His footsteps echo familiarly along the gleaming, polished floors as Henry creeps softly through the dark museum. He runs an absent hand along the walls, fingertips tracing his path like Theseus in the labyrinth, unravelling his ball of string. The ceilings are soaring and vaulted, crowded with shadows, and ornate arches frame each doorway he passes, when Henry's fingers drift free from the wall and he has to make his way forward by blundering, half-blind sight alone. The steady rhythm of his footsteps falter outside one door, and he knows he's here. The entrance, like the others, is carved with a large arch with pillars that stretch all the way to the cavernous ceiling set in the marble either side.
Henry slips inside, and presses the door shut gently, blotting out the last of the night. He fumbles his way in the darkness until his groping fingers find the switch and the room is flooded in light, the shadows shoved back into the darkest corners; behind the pedestals and between the feet of the gothic statues. Blinking, Henry moves to the first statue- it's of a young man, spiked crown on his head and a single foot resting lightly on a puff of cloud.
"Zephyr," He mutters under his breath, "Greek god of the west wind- by Francavilla." He moves on, trailing a hand down the inscription carved into the marble pedestal.
"Narcissus. Once attributed to Michelangelo, actually carved by Cioli." Narcissus kneels by a pool, mesmerised by his own reflection, eyes wide and staring. Henry runs a careful finger down the statue's knuckles, where a thin, snaking crack is the only sign of where they had to repair them with stucco.
On Henry moves, touching each statue in turn and murmuring a few words about each- words he's had memorised for years, memories lingering from the time when he came here every night, soon after his father had died.
***
He had knelt by the base of a large effigy of Zeus- King of Gods and God of the sky- and he'd put his face in his hands and wept, and when he'd cried himself dry, Henry had stayed on, curled up in a ball and listened to the wind howling outside, taking pleasure in losing himself in the dark and shadows for a while. He knows the words that go with each statue, and he repeats them to himself like a mantra, even when no one is there to listen to him.
Even now, just walking here brings back fractured shards of memories that pierce into him like knives; tears-stained faces and wet eyelashes and waking up sobbing in the night, to find the pillow soaked through with tears.
***
Henry wakes the next morning to find himself lying in his bed, bathed in a pool of light with the covers rucked up around him. He remembers slipping away from the museum, remembers walking down the quiet London streets, sneaking back into the palace and noting that a crack of light was spilling into the corridor from Bea's room, but he remembers all this as though from a great distance, or as if he was underwater at the time. He blinks, scanning his bedroom, eyes fixing on the dirt-stained cuffs of his pyjamas, then down at the fresh ones he's wearing. Then his eyes travel towards the door and a very unmanly screech flies free from his mouth.