She looked into his face. It was hard and cold, and something about the new bleakness in his eyes almost frightened her. What on earth did she do?
She was no stranger to bereavement—her own father had died five years ago, and although they had not been close, Millie still remembered the sensation of having had something fundamental torn away from her. And Gianferro had lost his mother, too. To be an orphan was profoundly affecting, even if it happened when you were an adult yours
elf.
But Millie was now his wife, his help and his emotional support, and she must reach out to him.
She moved over to him and lifted her hand to touch the rigid mask of his face.
‘Gianferro,’ she whispered. ‘I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.’
His eyes flickered towards her, her words startling him out of his sombre reverie. He hoped to God that she wasn’t about to start crying. It was not her place to cry—she had barely known the King, and it was important for her to recognise that her role now was to lead. That the people would be looking to her for guidance and she must not crumble or fail.
‘Thank you,’ he clipped out. ‘But the important thing is for the King’s work to continue. He has had a long and productive life. There will be sorrow, yes, but we must also celebrate his achievements.’ He nodded his head formally. ‘You must be a figurehead of comfort to your people,’ he said softly.
But not to you, thought Millie, as a great pang wrenched at her heart. Not to you.
‘And now we must go back to Solajoya,’ he said flatly, and Millie nodded like some obedient, mute servant.
After that everything seemed to happen with an alarming and blurred speed, and with the kind of efficiency which made her think it must have been planned. But of course it would have been. There were always provisions in place to deal with the death of a monarch, even if that monarch were young—and Gianferro’s father had been very old indeed.
It was Alesso, not Gianferro, who instructed Millie to wear black, for the new King was busy talking on the phone. Normally, a bride would not have taken black clothes with her on honeymoon, but the instructions she had been given prior to the wedding all made sense now. Gianferro had told her that Royals always travelled with mourning clothes and so she had duly packed some, never thinking in a million years that she might actually need to wear them.
The car ride back to Solajoya was fast and urgent, only slowing down to an almost walking pace when they reached the outskirts of the capital. And Millie had to stifle a gasp—for it was like a city transformed from the one she remembered.
All the flowers and flags and the air of joy which had resonated in the air after their wedding had disappeared. Everything seemed so sombre…so sad. People were openly weeping and the buildings were draped in black.
A line of pale-faced dignitaries was awaiting them as they swept into the Palace forecourt, and Gianferro turned to her as the car came to a halt. He had been preoccupied and silent during the journey. She had longed to say something which would comfort him, but she had not been able to find the words—and something inside her had told her that he would not wish to hear them even if she could. She sensed that he was glad to have his position and authority to hide behind. Perhaps for Gianferro it was lucky that expressed emotions would be inappropriate right now.
She reached out a tentative hand towards his, but he didn’t even seem to notice, and so she let it fall back onto her lap and stared out of the window instead, her mind muddled and troubled. Her future as Princess had been daunting enough, but as Queen? It didn’t bear thinking about.
His voice was low and flat. ‘After we have been greeted you will go to our suite,’ he instructed. ‘I will come to you as soon as I can.’
‘When?’ she whispered.
‘Millie, I do not know. You must be patient.’
And that was that. In a daze, Millie followed behind him as dignitary after dignitary bowed—first to him and then to her.
Once in the suite, she pulled the black hat from her head and looked around the unfamiliar surroundings with a sense of panic.
Now what did she do? She felt as though she had been marooned on a luxurious but inaccessible island, with no one to talk to or confide in. No one to weep with—except that she felt bad about that, too, because there were no tears to shed. She felt sad, yes—but she had only met Gianferro’s father once. She hadn’t known him at all—and wouldn’t it be hypocritical to try to conjure up tears simply because it was expected of her?
Her two sisters-in-law called on her, both dropping deep curtseys before her.
‘Please don’t feel you have to do that,’ begged Millie.
‘But we do,’ said the taller of them, in a clipped, matter-of-fact voice which was distorted with grief. ‘It is simply courtesy, Your Majesty.’
Millie heard the term of address with a sense of mounting disbelief. She had not yet had a chance to get used to it, and it seemed so strange to hear it coming from the lips of two women who were, in effect, her peers.
Ella and Lucy were both English, and both genuinely upset at the King’s death. Millie felt like a fraud as she watched Lucy’s face crumple with sorrow.
‘I feel so bad for Guido!’ Lucy wailed. ‘He’s beating himself up about having stayed away from Mardivino for so many years!’
‘Nico’s doing exactly the same,’ said Ella gloomily. ‘He says that if he hadn’t given his father so much worry about his dangerous sports over the years, then he might still be alive.’
‘But the King was an old man,’ said Millie softly. ‘And he had been sick for a long time.’