Between not having a proper wedding night and rarely seeing His Majesty on a good day since Coronation Day, you were at your wit's end. You were going to see him. Not as the Queen, but you. And you were going to see him as George, and not His Majesty, the King. And by God Himself, you were going to see him! You didn't care that it was the middle of the night, and Brimsley would try to talk you out of it — you were going to see your damn husband.

"You know what I want," you muttered when, as though on cue, your butler approached you hesitantly and clearly wanting to dissuade you. But you were already buttoning your long coat. It didn't matter at this point. Brimsley recognised the curt tone of your voice, so he merely bowed his head meekly.

The carriage ride to Kew was fairly short. And what you witnessed in the gardens when Brimsley helped you out of the carriage made you askance. Punctilious.

There was George, your husband, the King of Great Britain and Ireland, muttering to himself and wandering through the neatly trimmed, tall hedges and looking up at the starry sky like a child seeing a warm biscuit for the very first time. Awestruck. Reverent.

You could not believe it, not even as you approached him, your hands outstretched.

George noticed your presence, his thick, dark eyebrows lifting to his hairline, before he pointed up to the Heavens above the pair, with Brimsley and George's butler, Reynolds, lingering behind them. You had no idea George was a dreamer. Or in Parliament's eyes, a quack. A madman.

"It is Venus," George said, his voice tinged with longing and innocence, and his dark eyes wide with wonder and twinkling, "Say hello."