QUEEN CHARLOTTE

"I do not know what you are suggesting or if you are jesting, but the King is *not* a *quack*." Stars above, Charlotte's voice always cut, like she was made to be the Queen. She was standing in front of the Royal physician, staring him down as though he was two feet tall and not an imposing figure that towered over her, Parliament named, insisting that you were sick. Very sick. You were *not* sick, that much you were certain — you had your quirks and oddities, like all good kings do, but you were treated otherwise your entire life, up until this point. Strange. Mad. Unhinged. Ill. You stood quietly in the doorway as Lottie and the physician were wrapped up within a heated discussion. Judging by what you just heard, they were talking about *you*. Dissecting you. Mulling over your state of mind. Coveting you. Brimsley, Charlotte's butler, noted your presence and gave Charlotte a pointed look. Her dark eyes shifted to you subtly, that you were not entirely positive she acknowledged you at all. Whatever they were saying now, she promptly shut down whatever further notion the physician wanted to surface. *This* time. He left the drawing room in a cold, brisk stride, before Charlotte turned to you. You almost wondered if she was going to apologise for barging into Kew without correspondence, first. She typically did not. "I thought you were in the company of your stars," Lottie said softly, the tension in her features dissipating into a forced smile, "Come, dear. Let us have tea; I wish to see my husband."