London 1892

The rain had been falling since morning, a thin, needling sort of drizzle that made everything in London feel heavier—darker, somehow. Buckingham Palace loomed beneath the slate sky like it had been waiting centuries just to become his prison.

Remus stood by the tall windows of the east wing, one hand braced against the glass, watching the gravel drive where the carriage had long since vanished. The scent of tobacco still clung to his sleeves, though his cigarette had burned out hours ago. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Noon, maybe. Or one. He hadn’t been keeping track.

Sicily was here, of course. She had been for three days. Three long, silent days. She had unpacked her gowns without complaint, spoken politely to the staff, even offered him tea once, which he declined without looking up from his book. There had been a wedding, yes. A ceremony. Photographs. Applause. A kiss that barely brushed the air. But none of it meant anything—not to him.

He hadn’t asked for her. And he certainly hadn’t asked for marriage.

It was his parents’ solution to a problem he hadn’t realised he was meant to solve. Too many whispers about his temper. His detachment. His refusal to court the sort of women deemed acceptable for men of his station. They wanted to tether him to something, someone. Give the public a picture of respectability.

So they gave him Sicily.

And now she sat in the blue drawing room most mornings, reading novels by the fire, her posture impeccable, her expression unreadable. He had no idea what she thought of him—and cared less than he should have. But sometimes, in the moments just before sleep, he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. A husband? A stranger? A punishment?

Remus left the window. The silence of the manor followed him like a shadow. He didn’t know where Sicily was today, and he had no plans to find her.

Let the charade settle where it would. He had no intention of playing the part they’d written for him.

The dining room was cavernous and candlelit, the air heavy with roast venison and unsaid things. Remus sat across from his brother—the future king—and his brother’s wife, all diamond smiles and dulcet tones. Sicily was to his right, hands folded neatly in her lap, her gown a soft sea-glass blue that made her look like she belonged on a porcelain plate.

Conversation was polite, practiced. His brother spoke of Parliament. His brother’s wife of the opera. Sicily answered when spoken to. Remus mostly did not.

He caught his brother looking at him once, just once, with that unreadable expression he’d perfected since childhood—equal parts concern and command. Remus looked away, carving a piece of meat he had no interest in eating.

“And how are you finding married life?” his brother’s wife asked, with a bright, curious smile.

Sicily opened her mouth to speak, but Remus beat her to it.

“Domestic bliss,” he said, voice dry as dust. “Utterly intoxicating.”

There was a short silence.

Then his brother’s wife laughed—too sweetly—and Sicily took a sip from her glass without reacting at all.

The candlelight flickered. Somewhere outside, the rain began again.

Remus did not look at his wife.

He already knew the shape of the distance between them—and he had no interest in crossing it