The Shadow of Great Britain

A waiter at Jules Restaurant (Rules) came walking gracefully from the side door, carrying half a dozen chilled oysters on a silver tray.

Blackwell stared at the cold platter in the waiter’s hand.

The edges of the oyster shells gleamed with fine frost, lemons were neatly arranged, and diced red onions in vinegar were served in a small silver dish.

For a moment, he felt somewhat dazed, as if the clock had turned back a few years.

Salon dances in St. Petersburg, crystal chandeliers cascading down like waterfalls, candlelight reflecting on the gilded frames of the walls.

He was dressed in a snow-white dress shirt, shiny boots, wearing exquisite fox fur gloves, and the new silver buttons on his vest were able to reflect the light.

The hostess of the ball was Duchess Yekaterina Golitsyna. Blackwell still remembered how, that night, she personally led Sir Arthur and him into the antechamber, introducing them briskly to the daughters of five Dukes and the sisters of three Ministers.

The cold platter that night also consisted of Baltic Sea oysters, served in tall crystal bowls with ice underneath, and the gold-edged tongs looked clean and tidy.

Beside them sat the daughter of the Prussian Envoy, a young and lively girl with a cheerful disposition, speaking French with a touch of a Saxon accent.

"Please enjoy," the waiter said softly, placing the cold platter between him and Arthur.

Blackwell came back to his senses, suddenly feeling as if he were in another world.

The illusion was like the melting ice from the cold platter, leaving a bubble trail before his eyes.

Oysters were still oysters, ice chips were still ice chips, yet...

Now there was no candlelight hanging high above the arches, no Countess holding his arm, nor anyone asking him in soft French, "Sir, do you prefer Madeira or Champagne?"

Thinking of this, Blackwell’s eyes couldn’t help but become moist.

If it weren’t for Arthur sitting across from him, this senior copyist from the Foreign Office Secretariat would have nearly burst into tears.

"You don’t look well," Arthur glanced at him, "The restroom is inside, do you need to freshen up?"

Blackwell forced a smile, "Maybe I’ve been staying up too much lately, haven’t rested well..."

Arthur didn’t pursue, just raised his glass, gently touching the edge of the table, "In Rules, you have to learn to take things slowly. Come, Henry, here’s to your redemption."

Blackwell remained silent, just raising his glass to gently clink with Arthur’s, then closed his eyes and drank it down in one gulp.

Arthur picked up a lemon slice, squeezing the juice onto the oysters, but before he could speak, he saw Blackwell putting down his glass, wiping his mouth with his sleeve disregarding his image, "Sir, do you still often go over to Greenwich?"

Arthur grasped the oyster shell, "Occasionally, I still have a few old friends in Greenwich, and they invite me to fish feasts there every now and then."

"Ah, I see." Blackwell nodded, pretending to be interested in the varieties of sauces on the menu, looking over it briefly, then tentatively said, "So... in your kind of position, you must often have some documents... needing assistance in proofreading, compiling, right?"

"Which type of documents are you referring to?" Arthur teased, "The ones sent to the Caucasus?"

"Uh... not specifically any particular type." Blackwell blushed, "I just thought... if you happen to have some paperwork that needs to be handled, and you’re short on people... I’m not saying I’m more suitable than others, it’s just... we did work together in St. Petersburg, so we somewhat understand each other."

His words came slowly, each transition cautiously, as if fearing improper phrasing might offend this only mentor who could save him.

Arthur didn’t respond immediately, he just lowered his head slightly, fiddling with the oyster in the dish, seemingly assessing its freshness, or weighing the implications behind these words.

Blackwell suddenly felt a silent oppression pressing on his head. As he was about to brace himself and speak again, Arthur suddenly smiled lightly, "You know, Henry. If you had spoken so tactfully back in St. Petersburg, maybe the wording of your transfer order could have been more respectable."

Upon finishing, Arthur raised his glass, sipping slowly, "However... since you’ve gone around such a long way to speak, it would be unbecoming if I pretended not to understand."

Blackwell lightly inhaled, his hand instinctively rubbing his knee, "Sir, you know me... I just... don’t want to sit behind that desk in the Secretariat forever."

Arthur put down his glass, staring at him for a good while, "Is that so? Don’t like the position in the Secretariat?"

"Of course, as long as I’m not in the Secretariat, you can send me anywhere!" Blackwell said this too quickly, only realizing his tone was out of control afterward, promptly picking up his water cup to sip as cover, "I’m not saying I dislike the Secretariat’s position, Sir... I’ve just had enough."

He looked up at Arthur, his smile somewhat bitter, "Do you know when I started feeling uneasy? Not after I was transferred back to London, nor when I realized that my wage wasn’t increasing. It was that spring when Viscount Palmeston sent back a memorandum. That memorandum was written by me, for which I checked the original materials three times, revised five drafts, and supervised the whole process. But when the document was returned to my hand, I found the memorandum wasn’t signed by me, but by the freshly assigned Beckett."