【Prologue】S01E0……
, Charles t the Pri Mi No. 10 to firhis appoi as Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination.
Then ca Monday of the following week.
In the chill, Charles followed the usher through BughaPalace''''s gilded, carved, yet cold and eg corridors.
Her Majesty''''s audience was brief and cerenial; he k on one knee, listening as the regal yet detached voice read out the appoi, officially accepting the heavy, royal-wax-sealed instrunt of appoi – Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination, a position with a na like a towister.
This was followed by the Privy cil oath, in a rooso sole, the air seed to have stood still for turies.
He stood alongside several other ed Ministers, repeating a vows, swearing an oath of secrecy regardi affairs.
His voice resonated uhe vaulted ceiling, a hollow echo.
Secrecy?
About what?
A departnt whose purpose even he didn''''t yet know?
A sense of absurdity seized hi refusing to dissipate.
Charles lowered his voice, hoping to shorten the echo and with it, the disfort.
Stepping out of the Privy cil, a long string of handshakes and photographs ensued.
He o intain a sle, dealing with the shoal of Fleet Street goldfish. Just whehought the lengthy cereny was finally over and he could go ho for a strong cup of tea and shake off all the cereny, he was instead directed to a waiting black Jaguar XJ Series III official car.
It drove syolically past a few buildings, stopping in front of an unrerkable building, still on Whitehall. pared to the iosing Treasury or Fn Office buildings, this one seed sowhat... utilitarian.
A young n, looking to be in his thirties and wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit, swiftly stepped forward to greet hi
The young n''''s golden-brown short hair was ieccably grood, cut above the earlobes with a sharp hairlihe top slightly longer with a natural wave, his fringe falling naturally without disarray as he bent to open the car door.
"Good Minister." He stepped back half a pace, king space for Charles. "Or rather, good afternoon?" His well-judged, tentative huur broke the stern atsphere, and blue eyes sparkled with alertness and discretion.
Charles shrewdly caught the st of sothing different in hi distinct froa on civil servant.
Iing.
He sled, extending his hand. "Good afternoon."
"Cyril Astley," the young n introduced hielf after a handshake. "I''''ll escort you to your office."
"...Sir Relahstlee?"
Charles repeated with slight hesitation.
The final ''''l'''' of "Cyril" and the initial ''''A'''' of "Astley" blended in his pronunciation, sounding like a ent honorific.
"Cyril. Astley, Minister." Cyril led the way slightly ahead, turning his head slightly at the sound, his body half-fag, indig his focus, his vents fluid and natural.
"Apart frothose forlly knighted, Sir, we generally reserve ''''sir'''' for the st senior officials in a departnt." He paused briefly, adding: "You y just call Cyril, Minister."
"You''''ll see na on the Principal Private Secretary didate shortlist provided by the et Office. I look forward t you, should you wish it." Cyril''''s phrasing exuded fidence, yet was hule a roofor choice.
"I trust we''''ll get along well, Cyril." Charles nodded. His intuition told hithis young n would be a reliable guide through the labyrinth of Whitehall.
They asded to the third floor, turning right down a slightly dicorridor.
After pushing open two heavy wooden doors, they entered a spacious yet unusually ety office.
The roootlessly , though its interior had a hurried feel.
A solid, Victorian-style oak desk stood ire, holding only an old black rotary telephone, an alst ety In-tray, a vat Out-tray, and a few basic stationery ite.
Visitor sofas and arhairs in the er looked distant, and several ety filis leaned against the walls.
Then ca Monday of the following week.
In the chill, Charles followed the usher through BughaPalace''''s gilded, carved, yet cold and eg corridors.
Her Majesty''''s audience was brief and cerenial; he k on one knee, listening as the regal yet detached voice read out the appoi, officially accepting the heavy, royal-wax-sealed instrunt of appoi – Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination, a position with a na like a towister.
This was followed by the Privy cil oath, in a rooso sole, the air seed to have stood still for turies.
He stood alongside several other ed Ministers, repeating a vows, swearing an oath of secrecy regardi affairs.
His voice resonated uhe vaulted ceiling, a hollow echo.
Secrecy?
About what?
A departnt whose purpose even he didn''''t yet know?
A sense of absurdity seized hi refusing to dissipate.
Charles lowered his voice, hoping to shorten the echo and with it, the disfort.
Stepping out of the Privy cil, a long string of handshakes and photographs ensued.
He o intain a sle, dealing with the shoal of Fleet Street goldfish. Just whehought the lengthy cereny was finally over and he could go ho for a strong cup of tea and shake off all the cereny, he was instead directed to a waiting black Jaguar XJ Series III official car.
It drove syolically past a few buildings, stopping in front of an unrerkable building, still on Whitehall. pared to the iosing Treasury or Fn Office buildings, this one seed sowhat... utilitarian.
A young n, looking to be in his thirties and wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit, swiftly stepped forward to greet hi
The young n''''s golden-brown short hair was ieccably grood, cut above the earlobes with a sharp hairlihe top slightly longer with a natural wave, his fringe falling naturally without disarray as he bent to open the car door.
"Good Minister." He stepped back half a pace, king space for Charles. "Or rather, good afternoon?" His well-judged, tentative huur broke the stern atsphere, and blue eyes sparkled with alertness and discretion.
Charles shrewdly caught the st of sothing different in hi distinct froa on civil servant.
Iing.
He sled, extending his hand. "Good afternoon."
"Cyril Astley," the young n introduced hielf after a handshake. "I''''ll escort you to your office."
"...Sir Relahstlee?"
Charles repeated with slight hesitation.
The final ''''l'''' of "Cyril" and the initial ''''A'''' of "Astley" blended in his pronunciation, sounding like a ent honorific.
"Cyril. Astley, Minister." Cyril led the way slightly ahead, turning his head slightly at the sound, his body half-fag, indig his focus, his vents fluid and natural.
"Apart frothose forlly knighted, Sir, we generally reserve ''''sir'''' for the st senior officials in a departnt." He paused briefly, adding: "You y just call Cyril, Minister."
"You''''ll see na on the Principal Private Secretary didate shortlist provided by the et Office. I look forward t you, should you wish it." Cyril''''s phrasing exuded fidence, yet was hule a roofor choice.
"I trust we''''ll get along well, Cyril." Charles nodded. His intuition told hithis young n would be a reliable guide through the labyrinth of Whitehall.
They asded to the third floor, turning right down a slightly dicorridor.
After pushing open two heavy wooden doors, they entered a spacious yet unusually ety office.
The roootlessly , though its interior had a hurried feel.
A solid, Victorian-style oak desk stood ire, holding only an old black rotary telephone, an alst ety In-tray, a vat Out-tray, and a few basic stationery ite.
Visitor sofas and arhairs in the er looked distant, and several ety filis leaned against the walls.