The Royal Archives were a kingdom of dust and whispers, a cavernous hall lined with shelves that stretched into gloom. Hadrian and Seraphina went together, a united front against the impending violation. The Head Archivist, a desiccated man named Pell, greeted them with nervous obsequiousness.
"Your Highnesses, the requested logs from the Aethelwyn are being prepared for Lord Berrick's review. He has stipulated a private viewing room tomorrow."
"We would like to review them first," Hadrian stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Pell wrung his hands."Protocol dictates…"
"Protocol,"Seraphina cut in, her voice cool, "also dictates that the lead scientist of a royal expedition has final authority over the release of her mission data. I am invoking that authority. We will see the logs. Now."
Cowed, Pell led them to a small, airless chamber. On a long oak table sat three thick, leather-bound volumes: the ship's official log, the scientific log, and the personal commander's log, which contained Seraphina's less formal notes and the records of the ship's internal communications.
They started with the official log, its entries dry and procedural. "Course corrected 3 degrees south-southwest. Winds force 4. Desalinator output nominal." It was sterile, safe.
The scientific log was a dense tapestry of numbers and Latin names, Seraphina's professional voice a shield.
It was the commander's log that held the peril. Hadrian watched as Seraphina flipped through pages in her own handwriting. Notes on crew morale, concerns about supplies, and then, the personal buoy records. A log of every time the ship's encrypted system had been used for private, off-ship communication.
His own name appeared several times, sending routine updates to Maila. Rian's name appeared more frequently, receiving and sending scientific data packets and, in the early days, logistical updates. But there, on the page dated the second week of the voyage, was an entry that made his blood run cold.
"Private buoy used, duration 47 minutes. Recipient: Palace Annex, Office of Prince Rian Valeroy. Sender: S. Valentoire. Subject: Personal."
It was the call after the storm, when she was upset about the data. The call where he had been seasick in his bunk. The call she had needed to make to someone who 'heard the words beneath the words.'
Seraphina stared at the entry, her face pale. "It was just… I was falling apart. The data was so bad. I needed…"
"I know," he said, his voice tight. He did know. But to Lord Berrick, it would be evidence. A forty-seven minute private conversation with another man while her husband was indisposed. It was a spark in a tinderbox of suspicion.
"We can't remove it," she whispered. "It would be a crime. And Pell would know."
"We don't remove it,"Hadrian said, an idea forming. He pointed to the entry above it. "What's this one? 'Private buoy used, duration 12 minutes. Recipient: Royal Marine Institute. Sender: H. Valentoire. Subject: Coral sketch transmission.'"
She looked at him, confused. "You sent my institute a sketch?"
"I did.The one I drew of the dying coral. The day of the tour. I had it scanned and sent to your head of research, with a note asking for its preservation in the institute's 'artistic record of loss.' I wanted it to be part of the official story."
Her eyes widened. "You sent it officially? Through the buoy?"
"Maila handled it.It's logged."
He flipped back to the commander's log from the days after the storm. There, he found what he was looking for. An entry in Seraphina's hand, dated the day after the long call to Rian.
"Private buoy used, duration 22 minutes. Recipient: Palace, Private Office of Prince Hadrian Valentoire (via Maila Liaiseroy). Sender: S. Valentoire. Subject: Personal & enclosed data packet (storm damage assessments)."
She had called him. The next day. For twenty-two minutes. He had been in the infirmary. He'd been groggy, in pain. He remembered Maila bringing him the data slate, saying the Princess had sent updated storm metrics. He hadn't realized there had been a personal call attached.
"You called me," he said, the wonder in his voice foreign to his own ears.
"I…I wanted to know how you were. The doctor's report was terse. I needed to hear your voice." She looked ashamed, as if admitting a weakness.
Hadrian took her hand, right there in the dusty archive. "This is our defense," he said, his voice gaining strength. "Not a single, suspicious call. A pattern. A call to Rian in distress, yes. But followed by a call to me. Followed by my transmission of the coral sketch to your institute. Followed by weeks of joint log entries, collaborative notes in the scientific record." He met her eyes. "We don't hide the call to Rian. We contextualize it. We show it as one point in a constellation of communication, most of which was between us, or about our shared work. We show a marriage not collapsing, but reconnecting. Slowly. Messily. But demonstrably."
The relief that washed over her face was profound. They spent the next two hours meticulously annotating a copy of the logs, preparing a cover statement from Seraphina as lead scientist, and one from Hadrian as liaison, framing the communication record as essential to mission cohesion and personal welfare during an extreme undertaking.
They didn't erase the flaw in the glass; they placed it in a stained-glass window, where it became part of a larger, more complex picture of truth. The romantic void had been invaded, its private silence threatened with exposure. Their response was not to deny the silence, nor the words spoken within it to others, but to claim the entire, imperfect, rebuilding narrative as their own. They would hand Lord Berrick not a scandal, but a love story—awkward, painful, and under construction. It was the most vulnerable, and therefore the most powerful, defense they could possibly mount.