, Fickle.His boldness only lived in his head.His so-called courage in the political arena melted into a form of bravado as he made his way from Blue Hall to Perrigwynn.Whatever personal feelings he held about the Lauchtenland royal family, he was proud to be in a country with the longest-reigning, most-respected royal houses in recorded history.
Outside, the June day defied clouds and lightning.It seemed the good Lord decided to send MP Fickle to an audience with Her Majesty under a great yellow ball of sun in a sky of blue like a holiday in Saint Tropez.
The North Sea waters rolled peacefully against the cliffs, as if they’d never wailed and thrashed, bursting against their boundaries.Even the garden flowers lining Row Clemency greeted him cheerfully as he walked by.
The summons to the Audience Room came late last night.He’d been out with friends, imbibing to his heart’s content, which didn’t leave him in the best of forms this morning, regaling them with the story of how Lady Royal came to his office demanding—as if she had any right—to know why he hated the House of Blue.
And he ruddy well told her, didn’t he?Because her family had stolen everything from his.Land and fields, homes, reputation and pride, all ripped away under the pretense of treason.If it was treason they wanted, he’d show them treason.He’d be a menace, an agitator, refusing to bend.The Blues had written his family’s ruin.Now he would write theirs.
Blast, but his head was pounding, and the three cups of morning coffee had yet to kick in.However, his anger and bitterness went way deeper than the effect of too many pints.Every step toward the Audience Room was a step toward truth or treason.
At the palace gates, he crossed through the welcoming gardens, down the white concrete path to the main door, and lifted the knocker.The door opened immediately.
“Welcome, MP Fickle.Do come in.”A palace butler, in a short red jacket and sleek black trousers, led him up the Imperial Staircase, down what he called the Queen’s Corridor, under the large portraits of royals past, and to the queen’s apartment.
Her secretary, Mason, ushered him into the esteemed Audience Room.“Please remain standing until Her Majesty arrives,” he said.“When she does, bow, shake her hand, sit only after she’s taken to her chair.When you first greet her, refer to her as Your Majesty, then after as ma’am.At the end of your meeting, bow and back out of her presence toward the door.”
“Yes, I know,” Hamish said as Mason exited.“I’m not a complete clot.”Only a partial one.
Glancing about the room, Hamish inspected the décor, slightly approving.It was a bit garish for his tastes, but it was a royal palace, after all.
The heavy blue carpet was woven with green, gold, and silver.The damask curtains were a cream color, while the ornate tray ceiling was painted with intricate, detailed history of the House of Blue.He took a photo with his phone.He did.No one said otherwise.He might suggest this sort of thing to the designer redoing his home décor.
What surprised him, however, was the sense he was not alone—that the ghosts of men and women from Lauchtenland’s past lingered in the corners and round the furniture.
“You’re my witnesses,” he whispered to them.
A far door opened at the end of the long room.He came to attention.A footman wheeled in a tea trolly laden with white china rimmed in gold and two shelves of cakes and sandwiches.Hamish’s stomach rumbled.But he knew he could not eat in Her Majesty’s presence.
“MP Fickle, forgive me for my tardiness.”Queen Catherine’s unannounced entrance set him off guard.He was struck by her poise, her beauty, and the sheer awe of her name and station.She was no ordinary woman.The history of the Crown and the country sat on her shoulders.
“Your Majesty,” he said with a curt bow, taking her offered hand.“It’s an honor to be here.”
“Is it?I’m sure my note came as a surprise.Thank you for such a quick response.”She paused by the tea trolly.“Tell me, how do you prefer your tea?”
“Oh, ma’am, none for me.”
“Of course you’ll have some tea.Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, ma’am.Thank you.”He stood helpless as the Queen of Lauchtenland served him a cup of tea and a plate with selected sandwiches and desserts.
She was gracious and kind, more than he cared to admit.She looked smart in her pale green dress and heels.If she struggled with her health, there was little evidence.
When she’d fixed her tea and plate, she sat in a wide chair with a mohair upholstery over a frame of dark, ornately carved wood.
They started with small talk, which she made an art form.Hamish took a few mental notes.More than anything, she made him feel comfortable.
“H-how is your health, ma’am?”he said, resting his teacup and saucer on his knee.“You’re looking well.”
“Thank you.It’s been a battle, I must say, but the doctors are optimistic.I wouldn’t wish Guillain-Barré on my worst enemy.”
“Then I’m safe,” Hamish said with a slight laugh, thinking maybe he should just shut his yap.But the queen caught his eye and smiled.
“I should get down to business,” she said.“After Lady Royal visited you, she, along with her equerry, Officer Michael Cross, found archives we did not know existed.”
“How is that possible, ma’am?With the Royal Trust and Royal Records?What sort of findings?”And why was she telling him?
“It seems my family, in years past, chose to store archives in an unofficial manner in an unofficial cellar.”She walked to her desk for a packet of papers.“For your reading pleasure, but it appears, MP Fickle, you and I are very distant cousins.”
