Matilda’s eyes got very wide. “Can we? Can we ask her?”
“Later,” Alexandra said quickly, before that story could be deployed to entirely the wrong audience.
She turned fully to face Balmoral then, allowing herself a moment to simply… take it in. The sheer familiarity of it, and the weight that came with that. The knowledge that every year here, every Christmas, every minor disaster and family argument and scandal and quiet reconciliation was part of a history she now had a duty not only to remember, but to shape.
“Mummy Alex,” Florence said quietly, tugging at her coat. “It smells different.”
Alexandra inhaled deeply. Woodsmoke. Cold stone. Wet wool. The faintest hint of baking drifting from unseen kitchens.
“It does,” she agreed. “It smells like… holidays. And wet dogs. And burnt toast.”
“That’s just Auntie Vic’s influence,” Erin said dryly.
Frank laughed so hard he almost fell over.
A cluster of staff approached, bowing and curtseying, offering murmured welcomes. Alexandra shifted smoothly into Queen mode, offering smiles and handshakes, doing the rounds even as she kept half her attention pinned to the three small bodies orbiting her legs.
Somewhere in the background, she could hear Vic’s voice, getting closer.
“…no, the tree goes there, I don’t care what the fucking plans say, we are not doing another year of the Queen’s Ball with the star facing west– oh my God, they’re here!”
Alexandra turned just in time to see her oldest friend, Victoria Grey- Hughes-Wilding—Vic, in all her breathless, endearingly dishevelled glory—skid slightly on a patch of snow as she barrelled across the courtyard, coat flapping open, scarf trailing, clipboard somehow still clutched in one hand.
She looked exactly the same and entirely different. There were lines at the sides of her mouth now too, carved by laughter and stress and late nights with Julia and Hyzenthlay. Her hair was tucked under a woolly hat that had absolutely not met royal dress code, patterned with little cartoon foxes. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink.
“YOU MADE IT,” Vic announced, as if this were some incredible achievement and not the result of a meticulously planned helicopter flight. “Hi, hi, hello, welcome, it’s freezing, I’m so glad you’re alive.”
“We’re very fond of being alive,” Alexandra said, stepping forward to hug her, ignoring the scandalised little gasp from one of the more traditional courtiers hovering near the entrance. “It’s generally how I prefer to spend my holidays.”
Vic squeezed her hard, then leaned back, blinking snowflakes off her eyelashes.
“You look bloody knackered,” she said bluntly.
“Thank you, Vic,” Alexandra said. “You’re as charming as ever.”
“I mean it in a loving way,” Vic said. “Like, you look like a very beautiful, very tired queen who needs mulled wine, and possibly a nap, and definitely some time alone with her terrifyingly competent wife.”
Heat flickered in Alexandra’s cheeks before she could stop it. She caught Erin’s gaze for a split second, saw something flash there—want, maybe, or just embarrassment—and then it was gone, shuttered behind a polite, weary expression.
“We’ll… see what we can do,” Alexandra said lightly. “I suspect three small people have their own priorities.”
“They do,” Vic said gravely, bending down as Matilda launched herself at her. “Hey, you lot! My favourite small monarchy.”
“Auntie Vic,” Matilda squealed, clambering up her like she was a climbing frame. “We’re at your big scotland house!”
“It’s technically your house,” Vic grunted, shifting her grip. “I just ruin it occasionally. Frank, are you eating the snow?”
Frank froze, mouth suspiciously full.
“No,” he said, the word muffled.
“He is,” Florence reported calmly.
“That tracks,” Vic said. “Come on, let’s get you inside before you turn into popsicles. Julia’s got Hyz making biscuits in the kitchen. There’s flour on literally everything she owns.”
“I want biscuits,” Frank said immediately.
“You wanted snow five minutes ago,” Erin pointed out.
