Chapter Text
The western gardens were the only place within the palace grounds that still felt untouched by court life.
Beyond the carved marble terraces and carefully arranged flowerbeds, the land softened into something far less deliberate. Wildflowers climbed between ancient stone walls whose mortar had long since surrendered to creeping ivy. Narrow footpaths, worn smooth by decades of wandering servants and wandering monarchs alike, disappeared beneath towering oaks whose branches intertwined high overhead, sheltering the earth beneath them from the harsher afternoon sun. Somewhere beyond the trees, hidden from sight, a fountain murmured quietly into a clear pond while songbirds darted between branches, their calls carrying lazily across the warm spring air.
It was peaceful.
Peace had become a rare thing since the marriage.
Ramiro came here whenever the palace became too heavy.
Politics had a way of exhausting him even when he was not expected to participate. Ministers argued behind closed doors until late into the evening. Diplomats arrived almost weekly bearing new requests, new negotiations, new problems neither nation had anticipated. Servants bustled endlessly through corridors carrying documents, tea, flowers, silverware—always moving, always whispering.
The gardens expected nothing from him.
A pale blanket had been spread beneath the oldest oak on the estate, its trunk so broad that three grown men could scarcely wrap their arms around it. Resting beside it sat a woven picnic basket left behind by one of the kitchen staff earlier that morning, filled with fresh bread, sliced fruit, small pastries, and a porcelain teapot whose contents had long since cooled beneath the shade.
An open novel rested across Ramiro’s lap.
He had not turned the page in several minutes.
Instead, his attention lingered upon the lake shimmering beyond the rows of white lilies, where sunlight scattered across the surface like shattered pieces of glass. A gentle breeze drifted through the branches overhead, stirring loose strands of his dark navy hair where they brushed against his cheeks. He had neglected to tie it back that morning, leaving it to fall unevenly around his face and across the collar of his linen shirt. Every so often he reached up without thinking, tucking another stubborn lock behind his ear before returning to the same paragraph he had already read twice.
The warmth suited him.
After months beneath Canada’s colder skies, spring remained something of a novelty. It lacked the relentless heat of home, yet the afternoon sunlight was pleasant enough to coax him outdoors whenever his duties allowed.
For a little while, he allowed himself to forget where he was.
No palace.
No treaties.
No expectations.
Only the quiet rustling of leaves overhead and the scent of fresh grass carried by the wind.
It did not last.
“Ramiro.”
His name arrived softly, carried just as easily as the breeze itself.
He lifted his head.
Matthew emerged from the winding stone path that disappeared into the hedges, one gloved hand resting lightly against a leather folder tucked beneath his arm. The pale blond strands of his hair shifted gently with each step, catching ribbons of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above before settling once more against his forehead. His coat, cream-colored and neatly buttoned despite the warmth, moved faintly around his legs as the wind crossed the meadow, while the familiar pair of round glasses reflected the afternoon light just enough to conceal his violet eyes for a passing moment.
The moment he stepped beneath the shade of the oak, the reflection disappeared.
Those quiet violet eyes settled immediately upon Ramiro.
They softened.
There was always something remarkably calm about Matthew’s expression whenever he looked at him, as though the rest of the world simply ceased to exist for a few moments. It was a look that had become so familiar over the course of their marriage that Ramiro barely questioned it anymore.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Matthew said as he approached, his voice warm with unmistakable relief. “The servants mentioned you came out here after lunch.”
Ramiro marked his place within the novel before closing it gently, resting it atop the basket. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back against the tree.
“I thought I might escape everyone’s attention for an hour.”
Matthew’s smile widened ever so slightly.
“You chose the one place I thought you’d be.”
“You always seem to.”
Ramiro laughed quietly, though there was genuine curiosity behind the remark now. “I swear I could disappear into the forest and you’d somehow find me before sunset.”
Matthew paused beside the blanket.
For the briefest instant, his expression became almost thoughtful.
Then he lowered himself gracefully onto the grass beside Ramiro, smoothing the folds of his coat before accepting the cup of tea that had long since cooled.
“I suppose,” he said with a soft laugh, “I’ve simply learned where my husband likes to hide.”
Ramiro rolled his eyes with quiet amusement, reaching into the basket for a strawberry before offering another toward Matthew. Their fingers brushed only briefly as Matthew accepted it, his touch lingering for no longer than politeness allowed.
Perhaps it was coincidence.
Perhaps Matthew truly did know him that well.
Ramiro did not dwell on it.
⸻
The servant waited until they had nearly reached the edge of the gardens before announcing himself.
He emerged from behind a row of trimmed yew hedges with measured steps, stopping several feet away before lowering himself into a respectful bow. His uniform was immaculate despite the warmth of the afternoon, every silver button polished, every crease lying perfectly flat against the dark wool of his coat.
“Your Majesties,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed upon the stone beneath his boots. “Afternoon tea has been prepared.”
Matthew acknowledged him with a quiet nod. “Thank you.”
Nothing more was required.
The servant bowed once again before withdrawing along the same gravel path from which he had come, disappearing behind the hedges until only the rustle of leaves remained.
For another minute neither of them moved.
The old oak continued to cast its broad shadow across the blanket, while the gardens beyond drifted lazily beneath the afternoon breeze. White roses climbed the trellises surrounding the western terrace, their fragrance mingling with damp earth and freshly cut grass. Somewhere beyond the maze of hedges, gardeners continued their work with little more than the occasional scrape of a shovel against stone.
Ramiro closed his book.
He slid the ribbon between its pages before placing it carefully inside the picnic basket. The motion was unhurried, almost reluctant, as though delaying it long enough might postpone their return indoors.
“I was enjoying the quiet.”
“So was I.”
Matthew gathered the folded blanket from the ground, shaking loose a handful of fallen leaves before draping it neatly over one arm. Together they left the shade of the oak behind, following the winding garden path toward the palace.
The further they walked, the more ordered everything became.
Wildflower beds gave way to clipped hedges. Gravel paths surrendered to pale marble. Even the trees seemed to stand straighter near the palace walls, trimmed into careful symmetry that nature itself would never have chosen.
Ahead, the palace dominated the hillside.
Its pale limestone walls caught the afternoon light, while hundreds of tall windows reflected fragments of blue sky between banners that stirred lazily from the towers above. Footmen opened the great entrance doors before either of them reached the steps.
Both men bowed.
Ramiro offered an awkward nod in return before stepping inside.
The entrance hall was cooler than the gardens, its polished floors gleaming beneath chandeliers that remained unlit during the day. Servants crossed the galleries carrying folded linens, silver trays, ledgers, and baskets of fresh flowers. Each paused as the royal couple passed.
Each bowed.
Ramiro noticed every one of them.
After nearly a year within the palace, the gesture remained just as uncomfortable as it had on his first morning.
“I still haven’t grown used to it,” he said quietly.
Matthew looked toward the servants disappearing down the opposite corridor before answering.
“You may never.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
Matthew’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“I suspected as much.”
They continued deeper into the palace, their footsteps echoing softly beneath the vaulted ceilings as portraits of generations past watched silently from gilded frames above them.
The eastern drawing room overlooked the southern gardens, its tall windows left open just enough for the afternoon breeze to stir the ivory curtains. Sunlight pooled across polished oak floors, catching upon silver tea services and porcelain that had already been arranged before the hearth. Someone had lit the fire despite the warmth outside. The flames burned low, filling the room with the scent of cedar rather than heat.
The palace functioned with remarkable precision.
Nothing was forgotten. Nothing was misplaced. By the time Matthew and Ramiro crossed the threshold, tea had already been poured, the pastries still warm from the kitchens below, fresh flowers replacing those that had occupied the table only that morning. Servants bowed as they entered before quietly withdrawing, closing the doors behind them until only the ticking of the mantel clock remained.
Ramiro preferred it that way.
The silence within the palace never resembled the silence outside. The gardens were alive with birdsong, rustling leaves, distant fountains. Here, silence carried expectation. Even empty rooms felt as though they were waiting for someone important to arrive.
He crossed toward the windows instead of the table.
From the second floor, the gardens appeared impossibly symmetrical. Every hedge had been trimmed to the same height. Every gravel path curved with deliberate intention. Even the flowerbeds seemed arranged according to rules no one had ever explained to him.
Canada suited order.
Mexico had never tried.
He wondered, not for the first time, how many gardeners it required to keep an estate this large from returning to wilderness.
Behind him, porcelain clicked softly against polished wood.
Matthew had begun pouring the tea.
Ramiro finally took his seat, though his attention lingered on the view beyond the glass. Far beyond the palace walls, dark forests stretched toward the horizon, interrupted only by the faint outline of distant hills. They were beautiful in their own way.
They simply were not home.
The first sip reminded him of that.
The tea was stronger than what he had grown accustomed to growing up, the bread denser, the preserves sweeter. None of it was unpleasant. It was simply unfamiliar, and unfamiliar things had a habit of remaining unfamiliar no matter how often he encountered them.
Matthew noticed the untouched pastries before saying anything.
“You still don’t care for them.”
Ramiro glanced down at the tray.
“I’ve tried.”
“I know.”
The conversation ended there.
It did not need to continue.
Outside, a flock of birds lifted from the gardens all at once, vanishing over the palace walls before either of them looked away.
⸻
A knock, scarcely louder than the ticking of the mantel clock, disturbed the stillness.
Matthew set his teacup aside before answering. The chamberlain entered only after receiving permission, carrying a leather portfolio secured with a crimson ribbon. His expression remained composed, though the slight inclination of his head suggested the matter waiting beyond the drawing room was not one that could be postponed.
“The council has assembled, Your Majesty.”
Matthew accepted the portfolio without immediately opening it. His thumb rested against the worn edge of the leather while his eyes drifted briefly toward Ramiro, who remained seated near the window.
“I’ll be there shortly.”
The chamberlain bowed and withdrew as quietly as he had entered.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Matthew untied the ribbon with practiced hands, scanning the first page only long enough to confirm what had already been expected. Reports from the western provinces. Harvest estimates. Trade negotiations awaiting approval before the first shipments departed for the coast. Nothing unusual. Nothing urgent enough to disturb the afternoon, yet important enough that the council would continue waiting until he arrived.
He closed the portfolio.
“The meeting shouldn’t last long.”
Ramiro acknowledged the remark with a small nod, more occupied with the gardens beyond the glass than the papers resting beneath Matthew’s arm.
Matthew crossed the room, pausing beside his chair just long enough to straighten the collar of his coat. His hand came to rest briefly against Ramiro’s shoulder, the gesture familiar enough to require no thought from either of them.
Then he left.
The doors closed behind him with little more than a muted click.
Silence reclaimed the drawing room.
It lingered differently in Matthew’s absence.
The room, which moments before had felt occupied despite the lack of conversation, seemed noticeably larger. The fire continued its quiet crackling beneath the marble mantel, and somewhere beyond the windows came the distant rush of water spilling through the fountains below.
Ramiro remained where he was.
His teacup had cooled enough to drink comfortably, though he reached instead for the history volume he had abandoned beneath the oak that afternoon. The leather binding creaked softly as he opened it once more, finding the ribbon where he had left it.
He read for perhaps half an hour before the words began to blur together.
Not from exhaustion.
His attention simply refused to remain upon the page.
The view beyond the windows drew it away again and again.
The palace grounds stretched far beyond what could be seen from the gardens alone. Stable roofs peeked above rows of ancient pines to the east. Smoke drifted lazily from the kitchens below, dissolving into the pale sky before the breeze carried it north. Servants crossed the courtyards in carefully rehearsed rhythms, each apparently knowing precisely where they belonged.
It was a place built upon routine.
Every hour announced by bells.
Every meal served at the same time.
Every corridor occupied by someone with a purpose.
Sometimes Ramiro wondered whether the palace itself would notice if one stone had been moved even an inch from where it belonged.
The thought lingered only briefly before he closed the book once more.
Reading had become impossible.
Instead, he rose from the chair and wandered toward the library adjoining the drawing room, where shelves climbed from polished floorboards to the painted ceiling above. Hundreds of volumes rested within dark walnut bookcases, their bindings faded by decades of use. Dust gathered only upon the highest shelves, beyond the reach of most attendants.
He walked slowly between them, fingertips brushing lightly across cracked leather spines without selecting any particular title.
The palace library possessed nearly every book imaginable.
It simply lacked the ones that reminded him of home.
The farther he wandered, the older the collection became.
The shelves nearest the drawing room held recent histories, atlases, and volumes of law consulted by ministers often enough that their bindings remained in good condition. Beyond them, however, the room grew quieter. Dust settled more heavily upon the upper shelves, and the scent of worn leather gradually gave way to that unmistakable fragrance of aged paper and cedar that seemed unique to libraries built centuries earlier.
Sunlight reached only as far as the central aisle.
Everything beyond it rested in muted shadow.
Ramiro slowed before a shelf devoted almost entirely to travel journals. Their spines bore the names of kingdoms he had never visited, oceans he had never crossed, mountains whose heights he could scarcely imagine. One volume, its leather cracked with age, described the northern territories long before the palace itself had been constructed.
He withdrew it carefully.
A thin layer of dust clung to the cover.
No one had opened it in years.
The pages protested quietly as he turned them, the ink faded but still legible beneath elegant handwriting that belonged to another century. The entries spoke of endless forests, frozen rivers, settlements no larger than villages, and winters that swallowed entire roads beneath snow.
Outside, a breeze stirred the branches beyond the windows.
He glanced toward the light.
The forests described within those pages still existed. Perhaps not unchanged, but close enough. From the upper floors of the palace he could see their dark outlines stretching beyond the estate until they dissolved into the horizon.
The thought lingered with him as he returned the journal to its place.
A narrower passage separated the next row of shelves.
He wandered into it without purpose, pausing occasionally to read the faded lettering embossed upon old bindings. Some had titles in French. Others in Latin. A few bore no title at all.
Near the end of the aisle, tucked between two encyclopedias whose covers had begun to warp with age, rested a much smaller volume.
Its cover was plain.
No crest.
No title.
Only worn brown leather darkened by years of handling.
Curiosity drew it from the shelf.
It was lighter than he expected.
The first page had long since detached from its stitching, leaving no indication of who had written it or when. The handwriting that followed was neat but uneven, as though several entries had been recorded in haste before later returning to calmer script.
He skimmed only a few lines before realizing it was not a history at all.
It was someone’s journal.
Ramiro hesitated.
Reading another person’s private thoughts, even those written decades—or perhaps centuries—ago, felt strangely intrusive.
He closed it again.
For a moment he simply stood there, turning the little book over in his hands while dust drifted lazily through the shafts of afternoon light.
Then, with a faint shake of his head, he slid it back into its place exactly as he had found it.
Some things were better left unread.
He continued deeper into the library, the silence settling comfortably around him once more. Somewhere beyond the shelves, the grandfather clock in the drawing room marked another quarter hour, its chime carrying faintly through the empty corridors before disappearing into the stillness of the palace.
The shelves rose nearly to the ceiling, interrupted only by narrow balconies reached by winding iron staircases. Afternoon light filtered through the tall arched windows, softened by decades of dust that had settled upon the glass. It painted long bands of gold across the floor, illuminating drifting motes that hung motionless in the still air before disappearing into shadow once more.
He eventually abandoned the aisles in favor of a chair tucked beside one of the western windows.
It was old enough that the leather had begun to crack along the arms, though whoever had upholstered it had built it for comfort rather than appearance. The cushion yielded beneath his weight as he settled into it, drawing another volume onto his lap before opening to the page where a faded ribbon had been left years before.
The library possessed its own rhythm.
Pages turned somewhere in the distance as one of the palace scholars worked quietly near the reference shelves. A log shifted within the hearth, scattering a brief shower of sparks before the fire settled again. Outside, the wind brushed gently against the windows, carrying with it the faint murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the gardens.
It was enough to make the room feel suspended from the rest of the palace.
Time moved differently there.
Ramiro read.
One chapter became two.
The sunlight crept slowly across the carpet until it reached the toes of his boots, lingering there before gradually climbing the chair itself. He scarcely noticed it. Every now and then he turned another page, pausing only long enough to rest his eyes upon the forests beyond the glass before returning to the text.
Eventually the words began to lose their shape.
Not because the writing was difficult.
Because his eyelids had grown unexpectedly heavy.
He blinked several times, attempting to refocus upon the page. It lasted only another paragraph before his gaze drifted once again toward the window, where the branches of an old pine swayed gently against the pale afternoon sky.
The warmth of the fire reached him in slow waves.
Somewhere, a clock chimed the passing hour.
He never counted how many times it rang.
The book slipped lower against his lap.
His head rested more heavily against the back of the chair, dark hair falling untidily across his forehead as his eyes closed, only for a moment, he told himself.
The page remained open where his thumb had been holding it.
Within minutes, the book slid quietly shut beneath the weight of his hand.
The library continued exactly as it had before.
The fire burned.
The clock ticked.
Dust drifted lazily through the afternoon light.
And undisturbed by either servants or scholars, Ramiro slept.