BURNING LOVE

74

Across the palace, in the north wing of Lincoln chambers, the sounds of movement alerted him to his wife's awakening. A soft groan escaped Lincoln, a frown creasing his otherwise handsome face as he threw back the covers. The events of the day pressed upon him – the strained breakfast with his father (a breakfast that would likely never happen), the endless meetings, the suffocating weight of expectation.

Lydia rose quietly and  looked at him awaiting for him to open his eyes,  which did meeting her dark orbs, offering Lincoln a sympathetic glance followed by a small kiss, his wife lingered in his arms before letting go.

Here, away from prying eyes, a flicker of raw grief passed between them. A silent understanding, a shared burden they bore together. She was so happy her husband had let her in, but his pain burdened her.

Lincoln gave a tight nod, a silent thanks, and together they made their way to the adjoining bathroom. The ritual of washing and dressing felt mechanical, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning beneath the surface.

In the other side over than ten minutes later, descending the grand staircase slowly, Alfred found their mother already seated at the breakfast table, a solitary figure cloaked in black. Her dress, usually a symbol of elegance in vibrant colours, now felt like a shroud.

Her face, a mask of composure for the world, held a hidden flicker of grief that Alfred, with his heightened senses and good context, could detect. It was a sorrow too deep for tears, a controlled agony that would surely seep out later in the privacy of her quarters.

A soft clink announced the arrival of Lincoln and Lydia. Lydia, ever ebullient, faltered at the sight of the somber scene. Her gaze flickered between the Queen's stoic face and Alfred's tightly pressed lips, concern clouding her youthful features.

Lincoln's wife, Lydia, who admired the Queen, she found it unsettling the moment they entered the wide living room that gave a clear view of the breakfast area. She grasped Lincoln's hand tightly, seeking his attention.

Lincoln lowered his gaze to his wife, his brow furrowed in concern. Her unusual cheerfulness throughout the morning had him on edge. But her behaviour was now worrying him.

"What's troubling you, love?"

"It's your mother," his wife confessed. "Something's wrong. She's never worn black like this before."

Lincoln glanced up, but everything seemed normal. His mother stood ten feet away, sipping her morning coffee. He shrugged at his wife, bewildered.

"Maybe someone died?"

His wife's eyes widened. "What?" As soon as Lincoln reached for his usual seat, he turned to his brother, Alfred, sensing something amiss.

Alfred, ever the diplomat, offered a small, reassuring smile. Standing to greet the entrance of his sister in law, that was a prerequisite for her status.

"Good morning, Lydia, Lincoln," he said, his voice a touch graver than usual. "Please, join us."

Lydia murmured a greeting, her bright  eyes betraying the unease churning in her stomach. It was a role she was still learning, the delicate balance between royal protocol and genuine human connection.

Taking his place after ensuring his wife was well seated, Lincoln then looked back at his mother, a horrible suspicion creeping in. Could it be one of his sisters?

"Did something happen to one of the girls? Mother, tell me!"

The Queen shook her head, trying to calm him. Images of Arthur's bloodied body flashed in her mind.

"The girls are safe," she reassured him, taking another sip of coffee.

Lincoln's gaze darted between his mother and Raphaelli, who stood behind her, an unsettling presence like snow in their usually balmy climate. If it wasn't his sisters, then who? A glint of metal on his mother's wrist caught his eye – the royal deathband.