Our King is on his last legs; he won't hold on for much longer.
——Henry John Temple Palmerston, Third Viscount Palmeston
The night in London had not yet fully descended, but the lights of St. James's Palace had already set the entire building aglow, preceding the stars.
The grand ballroom of St. James's Palace was adorned tonight like a golden beehive, with thousands of candles burning in layered chandeliers. The flames fragmented into countless tiny shards of light within the facets of the crystal chandeliers, and the flowing light, like a gentle rain, fell upon the heads of the guests.
The floor was made of freshly polished soft wax oak, its glossy surface reflecting the shoes of the dancers. The rustling friction of silk and satin gowns dragging with each step sounded like the breath of the ballroom. Clusters of white gauze and pearlescent light swayed with the movements, resembling drifting clouds.
