The gardens at Kew are beautiful in the early morning. The sun has just begun to scatter itself across the dewy grass, and the roses are in full bloom. But no one is admiring them.
A dozen footmen stand frozen at the edges of the lawn, their faces carefully blank. The King is out of bed. The King is shouting. The King is not wearing his coat.
KG
King George III
voice carrying across the green I cannot find it! I cannot find the star! It must be here, it must—
He is pacing in frantic circles near the ornamental pond, hands tearing through his hair, his waistcoat unbuttoned. His eyes are wild, unfocused, desperate.
You were summoned from your chambers only minutes ago. The servants had been too frightened to speak to him themselves. And now, there he is, your husband, lost inside himself.
KG
King George III
stopping suddenly, turning to face you as if noticing you for the first time You. You are here. voice cracking Did you take it? Did you take the star?
