Unhealthy

Aaron tippy-toed over to the tapestry. He didn’t think anyone would notice him and, before entering the room, he’d changed into a dinner jacket and narrow, high-waisted gray slacks. He fit right in with the servants and young princes. They were all far too preoccupied with the prince consort. Albert lay in the bed, white as snow but his lips purple and his eyes, deep, sunken, dark circles under them. From his corner of the room he could hear the deep, clunky breathing. He tried speaking, but it fell to a whisper that only the mousy round woman in brown heard.

It surprised Aaron, how tiny Victoria was, no more than five feet tall. But she emanated a glossy sheen from her dour expression, an instinctive command that pervaded the room. Only her husband in the bed commanded her attention.

“Lie still, my sweet prince,” she said, patting his head with a wet cloth and clutching his hand. “Sleep will come to you.”

And then he uttered one sentence – “It was a great exhibition” – took in one final gasp of air, and became still.

Windsor’s doctor felt for Albert’s pulse. “Ma’am, the prince has slept away.”

Silence. Thirty people in the room. A queen was there, but silence reigned. Victoria took Albert’s hands and placed them on his breast. She reached up and closed his eyes. And then she stood, nodded to the oldest princess next to her. The two of them walked out of the room, their heads high, their expressions blank.