“I want to sparkle,” Matilda said.
“You already sparkle,” Alexandra told her, kissing the top of her head. “All three of you do.”
Frank seemed briefly conflicted about whether sparkling was suitably macho, then shrugged and decided it probably was.
The helicopter banked gently, and suddenly the snow outside broke enough for Alexandra to glimpse the ground: a swathe of dark green trees dusted white, the silver ribbon of a river, and then Balmoral itself rising into view—a solid, grey bulk, towers and turrets softened by snow.
Whatever else she felt about the place, the sight of it tugged at something deep and complicated in her. This was where her grandparents had retreated from the world. Where she’d run in wellies across soaked lawns as a child, against the backdrop of ancient stone and older expectations. Where she’d stood stiffly in black a lifetime later, the cameras trained on her face as she pretended not to tremble.
Now, she was coming here to try and put herself back together again. To put her marriage back into focus.
The thought made her straighten a little, as if she could will herself into resolve.
“Seatbelts checked, everyone,” Erin said, her body snapping into that precise, alert posture Alexandra knew so well. “We’ll be landing in a moment. Feet away from the base of your seats, please. No touching anything unless it’s your seatbelt or Mummy’s hand.”
Matilda deliberately took Alexandra’s hand and then stuck her tongue out at Erin, who rolled her eyes but looked faintly relieved.
The helicopter skimmed over the grounds, its reflection flickering briefly in one of the frozen ornamental ponds. Alexandra could see cars in the courtyard below, staff hurrying out with coats and umbrellas and the efficient bustle of people who had done this many, many times before.
Snow gusted sideways in white sheets as they descended, the world outside turning briefly into nothing but motion. Alexandra felt Florence press closer to her, and she curled both arms around her daughter, bracing herself as the skids met ground with a firm jolt and the engine throttled down.
For a moment, the noise seemed to grow louder, then faded slowly into a dull roar.
“Stay seated,” Erin said, unhooking her harness in one smooth movement. “I’ll go first.”
Alexander watched her move—compact, efficient, shoulders squared, even in the mess of cold and family and Christmas. Erin ducked, pushed the door open against the resistance of the wind, and stepped out into the blinding white.
Snowflakes swirled inside, sharp and icy on Alexandra’s cheeks. The blast of cold air hit, crisp and clean and so different from London’s exhaust-heavy chill.
“Right then,” Alexandra said, unclipping Florence’s harness. “Who’s ready to make Scotland regret agreeing to host us?”
“Me!” Frank yelled, already scrabbling at his seatbelt.
“Me,” Matilda said, more dignified, then ruined it by squealing when the wind gusted again. “It’s like the telly but better.”
Florence just tucked her hand into her mother’s and gave a small, pleased smile.
A crew member appeared at the door in heavy winter gear, offering a hand. Alexandra accepted, climbing down carefully, Florence on her hip and the other two glued to her sides.
Snow hit her face full-on, the wind cutting through the thick wool of her coat. Balmoral loomed ahead, its stone dark against the white sky, smoke curling from chimneys. The courtyard was already dusted in soft drifts, their edges disturbed by the prints of boots and tyres.
Erin stood a few paces away, back straight, scanning the perimeter. Her dark hair was ruffled by the wind, cheeks pink with cold. She was as tall and gorgeous as ever. There was something about that sight that tugged hard at Alexandra’s chest.
Even now, even after everything—the IVF, the triplets, the coronation, the constant negotiations of public and private lives—Erin still instinctively put herself between Alexandra and the world.
Old habits. Old vows.
“Sergeant Kennedy,” Alexandra called over the wind, deliberately slipping into the old form of address. Erin’shead turned immediately, the lines of her face softening when she saw who had spoken. “No one here is going to attack me with a snowball. You can relax.”
From somewhere to their left, a snowball smacked into the side of a staff member’s boot. Frank, already knee-deep in a drift, beamed up at them.
“Traitor,” Erin informed him.
“Future security risk,” Alexandra corrected fondly. She shifted Florence down so the little girl could stand on the packed snow. “All right, everyone. Hands out of pockets, no throwing snow at staff unless they explicitly consent, and absolutely no licking anything metal.”
“Why not?” Matilda asked.
“It’ll stick,” Erin said darkly. “Ask Auntie Vic about the great lamppost incident of 2019.”
