Peggy Carter's coffin was carried into St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The choir chanted a lament beside it, the young voices resonating against the exquisite gilded murals and the circular vault, swelling into layered, sonorous plainsong. Steve Rogers walked on the right, leading the other pallbearers to the chancel. They set the coffin upon the bier; Peggy's portrait and wreath stood to the side. Unlike most American funerals where the casket is opened and covered in flowers for mourners, this one followed Protestant tradition: a white linen pall embroidered with golden crosses at the four corners draped over it, as if the officiants did not wish anyone to see any image of her other than the black-and-white portrait of the young woman in uniform. The pastor stood at the pulpit beneath panes of blue stained glass, waiting for those in the nave to be seated, and welcomed them with a brief prayer. After the long sequence of rites—readings from the Psalms and the Gospel, the recitation of the Creed, the general intercessions, the first part of the Holy Eucharist, music, and prayers for the dead—the pastor said, "Now, Sharon Carter will deliver the eulogy."
Natasha Romanoff did not stay long inside the cathedral. After conveying Solomon's condolences to Steve Rogers on his behalf, she slipped out early to get some air. When choosing a seat she had deliberately picked an inconspicuous spot, so few noticed her departure. She climbed the transept stairs to the outer gallery along St. Paul's famous Baroque dome and gazed far off at the Thames and the oddly shaped Millennium Bridge spanning it. Peggy Carter's death was regrettable, yet also brought a sigh of relief, as though the day had finally come.
St. Paul's would not be open to the public today; the entire schedule was consumed by the service. On one hand, Peggy Carter's influence and achievements afforded her near-royal honors. On the other, many attending were entangled with the intelligence services, particularly MI5 and MI6. If not for Hydra's insurrection, the nave might have been even more crowded.
Such people did not belong in the public eye; many of their identities were classified—even at a funeral. Many present recognized Steve Rogers, but given the current political climate, the funeral protocol, and the impending signing of the Sokovia Accords, few greeted him. In barely a month, the whole world had been upended. Natasha knew word of the three carrier strike groups being quietly destroyed had already leaked. The moment did not permit NATO to investigate the source of that leak; they could only endure the fallout. Even at a funeral, those in the know nursed their own little schemes. That was the atmosphere Natasha found most intolerable, because they all thought they could hold the Avengers in the palm of their hand.
They would never imagine there was another hunter beneath the waves, Natasha thought.
"I assure you, the CIA… absolutely did not…" A few blurred words rode the breeze into her ear. Instinctively, Natasha tucked herself into the shadow of a column, until her memory sorted out whose voice it was. "Ah, Ms. Romanoff. I didn't expect to find someone else who dislikes funerals as much as I do. Peggy Carter was a venerable elder, but funerals are too long, too sad, and for those who knew her well, this day was inevitable. I regret I can't pay my respects to your associate. He is a great legend—one that belongs to this world."
The man in a black suit with a high hairline spoke in an Oxford accent, tucking his phone unobtrusively into an inner pocket as if it were a used handkerchief. Casually, he shifted the topic. "Have you toured St. Paul's? If you're interested, I could show you William Holman Hunt's The Light of the World. It isn't on display now, but with a bit of pull, I can invite you to see it. Unlike the two earlier versions at Keble College, Oxford, and the Manchester Art Gallery, the St. Paul's canvas is Hunt's masterpiece. Saint Martin Dividing His Cloak and the Penrose architectural drawings are among the cathedral's most famed cultural treasures. Even if you're here for a funeral, you shouldn't miss such gems."
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Natasha Romanoff said stiffly. She knew exactly who this man was and the power he wielded; she knew he was gauging how much of his call she had overheard. But this wasn't the time to press. From his expression she could tell the phone conversation hadn't been pleasant. If she let her thoughts range further, Sharon Carter—nominally a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent but in truth CIA—might be present partly because London and Washington were negotiating something. Given the Eternal City's intelligence capabilities, she figured their agents might be in London as well. Yet Natasha had already abandoned counterintelligence work; who knew how many CIA and FBI plants infested the Avengers compound. With the team on the verge of splitting, none of that mattered anymore.
Her focus was on another matter—one that could drive the schism to an even worse place. The current split was still only a clash of principles; afterwards it might become a fight to the death. The former she could tolerate. The latter—never. With her mind elsewhere, she had no interest in a civil servant's long-winded platitudes. She didn't even bother to parse what, exactly, he was saying.
Mycroft Holmes gave an awkward smile, realizing his attempt to obfuscate had failed to faze her. "I think lingering here too long would be disrespectful to the deceased. I can't miss the Requiem again." He stepped past Natasha and headed for the entry to the gallery's corridor. "Will you come for the final farewell?"
"I'm going to Vienna."
"I remember—there's a private jet at Heathrow standing by," Mycroft said, his smile unbroken. "You should depart at once, unless you're waiting for the post-funeral reception. Which would be understandable—St. Paul's canapé table is surely better than whatever's on that White House jet. If it were up to me, I wouldn't touch the bread they serve."
Faced with the Cabinet Secretary's ingratiation and display of informational reach, Natasha offered only a flat reply. "Unfortunately, I don't have time for the reception. And I'm curious just how bad the bread on that plane really is."
"Then good luck." Mycroft bowed politely and walked into the stairwell without looking back.
The phone call from the Eternal City's liaison had come at a bad moment. They had been so brazen in exchanging intelligence that even Mycroft worried about their tradecraft. Every call a Cabinet Secretary makes is logged—even if the person reviewing those logs is himself, and even if he can directly meddle with MI5, he had no desire for anyone to notice a lengthy call to an unknown number in his records. Even if he explained it away as an insurance salesman's spam and a squabble with the agent, that would hardly be dignified.
Mycroft Holmes did not consider his actions treason, but a form of "offshore diplomacy."
He was a civil servant of the British Empire, not a politician who rode votes into office. His job was to ensure the Empire's continuity, while politicians sought only fame, money, and status. In his view, passing Latveria word of U.S. military movements in Europe was very much in Britain's interest if it wished to remain independent on the continent. Publicly, he could not prevent the Cabinet from condemning Latveria, but privately, he could still make sure the Prime Minister and Cabinet ministers didn't do anything irrevocable.
He remembered very clearly the name of the sword in Solomon's hand. Though impossible to trace in law, the legend surrounding that blade could still tear Britain and the House of Windsor apart. Mycroft Holmes was loyal to the Queen, loyal to the British Empire. He fancied himself the Empire's last guardian, the Queen's knight and servant. He had no wish to end up with a glittering, overbearing, autocratic boss; that would plunge civil servants' working conditions in a straight line—worse than under Mrs. Thatcher. So he thought, chin up, marching down toward the swelling Requiem—an excellent mood that lasted only until the second before a news alert flashed onto his phone. Even he had not foreseen how suddenly things would turn.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
Every 100 Power Stones = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.
Every 5 reviews = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.