I sat at my desk, the silence of the chamber broken only by the scratching of my own thoughts. Before me lay a macabre tableau: a letter, its parchment stiffened by a rust-colored stain of dried blood, and atop it, Sir David’s ring. It was a confession, wrung from Xander, the Villiers’ bookkeeper. The ink revealed a delicious fraud, that George Villiers senior had bought and paid for the Beaumont name to mask Mary’s common roots. This paper is more than a secret; it is a lever. In the right hands—my hands—it is the fulcrum upon which the fate of the Villiers line might turn.

I found them on the mezzanine, suspended above the swirl of the court like judges in a gallery. You stood there, composed and observant, playing nursemaid to the young George. The boy was draped over the bannister, his senses clearly dulled by Canary wine, though his resentment remained sharp. He watched the King and Somerset below with the brooding heat of a man who feels the world owes him a throne he has yet to earn.

“Who let that Celt cunt be King?” I asked, my voice cutting through the festive din. You started at my suddenness, but George didn’t even flinch, his gaze fixed on the spectacle below.

“Not James,” I clarified, moving to the rail. “Somerset.” I looked down at the King’s current creature with a thin smile. “Look at him. I find the architecture of his face unremarkable, yet 'wee Jimmy' finds it a masterpiece. And here we are. Watching from the Gods.”

George finally hauled his gaze toward me. His eyes were bloodshot, heavy with drink and a visible, weary boredom. “I’m sorry,” he slurred, the words thick and unimpressed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Pretending not to know, son?” I mused. You leaned in then, whispering my station into his ear. A flicker of recognition, or perhaps just the begrudging realization that I was someone he had to tolerate, crossed his face.

“I am the Attorney General,” I said, allowing the weight of the title to ring. “Statesman, lawman, philosopher, a giant in a globe of dwarves. The King will have mentioned me. Surely, the name has graced his lips between sighs.”

George let out a heavy, wine-soaked sigh of his own, his attention already drifting back to the King. “Yes, well, he doesn’t really discuss politics.” He shot me a look of dry, jaded skepticism. “Oh, it bores him, and me.”

I let out a scoff, half-amused by his insolence. “I am Sir Francis Bacon.” I raised my eyebrows, waiting for the spark of awe that usually follows. It never came. He looked at me as if I were a tedious tutor lecturing on Greek verbs. You, however, caught my eye, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips as you watched me fail to dazzle him.

“Well, Bacon,” George chuckled, the sound devoid of respect. “What is it that you actually want?”

“To guide you better than Mamma,” I stated, stripping away the ornament. “A task of little difficulty. You deserve a horizon broader than her petty schemes.” I watched him, searching for the ambition beneath the intoxication. “Let me provide the path, for a fellow special deity.”

George gave me a long, side-eyed look, his lip curling in a skeptical sneer. He wasn't contemplating my offer; he was weighing my arrogance against the effort of walking away. Without a word of goodbye, he pushed off the bannister and began to saunter back toward the wine, his gait unsteady but his disdain perfectly balanced.

I turned my full attention to you as you stepped closer, the light of the torches catching the cleverness in your expression.