In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

A national loss ~ Chapter 21

Germany, 1820.

It happened in the quietest hours of the night—too early to be morning, too late to be called sleep.

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls of the chamber. The embers flickered gently, not with warmth but with the kind of light that belongs to endings. Clara had been asleep in the chair, curled against the shawl that had come to feel like armor. Her head rested to one side, breath shallow from another half-night of restless dozing.

She stirred just after the hour turned—no sound, no cause. Just a sudden silence that felt different. Too still. She looked to the bed.
William lay precisely as he had before—but now, utterly unmoving. No rise of breath, no twitch of fingers. Just stillness. Profound and entire.

Clara rose slowly at first, one step toward the bed, then another. Her hands trembled before they even reached for his. Cold. No warmth beneath her touch. She didn't scream. She didn't collapse. She stood there for several minutes, staring, trying to feel something other than the hollow ringing inside her chest. Then she turned. The first footman she saw in the corridor was pale before she even spoke. Within moments, the palace stirred.

Footsteps thundered down once-quiet halls. Doors opened. Whispers began, sharp and frightened. Bells rang not for ceremony, but for death.

Physicians came running, as if there were still something to be done.

There wasn't.

A priest was fetched. Black banners, still not taken down from Ada's mourning, were doubled. Clara stood motionless as they surrounded the bed, as servants covered William's face, as the physician murmured a confirmation no one needed. By sunrise, the palace was awake, but not alive. And Christmas—just a day away—was struck entirely from the court's calendar.

And now, the wind howled through the cathedral, snow flurrying down in light, ceaseless patterns. The sky above that filtered through the stained windows was white, not with peace, but with the kind of stillness that follows after something has broken.

Everything was a blur.

Faces blurred.

Words blurred.

The cold barely touched her.

She heard the hymns—distant and pale.

The cathedral was filled with shadow.

A soft snow fell outside, clinging to the tall windows in lace-like frost, dimming what little light filtered through the stained glass. Inside, the grand space held no warmth—only silence, and the low, echoing murmur of Latin prayers. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, cloying, pressing against the throat.

The black-draped coffin sat at the centre of it all, elevated on a bed of cold stone and evergreen boughs. The royal crest—gold and crimson—had been dulled beneath a veil of crepe. White lilies and cypress wreaths surrounded it, but even the flowers seemed muted, as if mourning alongside the living.

Clara sat in the front pew.

Her posture was straight, composed, but her eyes were glassed and faraway. She wore a deep black gown of heavy satin, buttoned high at the throat, and a long veil covered her face, though nothing could truly shield the emptiness behind her gaze. Her hands, gloved in kid leather, were folded tightly in her lap, unmoving.

To her right sat Leopold, his jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead with quiet strain. Emilia was beside him, her black net veil damp at the edges from the snow outside, her gloved hand resting gently on her husband's arm. To Clara's left sat Frederick—imposing, still, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. He hadn't spoken since they'd all entered the cathedral.