She had a strange dream, very strange.
She dread of a heavy crown lying atop the waves, floating, drifting until it ca to her feet.
She wanted to reach out and grab it, but the crown suddenly started to sink, like a lead weight pulling her eyes and heart downward, all the way into the black seabed.
The seawater seed to press in from all sides; she couldn’t move, almost suffocating with the urge to cry out.
"Grandfather... No, Uncle George, or Uncle William..." she murmured, her words confused and pale.
She reached to touch her forehead, only to find it covered in cold sweat.
Victoria lifted her head; her gaze fell on the silvery clock by the fireplace.
The ti shown was two-thirty in the morning.
She frowned, instinctively glancing toward the side of the bed.
Her mother, the Duchess of Kent, usually peered in at this hour to see if she was asleep or at least doze in the armchair.
But tonight...
She was not there.
Victoria’s heart was suddenly gripped by an inexplicable foreboding.
She donned her robe and slowly rose; barefoot, she stepped onto the heavy carpet and walked to the door, peering through the keyhole.
The hallway candles were still lit, but the night maid was nowhere to be seen.
Victoria turned the doorknob, unsurprisingly, it wouldn’t open.
She stood before the door, suddenly unsure if she should knock to call for soone.
The strange dream still lingered in her mind, the crown floating on the water, within the night’s color and the cold sweat, increasingly resembled a pair of sinking eyes.
Victoria felt a vague unease; she stood by the door for a while, then returned to sit at the bedside.
Victoria sat at the edge of the bed for a mont, her heartbeat gradually calming.
She reached for the sketchbook beside her pillow, turning to the previous page, where an unfinished flower study lay; further back was a European robin perched on the iron rail of the balcony.
Suddenly, she flipped to the last page and stopped her hand.
In the drawing, a man sat astride a stately steed, its body entirely black, mane curled like ink, flying like waves in the wind.
The sharply cut tailcoat, snow-white gloves, left hand holding the reins, right hand resting on the sword, legs tightly clamped around the horse’s belly, sitting upright. Beneath the tall hat was a face whose contours hadn’t been finely detailed.
The face was deliberately left blank, as if even the artist dared not easily depict it.
But in the mont Victoria gazed at it, it was as if a breeze swept through the pages, stirring the remnants of ash and night wind.
The outline in the drawing slowly revealed a faint trace of reality.
Tall nose, sharp brow bone, lips pressed tightly, exuding a sternness unyielding to frivolity.
It wasn’t the romantic court poet nor the ideal prince rampant in dieval knight novel illustrations, but sothing deeper, steadier.
It was a... real person.
The night wind stirred the horse’s mane and cloak, the sound of iron hooves echoed on the muddy road.
A few torch beams couldn’t penetrate the densest fog on this June night in England, yet they illuminated the black steed and the rider on its back.
Sir Arthur Hastings wasn’t dressed in formal attire nor wore the Sword of Honor, yet he still donned that impeccably tailored black tailcoat, sitting upright as if receiving inspection. Left hand on the reins, right hand gloved in white, resting on the saddle, without a single extraneous movent.
"Sir Arthur," a mounted police officer approached discreetly and asked, "Shall we continue to wait at the London boundary, or proceed directly to Windsor Castle?"
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