Inside Queen Isabella's bedchamber, as the elderly monarch fell unconscious once more, the atmosphere grew even more strained.
Standing by the bedside, Jenkins paid no mind to the servants who were stealing glances at him because of the "will" that had just been declared. He continued to ponder the situation and quickly pieced together the sequence of events. It was easy enough to figure out.
He then turned to the duke, who was accepting a towel from a maid to wipe his face. The young duke looked a little better now; though he was no longer sweating, his expression was still one of panic.
"Viscount Williatte, if Her Majesty passes away like this... under the current circumstances, it would be truly terrible."
Anyone with a shred of political sense knew how crucial the Tri-King Summit was. If the Queen were to die, the kingdom would inevitably fall into turmoil without a unified leader. Even if Jenkins, as her successor, could quickly restore order with help, he would certainly be at a disadvantage in the summit, lacking full command of the nation. This would put Fidektri on the back foot in these once-in-a-millennium negotiations.
"Yes, Her Majesty cannot die like this. It would be a disaster."
Jenkins nodded, agreeing with him aloud, while thinking to himself, *If I weren't concerned about harming the kingdom's interests, I could kill Queen Isabella right now. With the "legitimate" right of succession, I wouldn't need to trouble Dolores and Miss Windsor anymore.*
Of course, it was just a thought. Jenkins considered himself far from a model of virtue, but he wouldn't stoop to harming an old woman lying in her bed.
"We must find a way to cure Her Majesty, or the consequences will be unthinkable."
He lanted, a sentint with which the Duke of Rocheste agreed.
The duke paced anxiously around the room, muttering about the terrible things that would happen if the Queen died. His behavior did nothing to help the situation; it only served to make the already nervous doctors even more on edge.
Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, the Duke of Rocheste whirled to face Jenkins, his eyes narrowing.
*Here it cos.*
Jenkins thought, watching the duke stride over and whisper:
"Let's find sowhere quieter to talk."
After instructing the servants and doctors to take good care of Queen Isabella, the two n entered an empty guest room nearby. The Duke of Rocheste looked extrely tense. Once the door was closed, he took a sharp breath, steeled himself, and asked:
"Viscount Williatte, these are special circumstances, and there's a question I must ask you—are you one of the so-called Enchanters?"
*Just as I thought.*
Jenkins mused. This was all just a trap, designed by Queen Isabella to confirm whether he was an Enchanter. A pity for them that they shouldn't have lied in his presence. Besides, the Duke of Rocheste had asked the question too hastily. He should have waited until the doctors confird the Queen was truly on the verge of death... The duke probably didn't want to risk her actually dying.
Without giving Jenkins a chance to answer, the Duke of Rocheste spoke in a rapid-fire torrent:
"You are the heir to the throne; you above all should know how tense the situation is. Her Majesty absolutely cannot be hard, not even enough to miss tomorrow's second eting due to this poisoning. If you are an Enchanter, then please, intervene and heal Her Majesty. I know you hold a respectable position in the Sage Church. Does that not an..."
"I have indeed heard of those supernaturals from the Church."
Jenkins cut him off loudly, his tone severe.
"But I am not one of them."
"You must think of sothing! Her Majesty has already nad you her heir. What need is there to hide it now?"
the duke pressed anxiously.
"But I'm really not."
Jenkins mirrored his anxiety, but his expression remained stern, as if he were being accused of being a fraud.
"Oh, Viscount Williatte, Her Majesty is your kin, and if she were to unfortunately..."
"But I'm really not an Enchanter."
Jenkins stressed once more. Seeing the Duke of Rocheste's face flush red in front of him, he proposed:
"Why don't we seek help from the Church? Since you believe those Enchanters with their supernatural powers and strange abilities have a solution, why not send soone to the Church right now? I can go myself."
"No, we can't."
The Duke of Rocheste shook his head hastily. He knew about the High Tower Accord. But then it occurred to him that Jenkins's suggestion implied he didn't know about the Accord, and any Enchanter should be aware of the clauses concerning the Church's supernatural powers.
They had considered many scenarios, but they never imagined that even with the Queen herself in peril, Jenkins wouldn't give himself away. From the outset of their plan, their research had painted "Jenkins Williatte" as an exceptionally kind and rciful man. Otherwise, they never would have dared to na him the heir without any protection—if Jenkins had killed everyone here, he would legally be king on the spot.
Now, Jenkins had indeed shown no ill intent, yet he still refused to save his own kin, showing no inclination to do so whatsoever. This was an outco neither of the plan's architects had anticipated.
"But, right now, if..."
"But I'm really not a supernatural."
Jenkins reiterated, his acting far more polished than the Duke of Rocheste's. The surprise, anger, and helplessness on his face were perfectly calibrated.
"Since you are unwilling to stoop to asking the Church, surely you must have so Enchanters in your own service, Your Grace?"
Jenkins continued, not giving the duke another chance to "appeal" to him:
"While I am not an Enchanter of the Church, I have heard things from our local Bishop Parrold. A nobleman such as yourself ought to have Enchanters in your circle, no? Why not summon them to help heal Her Majesty?"
"No, no, I have no such terrifying people around ."
The Duke of Rocheste's expression soured even further, though his face was already red. Seeing that Jenkins refused to yield, he began to pace in a small circle, hands clasped behind his back, his leather shoes tapping out an irritating rhythm on the floorboards.
"Viscount Williatte, I know Her Majesty's death now would be advantageous for you, but you must consider the bigger picture. In the midst of the Tri-King Summit, we cannot be without..."
"Oh, Your Grace, that is an insult! What are you implying!"
Jenkins bood, confident that those outside could hear him.
"If you were ten years younger, I would challenge you to an honorable duel!"
Perhaps having heard of the fate of those who had dueled Jenkins, the Duke of Rocheste's mouth twitched, and he quickly explained:
"No, my apologies. I must have lost my head in my anxiety. I ant no offense. But Her Majesty is still unconscious, and we must co up with a solution. Though other doctors will be arriving shortly, I doubt they can cure her imdiately, or at least have her well enough to attend the eting tomorrow morning."
"Yes, the situation is dire, but please do not mistake for so sort of dark scher. I can assure you, I will harbor no ill intentions because of the will. But I am still, truly, not an Enchanter."
The two of them continued to debate the topic of "whether Jenkins was an Enchanter" inside the room. As the minutes ticked by, just as Jenkins was estimating that the other dukes and the mayor were about to arrive, there was a knock on the door. A doctor brought good news:
"The servants have caught the scoundrel who administered the poison, and they've found the antidote! What incredible luck!"
Upon hearing the news, the Duke of Rocheste avoided looking at Jenkins and strode out of the room to see Queen Isabella, as if their conversation had never happened. Jenkins followed behind him, trying hard to suppress a smile.
*This is just pathetic,* he thought. *I thought they'd at least wait until morning to "find" the antidote. If you're willing to poison yourself, why not commit for a little longer?*
In reality, the antidote had to be produced now, because they couldn't let too many people know about tonight's "farce." After the antidote was confird to be real and administered to the white-haired woman on the bed, the dukes whom Jenkins had instructed the servants to summon began to arrive one by one.
To prevent any leaks, they hadn't been told what was happening before their arrival. It was only upon entering the bedchamber that they heard the story from the reawakened Queen, and the thrilling tale left them all breaking out in a cold sweat.
Of course, none of those present were young n who had just inherited their titles. They could all see how peculiar the whole affair was; there were simply too many holes in the story. But the dukes were certain of one thing: the baffling truth and bizarre events of the evening were undoubtedly related to the throne.
So of them, in their youth, had witnessed the last royal succession, but none had been directly involved. They knew that getting mixed up in such affairs could easily bring disaster upon themselves and their families. So, even though they understood sothing was amiss, no one dared to voice their thoughts.
Standing aside, watching the backs of Jenkins Williatte and Queen Isabella as they conversed by the bedside, the silent dukes could only speculate. Who had made a move tonight, and who in this room was the ultimate beneficiary?
The woman who had married into the Middleton family and the Middleton descendant now held hands with deep concern, creating a warm, familial atmosphere that was utterly at odds with what had just transpired in the room. The sight sent a chill down the spine of every onlooker. What these two most important mbers of the royal family were displaying was the most terrifying aspect of the political and power vortex.
Everyone was a suspect, yet it seed none of the participants wanted to dig deeper. From an outsider's perspective, the matter would forever remain an unsolvable mystery.
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