The Shadow of Great Britain

As soon as Arthur finished speaking, he saw Hutter standing straight, his face flushed with excitement under the lamp.

He didn’t say much, just quickly tidied his collar, buttoning up each button on his uniform coat.

Colly’s eyes lit up instantly, like a pipe ignited by a spark.

His shoulder jerked slightly, his right foot stepping forward, almost instinctively ready to rush off.

He repressed his excitement, put his hat back on his head, moving slightly faster than usual. Without having fully donned his gloves, he reached out to push the door, as if he couldn’t wait to charge out of the office.

”Rest assured, Sir.” His voice tightened as he said these four words, his Adam’s apple moving fiercely, as though trying to suppress a surge of passion: ”I promise you, even if the earth sinks and horses stop, Windsor’s convoy will definitely enter London safely.”

The next moment, the two pushed the door open, the wind rushing in from outside, and Colly and Hutter strode out.

As soon as they left, the office fell silent once more.

Arthur stood with hands behind his back in front of the window, looking towards Kensington Palace, the street gas lamps flickering, the sky filled with sparse stars.

Arthur, who rarely prays to God, raised his hand and drew a cross on his chest.

...

Kensington Palace, East Wing Tower.

The night wind tapped against the window panes, the curtain swaying gently, as if something was trying to penetrate the palace’s thick brick walls, quietly approaching.

Victoria curled up in a corner of her bedroom chaise, the curtain half-lifted, with the embers in the fireplace flickering, casting light and shadow on her face, leaving her expression indiscernible.

The wind outside picked up again, carrying fine rain hitting the window, the glass vibrating slightly.

Victoria shifted, as if she heard something. She instinctively looked toward the narrow, high window embedded in the wall corner. That window was usually sealed tight, only occasionally opened for ventilation in summer. But now, it had been pried open a finger-width.

A tiny sound wafted in with the wind.

Pop!

A small paper ball was thrown in through the window.

Victoria stood alert, bare feet on the wooden floor. She first turned to glance at the tightly locked door behind her, then cautiously walked over and bent to pick up the paper ball.

In the glow of the firelight, Victoria unfolded the paper ball.

The paper was creased, one corner dampened by rain, the handwriting appeared crooked and unevenly inked, as if hastily scrawled by the writer, or perhaps deliberately so, to prevent identification.

But, even so, Victoria recognized it at a glance.

It was the handwriting of Sir Arthur Hastings.

——God bless, Princess, please hold on.

She clenched the paper, her fingertips tightening, yet her eyes remained dry.

Though brief, the words were enough to strengthen her resolve.

She slowly lifted her head, her gaze directed outside the window.

She knew who delivered it.

No evidence was needed.

Because, besides Miss Flora Hastings herself, most people had probably forgotten that the key to this window was always kept by her.

Then, she moved to the bedside and opened the ivory writing box that hadn’t left her side since she retrieved it.

The quill dipped in ink, the tip gliding lightly across the paper.

She wrote slowly, seemingly weighing each word’s significance.

——I am aware.

Again, brief, yet imbued with a different kind of weight.

She took a deep breath, then crumpled the paper back into a ball and tossed it out the window.

”Thank you.” She murmured to the night, knowing full well it might go unheard by anyone.