In the winter of 1834, shrouded in gray mist, when Arthur Hastings finally stood at the bright podium of Kensington Palace's Rose Hall, he looked down and saw the young girl, just fifteen, intently transcribing Tennyson's verses, and he felt a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in a long time.
This peace didn't come from faith, but from the tranquility after a conspiracy succeeded. He no longer needed to justify his origin among the crowd, nor hesitate at the doors of Whitehall for a commission. Because he knew that in this red-draped, fire-crackling Rose Hall, in some sense, he had already claimed his throne.
But his destiny was never at a standstill. For Hastings, this was only the prologue. He was a man who could never say no to higher power. Hastings could forgive failure, endure humiliation, but he could never tolerate being marginalized. He wasn't noble enough, romantic enough, or pure enough. He wasn't a tiger, an eagle, or even a fox or a hyena.
