Despite what I told Lady Hastings, I really did only tutor Florence in maths. We can always have another get together if we want to chat or do something else. That said, it’s not like I’m an amazing tutor—most of my helping at school was filling in gaps in knowledge and letting Violet work out the rest. My other friends were also competent, so they caught up quickly. That’s not to say Florence is incompetent, but she’s only in her second year at Queen Anne’s, and she doesn’t have the same textbooks, and a few other things contribute to a slower pace. Those things wouldn’t be a problem if I was a more competent teacher, but I’m not.

I’m seen off by Florence, Julian, and their mother, and return to my townhouse to get ready for a small event Clarice is hosting. In this case, us youngsters (Joshua, Cyril, and I) aren’t invited, so my preparation is snacks and books.

Tuesday, Wednesday, there’s a lunch with some families, both evenings with other ones. Thursday, I’m spared an evening event, going to Violet’s townhouse for a dinner party with our other friends. Violet’s parents are there to greet us when we arrive, but don’t stay and shortly after go out (maybe to the same event as Clarice and my parents).

Although Violet doesn’t show it, I’m reminded of her words she shared on her last visit, and I notice she’s a little quieter than usual. Other than that, everything goes smoothly and we happily chat and eat and then head home.

I’m not one to spill secrets, but I mention something to my mother the next morning—when she asks how the dinner party went. “Violet’s parents seem to be busy, and she doesn’t have any other family around.” Just that one line mixed in with everything else I say about what we ate and what we talked about and how everyone has been.

Yet, the very same day, I’m surprised by Violet’s arrival late afternoon.

“Your parents asked if I would accompany you, apparently worried you are finding these events lonely,” she whispers to me when we have the chance to speak privately.

My mother really is incredible at times.

I do have more fun at the event with Violet, the two of us sitting at a table in the corner and talking nonsense, a bit tipsy from the bubbly atmosphere. (We only had a glass of wine each with our meal, barely a few sips to finish it.) However, my mind is also half-occupied by what tomorrow will bring.

After the dinner, we send Violet home. She really did look happier this evening.

Somehow, I wake up before dawn on Saturday. Well, because of my morning call. While I would prefer to get myself ready, time is against me today. I quickly bathe and then Liv helps me dress, my outfit too elaborate for one person to put on. She carefully applies my makeup while I (very patiently) eat a bowl of porridge. I do some touching up at the end while she brushes out my hair. Finally, she braids my hair and I close my eyes, trying to will away the approaching headache from a lack of sleep.

Soon enough, I’m off back to Tuton to pick up Lottie and Gwen. I’m too out of it to count when the bells toll, but it should be seven o’clock. On the way, I nap, Liv kindly ensuring I don’t spoil my look, and she gently wakes me as we near the town.

“Mistress,” she says, almost a whine, as I continue to sleep.

“I’m awake,” I mumble.

“Then please open your eyes,” she says, her hot breath falling on my cheek.

I reluctantly crack open one eye, finding her awfully close to me. “Is something wrong?”

Her cheeks flushed, gaze directed to the side, she whispers, “I can’t hold you up any longer.”

Adjusting my posture, it seems she was rather holding me up.

“Thank you, mistress,” she says, a real sense of relief behind her words.

Rather than stop outside Lottie’s house and cause a fuss, my perfectly flawless plan has us meet at a sort of service station on the outskirts of town. Somewhere for horses to have a break and a drink. Considering we’ve come all the way from Lundein, we can’t just carry on, so I thought they might as well meet us here while we change to fresh horses.

One of the servants accompanying us goes to check if Lottie and Gwen are here. Sure enough, it’s not long before the servant returns, Liv helping me down for a greeting.

“Lottie, Gwen, it’s good to see you both,” I say, walking over.

Gwen has certainly had her manners double-checked, holding herself back from running over and tackling me. She even curtseys as she says, “And you, my lady.”

I catch Lottie’s eye, finding her smiling. “She has been… enthusiastic in her practising,” she says.

After a bit of a catch-up, Liv informs me we are ready to depart. Lottie and Gwen having also heard, I simply say, “Shall we depart?”

Lottie bows. “Please take care of her.”

I freeze up, my thoughts dispersed by this. “Pardon?” I ask, hoping I’ve misunderstood.

Standing straight again, Lottie gives me a little smile. “Gwen has assured me she will be fine by herself, so my husband and I are taking the opportunity to have lunch,” she says.

Huh.

“Okay,” I say, not even able to come up with a joke.

I’m the only one still adjusting; Gwen happily says her goodbye and gives Lottie a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Liv then helps her into the carriage, waiting for me. I manage to think for a moment and, really, the plan hasn’t changed because of this. That thought settles me.

Looking Lottie in the eye, I say, “I’ll take good care of her.”

Her smile grows. “I know.”

Trundling off back to Lundein, I finally come up with all sorts of cheeky replies I could have given earlier. “You two are having lunch? What’s on the menu?” (said with a knowing look) would be a bit risqué, but it would have been funny. Mature as Lottie is, she’s sensitive when it comes to her relationship with her husband. I guess people aren’t as open with these kinds of things in this world.

For the first part of the trip, Gwen is understandably fascinated by the view. She probably has only left Tuton a few times and likely by foot (or on someone’s back). When she starts to get bored, I bring out the activity I planned: knitting. It wouldn’t exactly be safe to sew while moving.

“You can knit? My mama can knit!” Gwen says, very excited about it.

I giggle. “Well, I learned a few years ago, but I haven’t practised much.” Honestly, I planned on having Lottie here to teach us. My knitting experience (in hours) can be counted on both hands….

We manage to entertain ourselves with making a mess of everything, keeping us busy until we stop on the outskirts of Lundein. While the horses are rested (not replaced this time, only a short distance left), we have a light lunch the kitchen staff prepared this morning—French breads similar to sweet brioche, but with some added flavour in the form of cheese and raisins. After eating, I take Gwen to change into a dress we bought for her (at least, I don’t think we have dresses that would fit her lying around) which matches mine in colour, the style much simpler.

“What is your name?” I ask her, braiding her hair.

“I am… Lady Kent’s guest,” she says, her speaking much slower as she focuses on the words, her accent mimicking Lottie’s.

“Good girl,” I say, smiling.

Like Violet, I give Gwen a headband braid, but in a distinct style (two thin strips as opposed to Violet’s single, thicker braid). With the rest of her hair, I pull it into a ponytail (rather than braiding it from the scalp) and then loosely braid it. I mean, this is just my preference, but I don’t like reducing hair to a thin rope and (some) children’s hair is especially thin to begin with.

In the process, I’ve hidden away most of her highlights. Of course, I can’t exactly change her eye colour, but this gives me a little more peace of mind.

About half past twelve, we return to the carriage. It takes a bit of time to get going and another quarter of an hour to get to Westminster Palace—definitely not Buckingham Palace. There isn’t much traffic, not many guests, so we arrive on time and don’t have to wait around before entering. Along with Liv, we alight towards the side of the palace (the “party” being held outside).

The palace itself resembles Buckingham Palace as Ellie remembers it. It’s a broad building only three storeys tall, a brilliant gleam to it as if made of marble (and it may well be). The design is blocky, a flat roof and rectangular windows, and the noticeable features are all straight lines, some triangles. However, look closer and the detailing softens its appearance, the wall around the windows curved and the pillars rounded, the Royal Crest (I’m not sure which variant specifically) engraved beautifully above the main entrance.

Altogether, it truly is a work of art. Reminiscent of Roman ruins, except, well, not ruined. That’s to say nothing of the area surrounding the palace, full of hedges trimmed into lions and flowers blooming crimson and neat lawn.

Gwen couldn’t possibly open her eyes any wider.

“Come on,” I say, tugging her along.

A maid of the palace comes to greet us and offers to lead us to the party… and I decline. She’s left helpless as I take us in very much the wrong direction (on purpose, I promise). While we’re followed, we aren’t stopped. I originally planned to play it by ear, avoiding the party by listening out for it, but my mother’s landmarks come in handy; following them, we wander around the side of the palace and straight into the royal gardens.

“Wow,” Gwen whispers, the colourful flowers catching her eye.

My gaze glances between them, picking out all sorts I know and more I don’t, the colours here far more varied than the crimson out front, and all very vivid.

From where we are, there’s a curving path ahead of us and flowerbeds some two or three strides across on either side, hardly any soil showing. On the left, it’s like a blanket of yellow, the different shades making it seem full of shadows and highlights and so giving an illusion of texture. On the right, it’s a mix of blues and purples with spots of white and peach; I think of rain on a deep lake when I look at it.

Gwen often stops as we walk and, when she does, I let her admire the flowers for a bit before giving her a little pull. Fortunately, I can see our next destination from where we are, so I only get a little lost (the paths not quite straight lines).

“Ah, is this a maze?” Gwen asks.

I nod, smiling. “It’s not as good as my family’s one, but shall we?” I ask.

She can’t help but let go of my hand to clap excitedly.

Turning around, I say to Liv, “You may wait for us here.” She nods. “My supplies?” She hands over a small bag. “If we take too long, do send someone in to fetch us.” She nods.

So Gwen and I enter, and I tell her about the trick of following the wall with a hand. Only, the hedge tickles her hand as we walk, so I tell her she doesn’t have to actually touch it. Not many branching points, there’s also not many dead-ends, not taking us long to reach the centre. A modest gazebo awaits us there, but it is raised enough to look out over the maze. This also means that, once we’re sitting there, we have a beautiful view of the maze, flower garden, and palace.

“Shall we paint?” I ask.

Before she can reply, I start taking things out of the bag: two sketchbooks, two paintbrushes, a set of watercolours, a small pot of water (with a lid), and a few sketching pencils.

Seeing her look of surprise, I ask, “Have you painted much before?”

She shakes her head.

“That’s fine,” I say, wetting my brush. “What we’re doing isn’t so much painting as it is remembering the view. If you spend some time looking at all the little things, your memory should be rather vivid. Understand?”

“Y-yes,” she says, not really sounding like she does.

I gently laugh, my hands too busy with painting to cover my mouth. Despite what I said, I want a good result myself; unfortunately, my practice with irises hasn’t improved my overall skill, splodges of colour not resembling anything. But I have to show Gwen my confident side, encourage her to paint with childish freedom.

“Go on, then—we won’t leave until you’ve filled the page,” I say.

That gets her going. A bit clumsy, a bit messy, she drips and she presses too hard, her colours pale and stained by drops and trails of water. However, the glances I take of her face see a concentrated expression. That’s good. If she’s seriously trying, then this should leave a lasting memory.

We idle away for a good while. Preferring quantity to quality (since it would come out poorly even if I took more time), I fill five pages (a couple of them just rough sketches). She does one watercolour, and then I have her choose something to sketch. Her drawing skills are better now compared to Valentine’s Day, but she still lacks the fine motor skills, I think.

“Remember to sign it. Every piece of art should be signed,” I say. An afterthought, I add, “And include the date and your age. That’s important too.”

She doesn’t say anything, silently following my instructions… until she asks, “Um, that’s the date?”

I guess it doesn’t much matter to her. “Twenty-third of the fourth, eighteen fourteen.”

In her messy handwriting, she scribbles everything onto the corner of both pages.

We stay a little longer, a few biscuits and drinking water also included in my preparations, before returning into the maze. Like earlier, we follow the left wall. Having finally downgraded from overwhelmed to merely excited, Gwen chatters away as we walk, sometimes speaking so quickly she doesn’t even notice her mistakes.

“Do you fink the Queen goes to the garden every day? If I lived here, I would,” she says, not giving me the chance to reply. “Do the princesses play here? Oh, they must look so pretty! Will we see one?”

All I can do is smile, maybe chuckle if she says something particularly cute.

Five or so minutes later, about halfway through by my guess, we run into a problem. I say that, but rather someone else has run into a problem. When Gwen pauses to breathe, my ears pick out a faint sound, and I shush Gwen with a gesture; she obliges.

Not entirely sure I’m hearing it right, I come to a stop and cup around my ear. Ah, yes, that’s definitely a child’s sob. “Can you hear that?” I ask Gwen.

She scrunches up her face. “Um, no?”

“I think there’s someone lost nearby,” I say, squeezing Gwen’s hand. “Shall we look for them?”

Gwen doesn’t even think before vigorously nodding her head. “If I was lost, I would be scared,” she says.

“Mm, I agree. In fact, when I was very little, I did get lost and I was very scared.”

I try to navigate us towards the sound. One nice thing about my poor sense of direction, at least I don’t think I’m going the right way, instead hoping we can get by on luck and maybe squeezing through the hedge at a thin point.

Fortunately, luck is on our side. A minute or so of walking brings us to a dead-end with a crying girl crouched over, looking no older than Gwen and likely a year or two younger. She doesn’t seem to be a princess, her hair blonde with highlights that are more vermilion than the royal crimson (lacking a touch of purple).

With that in mind, I say, “Hullo, miss, are you okay?” as I slowly approach her.

She instantly stops her sobbing, freezing up. A stride or two away from her, I lower myself to match her height, making sure my smile is gentle. Yet she looks at me with a glare after a moment.

“I, I am to be greeted as, ‘Your royal highness.’”

You’re really not.

Keeping that to myself, I follow my intuition and turn to Gwen; after a wink, I say to her, “Well, it seems like she doesn’t need our help, so let’s go.”

I stand back up and turn away from the girl. One step and she hurriedly says, “Wait!”

So I do, and I look back at her. “Is something the problem, miss?”

“Y-you still haven’t greeted me properly, and I’m not a ‘miss’,” she says, her expression struggling to stay stern as her lip (and voice) trembles.

I hum a note, tilting my head. “No one has introduced you, so how do I know you are a princess?” I ask.

“What?” she says, her eyes widening.

I nod. “You don’t seem like a princess, so I don’t know if I should believe you.”

A hint of anger envelops the annoyance I kindled in her, that little mouth pouting, her hands clenched and arms out straight at her side (like a penguin’s flippers). “Of course I am a princess!” she declares.

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s just, I thought princesses were kind, and polite, and they even treat commoners well. Isn’t that what princesses are like in stories?”

My words land heavily on her ego, her arrogance crumbling before my very eyes as a wave of confusion washes over her. Slowly, she comes to a decision, and she says, “I am kind and polite, but you were rude to me.”

Feigning contrition, I bow my head. “My apologies. Then, let me say it is a pleasure to meet you, your royal highness. I am Lady Nora de Kent.”

Her gaze glances to the side.

“If ma’am would forgive my guest, she is rather shy,” I say.

So she looks back at me, her mouth tensing as if readying to speak. After a couple of seconds, she says, “I, I am Princess Victoria.”

Well, well, I wonder? Ah, but that would make her Gerald’s cousin. As I thought, she isn’t actually a princess. It’s only the daughters of kings and heirs who are called princesses by birth (any woman a princess if marrying a prince). Her mother is a princess as the king’s daughter, but Gerald’s father is the heir as the king’s son, so Victoria is royalty but not a princess. I guess it’s okay to indulge children, though. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if her family just calls her princess as an endearment.

Putting pointless differentiation of birth status aside for now, I ask, “Shall we escort ma’am outside?”

She gathers some of her arrogance, regaining her confidence. “If you would,” she says, much like how you’d direct a maid to do something.

“Then, if ma’am would hold my guest’s hand so that we stay together,” I say, smiling.

Victoria looks at Gwen for a moment, a flicker of disgust? No, probably worry. Her mother has likely told her to avoid touching people. Decorum is both about emotional and physical distance, after all.

With that in mind, I say, “Or you can pinch her sleeve.”

It takes her another few seconds to decide before she shuffles over, but, to my surprise, she does hold Gwen’s hand. Even after all this time I’ve been talking to Victoria, Gwen is still totally starstruck. It’s pretty hilarious. She’s rather still, and her eyes are wide, and her little hand squeezes my hand tightly.

No reason to hang around, I start walking. Like a train engine and carriages, I tug Gwen into motion, who tugs Victoria. “Let’s not dally,” I say.

Of course, I am completely lost, so all we can do is dally, but I don’t have to reveal that. Instead, I tell Victoria the important wisdom of how to escape a maze. She listens well, always nodding her head when I glance back at her. So cute.

Since we went off track, I’m not sure how long it will take to reach the exit. At worst, we’ll go all the way back to the middle and then out again, maybe twenty minutes? That’s a lot of walking….

Gwen and Victoria don’t seem to mind, though, the two of them gradually falling into conversation. As shy as Gwen is, I think it helps that Victoria is about her age and rather chatty.

“Do you go to school?” she asks.

Gwen, somewhat proudly, says, “I do! Two schools.”

“What? Don’t be silly. Why would you go to two schools?” Victoria says.

Gwen quietly harrumphs. “In the week, I go to reading, writing and matha, mathmathics, and on Sunday I go to Sunday school.”

“Math-what?” Victoria asks.

“Mathamathics,” Gwen says, two-for-two on different (wrong) pronunciations.

Victoria tuts. “It is math-e-ma-tics,” she says, going over each syllable.

“That’s what I said,” Gwen says, her tone somewhat snarky and a little annoyed.

Such is the conversation of a seven-year-old and her similar-age friend (I know most of the royal family, but their ages aren’t that important beyond a rough figure).

I’m not complaining. As long as they aren’t crying and worried, they can sing hymns for all I care. No, I take that back; their conversation is actually really adorable, so I don’t want them to stop talking.

My sense of time disrupted by listening in on the chattering, I can only guess it’s been ten minutes when I spot the exit. Maybe I should walk past it and see if they notice? I laugh at the thought, but my heart is relieved that this should all resolve itself shortly. If this is like the book, Gerald should be waiting there, and he’ll think I’m ever so wonderful for rescuing his little cousin, won’t he? Ah, he won’t fall for me, will he? Given how much I dislike all this upper-class posturing and posing, it would be a hundred times worse as the (eventual) queen….

The moment we step outside of the maze, those foolish thoughts evaporate and my heart starts pounding in my chest.

Liv is standing the closest, her face pale and her expression (while still polite) is thin. A few steps beyond her, there’s a few servants (three, maybe four) standing around a woman. She has an aristocratic bearing, well-dressed, and, even though I can’t see much of her hair, she has crimson eyes. But what suffocates my every thought is her face: narrowed eyes, the corner of her mouth curved into a slight scowl, a general tension that adds a few wrinkles.

Put simply, if you lose your daughter and are relieved to have found her, you don’t look like that.

For a split-second, I shutdown, my mind blanking and breath hitching. It’s not a case of if there’ll be an incident, but what kind of incident it will be. After hearing Victoria’s name, I knew her mother was Princess Hilda, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with an upset princess. While there is a chance that her anger is directed at Victoria, I know it’s more likely to be at me given how spoiled Victoria seems. No, in fact it’s better directed at me because I wouldn’t be able to stand by and watch Victoria be shouted at.

I don’t think any of that, but I feel it in my bones, my instincts warning me. The pressure is far more than enough to overwhelm me.

Yet that fraction of a moment is thoroughly shattered by the small hand I’m holding. Gwen. I, I am, I have to be the adult here. I have a responsibility. That realisation is like a splash of cold water, washing away the paralysing anxiety.

And as my mind whirs to process everything, Victoria sees her mother and starts to happily run over. Before she gets there, I turn to Liv and whisper, “Prepare the carriage.”

“Y-yes, mistress,” she quietly says, and then strides off. Although she is walking, the quick pace must make her legs burn.

My focus turns to Princess Hilda. While she looks at Victoria for the moment, her visible mood hasn’t improved. Gwen already mostly behind me, I consciously take a small step to put myself entirely between her and Princess Hilda. I check over my own expression, making sure it’s polite but neither too flat nor cheery.

When Princess Hilda finally looks over at me again, I bow my head, and say, “Ma’am.”

Her mouth thins, lips pressing tightly together. “What were you doing with my daughter?” she asks, the tone cold and pitch sharp, nasal.

“Mother,” Victoria says, whining, and she tugs Princess Hilda’s hand, but Princess Hilda just shushes her.

I meet Princess Hilda’s gaze and give no ground. “On my way out of the maze, I encountered her and so helped her find the exit.”

“You expect me to believe you just happened to be in the maze while the party is still ongoing?” she replies.

Gwen’s hand tightly squeezes mine, and I feel my sense of control slip, a burning need to put her in her place. A hundred times worse than when Gerald hurt Violet, Princess Hilda is hurting Gwen. A child. When is it ever justified to hurt a child? And this is not any child, but my child. I love her and I’m responsible for her right now. This cold rage throbs, throbs, threatening to burst out.

But I at least try to learn from my mistakes, and I’m held back by knowing that it would only hurt Gwen more if I turned this into a real argument.

I bow my head and say, “Good day to ma’am, Princess Victoria.” I start to walk along the path back to the carriages, again carefully guiding Gwen so I am between her and Princess Hilda.

Of course, we only make it a few steps before Princess Hilda moves in our way. “Excuse me, we are not finished,” she says quietly, yet that serves to make her words all the more cold.

And I simply walk onto the grass; she doesn’t dare follow. I circle around her enough that she can’t reach to to grab me. When we come back to the path, her footsteps follow behind us, but I push Gwen forward at a matching pace.

“Stop right where you are!” she says, finally breaking into a raised voice.

I do stop, but only to turn around and say, “You have no authority over me.”

Then I carry on pushing Gwen forwards. My chest hurts, pounding heart feeling like it’s bruising my ribs, breaths becoming painful, shaking, suppressing the hisses that try to slip through my quivering lips.

If she calls the guards… if they follow her order… if we’re stopped from leaving…. My head, already struggling to think, has to process all these eventualities, and yet I find the time to think, “Where is Gerald?” and hate myself for it. Hate that urge to seek him out, that part of me that wants to hide behind him and let him sort everything out.

There are palace servants as witnesses, so there’s no way it should escalate. Whatever Princess Hilda says, they will answer the king truthfully and that truth is Gwen and I were there for over an hour before Victoria was. I focus on that to maintain my illusion of calmness.

Through my tumultuous emotions, I’m careful that my grip on Gwen’s shoulder doesn’t hurt her, that our pace is comfortable for her. Yes, focus on her and my emotional balance will settle. Think through what I need to say to her, how I’ll comfort her, what we’ll do.

Once there’s enough distance between us and Princess Hilda, I move Gwen back to my side and hold her hand. It’s shaking. Again, the fog clouding my mind clears, a sense of purpose and responsibility grounding me. I squeeze Gwen’s hand, and she looks up at me. Smiling for her, I whisper, “Everything is okay,” and I gently pat the top of her head.

Her pale face, worried expression, glittering eyes are nearly too much for me to handle. It’s a good thing I didn’t look at her while talking to Princess Hilda because I really would have lost control of my tongue.

But my words and gesture help settle her, her mouth bravely putting on a smile.

“Good girl,” I say, this time patting her cheek.

Since we aren’t returning the way we came, the way back is fortunately as simple as following this path around the side of the flower garden, and then it curves around to the front of the palace. Rounding the palace’s corner, I can see the driveway and quickly spot Liv, happy to see our carriage is ready to leave. We walk over and Liv helps Gwen up. I take that moment to talk to the palace maid that has been following us this afternoon, saying, “Please do pass on my apology that I could not greet the prince and congratulate him on his birthday. I will be sure to send a letter at my soonest convenience, but I do have to send my guest home and it is a long journey and so it may be a couple of days before my letter arrives.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, bowing her head.

Leaning closer, I whisper, “And sorry for the trouble I caused today.”

Without seeing her reaction, I turn around and climb into the carriage. Liv comes in after me and we set off. There’s a long moment of quiet while we trundle along the driveway and leave the palace grounds. Only then do I dare to relax.

Still, there is no time to waste. I look at Liv and, seeing her attentive, I say, “We shall stop near my father’s café.”

“Yes, mistress,” she says. Leaning out the window, she relays my order to the footman or coachman.

Gwen is… I can’t tell. I think she’s too overwhelmed to feel anything in particular. It hurts me to see her like that, vacant, hollow, but there is unfortunately an order to things.

I quickly recount the incident in a letter, no seal, and hand it to Liv with an order to deliver it to my mother as soon as possible. It includes that I’ll be sending Gwen back (originally, I would have left Lottie and Gwen to head to Tuton by themselves), and I’ll stay there overnight. I could probably make it back today, but spending some ten hours travelling will shatter me, and I’m not keen on travelling at dusk.

It doesn’t take us long to arrive near the café. I send Liv to get some ice cream and a few snacks to go with it, and she can find someone to deliver the letter on the way. A couple of minutes later and we’re moving again.

The pressing matter over, I listen to my instincts as I look at Gwen. Eventually, I reach over and touch her hand, and she looks up at me. I hold up my arms, inviting her for a hug. A second passes, and then she practically jumps over, winding me as I’m pressed into the back of my seat. Her hands grip the fabric at my shoulders, her nails slightly scratching me as she does, and I feel a seam tear (such delicate clothing), but all I do is gently rub circles on her back.

“Were you scared?” I quietly ask her.

She nods against my shoulder.

“To tell the truth, I was too,” I say.

She freezes at my words, I guess some kind of surprise or disbelief running through her head.

“Some parents don’t teach their children how to behave, or don’t know how to teach their children to behave, and those children can sometimes grow up into adults without learning. We didn’t do anything wrong, okay? We treated Princess Victoria nicely, didn’t we? She was happy talking with you and holding your hand, wasn’t she?”

I let that last question hang in the air until I feel Gwen softly nod again. Smiling, I stop rubbing her back and bring up my hand to almost cradle her.

“Rather than remember the bad things, I would like you to remember the good things. How pretty all the flowers were, and how grand the palace was, and how the maze’s hedges tickled your hand as we walked. Do you remember seeing yourself in the mirror? You look just like a princess today, and you even met a princess your age. Isn’t that magical? Every story with a princess has a dragon or evil step-mother, but that doesn’t ruin the stories, does it?”

My coaxing seems to calm her down, her breathing becoming so soft I worry she’s about to fall asleep.

I slowly let go of her, move her little by little until she’s sitting next to me. She pinches my dress, leans against me, pinning my arm to my side. I giggle and brush her loose fringe with my other hand. “You know, I have a special treat not even the Queen has eaten,” I whisper.

As if a magic spell, Gwen immediately perks up. “You do?” she asks, looking up at me with wide eyes full of wonder.

I smile in reply and then turn to Liv. “If you would,” I say, and she does, taking out the metal tubs the chef uses to store the ice cream. I put a sketchbook on my and Gwen’s laps as trays, the tub no doubt freezing cold, and Liv places the ice cream on top.

“What is it?” Gwen asks.

“Iced crème—something cold, sweet, and creamy,” I say. The other things Liv brought are biscuits and wafers, so I take a wafer and carefully spread a layer of ice cream over most of it. “Here, have a bite,” I say, offering it to Gwen.

Oh she closes her eyes, opening her mouth wide, making me feel like I’m feeding her medicine. I guess I am.

“And… bite,” I say, the wafer in her mouth. She eases her mouth closed, the wafer lightly crunching as she bites through it. One chew, two chews, and then her whole faces lights up, smiling while she hurriedly chews it all up.

“That’s so tasty,” she says.

“What, you didn’t believe me?” I ask, pointing my spoon at her.

She shakes her head, worrying me she’ll get her hair in the tub. “No, but, um, mama always tells me…” she says, trailing off.

“Let’s eat up while it’s cold,” I say, saving that titbit for later.

Following my example, Gwen tries ice cream with the various biscuits we brought along, thoroughly enjoying herself (minor spills included) right up until she has a big spoon of ice cream by itself and gives herself brain freeze.

“Careful, eat slowly—it’s not going anywhere,” I say, stroking the back of her head while she clutches it, moaning.

Although Liv watches us eating without showing any desire to partake, I have Gwen offer her an ice cream sandwich. It may be easy to turn down a kind offer from me, but who has the heart to decline a cute child with a messy face and cheeky smile? Given how much trouble and stress I’ve caused Liv, this treat, it’s the least I can do.

When our snacks run out, I have us stop at the next convenient place. I change Gwen back into her clothes from earlier, Liv helping me clean up that sticky face, and (while I change into a spare dress) I give Gwen the chance to run around a bit. As well-behaved as she is, she is still a young child. After she has some water and a trip to the toilet, we return to the carriage.

It’s not long after we continue on that Gwen, snuggled up at my side, falls asleep. I leave her be. That she feels so comfortable with me, it’s really touching.

While I don’t want to go out and have a child right away, this day with Gwen has certainly, well, sparked my maternal instinct. To have someone I can wholeheartedly love and cherish, I do want that someday. Different to a friend or lover. Someone I can one-sidedly love, and find happiness in nothing more than their acceptance of my love.

After a while, I have Liv help me move Gwen and lay her down on the seat, using spare clothing as a pillow and blanket. Liv then sits next to her to make sure she doesn’t roll off or anything.

My day still isn’t over. “What happened while we were in the maze?” I quietly ask.

Liv bows her head. “I saw, was it Princess Victoria? She ran in shortly before you exited. Princess Hilda approached me and asked if I’d seen the little miss, and berated me for not stopping her,” she says, her voice growing strained.

I reach over and pat her knee. “If you had stopped her, Princess Hilda would have berated you for that instead.”

Liv smiles, but it’s fleeting. “Indeed.”

“My father will include that in the official complaint,” I say, my gaze wandering to the window.

She gives no reply.

Between a slower pace while eating snacks, the longer stop to change Gwen and give her a break, and a general weariness to the servants, the trip back to Tuton takes maybe an hour longer than it did this morning. There’s no bells between towns, so I don’t have a good grasp of the time. Five o’clock and a bit? Definitely too late to travel back to Lundein, so I was right to say I would be staying in Tuton.

To pass the time, I make a few sketches of Gwen as she sleeps—not doing her cuteness any justice. When we near the town, I wake Gwen, giving her ten or so minutes to come to her senses before we stop at the same station as this morning. While we pull up, I spot Lottie, have Gwen come over to wave.

It’s a joyous reunion, Gwen chattering a hundred words a second. I don’t think Lottie catches half of what’s said. In the meanwhile, I direct the servants to arrange rooms for the night and all that, only Liv staying with me for the time being.

Pulling Lottie away from Gwen, I say, “Because of the hour, I’ll be staying in Tuton tonight. Is it okay for me to stay with you?”

She makes quite the complicated expression. “Well, it’s not so much if it’s okay with us, but is it acceptable for you? We can hardly offer what you are used to.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s all there is,” I say, humour in my tone. Turning to Liv, I tell her she can go with everyone else and that I’ll be staying with Lottie. She hesitates, but does concede, so I send her off with a promise to meet her at the church tomorrow morning.

Rested, there’s no stopping Gwen from talking on the way to Lottie’s house. Even once there, she keeps at it, telling Lottie absolutely everything that happened; when Greg arrives, he has no time to be surprised by my presence before Gwen then recounts everything to him as well. Luckily, she has worn herself out again by dinnertime, and she’s yawning by the time I finish bathing her.

“Do you know any bedtime stories?” she asks me, her duvet pulled up to her chin, half-closed eyes fluttering, trying to stay awake.

I hum for a moment, gathering some loose thoughts. “Let’s see. Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a princess called Snowdrop. Although her family loved her very much, she was lonely because she had no friends to play with. So, one day, she….”

My rambling continues on for a while, only coming to an end when her breathing changes. Smiling, I lean over and kiss her forehead, brush aside her fringe as I sit back up.

“Sweet dreams,” I murmur.

With a heavy heart, I tiptoe out the room and ease the door closed, carefully going down the stairs. I hear Lottie and Greg talking in the lounge, her knitting needles quietly clacking. However, that all stops when I reach the bottom; before I have time to gather myself, Lottie appears in the doorway.

Lowering my head, I say, “I’m sorry.”

She walks over, her feet coming closer until she’s right in front of me. And I tremble. Now I don’t have to be brave for Gwen, all the control I’ve been faking leaves, and I’m a mess of knotted emotions.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again, tearing up.

But all she does is pull me into a hug, and she rubs small circles on my back, whispering, “You did well today.”

“Did I really?” I ask, my tone childish.

“You did.”

That’s… what I needed to hear.