A sharp triple knock echoed through the heavy oak door precise, deferential, unmistakable.
"Your Majesties," came the calm, melodic voice of Mariah, chief of the queen's maids. "The hour grows late. The court assembles at prime."
Victoria stirred first, stretching languidly like a cat in sunlight, the sheet slipping low across her hips. She glanced at Stephen, still sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of a man reluctant to leave the bed.
"Enter," she called, voice clear and commanding.
The door opened on silent hinges. Four maids glided in—Mariah leading with her usual quiet authority, followed by Catherine (young and quick-handed), sturdy Agnes, and quiet Valentina carrying copper ewers of steaming rosewater, folded linens, and the day's royal garments laid across their arms like sacred offerings.
They moved with practiced grace, eyes lowered, faces schooled into perfect neutrality. No one remarked on the rumpled bed, the lingering scent of sex thick in the air, the faint red trails on the king's shoulders, or the queen's flushed throat and kiss-bruised lips.
Stephen sat up slowly, muscles protesting the shift from passion to protocol. Victoria rose naked and unashamed, letting Catherine wrap her in a soft linen robe while Valentina poured warm water into the shallow basin beside the bed. Mariah approached Stephen with the same quiet deference, offering a damp cloth scented with lavender.
He accepted it, wiping the sweat and traces of his wife from his skin while Agnes knelt to draw a fresh basin for his feet. The maids worked in near silence, the only sounds the soft slosh of water, the rustle of fabric, and the distant tolling of the chapel bells marking the hour.
Victoria spoke as Catherine combed out her long dark hair with gentle, rhythmic strokes. "The first of the month," she said lightly, though her eyes flicked to Stephen. "Court day. They will ask again."
Stephen grunted, accepting the razor from Mariah. He scraped it carefully along his jaw while Agnes held the polished steel mirror steady. "They always ask."
"And we always answer the same," Victoria replied. She lifted her arms so Valentina could lace her into the under-kirtle of crimson silk. "No child yet. No fault found. Patience, my lords."
He met her gaze in the mirror. Something flickered there resignation, perhaps, or the same quiet frustration that had begun to gnaw at him in recent months.
Mariah cleared her throat as she helped Stephen into his linen shirt. "If it please Your Majesty… the Duke of Voss arrived at dawn. He requests a private word before the session begins."
Victoria's fingers stilled on the pearl clasp at her throat. "My father," she said softly, almost to herself. Then, louder: "He may wait in the antechamber. We will see him presently."
The maids exchanged the briefest of glances—barely a flutter of lashes—but Stephen caught it. The court was never truly silent; gossip moved faster than ravens between the stone walls.
Valentina slipped the king's black velvet doublet over his shoulders while Agnes fastened the gold buttons. Victoria stepped into her gown proper deep burgundy velvet slashed with gold, the bodice tight enough to lift her breasts like an offering, the skirts heavy enough to sweep the floor like spilled wine. A gold circlet set with rubies crowned her dark hair; another, simpler band of gold went to Stephen.
When they were dressed, perfumed, and armored in royalty, the maids withdrew with deep curtsies Mariah last, offering one final graceful dip before closing the door softly behind her.
Victoria turned to him, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve with a lingering touch. "My father will suggest the physician again," she said quietly. "He has spoken of little else these past weeks. Julian Morre the one who cured Lady Harrow's barrenness, and the Countess of Eastmere before her. He swears the man is a miracle."
Stephen exhaled through his nose. "Another miracle-worker with expensive herbs and vague promises."
"Perhaps." She touched his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble the razor had missed. "But we are running out of time, Stephen. The council grows bolder. Eleanor grows louder. If we do not produce an heir soon, they will begin to look for… alternatives."
The word hung between them like smoke.
He caught her wrist, pressed his lips to the inside of it. "I will not set you aside."
"I know." Her smile was small, almost sad. "But the throne will not wait forever for love to bear fruit."
She withdrew her hand gently and moved toward the door. "Come. Let us face them together. As always."
Stephen followed, the weight of the crown already pressing against his temples though he had not yet placed the formal circlet upon his head.
They stepped into the antechamber side by side regal, united, radiant.
Duke Reginald Voss waited there, tall and silver-haired, dressed in severe black trimmed with silver fox. His eyes storm-gray, so like his daughter's flicked over them both, noting the flush still lingering on Victoria's cheeks, the faint marks on Stephen's throat that no high collar could entirely hide.
He bowed low. "Your Majesties."
"Father," Victoria said coolly.
The duke straightened. "The court assembles. They will ask the same question they ask every first of the month." His voice dropped. "I have a proposal that may silence them at last."
Stephen felt the old lance scar throb in warning.
"Speak," he said.
The duke's gaze settled on him—measuring, calculating.
"A physician," he said. "The best in the realm. Julian Morre. Let him examine you both. Let him find the cause. Let him cure it."
Victoria tilted her head. "You have mentioned this before father ."
"Because it is the only thing worth mentioning," the duke replied. "He has never failed. Not once."
Stephen studied his father-by-marriage. The man's face was calm, almost serene but beneath it lay ambition sharp enough to cut steel.
"And if this Morre fails?" Stephen asked quietly.
The duke smiled a thin, confident curve of lips.
"Then we shall know the fault lies not in nature," he said, "but in something… else."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Victoria's hand found Stephen's, fingers threading through his in silent support or silent warning.
The king drew a slow breath.
"Send for him," he said at last.
The duke bowed again, deeper this time. "It shall be done, sire."
As Reginald Voss withdrew to issue the command, Stephen felt the first true prickle of unease crawl down his spine.