The Shadow of Great Britain

The backstage wall lamps of Buckingham Palace are covered with a milky white glass shade, the light gentle as if shaved off the sharp edges of moonlight.

The music from outside is progressing to the second movement, with brass and strings layering one upon another, like a curtain woven with golden threads, enveloping the entire Buckingham Palace.

Arthur leans in the shadow at the right side of the stage, his gaze crosses the half-concealed curtain, quietly watching the performance outside.

The stage is brilliantly lit, yet the place he occupies is dark and quiet.

The strong contrast between light and dark feels as if Arthur is sitting in Scotland Yard’s interrogation room, only tonight, the one being interrogated is not a criminal, but art.

He is listening intently when suddenly someone softly calls his name behind him: "Arthur."

The voice is low, gentle, sounding like dew falling into a deep pool, stirring a ripple of water.

Arthur’s shoulder trembles slightly, slowly turning around.

The light slants across the person’s face.

It is a face he could not possibly mistake no matter how much time had passed.

Gentle brows and eyes, carrying the elegance of an old-fashioned noble lady, the curve of the chin clean and soft, even the breath seems to be very controlled.

The only difference from the appearance in his memory is, compared to two months ago, she appears thinner.

"Flora?"

Arthur softly speaks her name, his tone carrying a hint of surprise, and a hint of bewilderment.

"Have I disturbed you?" Flora’s voice is extremely light, she stands straight, hands clasped in front of her, her deep blue velvet court gown shimmering faintly under the lights, even the lace at the sleeves lightly illuminated.

"No." Arthur shakes his head: "I just didn’t expect to see you here."

Flora smiles faintly, her smile gentle yet carrying some fatigue: "Tonight I came with the Duchess, she hasn’t been well lately, Sir John couldn’t come, so I had to accompany her."

She pauses, then lightly adds: "And I heard people say, you would perform tonight... so I thought, if coming to Buckingham, perhaps I could see you."

Her words are very calm, but that phrase "perhaps I could see you" fell into Arthur’s ears, seeming so piercing.

Arthur dares not meet her eyes directly, only lowers his head to apologize: "It has been a while since I visited Kensington Palace to chat with you."

"You need not force yourself." Flora gently shakes her head, her smile unchanged: "Since the Queen ascended the throne, I heard your duties at White Hall have been increasing... if one is not in the palace, it really is hard to hear your name anymore."

Arthur hears the tremor in her voice, yet can only pretend not to notice, he responds smiling: "Sometimes duties certainly cause estrangement, but estrangement doesn’t mean forgetting."

Flora lifts her eyes, looking at him.

In that instant, the light in her eyes almost seemed to burn, then quickly extinguished.

She lowers her head, softly saying: "That’s good, because... I still think about you"

A brief silence falls between them.

The music outside suddenly undergoes a strong key change, brass instruments blare in unison, applause explodes in the distance, gently shaking the curtain.

They both are surprised by the audience’s applause, their silent world once again shattered by reality’s power.

Arthur remains silent for a moment, finally speaking: "Flora, do you have anything else?"

This sentence he speaks extremely lightly, but somehow, when it falls into Flora’s ears, it sounds like the sound of a door closing.

She hesitates for a moment, reluctantly squeezes out a smile.

"Certainly." She answers softly, voice gentle, yet already revealing a trace of sorrow: "I should return to the Duchess’s side now, she needs someone to attend to her."

She performs a graceful curtsey, then turns around.

The light obliquely rests on the tip of her hair, casting a soft glow.

She walks extremely slowly, as if afraid of making a sound.

But when she reaches the backstage door, tears in her eyes finally brim, almost spilling over.

However,

at this moment,

she suddenly feels her wrist gently held by a warm, broad, calloused hand.

The grip is not heavy, yet enough to keep her frozen in place.

"Flora."

Arthur’s voice comes from behind, lower than before, closer.

She dares not turn back, only hears him softly say behind her.

"Could you stay here and keep me company? As for the Duchess... I will personally explain later."

He pauses for a moment, his tone suddenly turns a bit hoarse, awkward: "I’m about to perform soon. Honestly, I am... a bit nervous now."

This sentence seems to pierce Flora’s every mental defense.

The concert outside does not pause.

Through the half-covered curtain, Miss Clara Novello’s silhouette faintly appears.

The light cascades like a waterfall, her singing follows.

It is a selection from "The Sleepwalker", "Ah! non credea mirarti" (Ah! blooms withered prematurely).

The melody is as soft as cicada wings, like a sleepwalking girl softly sighing under the moonlight.

Potria novel vigore (Perhaps, my tears)

il pianto mio recarti (can restore new vigor to you)

ma ravvivar l’amore (but to revive love)

il pianto non può (tears are powerless)

Each word of the song falls like fine rain on the heart.

Flora slowly turns around, sees within Arthur’s dark eyes not his usual composure and detachment, only a fragile emotion torn by tension.

Ah! non credea mirarti (Ah! I never thought)

sì presto estinto, o fiore (to see you wilt so soon, oh flower)

passasti al par d’amore (you faded like love)