The Shadow of Great Britain

As the doors of the reception hall slowly opened, not all the lamps in the main hall had been extinguished. The morning mist outside the window, like a light veil, covered the palace walls, and even the air carried a hint of lingering chill.

The Duchess of Kent, who had just finished washing, was wrapped in a deep purple morning robe, with an olivine earring dangling by her earlobe. Her hair was already tied up, though her temples were slightly disheveled, indicating her hurried arrival.

Her expression was calm, her gaze tranquil, with no signs of fatigue on her face, as if nothing had disturbed the ordinary order of Kensington.

But Arthur knew that the Duchess’s composure was mere pretense.

He had seen too many people like this.

Those whose palms were all sweaty, yet they still had to doff their hats and bow.

Those whose steps trembled, yet they still insisted on walking the red carpet.

Those who felt their knees weaken before the Priest, yet still professed that ”their souls were ready to go to Heaven.”

When the Duchess of Kent walked into the reception hall, she neither slowed her pace nor appeared hurried. It seemed as if she was simply following her daily social schedule, fulfilling a routine social obligation before her morning rest.

”Your Majesty, Your Excellency the Marquis.” She nodded slightly in greeting, ”Please forgive my failure to welcome you promptly.”

Finally, she added, ”Delina is still dressing; Leisen has gone to call her.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham returned the greeting in turn, ”Your Highness, no need for such formalities; we indeed came in a rush.”

The Duchess walked to the chair but did not sit down immediately. Instead, she gently brushed the cushion with her fingertips, as if wiping away a non-existent layer of dust, as if contemplating an unspoken thought.

”I beg your pardon for my abruptness, but when did His Majesty the King pass away?”

”At two twelve in the morning.” Cunningham’s answer was extremely restrained, ”The Queen and the Archbishop were present; all seals and documents have been processed.”

”I understand.” She nodded gently, as if confirming a message she had been anticipating.

No sadness, no relief, only a brief silence.

She instinctively turned her head to look at Conroy standing by the pillar.

It was an instinct she had developed during her eighteen years within the British Court.

Faced with a situation spiraling out of control, she was accustomed to looking at Conroy, allowing him to speak, propose solutions, strategies, and protocols.

Such a scene had played out almost every day in the past eighteen years, with Conroy always providing just the right response after her silence.

However, this time, the Duchess miscalculated.

Conroy too had clearly sensed her gaze.

He had been standing in the shadow between the column and the curtain, like a dust-covered statue, but as he realized the familiar call from the Duchess, his body involuntarily leaned forward half an inch, his Adam’s apple moved slightly, as if preparing an opening sentence.

He had spoken countless times in such silences for the Duchess of Kent, from making budget appeals for Kensington Palace to arranging Victoria’s curriculum, to disputes over the pomp of the Crown prince’s outings with St. James’s Palace.

He excelled at finding the right words to continue after the Duchess’s hesitant pause, turning awkwardness into strategy and turning unexpected events into his leverage.

At this moment, he almost instinctively wanted to do it again.

His lips moved, seemingly ready to start with clichés like ”Your Highness worries too much” or ”Now is the time for stability.” But before he could speak, he sensed a gaze coldly falling upon him.

Arthur did not speak.

He stood by the fireplace, not five steps away from Conroy, posture upright, his left hand lightly resting on the glove strap, his gaze seemingly piercing through the entire reception hall, beyond the positions of the Archbishop and the Marquis, directly into Conroy’s eyes.

That gaze contained no obvious anger, no discernible hostility.

It was not even a stare; it seemed more like a hint.

No voice reminder was needed, no gesture of threat was required, just a single glance was enough for someone to understand:

Now is not your time to speak.

Conroy felt as if an invisible boulder pressed upon his chest.

He had witnessed the scrutiny of the defendant’s stand and heard private sarcasm in the corridors of Parliament, but never had he been in such a silent setting where a young Knight, frightening in his youth, had blocked all his retreats with just one look.

He wanted desperately to divert his gaze, pretending he saw nothing.

But he knew that would only make him feel more embarrassed.

Of course, he could force himself to speak, but he also understood that once those words were spoken, he would be nailed in opposition to the new regime.

He weighed his options for a moment.

Just a moment.

In the next instant, his throat moved, yet no sound came out. His hand discreetly retracted half an inch, he straightened himself, and then quietly retreated into the shadows, hiding in a corner where the Duchess of Kent couldn’t see his face.

He neither bowed his head nor opened his mouth; he just turned his face slightly, as if reassessing the clock on the wall.

In that moment, Arthur also withdrew his gaze.

He did not even change his stance, only gently moved his left hand behind his back, overlapping it over his right wrist.

The room returned to its calm state.

Cunningham did not look at Conroy, he simply pulled out a transcribed list from his pocket, speaking in a calm and direct manner, ”His Majesty William left no verbal testament. The royal assets have already been sealed as per protocol, the Home Office has sent personnel to Windsor to manage the aftermath. The notification from the Privy Council is being drafted, and it will be delivered to the House of Lords before nine o’clock. The formal announcement of His Majesty’s demise will also be made public at the same time.”