He turned back to Monro, his eyes hard. “My madness.”
Monro said nothing. George located a loaf of bread and tore off a piece. “I thought that terror was the price of being royal. But now . . .”
He popped a chunk in his mouth and chewed. Swallowed.
“Now I have met a woman who is never terrified. Who does as she pleases. Breaks rules. Courts scandal. Commits unthinkable impertinences. And she is the most royal person I have ever known.”
Monro shrugged.
“She will heal me.” George’s voice grew sharp. He did not understand the doctor’s lack of reaction. It unsettled him.
“It is late, Your Majesty,” Monro said. He took the spoon out of the pot, gave it a sniff, and then resumed his stirring. “You’ll have to go back to bed. I am not free for treatment just now.”
Good God, did the man never listen?
“Perhaps I failed to speak clearly before,” George said. “You are no longer my doctor.”
“No? A pity.” Monro kept stirring, seemingly unbothered. “Nevertheless, I remain the Queen’s.”
George froze. “What did you just say?”
Monro motioned to the bubbling concoction in the pot. “I am preparing this poultice for her right now.”
George’s arms began to tingle. A rushing, roaring sound echoed in his ears. His voice, when he found it, felt ripped from his throat.
“Stay away from her.”
Monro smiled. “But, Your Majesty, she came to me.”
“She wouldn’t,” George said.
But Monro was already talking over him. “She heard that the King’s doctor was here and apparently, she figured she should not settle for anything less than the doctor to the King.” He looked up from his work. “Intelligent woman.”
George ignored this little quip. “Why would she need a doctor?”
“Well, obviously, because she is with child.”
George’s mouth began to shake, lips quivering as if he had something to say. But there was only terror.
“She was not sure,” Monro said. His mouth smiled. His eyes did not. “But I am.”
“No,” George said. “No.”
“But why should you be so surprised? It is what you have been working toward, is it not?”
Yes. No. Not yet. He was not ready.
Monro sniffed at the spoon again. “Perfect.” He tapped the stem against the side of the pot, letting the errant drips fall back into the swirling mixture. “We shall apply this directly to her— Well, you don’t really want all the details, do you?”
George took a step back. It was still black as pitch outside; the only light came from the lanterns he and Monro had brought into the kitchen. The flickers cast sinister shadows onto the doctor’s face. George could only wonder what they did to his own.
Did he look scared?
Grotesque?
Insane?
He felt all that and more.
He felt . . .
He felt . . .
He felt too much. He felt much too much. He did not know what to do with it all.
“A royal baby,” Doctor Monro said. “Congratulations, Your Majesty. A joyous day for England.”
Slowly, George backed out of the kitchen. He did not know what to say. He did not know how to think. This was good news. A baby. It must be good news.
Charlotte. Charlotte with a baby. Charlotte with a baby with a doctor. Doctor Monro.
Doctor Monro liked his chair. And his ice baths. His birch rod and his straps.
Charlotte with a baby.
Charlotte with a baby with the doctor with the chair.
No. Charlotte would not see Doctor Monro. He would not allow it. There must be someone else. Someone who did not know—
Charlotte. Charlotte was a star. A comet. She sparkled. She sparkled with the baby with the doctor with the chair.
He blinked. He was back in his room. How was he here? Had he walked? He did not remember walking.
He looked at his bed. The headboard was red. Red like love. Red like blood.
He looked at Charlotte. She was sleeping. She looked so peaceful.
Did she know?
Did she know she was pregnant?
Did she know he was mad?
Which was stronger? Love or blood?
Charlotte with the baby with the doctor with the—
What was happening? This wasn’t the same. Similar, but not the same. Where were the heavens? Where were the stars?
Venus, Transit of Venus.
He ran to the window, wrenched it open.
Why were there clouds? He could not see. He was King. He commanded them to be gone.
Venus. Where was Venus?
He could calculate it. If he could find one star, he could find another, and then he could calculate Venus.
Venus, Transit of Venus.
Charlotte was a star. She sparkled.
A pen. He needed a pen. Where was his pen?
He ran to his desk. No pen, but he had charcoal. Why was there charcoal? He did not care. It didn’t matter. He could use charcoal.
He found an empty spot on the wall and began to write. Calculations. Calculus. Equations in balance.
“Transit of Venus,” he said to himself. He wrote it, too. Transit of Venus. 1769. One plus seven plus six plus nine.
He wrote. He calculated. He wrote more.
George the Farmer, Farmer George, Farmer King, Finding Venus, need to get it right.
Pictures. He needed pictures, too. Geometry. Angles. Isosceles obtuse. Isosceles acute. Acute acute acute acute.
“George?” It was her voice, but she was a star. She should not be able to talk.
Transit of Venus, Farmer King, George the farmer, that is not right.
“George, what is going on?”
“Be quiet, you are a star.”
He scribbled. He wrote. He calculated.
One plus seven plus six plus nine.
“George, you’re scaring me.”
“Stop. No. I need to try.” He added the numbers. They did not make sense. “Farmer King,” he reminded himself. “Astronomer King. Recalculate to find it. Transit of Venus. Venus, Venus, Venus.”
He looked at her. Who was she? She was a star. Why was she here? “I have to go,” he told her. “I need to see.”
Out into the hall. This way to the outside. He could see the sky there. He needed the sky.
Someone stepped in front of him. “Your Majesties. Can I help?”
“George is working,” the star said. “Go back to your post. We will be fine.”
He was not fine. He needed the sky. Which way to the sky?
The sky the sky. The heavens. Venus. Transit of Venus. One plus seven plus six plus nine. One plus seven plus six plus nine.
This way. Then that way. So many twists and turns to go outside. It was not right. He should be free. He was a farmer. Farmer George. He belonged outside.
“George, it is cold,” the star said. “You have nothing on your feet.”
His feet did not matter. One plus seven plus six plus nine. He was almost there. One plus seven plus six plus nine.
He threw open the door and sprinted into the night.