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England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of wat’ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
—Richard II, 2.1.67-74
When the doctors told him the year, Arthur didn’t believe them. They turned on the news to show him the date, unintentionally exposing him to a dizzying reel of political events and disasters he didn’t have the context to understand. They showed him a picture of a costar he’d worked with a few times, looking much older than she had the last time he saw her. They hadn’t shown him any pictures of his family.
Before they could rush off to order another test, Arthur grabbed the nearest person’s wrist. The doctor glanced down, as if surprised by his strength.
“My children,” Arthur said. “My wife.”
The doctor smiled. It was tense, but it looked genuine.
“They’re fine, sir,” he said. “We’re calling them right away.”
Arthur’s grip relaxed in pure relief. Before the doctor could slip away, he tightened it again, a fresh worry on his mind.
“Don’t,” he said.
The doctor regarded him quizzically.
“Don’t call them until you’re sure I won’t keel over,” Arthur said. He meant it to come out sly or self-deprecating, but he knew he just sounded desperate. “Don’t give them false hope.”
At that, the doctor’s smile broadened. “Certainly. But just so you know, it’s looking very good. It’s something of a miracle.”
The doctor placed his hand over Arthur’s knuckles and squeezed briefly in reassurance before walking away.
Left to his own devices, Arthur thought about miracles.
He had never been a particularly religious man. He’d endured the whole “divine right of kings” idea for Cat’s sake, not because he actually believed in any of it. He thought someone had ferried the children to church on Sundays when they were small, but he wasn’t certain.
He rooted around in his brain for the little knowledge he had of comas and medical recovery from traumatic events. They hadn’t expected him to wake up, he deduced. The medical staff had gazed at him with wide eyes when he started speaking, which told him they thought he’d have significant cognitive or motor impairments. Did he?
For his entire life, one of his worst fears had been a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s or dementia. When it turned out to be cancer, his first reaction had been one of relief. It might kill him, but he’d go from being alive directly to being dead. It wouldn’t be a long, slow progression of losing everything important to him. His mind wouldn’t be the thing to go.
The universe was funny like that. He’d gotten his wish, but only just.
If there was a God, it was hard to imagine it being kind, especially to Arthur. He hadn’t done much to deserve it.
Not knowing was worse than anything. His imagination spiralled into worst case scenarios, his children maimed or terrorised or desperately unhappy.
Arthur began to trace the lines on his palm with his thumb. His skin certainly felt real. He felt awake.
What if this was Heaven? He almost scoffed at the idea. Him, going to Heaven.
No, Hell was much more likely. Some section of Hell that made him ruminate on all his failings, that kept him away from his family.
But the doctor had said they were contacting Catherine and the children. He’d have to wait and see, he supposed.
It had been nine years. Everyone had moved on without him. Was it better to be alive like this than to have a quick, clean death?
He’d make himself a promise. Even if this turned out to be some nightmare, some hellish dimension designed to torture him, he’d do his very best. Maybe none of his actions mattered anymore, but he could still try to be good. He’d try to be there for the children, for Cat, in a way he never had when he was alive.
Or rather, before this all happened. He was still alive. Wasn’t he?
They told him Catherine was on her way. That ruled out one of the possibilities, he supposed. Can’t be in solitary confinement if you can have visitors. And if this were some kind of divine punishment, his family wouldn’t be getting punished with him.
Maybe this was a blessing, after all. Maybe he’d get one final chance to make things right with his family before getting the death he’d hoped for.
A whining, childish, fearful part of his mind still wasn’t ready.
Did he want to die? Arthur rolled the thought around in his head for a few moments before deciding that he didn’t. He just wanted to have peace. Wanted his family to have peace. How could they have that now that he’d woken up, upending all of their lives?
He pushed all of it down. The last thing he needed was for the doctors to think he’d lost his mind. The last thing Catherine needed was to have her memories of him ruined by his irrational philosophising.
A knock came. Arthur did his best to brighten his expression, to square his shoulders.
“Yes?” he called.
The nurse opened the door, flashed him a careful smile, and ushered in a woman standing behind her.
Cat was… old.
She was still beautiful, of course. Nothing could ever change his mind about that. She still carried herself with that same grace. Her eyes still held that quiet intelligence, that slanted humour.
But when she walked into the room, the walls didn’t threaten to bend at her presence, the way they always did. There was no power in her strides. Instead, she seemed to shrink, shoulders curling inwards as she walked. It looked wholly unnatural. It made him feel ill.
Catherine had lines on her face, but not from smiling.
Instead of being swept across her shoulders, her long, brown hair almost hid her face from view— not like she had styled it that way, but like she’d truly forgotten to push it aside.
Arthur was desperate to find something familiar about her. Then, he spotted it: in the back pocket of her bell-bottomed jeans (he remembered those jeans, he remembered them from when they were new) she had a paperback book. Some painful tension in his chest loosened at the sight. It was still her. She was still his Catherine.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
She stared at him, the clouding in her eyes clearing, replaced with utter surprise. Her face twitched. Catherine started to laugh, and Arthur could have gotten down on his knees and thanked God for every second of that sound.
No, this couldn’t be a divine punishment. This was a blessing. The only question left was how long it would last.
“Am I alright?” she asked, in the same way she’d ask Do you honestly think that makes you look cool?
“Cat,” he managed, his voice cracking in the middle of the word. He reached out with one hand. She went straight past it and grabbed him around the shoulders, tucking her face into his neck. He wrapped his arms around her back, holding her close, and breathed her in. Wood polish and roses. She still smelled the same. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend nothing had happened to them at all.
“Cat,” he said again, stroking her hair.
She stood there, half-collapsed on top of him, and started to cry.
His hospital bed was terribly small, but he shoved over to make room for her on the mattress. She shuffled in next to him, shifting and grimacing at the aches and pains in her body. He almost suggested she sit in a chair, instead, but she still clung to him like an octopus.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
Arthur almost chuckled, but then a terrible thought occurred to him, and he stopped. He hadn’t had any time to miss her, to forget the sound of her voice. It had been nine years for Catherine. She hadn’t heard him say he loved her in almost a decade.
“I love you more than life itself,” he swore.
Her breath stuttered. She hid her face in his neck. He could feel her tears on his skin.
It only occurred to him then, with a jolt of horror, that Catherine could have remarried. He felt mostly certain that she hadn’t. He tried to check for his ring on her finger with a casual air, and nearly melted into the bed when he found it.
They laid there for uncountable moments, just holding each other. One of the privileges of royalty, he supposed, was being allowed to have privacy in a hospital.
“Cat,” he said.
She hummed in question.
“I don’t mean to be blunt,” he said, “but could you tell me what’s happened?”
Catherine chuckled. “Insatiably curious man.”
“It’s been nine years,” he complained mildly. “I think I’m allowed.”
She moved far enough away that they could look at each other.
“Those eyes,” she muttered, so quietly that Arthur didn’t think he was meant to hear it.
“Were they pearls?” he asked, semi-coherently, knowing she would get the reference.
Catherine rolled her eyes. “You weren’t even in The Tempest.”
“Cat,” he prompted gently.
She sighed. “Of course.”
Arthur frowned. “You’ve got me worried, now.”
“Everything’s fine,” she blurted out. It didn’t do much to assuage Arthur’s suspicions, and she seemed to notice. “Well, obviously things have happened. But everyone’s safe and healthy.”
Arthur relaxed somewhat. “Alright.”
“There’s a lot,” Catherine said. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll tell you what I know. Of course I will. But soon you’ll see that I…”
Arthur brushed her hair behind her ear. “What?”
“You help me so much,” she said. Her expression looked almost pleading. “You’re my rock, Arthur. Without you, I… there are a lot of things I could have done differently.”
Arthur tried to shove down his sense of impending doom. Pip. Bea. Hen. Please, God, let them be…
“Philip’s a Lieutenant in the RAF,” Catherine began, “and he got married. She’s a lovely woman. Martha Fitzroy. I think you met her once or twice.”
Arthur had no idea who she was talking about, but nodded anyway.
Pip, married. He was so young (had been so young). He had so much left to learn about gentleness, and taking a moment to breathe in between the breakneck schedule of events he was scheduled to attend.
Pip was… Christ, thirty-three? He was a full-grown man.
It was September, so Bea was nearly thirty, and Henry was twenty-seven.
Arthur tried not to get himself too worked up. Out of all of his children, it was Henry he worried for the most.
“Beatrice and Henry…” Catherine inhaled shakily. “They’re doing wonderful charity work. Their fundraising and outreach for the last quarter alone….”
Arthur frowned. If he had wanted a financial report, or the basics of his children’s biographies, he would have looked it up on the internet, or asked a random passerby.
Catherine seemed to realise this, and she fell silent.
“I think you’d better talk to them yourself,” she said instead.
Arthur nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. I’m just glad to know everyone’s alright. I know this must be quite the shock.”
Her face lit up in relief. “Yes, exactly. I’m sorry.”
Arthur raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. The grin which spread across her face was shaky, but it was there.
1993
“Where’s Pip?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, in the bath,” Catherine answered. Her eyes were still on her book.
Something uncomfortable squirmed inside of him. “He’s not by himself, is he?”
Catherine glanced up, startled. “What– of course not! Jessica’s giving him his bath, just like she always does.”
Arthur nodded. He was running late. He should’ve been out the door ten minutes ago, but—
“Do you ever give Pip a bath?” Arthur asked.
Catherine looked utterly confused.
“Not that you—” Arthur sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. “We’re both his parents.”
“Are you alright?” Catherine asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever given him a bath,” Arthur realised quietly. “He’s more than a year old, and I’ve never given him a bath.”
Catherine closed her book, frowning. “There’s nothing wrong with that. My mother certainly never bathed any of us when we were children. Let alone my father. Could you imagine?”
Arthur bristled. “Right. Yeah.”
Catherine sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Arthur checked his watch. “Alright. I’m sorry, I’ve got to run.”
Catherine smiled. She stood and looked him over with a critical eye. She smoothed down his collar, picked a piece of lint off of his jacket.
“Will I do?” he asked.
Catherine nodded firmly. “You’ll do wonderfully.”
She pulled him in by his tie to kiss him goodbye.
“You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate,” he quoted.
She giggled. “You’ll be home by eleven?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Catherine had only left to get a few hours’ sleep. She had said that Philip would be by soon enough.
Things had always been difficult with Philip. Arthur blamed himself.
He hadn’t been nearly as involved with Philip as he should have been. Whenever the Queen asked to spend an afternoon with him, Arthur and Catherine let him go. How could they say no, when Philip was so excited about learning how everything worked? He was going to be King one day. Arthur could see the benefits in letting him learn about what the role entailed as early as possible.
But then they started seeing Philip less and less. Even if he was physically there in the house with them, Philip would be preoccupied, with one thing or another, usually surrounded by piles of paperwork. A fourteen year old boy, looking at financial statements.
Arthur didn’t know how he felt about Pip joining the military. But it was a tradition for Windsor men, Philip would argue. He wouldn’t be in any danger. He’d make important connections, and learn how the system worked from the inside.
Arthur was struck with a horrible realisation, around the time Philip turned sixteen: Arthur was hearing the Queen’s talking points directly from his son’s mouth.
Philip was strong enough to handle it, was the thing. If it had been Bea— or, God forbid, Henry— they would have crumbled under the pressure. Philip seemed to thrive in it. Sure, he would snap at Arthur, make derisive comments whenever Arthur reminisced about working as a waiter when he was waiting for his big break. But Philip wasn’t doing anything wrong, exactly. He was passionate. How could Arthur get in the way of that?
2007
Bea’s bedroom door was half-open.
“Bumblebee?” Arthur called.
“Go away.”
Her voice was muffled. Arthur gingerly stepped over the threshold and saw her, wrapped up in blankets, face shoved into a pillow. Her short brown hair stuck up in all directions— she looked rather like a porcupine.
He sat at the foot of her bed and laid a hand on her leg through the duvet. “What’s wrong, love?”
She stayed silent for a moment. “Tara says I can’t go to Sasha’s sleepover.”
“Ah.” Arthur looked ahead of him at the white, gauzy curtains drawn across Bea’s windows. The dappled sunlight added a texture, an otherworldliness to everything in the room. The only thing that looked normal, untainted by the fractured light, was Bea herself. Tucked away in shadows as she was, she just looked like a little girl: angry, and just a little bit scared.
“Did you want to have Sasha come by here?” Arthur asked.
Bea groaned in frustration. “Everyone in school’s going to her house, Dad. That’s the whole point.”
Arthur nodded. He’d long ago stopped trying to understand the intricate social lives of twelve-year-old girls. “Do you know why Tara said no?”
Bea groaned again, but didn’t answer. Arthur grinned.
“Bumblebee,” he sing-songed. “Do you know or not?”
“I do,” she grumbled.
She shifted over in bed. One frustrated brown eye blinked up at him.
“I can never do anything,” she complained. “It’s not safe, or they won’t sign an NDA, or…”
Arthur brushed her hair off her face. “I know, love. It’s frustrating. But we’re not keeping you from having friends. Maybe you can host the next sleepover. Or they can decide to have a party during the day so you can attend.”
“It’s not fair,” Bea whispered. “I just want to be normal.”
“Oh, love.” Arthur kissed her on the forehead. “You are normal.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Arthur interrupted. “We’re going to figure this out. But for now, since you won’t be going to a sleepover, how about we practise your guitar?”
“I am getting pretty good at ‘Heart of Gold,’” Bea conceded.
“That’s the spirit.” Arthur got up off the bed and pulled back the covers. “Come on, little miss. The music room awaits.”
“Dad.”
Bea was beautiful. The spitting image of her mother at that age. She was different than Arthur remembered— less impatient, less fidgety. Bea looked like she was at peace with herself.
“Hello, bumblebee,” he said.
Bea’s lips pressed into a thin line. She blinked, hard, and slowly lowered herself into the chair at his bedside.
“You can cry, if you want,” Arthur reassured.
Bea nodded, but tears didn’t fall from her eyes. The silence dragged on.
“Your mother said you’ve started a charity?” Arthur asked, desperate for some common ground, to see his bumblebee open up to him again. “How are you liking it? What kind of work are you doing?”
Bea’s face spasmed. The mix of joy, relief, and melancholy on her face went away entirely, like a slate being wiped clean.
“She didn’t tell you,” Bea said. It wasn’t a question.
This was a horrible thing to repeat. Catherine hadn’t told him a lot, it seemed.
“What do you mean?”
Bea screwed her eyes shut. Her hands shook.
“Hey, hey.” Arthur spoke to her like he might try to calm a spooked horse. “It’s alright. It’s just me, love.”
She looked up at him and stared, unblinking, for a beat. Two.
Arthur opened his mouth, but Bea beat him to it.
“I’m a drug addict and an alcoholic,” she said evenly. “I’ve been in recovery for more than seven years, now. I still go to meetings. I have a sponsor. My charity is a fund for addiction recovery programs. That’s why—”
Bea exhaled sharply through her nose. Arthur thought of horses, yet again. Or maybe she was more like a dragon.
“Of course she didn’t tell you,” Bea muttered. “Of course she wouldn’t.”
And Arthur, abruptly, couldn’t stand this for a moment longer.
“She did,” Arthur lied. Bea’s eyes shot to his. “I just didn’t know what your charity focused on. Your mother told me what happened, love. I wanted to let you tell me whatever you wanted. I just want to listen.”
Bea squinted. Damn her for inheriting her mother’s shrewdness. Whatever she saw in Arthur’s face seemed to convince her— or, more likely, she was cutting him some slack because of the whole nine year coma nonsense. He wondered how long he’d be able to milk that for.
“Okay,” Bea said. She was visibly still winding down, her indignation leaking out of her with every exhale. “Okay.”
2014
Henry shuffled into the dining room late.
The servants were already starting to clear the plates. Philip had headed off after a bite of toast. Cat and Bea had stayed longer, laughing about something they’d seen on television that Arthur struggled to follow. All of them still had royal schedules to keep up with, but Arthur was officially out of commission, ever since his diagnosis. He didn’t miss the ribbon cuttings. He did miss the calls from his agent, but they would come back soon enough.
Arthur was just pouring himself a final cup of coffee when he caught sight of his youngest son.
The light in the dining room wasn’t particularly bright, but Henry was squinting against it, anyway. He sat down extremely slowly— like the chair might reach out and bite him if he did it any quicker.
Arthur furrowed his brow. He made a point of placing his cup onto its saucer, and sure enough, Henry cringed a little at the sound.
It was good to know that even in a terrifying world where things like cancer hung over every moment, hangovers still existed. The insane and the ordinary lived alongside one another, even now.
“Good morning, Henry,” Arthur said, unable and unwilling to keep the amused tone entirely out of his voice.
Henry grimaced in his direction and started to pile food onto his plate.
“Did you have fun last night?” Arthur asked.
Rather than spluttering in denial, or answering simply, something peculiar happened. Henry’s face went slack. He stared into his tea. Henry looked entirely lost— like he wasn’t present, sitting here at the table.
“Hen?” Arthur prompted gently.
“Yes,” Henry bit out. “Another one of Philip’s friends was having a house party, is all. I was out late. I might’ve had a drink or two.”
Arthur nodded. “Or two.”
Henry made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll ask Shaan to get me some paracetamol. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve been going to a lot of those parties, lately,” Arthur noted.
Henry stilled even further. “I suppose.”
Arthur grinned into his coffee. “You’re not in any trouble, Hen. God knows I did worse when I was your age. Just don’t get caught, alright? And be careful. Make sure you stick by your brother.”
Henry put his fork down, his breakfast half-eaten. “I have to go, actually.”
Arthur frowned. “What?”
“I’ve an event in Stratford. Photographs at the children’s library, that sort of thing.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but Henry was already speeding out of the room, hangover seemingly forgotten.
“Love-you-Dad-bye!” flew down the hallway.
And before Arthur knew it, he was alone.
“Bye,” Arthur said into his coffee.
Henry, Bea explained, wouldn’t be by until the next day. He was flying in from New York.
“What’s he doing there?” Arthur asked.
Bea pursed her lips. She didn’t look upset, exactly, but… apprehensive.
“I think he’d like to tell you,” she said gently. “Everything’s alright. It’s just… not my place, I don’t think.”
Well, that didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Finally, the knock came. It was more hesitant than Philip’s, and softer than Bea’s.
A blond head poked around the door. “Hello.”
Henry’s hair was longer. It wasn’t styled that Arthur could see– it lay in soft waves across his forehead, curling around his ears. His shoulders were broader, and he was certainly taller, although Arthur would have to stand up to be sure.
Henry was dressed somewhere between his brother’s austere formality and his sister’s rock-and-roll style. Henry wore acid-washed jeans and trainers, with an olive green cardigan that hung open over a faded t-shirt— somewhat bizarrely, it read New York University. Had Henry travelled to the other side of the world just to go to school?
Everything about his appearance seemed designed for comfort, function over form. Gone was the carefully curated image of Prince Henry that Arthur had become accustomed to seeing.
Henry’s shoulders slumped inwards, and he fidgeted with his hands. It was then that Arthur noticed it— his signet ring was missing. Where had it gone?
“Hello, darling,” Arthur breathed.
Henry looked like he was ready to bolt out of the room if anything spooked him. It was a good sign that he looked nervous, actually, because it meant Henry wasn’t trying to hide what he was feeling. His gaze was focused somewhere around Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur felt a mess of emotions seeing that: fear of upsetting him, yes, but also anger, and wonder.
The Queen had noticed when Henry was very young that he had difficulty making eye contact with other people. Arthur tensed like a bowstring when she brought it up, ready to wrap Henry in his arms and take him far away from London, line of succession be damned. But then she never did anything. She never brought it up again.
Except… As he got older, Henry had started to make eye contact, after all. Sometimes too much— he’d stare at someone like he was trying to burn a hole through their eyes. Not out of anger, Arthur soon realised that Henry didn’t seem to know he was doing it. As a young adult, Henry always, always, met people’s eyes. His mouth would pinch at the corner, and his shoulders would tense, but he would do it.
Arthur had always supposed that Henry had grown out of his aversion. Stranger things had happened. But. Every so often, when Henry was eight or nine, he’d go off with Philip to visit their grandmother. Arthur had never thought anything of it. He’d been glad, in fact, that Philip seemed to want to spend time with his brother.
But right around that time, Arthur started to notice differences in his son. He made eye contact. He sat still, with his feet on the floor. He never let his hands move freely, unless he was playing the piano. He still read voraciously, but wouldn’t talk about his books with the rest of the family. That became Henry and Arthur’s little secret— he’d curl up next to his son on the couch and listen to him talk and talk about the latest thing he’d learnt.
Henry had never said anything about those visits to Buckingham. Surely they hadn’t…
Henry still wasn’t making eye contact with him.
Good, Arthur thought.
“You look good,” Henry said, taking a seat. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, love.” Arthur frowned. “You know, I just realised, I haven’t looked in a mirror?”
“I can fix that.” Henry pulled his phone out of his pocket and offered it to Arthur.
Arthur blinked at his own reflection.
“Blimey,” he grumbled. Henry laughed.
He supposed it made sense. For someone who had been comatose for nearly a decade, he didn’t look all that bad. But he certainly looked his age. His hair had gone almost completely grey, and his face was so much thinner than it should’ve been. His eyes were bloodshot.
He handed the phone back to Henry.
“What were you doing in New York?” Arthur asked. It seemed as good a place as any to begin. “Are you in school there?”
Henry blinked, like he hadn’t been expecting that question. “Er, no. I work in Brooklyn. Live in Brooklyn.”
Arthur furrowed his brow. How had Henry managed that? His grandmother’s wrath must have been unbelievable. What could’ve been important enough for him to risk it?
“With my… partner,” Henry continued.
Arthur stopped breathing.
God, he prayed, you owe me this. Please— please—
“Oh?” Arthur asked, strangled.
Henry looked even more uncomfortable. He picked at a loose thread on his trousers. “This might be a bit of a shock.”
Arthur watched him, rapt. “Okay.”
If Henry was in a relationship with a woman— if the old hag had managed to strong-arm him into that— Arthur would move Heaven and Earth to make it right.
After a long, agonising moment, Henry lifted his head. On his son’s face, Catherine’s deep blue eyes shone, filled with anxiety where she had exhaustion.
“He’s called Alex,” Henry said shakily. “I love him very deeply, and he, well, he feels the same.”
All the tension bled out of Arthur’s muscles. He leaned back against his pillows, eyes slipping shut from the sheer force of his relief.
He grinned widely at his youngest son. “Thank God.”
Henry looked like Arthur had slapped him across the face. “What?”
“Henry—” Hysterical little laughs were escaping him. “I thought you were going to tell me that you were dating a woman.”
Henry deflated. “Well, of course you—”
“I thought I was going to have to go to Buckingham Palace to bash your grandmother over the head.”
Henry spluttered. “What— how much sodding morphine do they have you on?”
“Not enough!” Arthur exclaimed.
“You—” Henry looked hopelessly confused. “I don’t understand.”
Arthur reached out a hand towards him. “Hen.”
Henry stared at it for a second, two, before taking it.
“Thank you so much for telling me,” Arthur said. “I love you. I’m so proud of you. I love you.”
Now that he’d shared his secret, Henry was unfolding like a blooming flower in spring. His smile was shy, but it was there. “You said that already.”
“I think I have some time to make up for,” Arthur said dryly. “I’ll say it as often as I like.”
Henry giggled. Arthur could see him at five, six years old, smiling in the exact same way.
“I always knew we’d have this conversation,” Arthur said delicately.
Henry’s head snapped up.
“I’m so glad it’s like this,” he continued.
Henry raised an eyebrow, glancing around the room as if to say, Like this? In the hospital? After nine years?
“Silly boy. I meant… you’re happy. You’re in love. Right?”
Henry nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”
“Tell me everything,” Arthur said.
Something flashed across Henry’s face, too quickly for Arthur to be able to identify it. Damn the media training his children had received. They were all too good at hiding their emotions. Arthur could only hope that the more he got to know these new versions of them, the more he’d be able to see through their masks.
Henry stared directly into his eyes— that practised, hard stare that Arthur had seen him use so often when his grandmother was in the room. One of two things was happening. Either Henry was gearing himself up to say something uncomfortable, or Arthur had failed all three of his children. What had he done to make Henry treat him like a stranger?
“He’s waiting outside, actually.”
“Oh, I’d love to meet him,” Arthur said immediately. “Is now alright?”
Henry looked befuddled. “I… of course.”
Arthur frowned. “What is it?”
“I’m just surprised…” Henry’s gaze darted around as he looked for the words. “That you want to, I suppose.”
Arthur threw all his concentration into keeping his expression neutral.
Who had done this? Who made Henry believe that the most important things in his life were best kept out of view?
The Queen was the most obvious answer. Was it Philip, too? Bea? Was it Catherine?
“I’d love to meet him,” Arthur repeated, forcing his voice into steadiness, “if you’re comfortable with that.”
Something dawned behind Henry’s eyes.
“Okay,” he said, so quietly that Arthur barely heard it.
Henry sat there for a few moments longer, holding Arthur’s hand between two of his own.
Arthur turned his hand over to grab Henry by the wrist and pulled him forward. Henry fell into his arms. He hid his face in Arthur’s neck, drew up his shoulders so that he fit more easily. Arthur held him in a vice grip– Henry had always found firm pressure soothing. He’d tried to explain it to Arthur once: A hug like that? It’s your first breath of fresh air after swimming deep underwater. It’s relief, but also the difference between blind panic and focus. It’s a train being set on the correct track. I don’t know.
Was Henry getting enough hugs in his day-to-day life? Alex, whoever he was, had taken Henry all the way across the world, away from his family. Henry needed people in his life— for hugs, for talking with, for watching reality television next to. Alex had better be up to the task.
Arthur knew he was being slightly ridiculous. Henry wasn’t a teenager anymore. But holding him like this, tucked against his chest, that got harder and harder to remember.
If he knew Henry was being well taken care of, he’d feel much better about dying.
“You ready to let go?” Arthur murmured.
Henry made a dissenting noise. “One more minute.”
Arthur chuckled. Maybe Henry was the same person he’d always been, after all.
So. The son of the President of the United States. Arthur had honestly thought he was done being surprised at this point, but he should’ve known better.
Alex was loud. Alex sprawled across a chair, took up all the space in a room. Alex’s mind moved a million miles a second, and he had aspirations that he clearly worked day and night to achieve. Just from their short meeting, Arthur could see Alex at a gala, or a fundraiser, or a ball. Alex knew how to work the system. He was the type of person that could go hours at a social event without getting tired.
To be fair, Henry had a history of hanging around people like that. Percy had always been extroverted. Henry seemed to enjoy not being the centre of attention whenever they spent time together. It was difficult for most people to gawk at a prince when a young man with pastel hair and a fluorescent jacket was grinning at them at the prince’s side.
But Alex— and Arthur would never, ever say this to Henry— made Arthur nervous.
Arthur remembered a line from one of Henry’s favourite books: I have no notion of loving people by halves. It is not in my nature.
If he and Alex had been together for years, if Henry had moved across the world for him, he was clearly in love. Henry had offered up his entire fragile heart for Alex to take. And if Alex did anything to squander that, even accidentally, it would crush Henry for the rest of his life.
But halfway through their conversation, something strange had happened. Henry had begun fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumper. Mid-sentence, without even looking, Alex placed his hand on Henry’s lap, palm up. Henry immediately started prodding at it, pressing and rubbing the pads of his fingers and the meat of his palm in measured, repetitive motions. It really seemed to be helping him. After a few moments, Henry picked his head up, started smiling more genuinely. Arthur stared, fascinated.
Henry trusted Alex with his whole self. That was wonderful, but also dangerous.
Arthur thought about Henry sinking into his embrace. He thought about Henry’s defeated tone when he thought, for a split second, that Arthur had assumed he was straight. Disappointing Henry was always made worse by the fact that he expected it.
Oh, that’s alright, really, Henry would say, no matter what careless, monstrous things other people said and did to him. He had no conception of his own worth. Henry thought he wasn’t normal, and he carried that with him into every action, every decision, every second of his life. Henry believed other people were in the right if they mistreated him, because he assumed he must be the person doing something wrong.
Arthur had some reconnaissance to do. Catherine, undoubtedly, had an informed and balanced opinion of Henry and Alex’s relationship. He’d ask her tomorrow.
“Oh, he’s a nice boy,” she said, right away. “I’ve been over to their house a couple of times. Alex has taught me a few recipes, because Henry’s hopeless in the kitchen, apparently.”
Arthur was sceptical. “He’s a lawyer?”
Catherine smiled like Arthur was being a bit of an idiot. “Not like you’re thinking. He’s not in it for the prestige. He gets legal documentation for immigrants, and the like– people who wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford counsel. He’s very passionate about helping people, and using his intelligence and education to be an advocate.”
Arthur frowned, reshuffled a few of his mental notes. Instead of following in the political footsteps of both his parents, he decided to work behind the scenes, to help people without being recognised for it. That didn’t seem like the Alex that Arthur had met. The charismatic young man with a media-grade smile?
But then Arthur remembered Philip’s face, with its impenetrable mask of calm.
The son of two politicians would’ve had to work on his smile. Someone already in the spotlight dating not just a man, but the prince of a foreign nation? The press would have been unbelievably invasive.
Arthur’s children had all grown up too soon. It was only probable that Alex had, too. And why wouldn’t Henry gravitate towards a young man who had been through such similar things? It only made sense. The two of them could lean on each other, help each other through the worst aspects of living in the public eye.
Arthur’s heart felt heavy with shame. He’d misjudged Alex, and badly.
“And he’s good with Henry?” Arthur asked, now certain of the answer.
Catherine’s easy smile faded.
“Of course,” she bit out.
A bolt of shock and alarm lanced through Arthur’s body. “What happened? Is he not—”
Catherine shook her head, waving her hand to get him to stop. “It’s nothing of the sort.”
Arthur watched her carefully. “Then what?”
Catherine sighed. Her eyes wandered up to the ceiling. “I don’t know how he is with Henry. I assume everything’s fine. I haven’t heard otherwise.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Henry doesn’t talk to me. Nor Beatrice.” Catherine chuckled sadly. “Philip never did, so I suppose that’s not really any different.”
Arthur stared. His thoughts were awash with memories.
One summer, Henry and Catherine decided to read through Jane Austen’s works together. They were a book club of two. Arthur would always see them, heads bent together, talking about what they’d read. Catherine was the one to get Bea to start learning Joni Mitchell songs on the guitar. Arthur remembered when Bea had performed A Case of You for the two of them, her cheeks flushed with pride. And Philip… Philip had never been that close to either of them, but he still cared. He’d buy Catherine’s birthday gifts himself, rather than sending his equerry out to do it for him. Philip always wrote his holiday cards by hand. He was closer to Catherine than he was to Arthur, if only by a slim margin— the duty of the Crown kept him in his mother’s orbit.
“Why?” Arthur asked. “It’s not— if it were just Henry, I’d be asking about Alex’s influence. But you said Bea won’t speak to you either?”
“When we lost you…”
Arthur’s temper flared. He pressed his lips tightly together. Lost me? he felt like screaming. I’m right here. He knew his frustration was entirely irrational. That didn’t make it go away.
“I went to a dark place,” Catherine continued.
Arthur froze.
“Henry helped me with that, actually. He had his equerry find me a therapist, once I was open to it. That was about four years ago.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, idiotically.
Catherine looked extremely uncomfortable. “But before that, it consumed me. I shut myself away from everything, and that included the children.”
Arthur’s heart wasn’t just breaking— it was crumbling to dust inside his chest. “Cat…”
Catherine’s smile was full of hurt. “It doesn’t absolve me of anything, of course. I did what I did. I’ve tried to be there for them these past few years, but it’s not enough. I can tell. They don’t trust me anymore.”
“And Alex does?” Arthur wondered.
Catherine shrugged. “He makes an effort for Henry’s sake. I suppose it’s easier for him— he doesn’t have any good memories of me to get ruined.”
She pursed her lips. “Anyway.”
“Cat—”
“Alex is good for him,” Catherine insisted. “They’re good for each other. That’s how it should be.”
Arthur nodded slowly. At least one of the tasks he needed to perform with the time he had left was becoming clear. He needed to mend Catherine’s relationship with the children.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
It was an entirely inadequate question. But he didn’t have the words to ask what he really wanted to know. Catherine seemed to intuit the gravity of it, anyway.
“I’m better than I have been,” she answered. “You’ll never know how much you help me, just being here.”
Arthur grinned, bittersweet. “I think I’ve a rather good idea.”
After dinner, Arthur called Henry over Zoom. He was getting quite good at this– mastering the technology that had skyrocketed in the past decade.
Henry used the programme all the time, he explained, not just to stay in touch with his family, but to meet with investors and business partners and the like for the shelters he and Percy had started running.
Henry picked up nearly instantly. He was smiling, ear to ear, and looked comfortable and at ease in a soft jumper.
There was a little bar at the bottom of the screen that said the names of the people in the call. Arthur’s gaze snagged on Henry’s: Henry Fox, it read. Arthur stopped breathing.
Henry had never been allowed to be Henry Fox. Catherine had needed to fight her mother tooth and nail to give the children Arthur’s name at all. Even then, their surnames had become such a long, complicated monstrosity that none of them used it. Wales was a lot easier to say than Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor. When the children needed a last name, it was Wales they used. Windsor, for official functions. They certainly never used the name Fox.
To be able to have something as ordinary and human as a child who shared his last name? It felt transcendent. It felt like Arthur actually meant something to somebody. If he got to see a few more small, wonderful things like this before he died, he’d go without complaint.
“Dad?” Henry asked sharply.
Arthur snapped to attention. “Yes, sorry, love. How are you doing?”
Henry’s expression didn’t change. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “I am fine, thank you. I only saw…”
Arthur gestured with his hand, only realising belatedly that Henry couldn’t see what he was pointing at.
“Your name,” Arthur explained. “On the computer. It’s… nice. I like it.”
Henry’s eyes widened. For a split second, he looked like he was five years old, and Arthur had just caught him sneaking Jaffa Cakes out of the pantry.
“It’s only for work,” Henry hurried to explain. “It helps cut through all the titles and bowing and all of that nonsense. Some of the children wouldn’t stop calling me The Fantastic Mister Fox for a few days—”
Arthur couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
“—but it wore off eventually. I like using the name with them, really. It feels a bit more like me.”
Arthur beamed at his youngest son. He felt, embarrassingly, like he might start crying.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly.
There was some noise on Henry’s end. He looked offscreen.
“One second, Dad,” Henry said distractedly.
He left the call running, but got up from his desk and took a few steps. Arthur didn’t exactly mean to eavesdrop, but he wasn’t really able to avoid it.
“Where are you going?” Henry asked, muffled.
“Just for a run,” Alex answered. “Cash’ll keep an eye on me. I won’t be long.”
“Alex.”
Arthur’s finger hovered over the mousepad. He should probably have hung up, if he was going to maintain even the veneer of politeness or respectability. But his hand drifted back down to his lap. He had never really pretended to have either of those things.
“Twenty blocks?” Henry asked quietly.
“H…”
“Twenty. Blocks. You promise?”
After a long silence, Alex answered. “I promise.”
There was the sound of a kiss, and Henry was back on screen.
“Sorry about that,” Henry said, scooting his chair in closer to the desk.
“Everything alright?” Arthur asked mildly.
They stared at each other.
At the same time, they spoke.
“Yes, everything’s perfectly—”
“I couldn’t help but hear that—”
Henry sighed. “How much did you hear?”
“I think everything,” Arthur admitted. “Sorry.”
Henry waved him off. “No, it’s fine.”
“What’s going on with Alex?” Arthur asked.
Henry stared down at his hands, looking lost. If Arthur had to fly across the Atlantic to punch a certain First Son in the face, he was more than ready.
“It looks like the Democrats are going to lose the presidency,” Henry explained. Arthur blinked at the non sequitur. “Alex blames himself.”
Arthur frowned. “I thought his mother wasn’t—”
Henry was already shaking his head. “She’s out of office either way. But the candidate they handpicked isn’t doing well in the polls. If her opponent wins, it’s…” Something dark crossed over Henry’s face. “A lot of people are going to suffer, basically. Including a lot of the people Alex works to help. A lot of the children I work with at the shelters, too. It’s better in New York City, but not that much better. New York can’t keep us safe forever.”
Arthur had to admit that the royal policy of keeping firmly out of politics had gotten to him over the years. There had always been atrocities in the world, of course, but not in his world. Not in his children’s.
“And ‘twenty blocks’?” Arthur asked.
Henry looked a bit embarrassed that Arthur had heard that part. “We made an agreement. He won’t go running for longer than that.”
Arthur cocked an eyebrow. Henry started chewing on his lip.
“He won’t admit to any of this. But Alex… when he gets like this, he works for forty-eight hours straight without sleeping. He drinks eight cups of coffee. He runs until his feet bleed. June and I have been trying to get him to go to therapy about it for a while. But…”
“He thinks therapy’s beneath him?” Arthur asked. Alex had seemed supportive of Henry’s mental health treatment, but things were always different when it came to a person’s own psyche.
Henry looked genuinely shocked. “What? No, not at all. Why would you— Alex is selfless. Too selfless. He thinks his struggles are inconsequential.”
Arthur frowned. “I see.”
Arthur was still of two minds regarding Alex. His first priority was Henry, and always would be, but he was beginning to wonder if he was meant to help Alex, as well. Was that part of it? He wouldn’t be finished until he’d worked to help every member of the family, including Henry’s partner?
Henry started picking at his nails.
After seeing Henry safely delivered back into Alex’s arms after their long conversation on Thanksgiving night, the smile slipped from Arthur’s face. He leaned back against the wall and dragged a hand down his face.
Fuck. His baby bumblebee, so without guidance and protection that she’d been able to check herself out of rehab the first day she went in. Pip, taking all the anger he felt towards himself and using it to hurt others. And Henry, Henry…
Arthur had arrived after Henry had already solved most of his own problems. There didn’t seem to be much for him to fix, only things for him to learn about after the fact. How much could he have prevented?
The Queen had never been that cruel to Henry while Arthur was still around. God, had she? He’d have to speak with Catherine. She’d know more about her mother’s behaviour.
He started to head back towards the guest room Henry had set up for them, but then paused. Arthur Fox was not a saint. He’d promised Henry he wouldn’t read the leaked email correspondence between himself and Alex, and he wasn’t going to go back on that. But there was a difference between literally reading them and…
Glancing around in the near-darkness, Arthur pulled out his phone and typed “prince henry alex emails” into the Google search bar.
Most of the articles were dated around the time of the leak, several years ago. At the top, the most recent: Richards Staffer Charged in White House Email Hack. Well, that was good. At least some justice was going to be served.
But then… Arthur didn’t know whether he wanted to punch a hole in something or throw up.
EXCLUSIVE: QUEEN HENRY
The Oral Office: Read FSOTUS’s Steamy Letters to Prince Henry
Secret Poet Prince Henry: Knows His Way Around a “Pen”
“Your Spine’s a Ridge I’d Die Climbing” – What the Waterloo Letters Mean for Queer History
That last one put a lump in his throat, and made his face burn with shame. He was veering dangerously close to breaking Henry’s trust altogether. Arthur quickly closed the window and locked his phone.
He stared at the black glass for a moment, looking at his faint, warped reflection. He could see the grimace twisting his features, the glassiness of his eyes. What had Henry looked like, when those emails leaked? On that terrible day that Henry said his psychologist believed he’d never fully remember?
Waterloo. That was a detail Henry hadn’t given him, that he could never ask about without revealing his betrayal. Why Waterloo? His European history was rusty, but he knew what Waterloo was: Napoleon’s worst and most devastating defeat in battle. Who had named them the Waterloo letters? The media, thinking the truth of Henry’s life was so shameful and horrible that it would bring down the monarchy? Or Henry himself, trying to see a future beyond the leak and utterly failing?
Walking through the halls of Kensington, Arthur began to hear faint music playing. Smiling to himself, he followed the sound. It was rock, something familiar. A female singer.
“Following the footsteps of a ragdoll dance, we are spellbound!”
The pumping bass led him to Bea’s room. He knocked on her door, but he wasn’t sure she could hear it through the music. He cracked the door open.
Bea sat criss-cross on her bed, working on her laptop, a few papers and folders spread out around her.
“Spellbound, spellbound!”
“Hey!” Arthur called with a brief wave.
Bea glanced up, startled. “Oh!” She shut off the music.
“No, don’t stop it on my account,” he said.
“Sorry.” Bea smiled. “I forget there are other people in the house, now. Ever since Henry moved to New York, I’ve been…”
Arthur flinched, internally, at the reminder of Catherine’s absence.
“But, come in!” Bea gestured him closer. “I’m doing some work for the foundation, but nothing’s urgent. What’s up?”
Arthur looked at his daughter. Her hair was so much longer than he remembered. She didn’t need his help, not anymore, not like the boys did. But she still needed to know she was loved.
“I have an odd request.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
“Could I braid your hair?”
Bea blinked. She cracked a crooked smile. “What? Do you even know how to braid hair?”
Yes, he did. And his daughter should’ve known that. He should’ve offered to braid her hair whenever she wanted instead of being preoccupied with the nonsense of the day, letting the nannies take care of the nitty-gritty aspects of childcare they’d far too often been too busy to consider.
“I might be a bit rusty,” he admitted. “If I do a terrible job, you have my permission to ban me from ever trying again.”
Bea’s smile turned shy and strangely vulnerable. “Well, you might just need more practise, is all.”
Arthur clambered onto the bed behind her, hissing as he pulled an errant muscle here and there. By the time he situated himself, they were both laughing. They were both far too old to do anything like this, but they were doing it anyway. Just as Arthur was keeping an eye out for Bea asking him to leave her alone, he could tell she was waiting for him to decide he’d rather leave, too.
Bea handed him an elastic from around her wrist and put her music back on. Arthur reached into the deep recesses of his memory and split the top of her hair into three sections.
And don’t forget, when your elders forget to say their prayers
Take them by the legs and throw ‘em down the stairs!
“I fixed it,” said Philip.
Arthur stared at him.
“I messed it all up more before I fixed it, but I did,” Philip stressed. He held himself tensely, like he was waiting to be scolded.
“What happened?” Arthur asked.
Like Arthur had finally given him permission, Philip threw himself into the opposite chair across the kitchen table. Wordlessly, Arthur poured him a cup of tea.
“Henry wants to remove himself from the line of succession and renounce his titles,” said Philip.
Arthur straightened in his chair. “I see.”
It wasn’t an entirely unforeseen outcome. Henry had already left all the trappings of the royal life behind. The title was nothing more than a formality, at this point. But the desire to do something about it indicated that there was a problem, that Henry was still chafing under the control of the Firm. For the umpteenth time, Arthur cursed his inability to be omniscient. Was the Queen still bothering him? Were the men in grey suits still trying to claw him back from America?
Would Arthur have to sit down with the Queen before his time ran out? Was that what he was meant to do?
“And I’ve decided to allow it,” Philip said magnanimously.
Arthur raised a brow.
“You’ve decided to support his decision,” he corrected, as gently as he could.
Philip winced. “Yes.”
“That must’ve been difficult,” Arthur hedged. “He came to you for advice?”
Philip winced again, his face twisting into a grimace. “Well. If you call me hearing a rumour from one of my contacts in Parliament, getting on a plane to New York, and interrogating him about it in the middle of the night him coming to me for advice, then yes.”
Arthur’s muscles immediately tensed, ready to catapult him out of the chair and get him to Henry. But Henry hadn’t called, and Philip seemed… if not contrite, then aware that he’d done wrong.
“I can’t imagine that went well,” Arthur said dryly.
To his surprise, Philip’s expression cleared. “Actually, it did. He. He gave me this container of yoghurt. With fruit. And a spoon.”
Arthur was truly, entirely lost. “That’s… good?”
Philip seemed to come back to himself. He smiled, an apologetic, self-deprecating little twist of his lips that made Arthur remember what he was like when he was small.
“Forgive me,” said Philip. “It’s been about thirty-six hours since I last slept. What I mean to say is, although the inciting incident left a lot to be desired, Henry and I had a productive meeting about his plans. I’d like to meet with you and Mum both, actually, to discuss the best plan of attack with the MPs. I’ll get Townsend to coordinate with your equerries to find a time suitable for the three of us.”
Arthur wanted to shake him. Who gave a damn about Parliament or equerries?
He couldn’t let it end like this. “Pip–”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Philip muttered, so softly that Arthur almost didn’t catch it. “That I need to be more gentle with him. I honestly think we’re getting there. I didn’t… I’m only now realising the breadth of my failings.”
That hit Arthur with much more force than Philip intended. He felt exactly the same way.
“Even going back years…” Philip shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t know about him and that friend of mine, all those years ago. He was so young. He needed someone to watch out for him, and I didn’t…”
“Wait.” Arthur held up a hand. “Philip, what are you talking about?”
Philip blinked, uncomprehending. “In his letters. When he talked about going to bed with one of my friends when he was seventeen. He never told me at the time, of course, and when the emails were leaked I wasn’t in a place to recognise that he’d been assaulted. By virtue of the man’s age, if by nothing else. I still don’t know which, but nearly all of them were older than me.”
Philip seemed to take Arthur’s silence as condemnation instead of what it actually was: cold, all-consuming horror.
“I see that, now,” Philip explained earnestly. “I know none of it was his fault, and it was because I made him feel he couldn’t come to me if anything like that happened.”
No, Arthur thought. You weren’t the one who made him feel that way.
“Pip,” Arthur finally croaked out. “I… I told him I wouldn’t read his letters. I haven’t read them. I didn’t know…”
The blood visibly drained from Philip’s face.
“I–” Philip’s voice cracked.
Philip hastily stood. The kitchen chair screeched against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you– I wouldn’t have just brought that up without–”
“You’re alright,” Arthur said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance away. “You’re fine.”
“I’ll find out who it was. I’ll fix this.”
Before Arthur could get another word in, Philip turned and fled.
Arthur could hear a groaning, wheezing sound, and slowly realised it was his own breathing.
“Arthur?” he heard Catherine call from the other room.
He couldn’t bring himself to answer. He scrabbled at his chest, at the burning pain he could feel underneath. His grief was too large for his body. It was expanding without care, exploding past the boundaries of his skin and bones. His eyes burned with hot tears.
“Arthur! Darling, what is it?”
Catherine knelt in front of him, framing his face in her hands. He cringed away from her touch.
“Lizzie!” Catherine shouted. “Lizzie, call for the doctor! He’s having some kind of attack!”
Arthur held her wrist to get her attention and shook his head.
“Darling?” she asked, frantic, smoothing his hair back from his face. “Darling, what–”
“We failed them,” Arthur managed. “We have failed our children. Oh, god, Kit, what have we done?”
Her face froze, shock arresting her features halfway between panic and guilt. She swallowed and her eyes skittered to the side. She wrapped him up in an embrace, and Arthur was selfish enough to accept it.
Arthur’s thoughts turned back to divine punishment. They said that in the last days, God would read aloud about your life from his book; he’d tell you everything you did wrong and right. Perhaps that’s what this was. Before he died, Arthur would be forced to see the results of all of his failings.
He had to make things right with Henry. He had to show him he was loved.
Catherine shuddered in his arms. That was another thing— Arthur’s time was running out, but it wasn’t too late for Catherine. There was still time to fix her relationship with Henry, with all of their children. Arthur would make sure of it.
Arthur found the perfect opportunity at Christmas. He’d already given out his carefully-selected presents that everyone would open once they were alone. He was rather proud of them– he’d managed to incorporate each of his family members’ interests, their desires, and give them a bit of advice while he was at it. He was running out of things to do before…
“Things seem to be going well with you and Pip,” Arthur began.
Henry’s shrug turned into a nod halfway through. “You mind if I’m frank with you?”
Arthur braced himself. “Go ahead.”
“I think he’s been a prick for so long that he’s forgotten how to stop,” Henry said.
Arthur tried not to look too horrified.
“But he seems to be catching himself a hell of a lot more often,” Henry continued. “He’ll start saying something mildly insulting about Pez, for instance, and it’ll turn into a compliment about his financial management of the shelters. I’ve no idea how you did it, but he’s trying.”
“You seem to be as well,” Arthur noted.
Henry’s smile was tinged with melancholy. “I realised that he’s a seasoned veteran in some areas, and a complete novice in others.”
Arthur’s lips twitched. “Such as?”
Henry sighed. “He seems to have forgotten about interpersonal relationships that don’t come with a transaction attached.”
That felt like a dagger to the heart. Arthur tried not to let it show on his face.
“It’s a bit sad, really,” said Henry. “I think that’s what’s changed. I’m starting to see him as less of a threat and more of a victim.”
Funny, that. Arthur had heard a nearly identical sentiment from Philip about Henry. He’d never tell him, but Arthur privately thought that Henry’s argument had more merit. There was a huge difference between a threat to my status and a threat to my wellbeing. Philip’s anger, his biting comments to his siblings, stung Arthur like an open wound. Philip was an adult, now, but he hadn’t always been. Arthur could’ve prevented so much of this from happening if he’d just paid more attention.
“That’s good,” Arthur encouraged. “It sounds like you’re meeting in the middle.”
Henry flashed another small smile. “Well, yes. I’m not ringing him on a Saturday afternoon to gossip about the neighbours or anything, but we can exist around each other without everything exploding.”
We might break that record now, Arthur thought. He’d started this conversation for a reason— that didn’t make it any easier.
“Speaking of,” he began, “have you spoken to your mum lately?”
Henry’s relaxed expression turned stiff. Christ, he was so much like his brother— his shoulders squared, and his spine straightened.
“It would be difficult not to,” Henry evaded, “seeing as she’s in the next room.”
Arthur shot him a sceptical look. Henry sighed.
“No, I haven’t. Why? Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yes,” Arthur reassured. “I just thought now might be a good time for the two of you to catch up, is all. Maybe you could—”
Henry exhaled forcefully through his nose. His hands clenched into fists.
“I understand you want to help,” Henry said, stilted, “but this is a very complicated situation. I know you love her. I know she is a member of this family. I’m not doing anything to— to get in the way of any of that. We’re perfectly cordial to each other. It’s working.”
“It’s not working,” Arthur argues. “Look how upset you are, Hen. You obviously wish that—”
“—that my mother knew how to be a parent?” Henry shot back. “That she hadn’t abandoned her children for the better part of a decade? Yes, I do wish that. I wish a lot of things had happened differently.”
Arthur took a controlled breath. “Henry, let’s calm down. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”
Henry took a breath himself, mirroring him. “I’m sorry for snapping. I didn’t— Dad, this is a very difficult situation.”
“I know,” Arthur soothed. “Henry, you’re an adult. I know that. You know how to make decisions for yourself better than anyone else. But some of this— you said yourself that things were going better with your brother. Why not—”
Henry’s eyes flashed. “Stop it. Philip was a manipulated child who grew into an angry man, and he’s trying to unlearn some of the lessons that were beaten into him. He fails most of the time, but he’s trying. It’s too late for Mum.”
“Your mother was a child, too, once,” Arthur said softly.
“We begged her to come back.” Henry’s voice broke. “To help us. Even Pip— he was the one to break Mum’s door down to tell her about Bea going to rehab. She didn’t care. And I know, I know she was depressed. I’ve been there myself. But the difference is in her stubbornness. Do you even know how many times we went to her and tried to convince her to get help? She wouldn’t do it. She could never move on from you. She was angry at us for even suggesting it. And I can’t— I can’t blame her for that, but I can blame her for cutting her children out of her life in the process. And I do.”
Henry’s gaze suddenly caught on something over Arthur’s shoulder. His eyes went wide with fear.
“Mum—”
Arthur turned. Catherine stood in the doorway. She looked upset, but not surprised. She looked rather resigned to the whole thing, in fact.
“It’s alright,” Catherine said quietly. “I shouldn’t have been listening in. You didn’t say anything untrue, anyhow.”
Henry glared at Arthur, his eyes filled with accusation. Arthur raised his hands in front of him and shook his head— he genuinely hadn’t set it up so that Catherine would be listening.
Henry fiddled with his sleeves. His gaze kept darting over to his mother, tracking her movements. Catherine held her hands in front of her, worrying at her fingers and twisting them together. She sat gingerly in an armchair across from the sofa.
The muscle in Henry’s jaw twitched. His lips pressed together tightly, like he was fighting to keep silent.
“Henry, we’re your parents,” Arthur said quietly. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”
Henry’s eyes held a hint of challenge in them. He looked to his mother.
“I don’t forgive you,” he said bluntly. “You say you’re trying to be better. But you used to say that often. You would come back into our lives for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, and then fade away again. Mum, you grew up with Gran. You knew what she was like. You knew what she was doing to us. And still, you did nothing.”
Catherine took it in, and then nodded. “You’re mostly right.”
Henry flinched.
“I should have done more. Much more. But I had no idea about…” Catherine sighed. “Whenever I was worried about any of you, I would go to your Gran, or someone on her staff. I thought she would have the most information. And, truthfully, I was ashamed to go to you directly. So I asked her, and she assured me that she had everything under control, and that you didn’t need or want me interfering in your affairs. And I believed her.”
Henry pinched at the bridge of his nose. “God. Fuck. Of course she did.”
A word bubbled up Arthur’s throat. He quashed it, like he usually did, before reconsidering. It might break the tension, actually.
“Bitch,” Arthur said, with force and with intent.
Catherine and Henry both snapped their attention towards him. As one, they started to laugh. Arthur sank back into his seat, quite pleased with himself.
“I thought she knew best,” Catherine admitted. “And I didn’t have the strength or the will to question what she was telling me.”
“I think we’ve all been there,” Henry conceded.
“Oh?” Catherine asked hopefully.
All the humour and lightheartedness drained out of Henry’s expression. “Well. Somewhat. Not…”
Catherine’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.
“You were the adult,” Henry said, so quietly that Arthur almost missed it. “You were the adult, and we were the children. And you should have been a parent for us to rely on.”
Catherine nodded, teary-eyed. “Yes. You’re right. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you.”
Henry lifted his face to gaze out the window. He took a long moment before responding.
“Thank you,” he answered, “but that doesn’t change anything that has happened. I… I don’t think I can do this.”
Arthur reached out a hand and grasped his knee. “Henry, hold on—”
“I think I need some time.”
Time. The one thing Arthur didn’t have.
“For what?” Arthur asked.
Henry looked unspeakably exhausted. “To stop being so angry.”
Arthur nodded slowly.
Henry sighed. “Look, it’s Christmas. We’ll be fine. We’ll go back out there and we’ll celebrate and be perfectly civil and not speak about this again for as long as we can put it off.”
“If that’s what you want,” Catherine whispered.
Arthur was so tired of everyone in this family hiding how they really felt. But he had to give Henry credit for being mature about this.
Credit. More like it gave him immeasurable guilt to consider how young Henry had been when he learned he needed to be the mature one in the room.
Was there anything else he could do here?
Arthur gestured to Catherine that he was going to leave the room, and she nodded in approval.
Arthur kissed Henry on the forehead, squeezed Catherine’s hand, and left. He did linger by the doorway, though, out of sight. Sue him.
“Can I…” Catherine began. “Can I hug you?”
There was a long pause.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” Henry said, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Arthur’s eyes squeezed closed.
Was this a failure? He honestly couldn’t tell. By his standards, it was progress. Would whatever metaphysical force that was keeping him on this earth agree?
“So they call it a Yule log because—”
“Une bûche de Noël, in the civilized world.”
It wasn’t like the kitchen at Llwynywermod had never been used before. They’d made wonky Christmas cookies a few times over the years, but had left the major cooking to the servants. They were still having most of it brought in, but Alex had commandeered the oven and stovetop to make a few desserts.
“Oh, shut the hell up. It’s a log—”
“Yes, that is actually what I just said.”
“—and I know for a fact that you only said that shit en francés porque you know que me excita muchísimo—”
Henry’s face flushed. “The cake, Alexander.”
Arthur was half amused, half mortified. He knew enough about Romance languages to understand “excita.”
Behind a mug of nonalcoholic egg nog, Bea was smiling.
There was something bizarrely captivating about the Henry-and-Alex show.
Sitting a few paces away on the sofa, stretching their legs out in front of the fireplace, Arthur turned to Catherine and grinned. Their senses of humour were entirely different, but Arthur couldn’t help but be reminded of the earliest days of his and Catherine’s relationship, the way she’d parked herself on his dressing room table to argue with him about Shakespeare’s intent. Like she was remembering the same thing, Catherine ducked her head, her lips curving in a soft smile.
“They call it a log because,” Alex repeated, louder this time, “you get to dress it up like it’s a real log. You can make mushrooms out of meringue and scrape the frosting with a fork to give it texture and shit. The real experts make another section that looks like a branch sticking out but I haven’t actually been anywhere near the making of one of these things since I was like eight, so…”
Philip sat at the kitchen counter, peering at the half-formed cake and frowning.
While Alex was focused on spreading the cream filling onto the cake, tongue sticking out of his mouth, Henry ducked behind him and took a big dollop of the stuff onto one finger. He successfully got a taste before Alex noticed and elbowed him in the side.
“Hands off, you goof.”
“It’s Christmas!” Henry exclaimed. “Mmm, that’s excellent.”
“This is the most delicate part of the entire process, okay? You have to very gently scrape underneath the parchment paper, lift the cake with your hands, and roll it into a—”
The cake split in two and toppled over, the wrong side of it falling into the cream.
For some reason, Arthur’s eyes went right to Philip. He was staring at the cake with a look of growing horror.
Arthur opened his mouth, ready to do damage control, but Alex and Henry beat him to it.
They were laughing.
Philip looked like a UFO had just landed in front of him and aliens had stepped out. Martha, bless her, started rubbing his back between his shoulder blades. The tension drained from him, and he stared at the countertop.
Imperfections. Philip had never learned how to deal with those, had he? A swell of emotion rose in Arthur’s chest— pity for one son, boundless pride in another.
“It’ll just be a flat log,” said Henry, wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist from behind and sticking his chin on his shoulder. “It’ll taste the same. And we can save it with the frosting on top.”
“Oh, hey, and the mushrooms!”
Alex squeezed Henry’s wrist before disentangling himself and making a beeline for the stand mixer.
“Here.” Alex lifted the entire thing, complete with its giant glass bowl, and carried it over. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t go crashing to the ground. “You. Heir to the throne. Wanna make meringue?”
Henry stared at his partner in utter shock. Catherine tensed, but Arthur placed a hand on her arm. He wanted to see how this played out.
“Er,” Philip hesitated. “You might want to enlist someone with a bit more experience.”
“It’s not that difficult,” said Martha. “He’s already separated the egg whites. You just pour them in with the whisk attachment and wait until you’ve got stiffened peaks.”
“And when it gets foamy in the middle, pour in the sugar,” said Alex. “Oh, and you need some of this— don’t worry about it.”
A pinch of mystery powder went into the bowl.
Philip cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want to… derail the process.”
“It’s Christmas,” Bea interjected. “Live a little.”
Philip’s look of intense concentration as he figured out how to work the mixer made him look about seven years old. Arthur was gripped with the sudden urge to dash across the room and cover him with kisses. He pressed one to the side of Catherine’s head instead.
He’d take a photo of this cake when it was finished and frame it, no matter what it ended up looking like.
“You know,” Alex began. Arthur was startled. He’d been entirely lost in thought, and hadn’t noticed Alex joining him in the solarium.
“The night Henry— uh, when we got together,” Alex continued, “this is what he was doing, out in the gardens. ‘Looking for Orion.’”
Alex sat down on the other side of the sofa. He did so gingerly, like he was worried it would collapse beneath his weight.
Arthur smiled softly. “I used to talk to him about the constellations. I didn’t think he’d remembered that.”
Alex gazed at him consideringly. “I think he remembers every word you’ve ever said to him.”
Arthur didn’t quite know what to do with that. The first emotion it inspired was guilt. How many things had he said to Henry in passing, without really thinking about it, that had hurt him for years to come?
Alex offered him a slanted smile. “It’s really surreal to meet you, actually.”
“Because of my films, I suppose?”
“No, actually. I mean— the way Henry and Bea talk about you… you’ve really impacted their lives. Every single time they brought you up, I knew that you loved them unconditionally. No matter what you were doing, your kids were always your first priority. That’s really rare.”
Alex’s words, as biased as they might’ve been, soothed his soul like honey on a sore throat. But there was something else there: a nugget of information about Alex’s own life. Was this the moment where Arthur was meant to help him?
“Rare?” Arthur asked, leaving the subject mostly open.
“I love my parents,” Alex said immediately. “They’re great.”
“But?” Arthur prompted gently.
“But.” Alex swallowed convulsively. “But my mom… Don’t even get June started on my mom, okay? June doesn’t understand it all like I do. My mom knew she could make a difference, so she threw everything into campaigning, networking on the Hill. She got into Congress, then she was the Majority Leader, then Speaker of the House, then President, then President again… I don’t think I have to tell you that when you’re dealing with an institution that huge, little things fall through the cracks. And big things, too, sometimes. You pick one: your family, or the power to make things better for everyone else. What, am I gonna sit here and be mad at her for deciding to help the whole country?”
Yes, Arthur thought. She should’ve put being your mother before her career, before her own life.
“And my dad…” Alex sighed. “I love my dad. But you and Henry, I’ve never seen anything like it. My dad’s great. He left when I was twelve, and he didn’t tell me he was going, and that’s okay, that’s fine, he had his own shit to deal with. But I’m still. You know. Here.”
As far as Arthur knew, Alex’s father was still in his life. Had they ever spoken about this? Had his father apologised? And why was Alex being this candid with Arthur, of all people?
“You didn’t go anywhere,” said Alex. Arthur flinched. “I mean, you did, but you didn’t choose to. You’ve been there for your family though everything. That’s a big fucking deal.”
Arthur swallowed against a dry throat. “I certainly try my best. I know I’ve made my fair share of mistakes.”
Alex shook his head. “Nah. I see what you’ve been doing, these past few months. You’re running around trying to make everything better. Take it from someone else who works himself into the ground trying to fix everything at once: you’ve gotta take care of yourself, too. They all love you and appreciate you, and they’re doing better. You can take a minute.”
“To be frank, I don’t know if I’ve done much at all.”
Alex shrugged. “Family’s hard. Really hard. There are some things you can’t fix. But they all know you care, and you’re ready to be there for any one of them the minute they call. That means more than you know.”
“Hm.”
It was a clear night in Wales. Through the glass, he’d managed to find Cassiopeia, but was still looking for Perseus.
“You seem worried,” Alex said quietly. “You seem like something’s going to happen, and you’re checking everything off your list before it does. Am I right?”
Arthur tensed. “I can see why you’d think that. But there’s no list.”
No definite list, at least. He hadn’t written one out. It would’ve made the whole situation starkly real.
“You’re not sick?” Alex pressed.
Arthur jolted. “Does Henry think I’m lying about—”
“No,” Alex said. He hesitated. “Maybe.”
Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. He knew that, to Alex, it would look like a confession. Maybe it was.
“I’ll let any one of you look at the medical reports, if you’re worried,” he said tersely. “I’ve been told that I’m in excellent health by every doctor.”
Alex waited a moment, like he was expecting Arthur to continue. “But?”
“But,” Arthur repeated. He looked up, towards the sky. “My stars shine darkly over me.”
Arthur could tell that Alex was physically forcing down the dozens of questions he wanted to ask.
“Henry says that you’re religious.”
Alex tilted his head in confusion. “Uh, yeah. Catholic. I mean– mostly. You know.” He gestured down at himself. “I make it my own.”
“Do you believe in damnation?” Arthur asked.
To his credit, Alex took a moment to consider the question. “I think you can get to a bad place thinking like that. There are some people like, I don’t know, Hitler, that I’d like to think about being punished, but for most of us… shit, if you asked a lot of people, they’d say I’m going to Hell, just ‘cause of who I love.”
Arthur’s gaze shot to him. He hadn’t meant to imply that at all.
“We’re all just doing our best,” said Alex. “The last thing people need is more pain.”
He paused, looking at Arthur intently. “You’re doing better than most.”
Arthur held carefully still. Henry had told him Alex was clever.
“Have you thought about…” Alex chewed at his lip. “Have you ever considered going to therapy?”
“I don’t need any help for myself,” Arthur reassured him. “I just need to help everyone else.”
Right after he said it, he realised he’d been a bit too honest.
Alex laughed without humour and ducked his head. “Yeah, I think I know something about that.”
Beyond the solarium door, Arthur heard his family laughing.
Alex stood as if to head back inside, but instead stuck out a hand for Arthur to shake. Arthur raised a brow.
“I’ll go if you go,” Alex said boldly. He stared directly into Arthur’s eyes with a fierce intensity. “To therapy. Not the kitchen.”
Arthur looked down at his hand. It would be good for Alex to see a therapist, if only to improve some of his coping mechanisms. Henry said he and Alex’s sister had been trying to talk him into it. If Arthur could convince him to better himself by taking a small action of his own, even an unnecessary and frivolous one, was there really any harm?
“Alright,” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.
Alex grinned, and he suddenly looked like a child, impish and cheerful. “Cool.”
“Cool,” Arthur said, letting the word roll around in his mouth.
Alex ducked back into the house, leaving Arthur alone with the stars.
He waited for a moment, and then another. It was only then that he realised he was waiting for death to come.
He’d… finished. He’d spoken to everyone, set them all on the right path. There was very little left for him to do that his family wouldn’t be able to figure out for themselves.
“Dad!” Bea called through the doorway. “Come take a look at this!”
Arthur took his first two fingers and pressed them to the inside of his opposite wrist. He could feel the slight shiver of his blood pulsing underneath his skin. He filled his lungs with air until they ached.
Could this truly be real? Could he have the rest of his life, a long rest of his life, to be with his family through their ups and downs, to laugh with them and cry with them, to see how they grew?
Just as grief had not too long ago, joy filled his chest until it felt like it would burst.
He didn’t deserve this gift. But maybe none of them deserved anything. Maybe his sins didn’t matter as much as what he was doing to make up for them. Maybe things just happened through freak accidents and through human effort. Maybe this was real, and he was allowed to keep it.
“Just coming!” he called.
Arthur didn’t know what he believed in. He sent out a quick prayer of thanks, nonetheless. Whoever received it wasn’t his concern.
Smiling, he got to his feet and left the darkness of the glass-domed observatory for the kitchen, glowing with warmth.
It’s a wonderful life that I’ve known
Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan, I’m home!