The Shadow of Great Britain

"Thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

"Thank you for making me believe... happiness might really exist."

As she spoke, light flowed in her eyes.

It wasn’t candlelight, but the glimmer of unshed tears.

Arthur lowered his head, his gaze falling on the strand of hair gilded by the light on her shoulder.

He didn’t answer, just gently reached out to adjust the slipping shawl.

The music gradually slowed.

The last piece of melody seemed to transform into a golden butterfly, resting on the dome of the palace, trembling its wings.

The crowd erupted in enthusiastic applause, noble ladies stood up with smiles, gentlemen doffed their hats in salutation.

The applause was like waves, one after another.

And in that golden commotion, Flora’s world was eerily quiet.

Her hand still lay in Arthur’s palm, gently enveloped by him.

She whispered, "I really hope this music never stops."

Arthur, gazing at the stage, softly replied, "It indeed will not stop."

"Why?"

"Because Felix will take the stage very soon."

She laughed.

The smile was so gentle it was almost transparent.

At the climax of the applause, the lights dimmed for a brief moment.

But soon, the stage lights shone brightly again with Mendelssohn’s entrance.

"Majestic Variations" No. 54.

Flora blinked, seemingly startled by that brief darkness.

She looked up at Arthur, wanting to say something, but found him watching the stage, as serene as a statue.

On stage, Mendelssohn was approaching the piano.

He bowed slightly, letting his fingers fall.

The music began anew.

It was the rational sound of Bach’s heir, the first variation like a clear spring on stone, with a crystalline, pure voice line, neither showy nor sentimental, steady, restrained, carrying the solemnity of a church.

Quietly, Flora leaned against Arthur’s shoulder, almost holding her breath.

But Arthur’s gaze gradually darkened.

Watching those fingers dart across the black and white keys, in Mendelssohn’s performance, he seemed to see himself, a person wrapped in reason, bound by duty.

"Arthur."

Flora called him softly.

Arthur turned, meeting her shining eyes.

She whispered, "This music reminds me of you."

"Why?"

Flora’s smile bloomed like a flower: "Because it’s both gentle and inescapable."

Arthur paused, after a silent moment, he replied, "Perhaps."

Beneath the stage, applause resounded.

Mendelssohn rose to acknowledge, still courteous, still peacefully composed.

Amid the audience’s cheers, the next performer stepped forward, it was Frederic Chopin.

A thin figure, a pale face.

A simply tailored tailcoat, as if blending with the backdrop.

He made no superfluous movements, just sat down, fingers lightly falling on the keys.

The Nocturne began.

The melody under the soft light was like a gentle rain.

Each note was so light it seemed almost to shatter,

as if a letter written to the departed.

Flora’s head rested on Arthur’s shoulder, her breathing very shallow.

It was not merely an attachment but a natural leaning after weary happiness.

Her body fragrance mixed with a faint perfume scent,

like air brought from the distant York countryside,

pure and irreversible.

In that moment, all sounds seemed to fade away,

leaving only her heartbeat, her breath.

The last section of the Nocturne gradually dissipated, followed by the Polish Dance.

Heroic in A-Flat Major.

The music suddenly turned into a fiery force.

The piano advanced like an army.

The rhythm was brisk, solemn, and full of pride.

Chopin’s fingertips leaped like sparks,

every high note seemed to shout the dignity of a nation.

Poland’s battle flag flapped between the notes, the piano was no longer an instrument, but the trumpet of marching.

Half-asleep and half-awake, Flora raised her head startled, her heart shaken by this sudden rhythm, her breath almost stilled.

She raised her head, staring blankly at the stage.

She had never seen a battlefield,

but when "Hero" resonated, she seemed to witness that night at the Tower of London.

Rioting flames, dust kicked up by hooves, screams in the air.

Arthur’s uniform was drenched in blood, collapsed on the stone steps with the officer’s sword still tightly clenched in hand.

Chopin’s rhythm mirrored the shouts of the crowd that night.

Fractured, rolling, heart-wrenching.

The piano’s bass exploded like the sound of wind as bullets whizzed by.

Before Flora’s eyes, the image of Arthur raising his body amidst the flames appeared,

At that moment, he must have been as he is now, standing straight, not retreating.

She involuntarily clenched Arthur’s cuff.

Arthur felt it, but said nothing.

He merely let her hand rest on the bend of his arm.

On stage, Chopin had finished the last bravura passage.

He stood and bowed.

Applause burst forth, deafening.

However, that was not the end.

The stage lights adjusted again.

Talberg took the stage.

His expression was stern, his demeanor perfect, that almost religious elegance silenced the entire hall.

"Moses Fantasy."

Right from the start is his famous "double-note technique."

Two melodies progressing in parallel, one rational, one emotional, one cold, one hot.

His hands flew across the keys, like a saint spreading the new gospel from the pulpit.

As his fingers slid across the keys, the air of Buckingham Palace seemed to solidify.

It was an extreme restraint, beautiful to the point of cruelty.

Double tones symmetrical like poles, one landing, the other rising immediately.

As if echoing between Heaven and Hell, or between faith and desire.

The audience’s exclamations came in waves.

Flora held her breath, her gaze drawn to Talberg’s musical notes.

She had never seen such power.

The melody seemed to physically cleave the air, she could almost hear the roar of Moses parting the sea, hear the human souls trembling between faith and desire.

Agares leaned against the wall, eyes squinting, a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth: "Listen, Arthur. Even Moses must part the sea, yet you dare not cross even a little river."

Arthur’s brow twitched slightly.

On stage, Talberg suddenly pushed the melody to its peak, the two voices entwined in the high register, bursting into a splendid roar.

Tears glimmered in Flora’s eyes, she almost forgot to breathe.

She felt the music was burning her heart.

The passion and restraint, just like Arthur’s gaze, seemingly indifferent, yet harboring an irresistible warmth deep within.

When the last chord landed, the entire room fell into a deathly silence.

Only the crystals of the chandelier trembled slightly, making a creaking sound.

Then, applause erupted.

The nobility rose one after another, even Victoria couldn’t help but nod slightly, smiling along with Leopold.

Talberg bowed, his expression still composed.

His exit was like a fleeting shadow,

clean to the point of cruelty.

He aimed to defeat Liszt.

Today, here.

Arthur turned his head, looking at Flora.

She was still entranced.

"What are you thinking?"

"I’m thinking..." Flora whispered in response: "If God’s voice truly sounded like this, how lonely people must be!"

Arthur’s Adam’s apple moved, but he said nothing.

He merely reached out his hand, lightly covering the back of her fingers.

At that moment, the stage lights lit up once more.

The King of Piano from Paris, Franz Liszt, took the stage.

Thunderous applause.

He held his head high, smiling, as if the whole world should graciously step aside for him.

Liszt’s eyes shone with pride, a hunting gleam, as he sat on the piano stool, even the surrounding air felt dangerous.

"Memories of Don Juan" was sure to dazzle the audience!

"He seems to be smiling?" Flora asked softly.

"Yes." Arthur’s gaze locked on Liszt, his spirit seemingly detached from a reverie, he too was smiling: "That’s the smile of a conqueror’s triumph."

"And you?"

Arthur straightened his back, exhaled lightly: "Some take the stage for applause, some return for triumph. And tonight, I want both."