The throne room was full when I arrived, which I had expected.
What I had not expected was the quality of the silence that greeted me — not hostile, nothing so legible as hostile, but suspended. The particular silence of a room full of people who have been talking and have stopped, which is a rather different thing from a room that was quiet to begin with.
I walked the full length of it.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. And then, as I reached the dais, the bowing began.
Lord Cavendish, near the front, executed his with the precise minimalism of a man who has calculated the exact depth required by protocol and has declined, with evident deliberateness, to exceed it by a single degree. Lord Pemberton followed. Then the man to his left. Then the man to his left.
The same bow. The same angle. The same fractional quality, as though someone had issued instructions.
I received each one with a pleasant expression and noted each face, and thought: this was coordinated. Individually, a shallow bow is simply bad manners.
Twelve men performing the same shallow bow at the same depth is something else entirely. It says: we have discussed you, reached a verdict, and are delivering it in the only language that cannot be formally objected to, because it has, at every point, remained within the bounds of the acceptable.
I recognised the technique. I had spent twenty-two years watching Lady Audrey Lancaster deploy variations of it on people she wished to diminish without appearing to.
I filed the morning under Lord Ashworth, walked to my seat, and sat down.
The council session followed that afternoon.
I arrived three minutes early — early enough to be seated when they entered, not so early as to suggest I had been waiting for them. Twelve men filed in over the following minutes with the unhurried ease of people accustomed to owning the room they were entering.
Several took their seats without glancing in my direction. Lord Pemberton said something to Lord Calder as he settled into his chair, and Calder produced a small smile of the variety shared between two men who have had a prior conversation that the other parties in the room were not party to.
I noted this. I noted all of it.
Lord Fenwick presented the eastern trade agreements with the efficient thoroughness of a man briefing a recipient he expects to be grateful for the summary and unlikely to require elaboration. He spoke for twenty-two minutes. He concluded, sat back, and smiled at me with the warmth of someone who has discharged an obligation.
"We trust this provides Her Highness with a sufficient overview of the current arrangements."
"It does," I said. "I have one question."
His smile held. "Of course."
"The third provision of the Hessian concession — under what conditions did the original agreement fail in practice, and which of the two subsequent renegotiations actually addressed the structural fault rather than simply deferring it?"
The smile faltered. Just slightly. He looked at the man to his left with the brief, involuntary quality of a man seeking assistance he would not find. The man to his left appeared to have developed a sudden interest in his notes.
"The — the second renegotiation, I believe, addressed the—"
"It did not," I said pleasantly. "The second renegotiation deferred the question of the Baltic shipping clauses to a separate instrument that was never ratified. Which is, I suspect, why we are still discussing Hessian trade terms in this chamber rather than implementing them."
I had spent the preceding eighteen hours in the palace library. One does not sleep especially well on the first night of an unexpected sovereignty, and the collection was excellently stocked. It had seemed a shame not to use it.
The table was very quiet.
Lord Ashworth, at the far end, set down his pen. The gesture was small and unhurried. He did not look up immediately — he looked at his notes, then at me, with the particular quality of a man conducting a private revision. Not hostile. Simply recalculating.
Then he picked his pen back up and wrote something. One line, possibly two. I could not see what it said. I was fairly certain I would find out eventually, because men who make notes after unexpected developments tend to use them.
When the session concluded and the members began gathering their papers, Ashworth addressed the room at large.
"It occurs to me," he said, in the pleasant tone of a man sharing a helpful observation, "that Her Highness might benefit from a more comprehensive briefing on matters of state. Given her particular background."
A pause — the specific pause of a man giving a phrase room to land. "Certain foundational material may not have had occasion to present itself."
The room received this with the attentiveness of twelve men who have been told something they already believed and are gratified to hear it confirmed aloud.
I was preparing to respond when a voice from the back said: "Her Highness's question identified a structural fault that this chamber has been deferring for six years."
Everyone turned.
Damian was standing near the door — not positioned for drama, not planted for effect, simply present in the way he always was. He was looking at Ashworth with an unhurried directness that contained no performance whatsoever, which is considerably more unsettling than the theatrical variety.
"The briefing that may benefit from improvement," he said, "is the council's. Not Her Highness's."
The room absorbed this.
Lord Pemberton glanced at Lord Fenwick. Fenwick looked at the table. Cavendish did not look at anyone — the particular studious non-looking of a man who has privately arrived at a conclusion he does not yet wish to be seen arriving at.
Ashworth regarded Damian for a moment. Then he smiled — the unhurried smile of a man who considers himself in a long game and is not troubled by the score of a single afternoon.
"Quite so," he said pleasantly, collected his papers, and left.
Which was the most remarkable part of the entire exchange. Men like Ashworth do not decline to engage unless they have something better planned.
I gathered my own papers, did not look at Damian, and thought about this for the remainder of the evening.
He appeared at my door at seven o'clock precisely.
"I did not summon you," I said.
"No," he agreed. "But you would have, presently."
I considered disputing this. It was accurate. "Sit down," I said.
He sat. I set down my document. "I am appointing you my personal adviser, effective tomorrow."
A brief pause — the variety of a man who had expected this and is deciding whether to say so. "I am honoured, Your Highness."
"You compiled my schedule and were already advising me," I said. "This makes it official. The material difference is that you now have access to the relevant correspondence rather than having to deduce its contents from my facial expression."
He looked at me with the quality of attention I was beginning to associate with him specifically — not the assessment of someone deciding whether to trust you, but the different sort that suggests they already have. "That," he said, "is a rather efficient arrangement."
"I am an efficient person," I said. "When the situation permits."
Something moved at the corner of his mouth. "I shall endeavour," he said, "to be worth the formality."
"See that you do," I said, and returned to the documents.
He settled into the chair by the window. Outside, the palace proceeded with its business. Somewhere in it, Lord Ashworth was proceeding with his.