She could still remember the first time she looked through these windows. It was during the first day of her coronation. Dressed in the best of silks and the finest jewellery that made the humble envy, and the indifferent -- jealous. But should she be dressed in rags instead, the reaction would be unchanged. For the blood that ran in her veins, the house she lived in, and the strip of metal embroidered with the finest stones and diamonds tucked in her hair -- made Margaret the most priceless thing in the world. Her eyes lingered out of this very window, where her bright orbs gazed at two identical black Rolls-Royce vehicles pulled over at the courtyard below. Four men, she recalled, all dressed in tailored black suits and shiny leather shoes. They all almost looked alike, but one man stood out from the three. He stopped in his tracks momentarily after leaving the vehicle, his fingers curled at the dome of his hat -- dettaching it, revealing a collection of blonde hair that was as golden as the morning sun, arranged and combed in a fashion. His head jolted up seconds after, his clear blue eyes clashed against her own. All this time he knew she was watching him, and as a spectator who was smeared by her own curiosities -- Margaret was taken aback at this revelation. She wanted to back off the window, run away -- hide in the shame of her own embarassment. But she could not. She was a Queen, and Queen were always poised. The man kept staring at her although, now with a smile on his handsome face. Margaret fondly remembered the warmth it radiated, the charm and the glamour of his whole entirety. Little did she know that at that moment, she had just met the love of her life. Her husband, her king, the father of her sons, and the man she missed the most. But today, in the present day, at this very window and through the lenses of her thinly-framed glasses, she eyed a black Mercedes parked in the very spot she saw her late husband for the first time. However, no one came out from this vehicle -- no one was in it. It's owner was on it's way to see her, and it did not take long till a knock on the door was heard. "Come in." Margaret said croakily, the youth in her voice faded in the decades that passed. The door opened to reveal a petite young brunette of a woman, dressed in the uniform of the Royal Servants. As it was difficult to courtesy in themedium length skirt that latched onto her legs, the servant bowed instead, "Jerome Clark is here, Your Highness." She responded in her silky voice, pronouncing her label as if she was still the Queen. "Let him in." As the girl left, she was replaced with a man of a greater height -- dressed in a suit that signified his lean body and broad shoulders. His eyes reminded her of her husband's: clear blue like the sky on a sunny day. But instead of flowing blonde hair, this young man possessed the brown her servant girl had -- cropped in a short cut that also fashioned his face. Like the former, he bowed a courtesy, standing tall like a soldier of the army. "Your Majesty." Jerome said quietly, keeping his eyes lowered as she surveyed him with her analytical way of observation. He found this meeting to be a strange summon, but an order is an order, and Lady Margaret is of the royals. "Mr. Clark." The old woman retorted sharply. She was never gentle on first meetings, she had troubles on such occasions. Her dead lover was the more welcoming type. "Young man I am not your Queen anymore -- but no matter, it has been done. Do you know why you're here?" Jerome paused, but there was no point in lying, "No, I don't" was the only answer he could craft. It was truth in all of it's potency -- he didn't know why he was here. What would she want from him, a mere MI5 agent who worked to protect the country in all costs. His service was to the crown, but a summon from his department of services was uncommon. "Your superior referred me to you. He said you were one of his best." Margaret replied to his confusion, motioning her frail body towards the nearby table. A cup of her favourite oolong sat on the surface, cradled inside a porcelain cup painted by the finest of artists. "This is a special mission, Mr. Clark." A special mission? It dented his suspicions, but all an agent could do was to listen. "My granddaughter is not in her... Best behaviour." She continued, sipping her tea in the gap of silence. She lowered her cup back to its coaster and folded her fingers together, "And unfortunately, so is her father -- my eldest son, your current King." Jerome remained silent. "Do you know why I gave up my seat years ago, Mr. Clark?" Margaret inquired rhetorically, her hands clutching the warm porcelain as her voice slowly faltered. Her eyes met his again, now staring intently and sincerely, "I'm on the verge of dying a slow death. I am sick to the bone! Before I die earlier, I surrendered my reign to my son. I want to make use of myself in some other way, and it seems like the shame was worth the time." The man decided it was time to speak up. He was still puzzled about what she wanted of him, but he remained calm. Margaret was an old woman now after all, and people of her age were often fond of reflecting about their life. "What do you want of me, Your Highness?" "My granddaughter will be almost of age to take the crown, but as I said earlier, she is out of control. I tried everything: house arrest, royal guards, and all forms of disciplinary action. She is too fleeting, she is in no shape to put that crown on her head. My son never favoured her, as soon as that wife of his bore him a son -- he couldn't take his eyes of that child. My little girl was neglected for as long as I can remember. He knows and I know that it's almost time for her to take that crown and put it on her head, but my son... My son is not very delighted." The government wasn't blind to the affairs of the Crown, they know. They know about everything. They watch and observe the monarchy day by day, amalysing them, recognising them -- all of that in everyday. This news was no surprise, but the intention is, the Intelligence only knows what has been done -- not what is being done. It was limited knowledge. "I want you to protect her, Mr. Clark. Before my son shames my bloodline on whatever I know that he plots of, protect her, and make her realise that she is going to be a queen."