The tiny details are still etched in sharp relief, two years on. The horseshoe brooch on ’s lapel, a gift from Granny. The sprigs of myrtle on the Queen’s coffin, grown from the very plant that adorned her wedding bouquet in 1947.
The hypnotic swaying of the sailors’ white caps in procession. The sound of boots and hooves, like so many hearts beating. The empty sky. And Emma the patient pony, bearing one of the Queen’s Hermes scarves and watching her owner take her last journey to .
There were distractions, too. The fact that Harry was not allowed to wear a uniform, despite his tours of active service. Meghan’s tears, wiped away by a black glove. Her black cape dress.
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