LITMIR.BIZ

      They lost no time in getting to the clinic. When they arrived, they found the king sitting in the corridor right before the entrance. The expression on his face was grave.

      His complexion was far from viable, Russell noted. And the monarch’s hands were clutching the chair’s arms, his knuckles almost white from the effort.

      “Is everything all right, Your Majesty?” Russell asked before Amelia had a chance to.

      Apparently lost in thought, Weston raised his head like one coming out of a deep trance. The monarch looked at him as if surprised to see that there was anyone else there. When he became aware of Amelia, he attempted a dignified smile to greet her.

      “Hello, my dear.” Weston shifted his eyes toward Russell. “And no, everything is not all right.” A sigh escaped his lips. “My only son is being cut up.” He struggled for strength to continue, to face the pain that seemed to be looming everywhere, waiting to ensnare him, to take him captive. “I’ve finally given permission for the autopsy to be done. You were right, of course,” he told Russell without preamble. “We need to move forward, to get answers if we can. And to finally bury Prince Reginald the way he deserves to be buried.”

      Relief whispered through Russell. He was seriously beginning to worry about the king’s mental state, afraid that the monarch was withdrawing more and more into himself. Since Reginald’s death, he’d caught the king talking to himself on more than one occasion. In addition, he was concerned that the monarch might just decide to go ahead and hold the funeral, burying the prince without having the autopsy performed.

      He knew that, from the king’s standpoint, Reginald was dead and that discovering that his death had occurred naturally or at his own or another man’s hand did not change the end result. Reginald was gone. He had feared that Weston would be overwhelmed with that glaring reality and that it would cause him to lose sight of the fact that they needed to know how.

      “When did it begin? The autopsy,” Amelia added gently, kneeling down beside the man who, even a few days earlier, had looked so dynamic, so bold, and who now seemed to be a shadow of his former self.

      Grief had done that, she thought. Grief had hollowed him out until he appeared brittle and frail.

      “Less than half an hour ago. I thought you should be here for the outcome,” he murmured to Russell.

      “We’ll stay with you.” Russell’s eyes met Amelia’s and she gave him a small, imperceptible nod in response. “Until it’s over.”

      Gratitude came over the monarch’s features. “I would be in debt to you for that,” he told them, looking from one to the other. A little of his former self was restored, at least for the moment. “I know I should be strong enough to remain here, waiting to be told the results. But the image.” His eyes looked haunted as he envisioned what was going on a few short feet from where he sat. “I can’t get the image out of my head—” He swept his long fingers along his temples, as if trying to banish what he saw in his mind’s eye, as if he felt an almost unbearable pounding. The king was suffering from headaches that were growing greater in number and more intense each time.

      “We have nowhere else to be, Your Majesty,” Amelia assured him gently. Smiling into his eyes, she laced her fingers through his. Weston looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. The gratitude in his eyes was all the thanks she needed.