Free Traitor and the Tunnel by Y. S. Lee Page A

evening prayers.”

    “Yes, Mother.”
    At the first swish of Queen Victoria’s skirts Mary retreated round the corner, heart pounding furiously.
    This was a significant reversal of her earlier position: the Queen was interested not only in the truth of what had happened that night, but in the general ideal of truth! What if the Prince succeeded in remembering something that might clear Lang Jin Hai of the gravest charge, high treason? Would Her Majesty find a way to make that known to the police? Or what if Lang had acted in self-defence, and Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death had been a terrible accident?
    Mary’s hopes rose despite her attempts to squash them down. With sufficient evidence, Prince Bertie’s memories could even mitigate Lang’s death sentence.
    A delicate rattling of china reminded her of the tray in her hands, and it took a long moment for her to calm herself sufficiently to enter the room and set the tray before Prince Bertie. “Your Highness.” She curtseyed.
    His head swivel ed. He looked at her with sightless eyes.
    “Do you require anything else, sir?”
    “N-no. You may go.”
    “Very good, sir.” She curtseyed again and began her retreat.
    She was half-way across the vast rug when he cleared his throat. “Er – Her Majesty wil not be taking tea this afternoon.”
    “Very good, sir.” She hesitated. “Do you expect Mrs Dalrymple?”
    A morose shrug was his only answer.
    In that case… “Shal I pour you a cup of tea, sir?”
    “Yes, do.”
    “Would you like a butterfly bun, sir?” It was the nursery choice: the Prince of Wales didn’t seem in the mood to appreciate the pungency of a fruit-cake.
    “Yes.”
    She chose the fattest, creamiest cake, so thickly dredged with icing sugar that it gave off a puff of white powder as she set it gently on a plate. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”
    “N-no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know!” The Prince let the plate clatter onto a side table and buried his face in his hands. He made a curious, treble sound – a kind of animal shriek – and Mary realized, with wonder, that he was sobbing. His shoulders quaked. He shook and heaved and gasped for breath. But when Mary caught a glimpse of his scarlet face, his eyes were dry.
    “There, there,” said Mary with caution. She suspected he’d not take kindly to a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, or the offer of a handkerchief.
    But she didn’t want to summon help. He might yet tel her something meaningful.
    She watched the Prince a few minutes longer. His was a hysterical sort of sobbing – theatrical, even.
    Final y, when it began to subside, Mary knelt beside his chair. “It’s not an easy life, yours,” she said quietly.
    “Nooooo,” he agreed, with a sort of wail.

    In other circumstances, it would have been difficult not to laugh. Yet there was so much at stake just now. Every word of Bertie’s was precious. “Nobody real y understands what it’s like.”
    His eyes wel ed up with tears in earnest, now, and he began to blub again. “I – I’m so miserable … and so alone.”
    “Because there’s nobody in your family like you,”
    said Mary. “Nobody with your duties and people’s expectations of you.” She hated the words, even as they left her mouth. The last thing she needed to encourage was the Prince’s sense of injured entitlement. Yet it was, she felt certain, the swiftest way into his confidence.
    He looked at her for a moment, amazed. “How did you know that? How can a servant girl like you understand so much?”
    Because
    self-absorbed
    man-children
    are
    common as weeds, thought Mary. But she said, “I don’t know, sir. I only guessed.”
    “I’m entirely alone, for al I’ve equerries and friends and my parents; I’m more alone than the poorest orphan ever born.” It was fortunate that the Prince of Wales couldn’t see the twist of Mary’s mouth as he uttered this. “And I’m even more alone now, because of what happened on Saturday