“I SEE YOU!” he yelled. He ran across the grass. Faster. Faster.
But the star kept chasing him. She sparkled like the sky, and she was quick.
“I’m right here,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
“You are not a star,” he said. He stared with wonder. He knew who she was. How had he missed it? “You are Venus.”
“I am Venus,” she said. “Yes, I am Venus.”
“I see you! Venus! My angel! I am here!”
He reached for her, but she stepped away. Why? Why did Venus not want him?
“Talk to me,” he pleaded. “Do not go! Talk to me! I knew you would come. I knew it. Venus, do not go. Do not go. Do not be afraid. It is me. Do you not know me?”
He tore off his robe. Bared his skin to the night. “Do you not see me?”
“Your Majesty!” someone yelled.
George turned. It was a golden-top. It looked hot. The top was on fire. He should not touch it.
Hot like the sun. Burning like a star.
“Your Majesty,” the golden-top said. “I thought perhaps you would like to warm up. Do you remember? When we were small? Hot tea. Or warm milk. With sugar to make it sweet like dessert. We could go inside . . .”
George shook his head. He was not cold. “It is Venus!” he said, pointing to her. “Do you see her?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” the golden-top said.
“Say hello!”
“Hello, Venus,” the golden-top said. “Your Majesty—”
“Farmer George!” George cried happily. He threw his arms out, stretched them toward the sky. “Astronomer George!”
“Astronomer George, let us cover you up with this . . .”
George eyed him warily. What was the golden-top holding? What was he trying to do? “No, I want Venus,” he said. He feinted to the side. The golden-top would not get him. He was too fast. “Only Venus.” He looked at Venus and smiled brightly. “Hello, Venus!”
“George,” Venus said.
He stepped to the right. The golden-top was still after him.
“George,” Venus said again, louder this time. “FARMER GEORGE!”
He stopped. Looked at her.
“I am Venus,” she said.
“I know. Hello, Venus. You are Venus.”
“Yes. And Venus is going inside. You need to come with me.”
“All right.” He liked Venus. Venus sparkled. Venus was kind. But wasn’t it strange that she was here in the garden? He looked at her curiously. “I thought you were in the sky?”
“I was in the sky,” she said, laying a soft hand on his arm. “But now I am going into Buckingham House. Won’t you come with me?”
He looked at her, at the house, then at the golden-top.
“Here,” she said, and she put something over his shoulders. “This will keep you warm.”
“It is cold,” he said.
“Come with me,” she urged, and together they walked into the building.
“Venus is indoors,” he remarked. “A planet. Inside the house. So very odd.”
“It is very odd,” Venus said. “So very odd.”
He turned around. The golden-top was following them, but Venus did not seem to mind. He looked at her, then jerked his head behind them, just in case she had not noticed.
“He is a friend,” she said.
“You are sure?”
“I am sure. Come. We are inside now. Venus is indoors. With you. She is with you.”
Venus.
He was with Venus.
He smiled. “Thank you, Venus.”
She nodded, and for a moment he thought she might be crying, but no, that was not possible. Planets did not cry.
It was just a sparkle. Because Venus sparkled.
Venus was inside.
So very odd.
But she was inside.
With him.
Charlotte
Buckingham House
Moments later
“This way,” Charlotte said, gently guiding George through the quiet halls of the palace.
“Venus,” he said with a tired smile.
He looked like he might fall asleep on his feet.
“He is heavy,” she said to Reynolds, who was hovering two steps behind. Reynolds immediately came forward and supported the King from the other side.
“He is a golden-top,” George said.
Charlotte and Reynolds exchanged a look.
“Golden-tops are good,” Charlotte said to George. She didn’t know what else to say. “They are kind.”
“I shouldn’t touch it,” George said. He giggled. “But I will.” He reached out and patted Reynolds’s hair.
His shiny golden hair. Charlotte finally understood.
“It wasn’t hot,” George said. “I thought it would be hot.”
The blanket slipped from his shoulders, and Charlotte paused to push it back up. He was naked under the blanket, and they were in a very public hall in Buckingham House. It was the middle of the night, and no one seemed to be around, but still.
“Brimsley has secured the area,” Reynolds said.
Charlotte just looked at him. She had no idea what those words meant.
“He is making sure no one comes to this part of the house. I told him to lock the servants in their quarters if necessary.”
“Oh. Thank you. I suppose.” Her words sounded a little bit dead. Certainly blunted.
It was strange. She should have been in a heightened state. She should have been filled with rage, or worry, or something hot and volatile, but instead she felt as if she were sleepwalking. As if her mind and body had cleaved into two.
Somehow her body knew what it had to do—take the King back to his bedchamber, wash the dirt from his body, put him to bed. Her mind, though . . . It was somewhere else. It had questions.
“How long?” she asked Reynolds.
“Your Majesty?”
“How long has he been like this?”
“I . . . could not say exactly, Your Majesty.”
Charlotte would have hit him if she’d had the energy. And if she weren’t holding up the King. “Could you say inexactly?”
“Some years,” he admitted.
“Is this typical? Tonight?”
“This was worse than usual,” Reynolds admitted.
They had reached the King’s bedchamber. George yawned. “I’m very tired,” he said.
“We shall get you into bed soon enough,” Reynolds assured him.
“We need to wash him,” Charlotte said, her voice still heavy and dull.
“Yes,” Reynolds agreed. “Can you stay with him while I fetch some soap and water?”
Charlotte nodded. Whatever devil had possessed George, making him run and yell like a maniac, it was gone now, leaving a very tired man. He yawned again, and she and Reynolds supported him as he sank gently to the floor. They leaned him against the wall—the one now covered with his charcoal scribblings—and he closed his eyes.
“Is he sleeping?” Charlotte asked. It looked as if he was sleeping, but what did she know? She’d never seen a man act as her husband had that night. For all she knew, sleep was no longer sleep.
“I believe so,” Reynolds said. “It is common for him to be very tired after . . .”
She looked at him, daring him to say it. To call it what it was.
“I will get soap and water,” he said.
“Do.”
Reynolds departed, leaving Charlotte alone with George, who was still leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. He was mumbling, though. Nothing she could understand. She could not even make out the odd word here or there. It was as if he had been powered by fire, and the massive flame that had propelled him outside was now down to a flickery little ember.
Exhausted, she sat by his side on the floor. He was twitching, so she took one of his hands in hers, hoping to steady him.