A heavy wind blew outside, r fire crag in the firepce. She sat on the floor of a room in the eastern wing of the manor—while almost everyone else ran around the western wing—not directly on the wooden floorboards, but with a plush duvet underh.

  Her fine evening dress already had a nasty stain upon it, milky in colour and substance, with the young Otto in her arms. At her side, little Charlotte held her dress with such ched fists that to separate dy and child would have surely left some fabri those small hands.

  Teary eyed, Charlotte mumbled, “Mamama,” whiny voice fading in and out as the wind rose and fell.

  Julia held the child in a loose embrace, but now squeezed her tight. “Shall I tell a story?” she whispered close to Charlotte’s ear, not wishing to disturb to the sleeping baby.

  After a moment, Charlotte nodded.

  “Long ago, there was a cottage in the forest where a father and a daughter lived happily together. For as long as she could remember, they had lived there, alone.

  “However, one day, her father did not return after he went out hunting. It was not the first time and he had told her that she must wait for seven nights. So she ted the nights, staying up te to watch the stars and pray for his return.

  “Ohe seventh night passed, she began to pack her things. Any journey requires food and clothes, so she packed those, and then also a bundle of letters which her mother had left her before passing. Prepared, she the off.

  “Forests are vast and dangerous pces, with wolves and witches and worse. However, her father had taught her well, that she could fend off the wolves with meat and trick the witches with words. She never lingered, always moving steadily towards where the sun rose as her father had told her.

  “After a long week of walking all day, the trees finally thinned and broke out into fields and vilges, for the first time in her life seeing other people. It was as if a dream more fantastic than she could ever imagine.”

  Pausing there, Julia listeo Charlotte’s gentle breaths, how the grip on her dress had sed and the little body leaning against her now felt heavier. Yet she did not smile. What she did do was tihe story, keeping to her slow pace, each word like a piece of a puzzle carefully pced, meaningful and due a certai.

  “Upon talking to some of these people, she soon found herself being celebrated. It turned out that, all along, her father had been their king, yet had to hide away. When her man to give birth, a powerful witch had e to see him and, being refused, cursed both Queen and Prio die. However, having heard the Kiold this, the Queen said that the witch had made a mistake, that they simply need for no oo call their daughter a princess.

  “The King and Queen both uood that they could only save their daughter, so he agreed. As soon as their child had been borook her and fled to the forest where he raised her alone, with no ohere who would call her name.

  “So, for her to appear here, it meant the King had died and, as his only child, she was now Queen. The curse had been broken. It was a joyous occasion for all that their rightful ruler had returhe King and Queen so beloved that everyone, noble and oner alike, greeted the King and Queen’s child as if their own.

  “Iters the old Queen had left, she found all the wisdom she o rule in a just and righteous manner, whether she had to deal with matters of farming or diplomacy. In the lessons her father had instilled in her, she found all the passion she o behave as a Queeher too weak nor too strict.

  “However, surrounded by all this adoration, she could not keep her heart from ag, dearly missing her father. So the years passed and she soon married to a kindly prihen came the time for herself to bee a mother.

  “To annouhis wonderful occasion, she travelled her try, waving to all. One day hat forest she had lived in as a child, she saw in the crowd an old man with a familiar face, and as she waved to him and he waved back, the pain in her heart eased.

  “So she gave birth peacefully a on to live happily ever after.”

  She paused there, her unfocused gaze staring into the firepce.

  “The end.”

  Silence followed, a duet of howls and crag, supplemented with a child’s and a baby’s sleeping breaths. She sat motionless, the story lingering in her mind. A story her own father had often told her as if preparing her his death. At first, she had not believed the news upon hearing it and, even now, she sometimes caught sight of a person in a crowd and oh her heart would leap.

  However, she knew. Such a man could not be left to live. Perhaps, her could she, that she was a woman all that permitted her mercy. A woman could only do so much.

  It was a story that would perhaps die with her, unlike any other she had heard. It cked some of the grandness of such stories, no gruesome deaths to scare the children, without any particur moral to impart. There was no evil step-mother and the witch received no justice.

  Rather, it was simply a story. urpose it held existed only between her and her father. There was no need for others to hear it, no reason for her to tell it. So had told it to herself this night to pass the time.

  The wind howled, fire crackled, a gentle pair of breaths, and then the slightest creak of a door.

  “My Lady?”

  Julia loosely gestured at Charlotte as best she could, the nursemaid ing over to pick up the girl. “Mother and child are well?” Julia whispered, standing up with Otto.

  “Yes,” the nursemaid said, bursting into a smile.

  Julia retur, then leaned down to kiss the top of Otto’s head. “Let us see if Dorothy is already asleep. If not, I think these two would like to meet their little friend, and mother would like to see they are well.”

  “Oh yes, she has asked after them, but settled right down wheold her My Lady was seeing to them,” the nursemaid said, ending with another smile that pinched her face.

  Julia offered a gentle giggle, theured for the nursemaid to lead the way.

  Going from the warm room to the chillier hallway, the baby and child stirred in their arms, but being pulled in closer soothed them. Rocked by the movement, they stayed fortably asleep for the rest of the journey.

  Rather thaer immediately, Julia and the nursemaid waited in the neighb room, giving Dorothy the choice of if and when they should enter. After a minute, one of the apprentice midwives came for them.

  Ihe room, Dorothy y half-bare with the babe led against her, skin to skin, and a b draped over them, air warmed by the broad firepce. It was a most tender sight, Julia found. Bittersweet as she felt in her bohat she had been dehis moment with her own mother.

  However, she showed nothing, simply ing to Dorothy’s side.

  “How is mother and child?” she whispered.

  Dorothy gently stroked the babe’s head. “She is well, as am I. Although I have heard the first birth is hardest, I thought this would be more so, knowing Albert is not near, yet she is rather eager to join us in this world,” she said, her tone light at the end. “Of course, it is thanks to your father. He has left a most wonderful legacy.”

  “He has,” Julia said, a smile left on her lips.

  Silence fell for a moment, Dorothy taking the time to look over her other two children befazing back down at her third. “I am grateful for your pany now. We have been thinking that, if we would be blessed with another daughter, may she borrow your name?”

  Julia’s eyes widened, smile growing broad. “Truly? It would be my honour, though….”

  “Though what? There is no need for hesitation in here,” Dorothy said, loosely gesturing at her general state of undress.

  After a giggle, Julia bowed her head. “That is, I would not know if I may find myself blessed with children and, if so, there is no guarantee I would have a daughter. So it is that, selfish I know, would you sider naming her after my mother?”

  Pouting, Dorothy tilted her head to better look at her daughter. “Five my ignorance, what was your mother called?” she asked.

  “Nicole.”

  Dorothy muttered the name while tinuing to stare at her child, ending in a sigh. “My apologies. From the moment I id eyes on her, I knew her to be a Julia. However… Julia Nicole Isarau. That has a charm to it, does it not?”

  “I would be so grateful,” Julia said, her head still bowed.

  Looking up, Dorothy saw that and waved her off. “What is this? I am but a guest in your house, accepting the most generous hospitality. Pray do—” Pausing there, a yawn escaped her, the ordeal she had persevered through returning to her with i.

  “We should leave you to your rest,” Julia whispered.

  “Let the childreheir new sister. If she is awoken, well, God only gives us such burdens as we may carry,” Dorothy said, pushing through her drowsiness with a smile.

  Julia smiled back.

  It was a tender affair, carefully monitored by the apprentice midwives, little Otto and Charlotte both so curious of baby Julia, yet respectful, as if naturally knowing hile a newborn could be. Dorothy went mostly ed, yet there showed only such love on her face, urained and vibrant.

  As for Julia, she left the matter in the hands of the midwives and nursemaids and nanny. There was a letter to write to her namesake’s father, o handed over in person, if only to see in his eye if he had truly agreed with his wife on this matter. While she might have found less reason to engender loyalty from him, he was not without uses and so she thought it best to stay scious of what he may be used for.

  Such a trip ated pnning. Rather than pns within pns, they were simply pns. Things whieeded to be done in her absend tingencies for issues she thought may e up. Such orders would theo be distributed accly, certain tasks for certain people.

  With the good weather soon approag, the social season would be beginning too and, while she had no particur iions at this time, her residen the capital would o be prepared for what eventualities might e to pass. Some events may o be held, guests invited.

  ing to the study, her butler saw her and made a ent about ging her clothes, which she ignored, entering the room and closing the door behind her without a creak.

  No fire burned in this room. By the trickle of moonlight, she lit the mp, meism clig a few times before the oil caught, bathing her in amber hues.

  She kept trying to think, to sider, yet her mind remaiy. Empty but for memories. A scab she had thought a sow broke to reveal the festering pus inside.

  How he had promised he would always be there for her, how he had promised the Prince would be kind to her, how he had promised that she would live happily. Such words had been so easy to believe ing from his mouth, only now she knew how hollow was an adult’s promise. No, the day he had died, that was when she had known there were no truths in the world.

  Drowning, she felt a toud almost jumped, but reised the familiar hands which draped a cloak over her shoulders, then watched the familiar figure of her personal maid go over to light the firepce.

  The night may have been cold and dark, but soon this room was warm. Perhaps she didn’t o hand the letter to him herself.