Free The Sunken by S. C. Green

Nicholas more and more nervous. Beside him, Brunel was having his hair plastered into place by two grunting attendants, while a third was trying in vain to steam out the stains on his overalls. He looked utterly unfazed to be standing in Windsor Castle, about to meet the King.
    Nicholas and Brunel had arrived at the castle in the messenger’s carriage, only to be whisked around the back to a servants’ entrance and locked in a small waiting room, where they had remained for the past two hours, subjected to various barbaric beauty treatments in preparation for their audience with King George.
    “Is this all really necessary?” Brunel asked, as one of the attendants tied a pair of starched white cuffs around his wrists.
    The steward glared at him. “His Majesty has never had an audience with Stokers before. We hadn’t anticipated how long it would take to make you presentable. And since you won’t co-operate—”
    “These overalls are a symbol of my heritage,” said Brunel. “I will not remove them, not even for the King.”
    “—then we’ve had to do the best we can with what little we have available to us. At this rate, I don’t think you’ll be able to meet with him at all today—”
    There was a knock at the door. “The King will receive them now,” a voice called through the panel.
    “They are not ready!”
    “He won’t wait any longer.”
    “We’re perfectly presentable,” snapped Brunel, disentangling himself from the attendants. He grabbed Nicholas’ hand and pulled him toward to door. Nicholas met his eyes, and Brunel smiled, as if trying to reassure him.
    Frowning one last time at the state of them, the steward sighed loudly, and pushed open the door. Brunel stepped out, his face calm, and Nicholas followed him, his legs shaking with nerves. Brunel reached a hand up and ran it through his hair, deliberately messing it up. Nicholas smiled weakly, but the effort just made him feel ill.
    They were met by a guard, who looked them up and down with a disapproving scowl. “Are you certain you should wear that —”
    Brunel glared at him. The guard shook his head, and beckoned for them to follow him down the hall. They paused outside two ornate wooden doors, which the guard pushed open, revealing an expansive drawing room, the walls and ceiling decorated with exquisite friezes and gilded mouldings. Nicholas gulped, forcing himself to resist the urge to turn on his heel and run.
    “Mr. Brunel. Mr. Rose.” The King waved them from the doorway. “Please, you may enter and take a seat. I will have the staff fetch you some tea.”
    Nicholas, his palms shaking and coated with sweat, stared at the chair the king wished him to use, its heavy oak legs carved in the French style, inlaid with delicate details leafed in gold. It probably cost ten years of an engineer’s salary. He perched gingerly on one edge and looked up at the King, who stared down his nose at them both with a stern expression. King George’s eyes sparkled with intelligence, and neither his posture nor his features betrayed his age. Nicholas tried to read his expression, to see if what he feared were true.
    He’s found me, he thought, his chest clenched. He’s making the King send me back so he can torture me —
    Joseph Banks stood behind the throne, his hands floating awkwardly at his sides and a leather satchel stowed between his feet. He pursed his lips, glaring at Brunel with vehemence.
    “It is an honour, Your Majesty.” Unlike Nicholas, Isambard seemed calm, collected. He sat upright in his chair, mimicking the King’s strict posture. “If it pleases His Majesty, I wondered why you have called two lowly engineers into your presence today?”
    Nicholas cringed at his easy use of that loaded descriptor. He did not wish to claim any such title for himself, especially not when he knew exactly what the King wanted. Banks’ eyes flashed with anger, but King George did not seem to notice.
    I’m sorry Isambard. I didn’t want to