“Very well, thank you. Come on, let’s go inside. Your father will be thrilled to see you.” The lie passes her lips with practiced ease. In our family, appearances have always mattered more than truth.
“Where are you coming from?” she asks as we process through the grand entrance hall, her heels clicking precisely against the marble floors.
“From the airport,” I reply, unable to resist the small rebellion of literal interpretation. A maid appears silently to take my luggage, her eyes carefully downcast.
Mother shakes her head with a rehearsed smile of maternal indulgence and links her arm through mine. “I know, silly. I meant…”
“I know, Mom.” I soften slightly, letting a genuine laugh escape as I take in the house that suddenly seems both smaller and more oppressive than in my memories. “I’m back from Melbourne.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” she whispers with manufactured wonder, as though I’ve mentioned an exotic specimen rather than a major global city. I wonder briefly if she’s ever actually been to Melbourne, or if it’s simply another name from the Duke’s extensive travel itinerary.
The living room—or “the drawing room” as Father insists on calling it—appears unchanged since my childhood. The same ancestral portraits glower from walls covered in the same green silk damask. Time stands militantly still within these walls. Father occupies his favorite leather armchair like a king on a throne, the morning newspaper folded with military precision in his hands. When he sees me, he performs the expected ritual—paper carefully set aside, rising to his full height, expression calibrated to display exactly the right measure of paternal dignity.
“You’re finally back home. How are you?” The question carries no genuine curiosity, merely the fulfillment of social protocol.
I shake his offered hand—never a hug, not even after years of absence—feeling the familiar calluses from his weekly horseback rides and fencing practice. His eyes perform a rapid assessment, no doubt cataloging every detail that doesn’t meet Weister standards. “I’m fine, Dad, thanks. Just a little tired, and you?” The exchange feels like a training exercise, each of us reciting our assigned lines.
“The usual. You’d better go and rest then. We have guests tonight, and you’ll have to join us.” His tone shifts subtly on ‘have to’—not a request but a command, delivered with the expectation of unquestioning obedience. Yet there’s an undercurrent of something else, a barely perceptible note of anticipation that raises my tactical awareness. The Duke rarely displays enthusiasm for anything unless it advances a specific agenda.
“That’s what I wanted to do. See you later,” I respond, offering a casual wave that I know will irritate him with its informality. Some childish part of me still enjoys these tiny rebellions. As I turn toward the grand staircase, I register that nothing fundamental has changed. He remains the same cold, calculating strategist, viewing family as just another domain to be managed with precision.
“Nate? Is that really you?” The voice that calls out as I climb the first few steps sends a wave of genuine warmth through me.
I turn and descend quickly, military posture instantly abandoned. “Alice? You haven’t changed at all,” I say, enveloping her in an embrace that feels like coming home in a way the formal greeting from my parents never could. The scent of vanilla extract and fresh-baked pastry replaces Mother’s expensive perfume, and I breathe it in deeply, tension melting from my shoulders. Alice is noticeably frailer than I remember—her once-robust frame now bird-like beneath my arms, silver hair where chestnut once was—but her embrace carries the same unconditional affection that sustained me through childhood.
“Oh, nonsense. I’ve grown old, and it shows,” she dismisses with characteristic humility. “It’s good to have you back. Come, come with me.” She takes my hand and leads me toward the kitchen as though I’m still eight years old. And strangely, I don’t mind.
The kitchen has been modernized with gleaming stainless steel appliances and stone countertops, but its heart remains unchanged—still the warm sanctuary it was during my childhood, when I would escape here to avoid Father’s critical gaze. Alice makes me sit on a stool at the kitchen island and presents a slice of lemon pie on a china saucer with the same ceremony she used when I was a child seeking comfort after a particularly brutal etiquette lesson.
“You’re already spoiling me, Alice,” I laugh, taking a spoonful of the pie. The flavor explodes across my taste buds—tart yet perfectly sweetened, the buttery crust melting on my tongue. After years of military rations and foreign cuisines, this taste of childhood nearly undoes my carefully maintained composure.
Alice adds a glass of cold milk—my preferred childhood accompaniment to her desserts—and settles beside me, her eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure at my presence. “As always. Where have you been?”
“A little everywhere,” I reply vaguely, military discretion automatic even with Alice. “I’m on leave, but I came only because Dad had to talk to me.” I gesture with the spoon, thoughts already turning to escape. “I’d like to go to Ibiza to relax afterward.” The Mediterranean coast calls to me—anonymous beaches where no one knows the Duke’s son or the decorated officer, just a man seeking peace in the sun.
She sighs, her work-worn hand squeezing mine with surprising strength. “I’m afraid you couldn’t do it.”
“And why on earth not?” I ask with a forced chuckle, though something in her expression triggers the tactical assessment that’s become second nature after years in the field. Information incoming; prepare for impact.
The oven timer chimes, providing a momentary reprieve. Alice rises to remove a tray of what appear to be her famous ginger biscuits, placing them on the island before removing her baking gloves with deliberate care. “You’ll find out tonight. The Barlows are coming to dinner.”
I freeze mid-bite, the spoon suspended between plate and mouth. “Prime Minister Barlow?”
“In person,” Alice confirms, arranging cookies with practiced precision. “Something tells me Izzy will come too.”
“Izzy?” My heart thrums in my chest, “I haven’t seen her for what? It’ll be fifteen years or more.” The memory of my childhood friend surfaces with unexpected vividness—blonde pigtails, fierce loyalty, mischievous smile when we’d plan our next adventure. Little Izzy, who cried on my shoulder when her mother died, the one who was pulled from my arms when they sent her away.
Alice considers the question, her lips pursed in calculation. “Neither have we.”
Excitement bubbles up unexpectedly. “Really? Our little Izzy…”
“From what little I heard, she’s a high-quoted lawyer now,” Alice continues, pride evident in her voice. “Many law firms contend for her, and she’s superb.” She speaks as though Izzy’s achievements are somehow her own—which, in a way, they are. Alice cared for both of us when Izzy visited, treating her with the same affection she showed me.
“Even as a child, she was,” I smile at memories of Izzy arguing her case for later bedtimes or additional desserts with the precision of a seasoned barrister. “It’ll be nice to see her again.” I wink at Alice as I rise, placing my empty dish in the sink despite knowing it will scandalize the house staff. “I’m going to rest for a while before the guests arrive.”
“Sure, your room is always ready.” The simple statement carries layers of meaning—in Alice’s domain, I’ve never been forgotten, never replaced, always welcome.
“Thanks, Alice.” I press a kiss to her papery cheek and head upstairs, suddenly eager for the solitude of my childhood bedroom.
